Literary Vibes - Edition LXXI
(Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 71st edition of LiteraryVibes. I am grateful to Mrs. Latha Prem Sakhya for the lovely painting presented by her to adorn the header page of today's edition.
I have great pleasure in introducing four new writers in this edition. Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a septagenerian doctor from USA is a distinguished emergency care specialist who at one time was a popular face in the American television, talking about diverse topics such as Trauma, Toxicity and Frost bite. I have retrieved some of his old writings of human interest and am going to publish them in LV. A sensitive doctor's compassionate heart is breathing in the lines of these stories, I am sure you will appreciate them. Mr. Debi Padhi from Bhubaneswar is a retired Navy Aviator who is passionate about flying and popularising science among people. His article in today's edition however is about mothers, a topic of universal appeal. Engineer Sunil Kumar Biswal from Koraput, a southern district of Odisha, is a connoisseur of good literature and old songs. His description of a bus journey in today's LV will certainly evoke many fond memories of similar journeys taken by all of us at different times of life. Dr. Neethu Ann Thomas is a dentist by profession but is also a poet, artist, painter and singer rolled into a multi-talented personality. Her sensitive poem, an explosion of anger against racial injustice, speaks of a fabulous poetic spark. I do hope all our new contributors will reach the pinnacle of literary success. Let us look forward to their continuing presence in the pages of future editions of LiteraryVibes.
It is quite heartening that new poets and writers are contributing to LiteraryVibes and enriching its quality. Yet, the turbulent times that we are going through seem to be never ending. As the shackles of the Lockdown are getting loosened progressively, the number of COVID19 cases keep mounting. In my little town of Bhubaneswar we have thirteen new positive cases today, two of them very close to our place of stay. So a new chapter of fresh fears, more restrictions and increasing mental stress has started. Don't talk to neighbours, don't go out of home, don't touch anything brought from outside, don't......don't......Life is becoming a long saga of negatives. I am reminded of a poignant poem of the celebrated Urdu poet Kaifi Azmi,
The World I Seek is not Here
The new horizons that I seek are beyond me.
The world I am in search of cannot be found.
The arrows that have pierced my heart have been discovered
but the hands that pulled the string cannot be found.
Here I am standing in the midst of a jungle of faces
and yet it is your countenance that cannot be found.
What is the worry if I cannot find God,
when my own footprints cannot be found.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in this 71st edition of LiteraryVibes. Do give your feedback in the Comments section of the LV page. Please forward the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/308 to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous seventy editions are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes A scholarly article on the Haiku form of poetry by Mr. Pravat Kumar Padhy is at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/309
Take care, stay safe
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
- PUSHING AHEAD… Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- THE STORY OF .. Haraprasad Das
- NOT MY CUP OF TEA Dilip Mohapatra
- THE MERMAID OF… Dilip Mohapatra
- EXPLAINING TO MY.. Bibhu Padhi
- LOST AND FOUND Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
- A LITTLE BOY.. Dr. Pradip Kumar Swain
- FULLY ALIVE Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- MUNDANE MUSINGS Sundar Rajan
- UNOPENED Thryaksha A Garla
- BLACK LIVES MAT.. Thryaksha A Garla
- SENSITIVE Sharanya Bee
- INTRODUCING … Lathaprem Sakhya
- AN EVENING ON .. Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra
- LACK LUSTRE Dr. Molly Joseph
- QUARANTINED.. Dr. Molly Joseph
- HER OWN WORLD... Madhumathi. H
- INNER SPACE... Madhumathi H
- ADULT RHYMES Padmini Janardhanan
- THE MASK Sheena Rath
- CHANDINI CHOWK Gokul Chandra Mishra
- LOVE FAILURE Setaluri Padmavathi
- THE BIG NAME.. N Meera Raghavendra Rao
- MY NEIGHBOUR ON.. N Meera Raghavendra Rao
- ARE YOU REALLY … Sanjit Singh
- REMEMBER Neethu Ann Jacob
- KORAPUT TO.. Er. Sunil K. Biswal
- THE SYMBOLISM OF.. Debi Padhi
- A MAROONED BIRD Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PUSHING AHEAD THE HURTLING TIME (Ghaagadaa Samaya Theli)
No boasting river is too vast
to be swallowed by the sea,
though the sea was once scooped
by a frail Agastya, gulped in a sip.
Why should the life
feel scared to flow, afraid
of a strange new day?
Why should one look for
Gods in temples or mosques?
Nor the almighty dwells
in Aum’s resonance.
No salvation is ever sold
in the lanes of Rome or Mecca,
or peddled on the banks of Ganga.
Isn’t death the truth
that defeats all the falsehood,
the so-called eternal life; why skirt
around the inevitability?
Pyramids and the Nile stand
witnesses that the Phoenix
never rises from history’s ashes.
The wounded Konark’s wheels
would not defy the time’s rust
to rattle ahead to Puri,
seat of the Lord Jaganath.
The great Vindhya divides
our peninsula into a cultural binary;
let’s accept the irretrievable beauty.
Corpse of glorious Kalinga
would not rise from its pyre,
may Swargadwara cry
its heart out for ever.
May the proud river boast
of its vastness but it would
be swallowed by the sea’s
unfathomable salinity, burpless.
(Odia Poem ‘Ghaagadaa Samaya Theli’, published in ‘SAMASAMAYIKA’, Jan-March, 1997, is self-translated for Literary Vibes.)
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
THE STORY OF OUR LIFE (KATHAA)
Translation: Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Can the story of life
be reset, once
it’s set into motion?
Doesn’t life follow
the course of its own?
Does it proceed as scripted
by destiny, or casually
as a tide under the full moon
overruns a trusting beach
habitual to ravages?
Or, does it get rubbed up
the wrong way
in day-to-day hard-grind,
ending on a pyre,
a bit of ash that blur eyes?
Or, is it beyond one,
to stop the elements
from returning after death
to their sources, the life-story
ending in ash and dust?
So, does the earthen urn
containing the ashes
need flowers for decoration,
or it feels adorned
with the grandeur of death?
Or, does it feel holy
like the blue Garden Glory
suddenly pulled from its roots
with the chant of ‘Aum’,
a gesture like hara-kiri?
Yet, if our life-plot reads dull;
perhaps, it needs anticipations,
drama and shock; needs
tweaking at nodal points;
but would it be possible -
you reshaping lips
with lip-gloss to make
prettier pouts, I infusing
fresh life into my work by
recycling old words anew?
But the story perhaps craves
to move into new vistas,
but unable to do so,
being helplessly tied
to old regimens!
What if our life-story
remains inconsequential,
yet narrates itself aloud
in a hall of silence in
an echoing disembodied voice.
There still lurks a chance
to blaze as seminal oratory,
a great life-story ever lived,
and narrated in great fanfare
as does the cacophony
of nest-returning birds
in an otherwise
non-remarkable evening
sounding like a valedictory
at the end of a celebration.
That way, any life-story
ends in a celebratory sunset,
worth an ovation as done
for a magnum opus acted by
an outstanding thespian!
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)”
I sit with the hot cup of tea in hand
and as my breath
skates over the smooth porcelain
the aroma of the Golden Butterfly
plucked from the Dikom gardens of Assam
mingles with my feelings
that resonate with the residual sobs
echoing in the uprooted stump
and in the crooks of its dead branches
that carried the buds and
which never could blossom.
And then I take a sip
so very carefully not to scald my tongue
and roll the blend in my mouth
to decipher a bit of Tuscan lemon
a bit of Jasmine Fair Maiden
and a bit of Earl Grey
that blur the unique signature
of the basic black brew
like the multiple identities
dissolved and lost
in the stormy seas of
pseudo secularism
and then I wonder
if really this is
my cup of tea!
When one thinks about the mythical mermaid, the first picture that comes to mind is one from Hans Anderson's fairy tale and then the bronze statue by Edvard Eriksen, sitting on a rock by the waterside at the Langelinie promenade in Copenhagen. The famous Copenhagen icon known as the Little Mermaid, though rather small and unimposing, is perhaps one of the most visited tourist attractions. Unfortunately in recent years, it has become a popular target for defacement by vandals and political activists. But it has survived such vagaries repeatedly and still sits majestically steadfast on the rock providing an iconic background for selfies. There are quite a few mermaid statues around the world, few are copies and replicas of the Little Mermaid. But a mermaid at Bhubaneswar probably sounds a little far fetched. Bhubaneswar, the capital city of Odisha, on east coast of India, is quite far from the sea and also landlocked!
I saw the 'Mermaid of Bhubaneswar' for the first time when I was commuting on the road from Acharya Vihar to the Sainik School, skirting the university campus. She was in a reclining posture, her tail leisurely resting on a well manicured lawn between the side walk and the compound wall of the Regional Museum of Natural History on my left, and her upper torso rising up slightly in an artistic angle, her head resting on her folded arms.
The structure was fairly large, about 6 meters in length and 2 meters in height, and perfectly proportioned. I stopped my car, pulled up to the side and joined few people who were surveying the sculpture. From close quarters I felt as if the Mermaid was live and breathing. Statues and sculptures definitely captivate the spectators but this was somewhat unique. The lower torso which supported the fin and the tail was actually an intricate lattice work and the scales were a labyrinthine maze like assemblage of half circles with white borders around hollow spaces which were filled with soil. Thick bushes of dark green lawn grass sprouted from these spaces which were neatly pruned and manicured. The fin, the tail and the face were sculpted out of opaque fibreglass and blended into the torso. The hair however was a living wig made out of yellow Japanese forest grass, neatly shaped to flow up to her shoulders,, and arms pillowing her head were a thick mound of lawn grass. What really made it unique was the living organism so very deftly used for its scales, arms and hair. The blend of fibreglass and reinforced concrete lattice with an excellent colour coordination, made the mermaid totally different from any such sculpture anywhere in the world. I saw a gardener tending the statue and struck a conversation with him to know more about it.
' Hello, do you have few minutes?, ' I asked the man, bare bodied with a khaki shorts weeding out the wild grass around the statue.
' Yes, Saheb, what can I do for you?,' he looked up and met my eyes questioningly.
I asked him about the statue, when it was made and who made it. The man's name was Jagga and he worked for Bhubaneswar Municipality Corporation. I gathered from him that about a year ago the Municipality commissioner along with the Public Works Department, embarked on a city beautification program. The town planners, horticulturists and landscape designers came together to beautify the streets and lanes of the city. This road is one of the arterial roads of Bhubaneswar . On one side – it is home to Pathani Samanta Planetarium, Institute of Minerals and Materials Technology, , Odisha Computer Application Center Tower, Regional Museum of Natural History, Apollo Hospital, Institute of Physics and Sainik School. Utkal University is located along the other side of the road with its West gate facing towards it on the Acharya Vihar end. Under this project, well planned plantation was done on both sides and along the median of the road resulting lot of greenery. The median also contains a series of small wall structures showcasing twelve zodiac signs – which adds to the special beauty of the road.
The Mermaid was the brainchild of a local sculptor whose ancestors were traditional temple architects and stone carvers. The sculptor came with this novel idea of using live plants and took couple of months to give it a shape. The statue was inaugurated by the Chief Minister in a function and the sculptor was felicitated. Since then this has emerged as a popular tourist spot in Bhubaneswar and many people from far and near visit this place. Jagga was entrusted in maintaining and taking care of it and he was only proud to keep her ship shape.I was
so very impressed with the mermaid that I made it a point to visit the place whenever I could find some time during my periodic visits to the city. After about a year of my last visit, a news item in The Telegraph India caught my attention. The item was titled, ' Beautification Symbol Vandalised' and two pictures of the Mermaid followed. The first was one as I saw her and second one was one with wild weeds covering the structure, with parts of the structure visible, with a gaping crack at the neck, the mane of golden hair dry and weathered and a barricade of broken bamboos around the dilapidated and forlorn creature. It was a picture of decadence and severe ruins. As I read through the write up, I was feeling sadder by the line. I always visualised the Mermaid to be the living icon of Bhubaneswar like the Little Mermaid to Copenhagen, or Eiffel Tower to Paris, but the picture of devastation really broke my heart. The reporter in the paper had appealed to the authorities to restore the art and preserve such treasures.
bout a month later, I had an occasion to visit Bhubaneswar to participate in a literature festival. I wanted to pay a visit to my friend the Living Mermaid, as I used to describe her to everyone. My heart missed few beats when I met her. There she was in her new avatar. On public demand, the Municipality corporation took up the renovation work and gave her a new makeover. I learnt from a nearby tea shop owner that Jagga had succumbed to a heart attack few months ago and after he was gone, there was no substitute to look after the Mermaid. The authorities found that maintaining the grass on and around the statue was becoming rather difficult. A civil engineer proposed to put cement plaster all over her and paint her with enamel paint. This would obviate the need for pruning, manicuring, watering and weeding of the grass. Everyone appreciated the practical solution and what I was seeing in front of me was a gaudily coloured lifeless carcass. My Live Mermaid was dead.
I came to know later that the slum dwellers nearby now regularly plaster the Mermaid with cow dung cakes for drying, which they use to fuel their hearths.
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.
EXPLAINING TO MY SON THE NATURE OF ZERO*
It never occurred to me when I was five.
The numbers always belonged to a world
that teased me with their figures.
But that was a long time ago. Today
I know better. I ask my son to learn
his numbers and avenge his father’s failures.
I strain myself to see the precise difference
between zero and the next number
so I might be able to explain to him
the exact nature of the former.
“It all starts from here,” I tell him,
“and, if you place it against another,
the whole thing would end there,
although the other might have had
a more impressive figure.”
“Why is it so?” My son’s doubting words
are already there. “Well,” I tell him,
“that’s because it’s so simple and ancient,
that’s why. Simplicity and innocence
bring about total surrender. You know,
anything so simple is indeed hard to ignore.
And finally, it doesn’t move and yet is everywhere—
the unseen force that one must take account of
in order to know oneself and others.”
“What about the love it bears towards others?”
“Love is another matter, but it has its
loving moments too. At a time when
everything seems to go wrong everywhere,
it draws the world to itself
and offers the much-needed shelter.
Take its help, be near it, always,
when you feel afraid
of the signs, the symbols, the questions,
the remote gestures of arrogant men,
the pain of death and hunger.
It will receive you, as always, like a friend.
Everything comes from it and moves back to it,
without our knowledge.
The still, open centre.”
* First published in Chelsea (New York)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
In the wake of COVID -19 crisis, when the Lockdown was first announced, the thought that it would drag on for so many months, had not crossed my mind. In the beginning, it did not feel so different but as days rolled into weeks, and then to months, everything changed.
I ran a successful Consultancy firm, providing logistical advice to companies, for their supply needs. My service was highly rated, and my opinion was sought after. But neither my experience nor my reputation could prop up my business, which simply collapsed in the grim atmosphere of uncertainty brought on by the virus and the ensuing lockdown. My specialist field was research; projection of future supply and procurement needs. But the research budget of most companies had dried up, like parched river beds in a hot summer. My mighty expertise had fallen flat on its face, from the knock-out punch by the pandemic. And, with that, gone was my livelihood. I had already run a big mortgage arrear with my Bank, while my application for unemployment benefit had stalled in the administrative maze, pending approval.
The Lockdown allowed going out only for emergencies, procuring food, medicines and for a limited amount of exercise. For the first few days, it felt like a compulsory holiday with a 22 hours curfew . It gradually changed almost into a prison sentence; a solitary confinement with an allowance for two hours of outdoor exercise. Absence of routine, and lack of structure to the day, which regular work used to bring before the crisis struck, was slowly but steadily making its presence felt in my life. It felt like a distant acquaintance, who arrives one day unannounced , asking to stay for a few days, and promising to be totally unobtrusive. . But in no time, this stranger takes over the entire house, pervading into all walks of life, interfering with everything that happened under its roof.
The boredom of lockdown gradually turned into a burden, getting heavier with all the added anxiety and uncertainty. I varied my daily chores to fill in the void. Soon, I had to devise a new routine for my day. But it was like trying to fit a square plug into a circular hole. I finally settled to capitalize on the only saving grace of the Lockdown, allowing us going outdoors for exercise. I extended my walking routine, spending more time and exploring new routes.
On this new route, I noticed the sign, FOR SALE, from a distance, outside a house . As I got closer, the house came into my full view. What grabbed my attention was the Magnolia tree, in full bloom, in its forecourt.
As I reached the house, I had to stop. The colour of the flowers was captivating. A soothing shade of pink, caught in the desire to show off her splendour, reined in by a touch of coyness.
The sign bord was plain, matching the ordinariness of the house. There was no name of realtor; just a telephone number. ‘Perhaps, it’s a private sale by the owner, with a view to saving on the commission’, I thought.
I called the number. My guess was right; the owner was selling the house without involving an Agent. ‘This is not an ordinary sale, you see, he said. I did not trust any realtor to handle it, so I decided to do it myself’, he said
After confirming my interest in the property, he asked about my details, my circumstances, occupation, and hobbies.
Somewhat miffed, I wondered if he was questioning my ability to buy the property.
‘What’s the property on the market for?’ I asked directly.
I was surprised by the figure, he quoted, as it was substantially lower than expected. There must be something wrong with the property, I told myself. Anyway, I asked him to repeat by way of confirming the asking price, lest I misheard him.
‘Does that include the premium for the magnificent Magnolia tree?’
‘Yes, the price reflects the tree you are talking about; but not as you imagine.’
‘The asking price for the property is discounted by 25 percent from its market value. That’s because, it comes with a condition that the buyer will preserve………’ he replied.
Before, he finished the sentence, I said, ‘Of course, the Magnolia tree is so pretty; it should be a crime to chop it down. In fact, that is what got me interested in this property, in the first place.’
I had anticipated a premium for the tree, which would inflate the asking price and I was preparing in my own mind, to bargain on the additional amount, he was asking for the tree. But this totally unexpected position of the seller came as a complete surprise.
‘No, it’s more demanding than that’, he said, and paused to hear my response.
‘Please go on, I am listening’, I said impatiently.
‘You must preserve the tree and its attached….’
I again interrupted him, saying, ‘Of course, I will preserve the tree, exactly as it is’
‘That sounds good, but you must also preserve the attached memories!’
‘That’s a strange condition. How does one preserve the memory attached to the tree? You carry your memories with you, don’t you?’ was my instant response.
‘Yes, I know but the tree was planted by my father, who has died since. I don’t think, he could take the memories, when he died. If he could not keep them, how could I keep them safe?’
He continued, ‘These are best vested in the tree and the new owner has now the responsibility of preserving them.’
‘But how would you know, if the new owner is honoring the condition?’
There was a brief silence.
‘I mean, how would the new owner prove that this condition is fulfilled?’
‘It would be up to the new owner to find the method. That is what the substantial discount in the asking price for’, was the reply.
That threw me into a total quandary. I was puzzled over this unusual house and its owner’s condition. I scratched my head for a solution. Is this a joke? Or, is it a trap? Or, perhaps a test of my intelligence? I had plenty of things on my mind, demanding my attention and several items on my to-do-list, waiting for action. I had no dearth of decisions, crying out for resolution. But this new challenge absorbed me totally, occupying the fore front of my mind entirely, pushing everything to the back ground.
‘I have to go now. Can we chase it up tomorrow?’ the owner said before disconnecting.
That night, I dreamt that I was in a foreign land; could not make out which country it was. I had been walking for hours; exhausted and ready to hit the bed. But I did not have any accommodation. I was desperate for some information on how to get a room for the night. But there was nobody whom I could turn for help. I crossed countless people on my path: I used to glue my ears to their conversations, hoping to catch something I could understand. But I had no luck; I could not catch a single word, which made sense. All the signs were in a foreign script and it looked like Chinese, or Japanese or Korean; I could not make out, which one, as they all look alike . Evening had fallen and it had started to get dark. I had already approached a number of people with questions about accommodation for the night. I had used all possible words, I could think of: hotel, motel, guest house, a bed-sit, bed and breakfast, room for the night. I was hoping, someone would be able to give some hint but they had all drawn a blank look. Obviously, they did not understand me.
Then I spotted a man in a suit and a hat. I ran towards him; my hopes were raised. ‘Even if he speaks in broken English, at least I would get some idea; something to work on’, I thought. As I got closer, I heard him talking with the man by his side. I pinned my ears to their conversation. Their chat grew louder and words clearer, as I reached them. They were engrossed in their talk and I could not get the context of their conversation. But their talk was music to my ear; it was in flawless English and in perfect diction. While I was walking towards them, I was preparing myself to ask him, ‘Do you speak English? This was quite superfluous, as I heard him speaking clearly to his companion, ‘Once you figure this out, everything will fall into place………’.
My dream was interrupted by my alarm ringing, waking me up for my walk.
The house with the tree was still playing on my mind. I wanted to take a good look at it again and started on the route, I had taken yesterday. As I carried on and reached the spot, where I had seen the bungalow with the tree, I was in for a shock. There was no house, no tree. I walked further and looked round to check if I was missing something obvious.
There was a surreal feel to everything that was happening to me from yesterday, but this topped it all. As I pondered over the situation, the mystery seemed to deepen further. I could not work out what was happening to my mind. Since last evening, nothing has been ordinary. The unusual offer of discount in the asking price for the house on sale, was topped by the mind-boggling condition attached to it. All this is about his father’s memories of the Magnolia tree? The bargain, which appeared quite tempting, eventually turned out be so onerous. But now, I can’t even find it. I was at my wits end.
Did I take a wrong turn in my walk? May be, in my state of confusion, I have forgotten the route I took yesterday. This is after all a new route; I had never taken it before yesterday. In the fields, where there are no landmarks, it is easy to lose one’s bearings. Yes, that’s exactly was happening to me; I had lost my mental bearings.
My father had been dead for years. It was such a long time that he rarely came into my thoughts lately. I even stopped dreaming of him some time ago.
Then came the intriguing dream, last night. The Lockdown, surely, had taken its toll on me but I never imagined, it would leave me completely clueless. Am I losing my mind? Then I remembered, in the melee of my mental disarray, my father’s death anniversary, which fell on yesterday, had slipped out of my mind.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
A LITTLE BOY LINGERS IN A PHYSICIAN'S TEARS
(Former Director of Emergency Care, Mercy Hospital, Altoona, USA)
It happens sometimes—something that could just break your heart. Perhaps it is to be expected in the emergency room. However, one never really gets accustomed to it. If we did, we might become less caring.
I was a junior resident in a New York hospital many years ago working in the busiest emergency room in the city. It was midnight. The upper echelon began to peel away, heading home to get enough rest to do battle with another battalion of patients the next day.
The pace in the emergency room was so hectic I felt I had to swim as hard as possible just to keep from drowning in misery.
All of a sudden, the blades of the life flight helicopter clattered loudly as it touched down on the hospital parking lot. Its precious cargo was a 2-year old boy, a victim of an auto accident. He was comatose—his anatomy all screwed up.
Entering the emergency room he stopped breathing.
“Let’s put a tube down the throat and hook him on the mechanical respirator,” I screamed while we were crowded around his failing machine. “Beep, beep, beep,” the heart monitor kicking.
The orders were barked, “What’s his pressure?” “Place the respirator rate at 25”. “Run these blood gases to the lab.”
“Hey Doc, he’s not breathing.”
“Push IV adrenaline.” Finally, “OK, we’ve got a beat.” Adrenaline conquered the weariness and the rush began once again.
We all knew our jobs. Time stretched on without this little patient aware of our attention. The drained soul was quiet on the hospital bed equipped with dozens of tubes and gadgets. Spirits were artificially bolstered. Down deep, we all knew it was an exercise in futility. The kid was going to die. But we still had to do our best, fighting against all odds.
It was 3AM and both of us - the little boy and I - were stuck together in a terrible mess, just three hours after we had met. Fifteen minutes later things changed—irregularities in the heart rhythm. Intensity built, labs were drawn, we were in control.
The chief arrived; the baby died. The chief said, “Don’t feel bad Pradip. Nobody could have saved him.”
The nurse helped me remove all the tubes, clean off the body and fresh linens. I sat on his bed, held his hand, looked directly into his eyes, and gave him my undivided attention.
I talked to him. “Goodbye, little one. I am sorry it had to be this way. Being so small, you sure put up a good fight. It seems unfair you must leave us, not the victim of opposing circumstances, but of the flesh. It’s an uncertain world we reflect and while you didn’t triumph over your illness, your spirt did not go unheralded.”
Although he was unable to communicate, I was always convinced he knew I was there. Perhaps because of the powerful bond linking me and him at some level—he could sense my presence and hear my voice. I still believe this.
As I entered the waiting room, I saw the mother of this baby with her hands covering her face. She was crying softly She looked up at me as I sat down beside her.
“My son!” she said in a tired voice. “Please—I must see my son." I hesitated, paused for a moment. Her voice broke as she brushed aside a tear with the palm of her hand. “He is the son… my child. You don’t understand.”
“I do understand. I really do. I have a son too. I’m sorry to tell you that your son has died.”
She crashed to the floor. I picked her up as she leaned heavily on my arm. As we went into the trauma room, she looked apprehensively and with her fingers clutching the baby’s little hands, both mother and child remained a unit, like some sickly Madonna shrouded in a veil of loneliness and isolation.
Days turned into years: new babies were born. (We now have three—Tooshar, Debbie, and Joya.) Together we moved up the aging ladder.
Twelve years have passed, 12 rungs with the little boy reappearing every other rung, trapped within a tear in the corner of my eye, maybe during a sad movie or a patriotic song or during my little girl’s dance recital. And I am left to wonder why I must be reminded. What is the point?
We all live with the recurring vision that reminds and teaches us. But for this doctor, the backdrop is heightened—more dramatic than most. People often say, “How can you stand it every day? It must be depressing."
Wrong. Sometimes it is deplorable, even heart rending, but never depressing. There is always the cogent knowledge that somehow I may have helped someone through a difficult time. And that is uplifting.
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Lecturer, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
My life is not for records,
What is there to learn
Why should one remember;
Just hold me now
If you can
In your heart of hearts
And breathe along
In the present moment.
Let’s flower together
In this beautiful garden
And dance with the wind
Throwing away the mind
That drags us behind.
Let’s perform the symphony
In universal harmony.
It is such an irony,
So very confusing,
Difficult to understand
Why we have to go back
Digging the dead memory
Instead of exploring
The emerging new possibilities.
I love to be alive
While continuously flowing
Leaving behind the past shadows
Not caring the future happenings.
Once you are with me;
We can defeat time
As it will stop to exist,
Either in past
Or in future chronology.
I don’t wish to be read
As a story in history
You can understand me, now
If you are consciously in love
With my present being.
Why to wait
For the flower to get dried
To preserve it as a keepsake
Inside past pages of life.
Touch it now
Smell the fragrance
When it is fully alive.
"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 three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
I had recently shifted my residence to the suburbs. In the new environment I started looking round to locate various sources that could cater to my regular and minor requirements as well, in the neighborhood.
I would like to share three instances which, even though minor, that taught me some valuable management lessons from commoners.
My first source is a flower vendor, an old woman, who gives a wide toothless grin when she sees any customer. She has set up her shop by the roadside on a rickety wooden arrangement. On this she displays her variety of flowers neatly rolled into a ball.
I needed three hand measures of flowers daily and occasionally I asked for an extra measure or two. Since this was going to be a regular arrangement, she agreed to give me three hand measure of flower daily for Rs 50/-. For any additional measure, I wanted, she agreed to give it at a proportion.
Every day she was ready with my packet of flowers neatly packed in a banana leaf. Days passed quickly and it was pooja time, in September. During this time, the prices of flowers go up due to the demand. She gave a disarming smile and said, “Sir the prices have gone up since it is pooja time. However, being my regular customer, I am willing to give the three measures of my daily quota at the agreed price. However if your requirement is more on any day I would charge you at the prevailing rate, for the additional measure till the pooja closes. After that I will switch back to the agreed price”.
I found it to be reasonable and readily agreed.
If one were to apply the management philosophy to this, she was keen on a customer relationship, which is evident by holding the price line. At the same time to manage the price line she sought the prevailing market price for the additional measure to take care of her margin.
My next experience was while procuring manure for my garden. I identified a local cow shed with about 20 cows and buffaloes from where I sourced manure. The seller, a woman in her thirties, told me, “Sir a sack of manure would cost Rs 130/- and would be available every Sunday. If you return the sack, I will agree for a price of Rs 125/”-.
I readily accepted and this supply of manure went on for about two months. During one of my pickups, she came up with a request.
“Sir, you are a regular buyer. You come here every week and pay me promptly. But the amount being small, I am not able to save anything out of it. I feel it would help if you pay me a lump sum of Rs 500/- in advance, which can be adjusted against every off take. At the end of the month we can settle the account and start afresh.”
To help her out I also agreed to this.
Here again, two things stand out. By seeking the return of the gunnies, she is able to economize on the cost of packing material (read gunny bags) by recycling the used bags. This in turn gives a discount to the buyer,(me) who otherwise would have discarded the gunny. Further she also has good control over her inventory (packing materials). Secondly, by seeking the price in advance for the month, she is able to manage her cash flow by getting a lump sum, instead of in installments.
The third is with a person who manufactures crowbars, knives and such tools. He works from a small rickety shop with bellows and a hearth. I wanted to get my crow bar sharpened and I spoke to him about my requirement. Without even inspecting the crow bar, he said it would cost Rs 150/- for sharpening it and I can pick it up at noon.
I said, “I am on my way to office and since you close your shop before I come in the evening, I will pick it up the next day.”
He replied, “In that case, you pay me the full amount now since I will be finishing the job in a couple of hours and I will have to pay the labour their daily wages.”
I reluctantly paid him the money and collected my crow bar the next day.
In this case, he pretty well judged that he will not lose me as his customer, since there was no one in the vicinity who undertook such jobs. Moreover, by collecting the money in advance he ensured that his funds are not locked up. He could pay his labour, their wage for the day and keep them satisfied.
These are some of the management mantras that class rooms do not teach us.
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
The box lay closed,
Forgotten by her,
Under her stack of things,
Thrown carelessly aside.
Had she opened,
She’d find books,
Diaries of writing,
Writings by her sister.
Her late sister.
The one she mourned,
As each day passed.
The one who left.
The cardboard box,
Taped and secured,
Held her secrets,
Her heart’s whispers.
Had she opened,
The box on time,
She could’ve saved,
Her sister’s life.
Instead she sipped coffee,
Cup she placed close,
To the box of magic.
Not close enough.
A month later,
Tears streaked her face,
As she moved about things,
Uncovering it at last.
She sat down, heaving,
The box onto the floor,
Dusting the label,
Reading her sister’s name on it.
She pulled out books,
Wrapped in satin,
So delicate,
She opened them.
Olivia’s diaries,
Filled with abstracts,
Loneliness so silent,
It was deafening.
She laid them, shaking,
Picking a letter white,
Addressed to her,
In pretty slant.
“I miss you”,
It read,
“I need you,
Call me.”
The next word,
Made illegible with tear drops,
She could guess anyway,
“Please”.
She crushed the letter,
Towards herself,
Her own tears mixing,
With that of her best friend’s…
BLACK LIVES MATTER (The George Floyd Incident)
Every time I heave a small sigh hoping the worst is in the past, worse comes and meets me at the door not letting me move to greener pastures. Racism knocked on the wood this week and I rushed down to see if I could be of help. George Floyd stood leaning against the frame, an easy smile resting on the planes of his face. I gave him some water, sat him down and waited for him to tell his tale. He was deprived of air, he told me. They didn't let him breathe. "I can still feel his knee on the back of my neck", he mumbled as a tear ran on the side of his face. "It wasn't like I didn't speak up", he said suddenly. "I did. I was just not heard." A shadow fell across his face as he said, "How can we let our children come to this world without first making it right? How can we teach them to accept the hurdles of life and not how to overcome them? We don't know how to do that ourselves." I leaned back on the couch a little as he continued, "People of Colour, as much as we like to believe it isn't true, get treated differently by so many people out there. Back then we knew to fear the whole colour, but now, a few of them, a few racists stand camouflaged with everyone around." He takes a sip of water, before saying, "It's not just about me anymore. I've moved on. I'm at peace. I just don't want anyone else to go through what I did. I want what I went through to help make the world a better place." I sit up straighter as the spark in his eye glistens. "Tell my family I love them." He stands up and I realise it's the denouement of his legacy. He says, "I have to go now, but I want you to promise me." "Anything", I say, my voice sounding much more confident than I felt. "Promise me that you will make the world a better place. One step at a time. Promise me you'll try." I feel my throat closing up, and my eyes brimming with tears. I reach out to give him a hug. I whisper into the hug, as he holds onto us all, hoping we'd make a difference. "I promise... "
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/.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
I swim through infinity
I see the green sign
I hear the blue song
I feel the red pain
I swirl through a whirlpool
All feels fade and numb away
Below this liquid it's only green and green that I see
Only grey and grey that I feel
The surface is what I miss then,
The land is what I yearn for
Oh how sensitive is this pool
It has spat me right back to where I wanted to go...
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
INTRODUCING 'GONE WITH THE WIND'(1936) MARGARET MITCHELL.
I have chosen Gone with the Wind (1936) the only novel published by Margaret Mitchell in her life to introduce. It is my second favourite next to the Bible. This is a book of a young woman's courage and resilience at the time of adversity and I often go back to it, like many of my friends do. The book is all about survival which is its main theme. How a 16 year old girl faced life during the American civil war and the reconstruction period. For me the indomitable spirit of Scarlett to go on even when everything was bleak and uncertain and the way she fends for her family and all those who depend on her including the plantation workers who preferred staying with them rather than attaining freedom are totally inspiring. In these days when life is so uncertain and when the world is waging a war against an invisible enemy (Covid-19) this is the book that looms large in my mind and the young heroine Scarlett in all her glory, her green eyes set off by her green dress is irrepressible. Even though the book opens with the phrase" Scarlett O' Hara was not beautiful…"
Margaret Mitchell wrote once, "If Gone With the Wind has a theme it is that of survival. What makes some people come through catastrophes and others, apparently just as able, strong, and brave, go under? It happens in every upheaval. Some people survive; others don't. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality 'gumption.' So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn't."
It is a story of a civil war and reconstruction, intricately woven with multitude of strands dealing with romance, reconstruction problems, family relationships struggle for survival and abolition of slavery and its related problems and at the centre of it all we have the story of our heroine, the scintillating Scarlett O’Hara, "one of the most ruthlessly optimistic characters in literature" who becomes a symbol of hope and survival for a nation devastated by civil war. She is an epitome of survival in a world that collapses around her, leaving her inexperienced and raw to face a new life of reality which is totally different from her life protected by her mother and mammy and her rich father who owns a cotton plantation.
The story is set in Clayton County and Atlanta, both in Georgia, during the American Civil War and Reconstruction Era. It realistically depicts the struggles of young Scarlett O'Hara, who uses every means at her disposal to claw her way out of poverty following Sherman's destructive war strategies. A historical romance and a bildungs roman at the same time. It delineates the civil war which ended slavery in the Southern states and destroyed a traditional way of life in the agricultural south, with a beautiful love story at the centre. It becomes a bildungsroman because it traces the growth of an adolescent from the age of sixteen to a full grown woman of twenty eight by the time the novel ends. So it is a coming of age story, a novel concerned with the moral and psychological growth of the protagonist. The novel with its linear narrative structure is famous for its "readability". Once you pick it up you will put it down only when you reach the last page which is one thousand and eleven in number in the Macmillan paperback edition.
The author, even though tentatively titled the novel 'Tomorrow is Another Day', from its last line, she finally chose the first line of the third stanza of a poem written by Ernest Dowson:" I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind". Other proposed titles include "Bugles Sang True", "Not in Our Stars", and "Tote the Weary Load". Scarlett O'Hara uses the title phrase when she wonders to herself if her home on the plantation, "Tara" is still standing, or if it had "gone with the wind which had swept through Georgia". The title in a way is a metaphor for the end of a way of life in the pre Civil War South and also symbolises Scarlett's lost loves. Her first infatuation which she mistakenly takes as love for Ashley Wilkes who marries her cousin Melanie and the real love of Rhett Butler who gives her up desolately after the death of their daughter Bonnie. Scarlett realises that she had always loved Rhett at the moment he bids adieu to her. She had used him ruthlessly for saving her family and herself at dire points of necessity and danger and was blind to his love. But Scarlett is an embodiment of hope too, though it is also her weakness. She clings on to the dream of her great unfulfilled love, Ashley, for years hoping and hoping that he would become her partner one day – wilfully ignoring any other course to happiness and so misses Rhett 's sincere love.
It is difficult to compress this novel into a brief summary, being one with many strands woven skillfully to the main story. The main thread is the story of Scarlett. It delineates Scarlett's flamboyant life in the plantation, her heartbreak when her childhood love marries another woman and her marriage with Charles Hamilton, a young soldier who is killed in the Civil War. After the Civil War, Scarlett struggles to support herself and her infant son and her family which includes her senile father, her sisters, her sister inlaw and family and the plantation labourers who stayed back. She returns to Tara, her family plantation which had fallen into ruin after the burning down of Atlanta during the civil war and her resilience and resolution is reflected in her words "As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat, or kill, as God is my witness I'll never be hungry again." Like a fierce she-wolf concerned only in looking after its pack and protecting it, Scarlett braces herself for a life of toil and sacrifice to keep the fire burning in her hearth and looking after those who depended on her. She marries threice in search of financial stability to support everyone who looked upon her for their survival. Her fourth husband Rhett Butler who really loves her leaves her when their daughter dies with the
realization that he can never win her heart. After his departure it dawns on Scarlett that it was Rhett whom she had loved truly. And she hopefully consoles herself that "tomorrow is another day". Yet the ending is sad because we realize the unequivocal finality of Rhett's words. But Sarlett can never be defeated, she is hopeful. There is still a tomorrow. "I will think of it all tomorrow at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all tomorrow is another day"( p1011)
No moment illustrates Scarlett better than when she is returning to Tara – her family home – when Atlanta started burning, dragging a cow and a calf she had found on the way for milk, for her son and Melanie's newborn child and Melanie, hardly one hour after delivery, almost sick after the delivery and still bleeding, lying on the cart semi-conscious, dragged by a feeble horse which Rhett got for her to escape. She allows herself one night of lamenting all that has been lost; the next morning, she marches blindly into the future. “Scarlett was never to look back,” as Margaret Mitchell puts it. Scarlett maintains this headstrong hopefulness as society collapses around her. She has a one-track mind, to the point of selfishness – she barely manages to fake interest in “the Cause”, the southern US states’ doomed stand against the Yankees. Everything beyond her circle is essentially irrelevant" to her. But never – never – can Scarlett pause in this battle for survival. “Don’t think you can lay down the load, ever,” says Grandma Fontaine . “Because you can’t. I know.” Her focus on tomorrow always makes her procrastinate things she knew had to be done immediately. Like teaching her son the alphabet or behaving like a lady like her mama. One day, she’ll get round to it but she never does. Instead, Scarlett ensures that those close to her and clung to her for protection and care would be looked after and taken care off at any cost.
Mitchell carefully analyses the nature of human resilience, and holds up hopefulness and "gumption" as thel tool for getting through the worst times. At one of the lowest points, Scarlett’s neighbour, the elderly Grandma Fontaine, insists that Scarlett continues to hope. “We bow to the inevitable,” she tells Scarlett. “We’re not wheat. We’re buckwheat. When a storm comes along it flattens ripe wheat because it’s dry and can’t bend with the wind. But ripe buckwheat’s got sap and it bends. And when the wind has passed, it springs up, almost as straight and strong as before.” And that is what Scarlett does throughout the novel.
Mitchell received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for the book in 1937. It was adapted into a film of the same name in 1939, which is often considered to be one of the greatest movies ever made. The book joins the ranks of other books that controversially tackled issues of race, including Joseph Conrad's The Nigger of Narcissus, Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin and Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Ref: Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchel
Ref. Internet.
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
As the soft golden gaze
Of the December Sun
Gloriously touched the voluptuous
Buxom body of the Arabian sea
And the western sky became red in shy
The horizon was dotted
With numerous rangoli patterns of passion,
And the golden ripples glittered
In the thrill of a cosmic union,
A cluster of beautiful sea gulls
Followed our ferry from the Elephanta caves
Towards the Gateway of India
Riding the waves of hunger or desire
I can not say,
For instead of returning to their
Nest of peace after
Winding up their busy hunting day
They regaled and rejoiced
swooping down on the green canvas of water
Bickering over bits of chips and grains
Thrown by the tourists on the ferry
Named “The Hannibal”
Their wings craving for the blue sky
Their dreams clinging to their nests.
While twilight prepared to draw her curtain
On the blackish water stage
The lusty queen Earth experienced
A fleeting moment of ecstasy
As the great golden sun now red in passion
Bowed its head
To plant a farewell kiss on the ripples of the sea
The sea gulls quailed in glee,
My heart filled with a tranquil joy
I had forgotten to feel.
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”.
sitting here
with a
lack lustre
office,
at work,
I long
for my
cool room
at home
under the
fan
stretching
legs
pegging
mind
on a book,
scribbling,
something
or simply
stretching
idle
with a mind
vacant ...
the face
of the little
ones
the
fragrance
of my garden
invite...
on line
teaching
turns
inane
you do
deliver
for
cyber
locked in
faces
that flash..
the rain
falling
splashing
on
contours
un absorbing...
with
the mask
suffocating,
a kind
of stupor,
discomfort
prevails
peeping
into
the screen,
a strain
for the eye..
how I
wish
I were
at home
free
to the
full...
I have put
my feeling
edges
on quarantine..
after all
all rat runs
wind up
in a sleep
eternal...
your vertical
turns
horizontal
you lie
impervious
to the
drama
around..
yet
I miss
those
fond calls
of my
departed
sister
"mynaa"
she
sought
my shelter,
solace
in her
ups and
downs
of life
and made
me feel
wanted....
what an
absence
that
precipitates
so much
of presence
the aching
agony
of the
vacuum...
O, no, my
quarantined
grief
bursts forth
breaking
bounds..
let it fall
torrential
beneath
my all covering
mask, glass,
unnoticed...
thank you
corona
for the
masquerade
with
masques
cheating
the eye..
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).
Deep in the woods, are heard
The clinking sound of bangles
Anklets' gossiping, immersed in a flowing stream
Whispering into the water's curious ears
Colors bursted into fragrances
As she conversed with Frangipani and Jasmine
Not plucking even a single flower...
Hibiscus and Roses wait for their turn
To discuss the colors of her love...
Surreal...
Heaven-like part of the Earth
Sandal-scented universe of her own
Songs of the birds, rhythm of the woods
Canvas, and quill are all that is found...
Cool wind kept blowing
Shoveling the mundane from the mind...
Petrichor slowly exuded
As the drowsy sun dissolved into the west, and
Clouds gathered brimming with liquid verses
Showered few words upon her soul
She collected the poems of rain, and
Walked into the depths
The darker wood, blanketed her heart
Solitude has a colour, too...
She reached her hut, with extreme hunger
Hunger in her eyes, deprived of sleep
While there were succulent fruits smiling from the trees
Shining too, as the luminous fireflies danced around...
Who would serve her sleep?
Can sleep be fed?!
. . .
Let her bangles and anklets sing lullaby for the wood...
May she sleep in her poems, as the dreams drift away...
Under the sodium vapour lamp
A light that is simultaneously intriguing and intimidating
An anonymous vehicle stares at the space
Bearing layers of dust, of brittle yesterdays
Eons ago, might have been a loving chariot...
Ah! The mysteriously soothing blue!
Strings of magnet in a hue, that pulls our soul...
Quaint quietness is the place, where
The self breaks down, blooms, and becomes
What it truly is...
There is a place, deep within
Lit in the colours that are soft on our eyes
Eyes that bloom from our soul
A place where silence flows like music
There...
Let nobody in!
Be there. Just you.
Slowly bloom, and become.
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
Set to the tune of nursery rhyme: Bits of paper, bits of paper lying on the ground
Bits of ideas Bits of ideas
Popping now and then popping up now and then
Take them, keep them work on them
Innovation. Innovation.
Set to the tune of nursery rhyme: twinkle, twinkle little star
Time and money and all other things
How I wonder how to use
Using them, a winner to be
Tell me how and I’ll thank you.
Set to the tune of nursery rhyme: Row, Row, Row your boat
Try, try, try again
And you’ll improve each time
Slowly, surely, steadily
Failure is no crime.
Set to the tune of nursery rhyme: Humpty dumpty
Arrogance now sat on the wall
And success then had a great fall
Not all the grand models
Nor all the great experts
Could get success back again
To the rhythm of Twinkle twinkle little star
Tinkle Tinkle whatsapp beep
Stop all work and take a peep
Though nothing urgent, news or views
Or just forwards of fake news
To the rhythm of Row row your boat
Work work work you must
Don't forget to laugh
Merrily, busily, busily, Merrily
Though the work be tough
To the rhythm of Little jack Horner
Llittle Jack Horner sat in his corner,
Wondering what to do
He tapped on his keyboard,
Brought out some info
And said "what a good work I've done"
To the rhythm of Mary Mary quite contrary
Mary maya Tom and Raj
How do your classes go
On zoom and skype and Google meet
With presentations galore.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
Wearing the mask is mandatory
Each special child will have a story
A moment not envisaged
Mom!!, I rather be massaged
Why do I need to hide my face?
I need my own space, with a little grace
Did you say.... "wear mask"!!
I think it's the most difficult task
Thought it was ok to just wash hands
Now my face will have a new band
I shall wear it till the gate
A band that I hate
Do not lament the moment
Use your time wisely and then comment
I continue with my evening stroll
As right now don't have much of a goal
I see others too with their face covered
A single colour or multicoloured
As I retrace backwards home
The setting sun shone
Myself shuddered and confused
With musings amused.
*****Only the Almighty can be the mask, for our children.
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)
She was not her usual self. She pushed her face deep into the pillow, probably trying to forgive herself but could not. Bou, her mother, called her thrice but she did not answer. Finally Bou yelled "why aren't you coming for having tea with us?" Still she was unmoved and engrossed in thoughts. What a mistake she had committed today, perhaps her life's greatest mistake! It was unpardonable. Bou and Bapa knew it but wanted her to return to normalcy rather than brew over the incident. The journey had just started and incidents of such type should not have happened at all.
We were set for a tour to Kashmir. I had seen Delhi and worked there for nine months before, but for most of the family members it was a journey to an unseen place. We had camped in an MP's quarters in South Avenue. The MP happened to be my Father-in-law's close friend and colleague of Kendrapara Bar. So camping at Delhi was not a problem for our vast group consisting of ten members. Whenever we plan to go for holidaying my father in law will not move alone but carry a battery of all family members, cooks, helpers etc.
We had started from Kendrapara and boarded the Neelachal Express from Cuttack. A day earlier all plans were duly recorded by him in a piece of paper and materials to be carried were gathered, including a bucket full of fried fish. The fish were brought from Moolbasant, their ancestral village where a big pond was taken on lease by him every year to raise fish. Those days only two trains were running between Odisha and Delhi. Neelachal Exp and Utkal Exp. We were ten group members occupying sleeper berths in the same compartment in the former.
My elder son was hardly two years old and we called him fondly as Shitu. My elder brother in law was also accompanying us with family and he had a daughter of the same age as Shitu and she was called Pinky. These two children had their debut train journey, so they forgot the presence of others and kept on glancing outside. Whenever their eyes met they forgot they were travelling in a train and they would start fighting with each other for some trivial reason.The lunch time arrived and the food from home, brought in big stainless utensils appeared with great gusto. The ladies took out the stuff, spread them on leaves and paper plates and served us. Shitu was not interested in any food unlike Pinky who was focussed on her plate. Shitu silently left his Bou's lap and proceeded towards Pinky and threw away her dishes. At this Pinky started howling, attracting the attention of all the family members and begging for punishment for Shitu. But he was used to tease her like this and the journey continued in a jovial atmosphere.
The train reached New Delhi station the next day evening and we proceeded to South Avenue to stay there for a few days before proceeding to Kashmir. My father n law had been a student of history, although an Advocate by profession. He used to spend vacations in visiting various places in Odisha carrying the entire family. My family was added to this group after marriage. He had made plans to visit different places of historical significance around Delhi during our stay there. I was the only member who was acquainted with these places earlier. So other members of our group enjoyed visiting the places like President's House, Parliament Bhavan, India Gate, Kutab Minar etc. Our next visit was scheduled to be Lal Quila, Jama Masjid and Chandini Chowk on the next day, a Sunday. We had only day time available for visits as we had to catch train to Jammu at 9pm for our Kashmir visit.
Next day our program started at 9am and we took two phatphatis (bullet autos) for Lal Quila. Every one was eagerly waiting to see the Mughal paradise on earth and without delay we entered the massive fort with a local guide as my father in law was keeping track of everything that had happened there and mentioned by Historians. He meticulously watched the marvellous structure of Dewan-e-Khas and Dewan-e-Aam. It took four hours for him to complete the Lal Aquila visit. Managing Shitu during these four hours was not a small affair. He used to mark everything and listen to the guide, without understanding what he was talking. Because of his high level of inquisitiveness and fleeting tendency he was constantly held by hand either by his mother or me.
After completing the visit to Lal Quila, we saw the gigantic Jama Masjid and returned to Chandini Chowk. The market from Mughal days till the British Raj, used to be in a "must see" agenda of any visitor. The crowd at mid day was at its best. There was no room for a person to move through amidst the rush of the commuters. The entire foot path was almost encroached by the vendors who were selling everything - from a needle to the elephant on road. People thronged to buy from this market on Sunday mornings as the goods were available cheaper there. Shitu was restless on seeing the madding crowd and was eager to stride over the entire market as soon as possible. He was not to be controlled by any single member. Stealthily he could bend and walk through the footpath without any supportive hand and was engrossed in watching the materials being sold.
I had given a brief about the articles to be purchased there starting from electronics to toys and texttiles to footwears etc. I had also informed about the famous sweet shop selling "Sohna Halwa" near Ghantaghar. We were focused on seeing the varieties of items on display and made some purchases also. Shitu was super active in dragging us from one shop to another depending upon the loud advertisement of vendors. Sometimes, he was held by me, sometimes by his mother or some other member of the group. He did not like to be held by any one family member for long. We were pleased to buy lots of toys for him and Pinky, selected by themselves. But Shitu was restless to hold the toys himself and test the functions then and there. For some moments he was free from the clutch of mine and his mother without our knowledge.
For a few minutes he was away from our minds in that busy street and suddenly his mother found him missing. We were aghast, the earth fell from under us. She started crying for him and calling for him loudly. I was at the end of my wits and so many nasty thoughts about child theft hunted my mind. My wife was running amuck in all directions searching for him. My father in law was also totally broken and reprimanded my wife for her carelessness. After some times I noticed that my wife had gone missing and I ran in the same direction I had seen her running. After ten minutes I found my wife crying loudly and losing all hopes to find Shitu. She was completely in a state of doldrums. Clinching her hairs she was cursing her fate and prayed to all Gods to save Shitu and return him to her laps. I was holding her hands, assuring her that Shitu would return. She promised to offer puja before Baldevjew and Bala baba of her native town Kendrapara. No sooner than her promise of offering puja was made, we were pleasantly surprised to find Shitu, bubbling with a big smile holding the hand of his uncle, my wife's eldest brother. My wife immediately took him in her arms and showered kisses on his cheeks crying inconsolably. Shitu was taken aback, not knowing what problem he had created. We returned to the place where other members were anxiously waiting for us. Later we came to know that his uncle took Shitu without our knowing, to search for the best Sohna Halwa sweet shop on the lane and both of them purchased sweets for all, after having a fill of the different kinds of sweets sold in the shop.
Our visit was cut short there and we returned to South Avenue for taking rest and preparing for the night journey..My wife was not able to reconcile herself to the incident and promised to hold Shitu's hand herself without depending on any body else till we returned back to Kendrapara.
She was deeply shocked over the lapse on her part and tossed restlessly on the bed without caring for her Bou's call for the evening tea.
Even today her eyes will be filled with tears when we discuss the unforgettable incident.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
It was Wednesday. Rahul, my husband, went to the bank as usual. He was so busy with his schedules and we didn't get time to talk about Hitesh, my only handsome boy who stopped smiling of late. How energetic he was! He used to chit chat with friends, play violin and be busy at his job.
Late in the evening, I felt so sad to see him hanging to the door, holding the wall for support and stepping inside the house. His footsteps were in disorder and he stammered, 'Mom! I'm not hungry. Have your dinner. Friends forced me to eat with them, ma!'
I stared at him quietly and asked, 'How many pegs did you have?'
'Only four, as usual, mom.'
I knew he was lying to me. He became addicted to liquor and stopped living in practicality. I was feeling very sad to see his red eyes. I was in tears.
The sunset made me so gloomy as every evening reminded me of saddened moments that occurred in my life. The sky darkened slowly and all the greyish clouds started disappearing, giving way to the moon.
The next morning, I went to Hitesh's room to see him whether he had woken up or not. He was sleeping like a log.
I waited for him at the dining table. Hitesh looked fresh and smiled at me, while I was serving his favourite breakfast, idly and sambar.
Rahul too joined us a bit later. 'Hitesh, what are your next plans? Will you be joining your friend's business?'
'I haven't planned yet, dad and will let you know!'
'Yeah, it should make you grow and bring you happiness.'
'Hmm, hope so, dad!' Hitesh whispered.
'Okay, Lasya! I'm leaving. Going to have a busy day.'
I touched Hitesh's head and patted his shoulders. 'Come on! Tell me, what happened? Hope everything is fine! Did you discuss about your decision with Meghana? What's her opinion?'
'Meghana would be leaving for US shortly, mom! She got a golden opportunity to join a reputed American company. I'm quite happy for her.'
'What about your wedding? Did she discuss it with her parents? What did they say?' I questioned eagerly.
'She would marry her uncle's son who's working in New Jersey and her parents want her to.'
'Oh! Did you talk to your dad?
'Not yet! I will.'
We're not even concerned about caste, creed and property.
'Don't get tensed up my son! I am sure things will happen for our good. She was not serious about your love and concern for her. I didn't expect this situation, Hitesh!'
Hitesh rushed to his bedroom and started drinking again. This time, the quantity increased. I couldn't control him and was worried about him.
It's Friday night. Rahul and I were waiting for Hitesh. Suddenly our family doctor came and told us Hitesh was crossing his limits in drinking and his lungs have got affected badly.
Hitesh wasn't in our control any more. I was worried about him. What's Hitesh's opinion about wedding now? Thinking for the hundredth time about his welfare, I sat beside him, but couldn't control my tension. I started consoling him.
'I can't see you worrying so much about it, my son! We will soon find a girl who's educated and working. I feel arranged marriage is better than a love marriage. We, as parents get a chance to interact with the girl and her parents. Don't feel low about this situation, dear!'
'Mom! I'm a failure in love! See! Meghana has left me forever and I'm not going to marry anyone. No, I can't marry any girl other than Meghana!' He started weeping.
I couldn't control my tears and was shocked to see his condition.
I held Rahul's hands and asked him to do something. He too was worried and surprised at Hitesh's talk.
Hitesh used to laugh loudly and screamed some unclear words, when he drank more and more.
It's Sunday morning. Rahul and I went to the market to buy some essentials. We thought of coming home within two hours, but due to traffic jam, we reached home late.
When we reached home, we saw the doors were locked inside. I called Hitesh several times and asked him to open the door. He didn't respond. The house was quiet and calm. I was feeling fearful and panicky.
Rahul with his friends, broke the back door. We were shocked to see his body hanging from the fan.
'Mom, I'm a failure in love.' Hitesh's words were ringing in my voice. 'A Love Failure, my son may be, but I myself failed to protect my sensitive son.' I gloomily entered his bedroom to touch and feel his bed, his clothes, the table and chair where he loved to sit.
'Hmm! Love Failure.' I never thought my handsome and loving son would leave me forever.
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
My "friend" called me frantically one morning to say she was not able to get any big names to agree to inaugurate the seminar she was organising at her institution.
When I suggested a few names, she said they were not big enough for the occasion and she was looking for really "big" names.
Why are you so obsessed with big names, I asked, feeling a little disappointed at her attitude.
Well, only then people will care to come and so also will the press. They believe only big names will attract attention and the sale of their publication will go up, she said.
May be you are right, but most often the names might impress but not their speeches or actions, I said.
Who cares, all that concerns me is the coverage the event gets. If it is accompanied by a photograph, it is even better as people will not miss going through the story, she argued. Moreover, I will also get credit in the process and the contacts might help me in future, she added lowering her voice.
I could appreciate her frankness in expressing her vested interest.
By the way, what is the theme of the seminar, I asked.
'Power lies in knowledge one possesses and not in one's possessions', she said.
I burst out laughing when she mentioned the theme.
What makes you laugh when I am most serious, she said, offended.
Can't you see, all the more reason for you not to go in for big names, I said, stressing 'not'. You must choose someone who is well read and well informed so that people will listen to him/her and ponder over what is said. Then I went on to suggest some names of persons who were not only professionals but had an eternal thirst for acquiring knowledge. They were like walking encyclopaedia in my opinion.
She vehemently shook her head. You forget that the press doesn't recognise such persons, she reiterated.
Why don't you forget the press for once and give one of them a chance to inaugurate the seminar, I said.
She appeared convinced after a lot of persuasion and ultimately agreed to my suggestion.
I had kept my fingers crossed till the day of the seminar as I was inwardly worried about the response the speaker would invite, as he not only belonged to the tribe of "unsung heroes" but also lacked the proverbial charisma.
The seminar began with a prayer and the rest of the programme followed. When the chief guest was introduced, I could notice the chuckles and sighs from some in the audience which left me with an unpleasant feeling. The slightly built figure stood up with all dignity, went through the ritual of inauguration and began his address. As the speaker proceeded, slowly the chuckles and sighs died down giving place to appreciative responses and ha ha's at the most thought provoking speech, sprinkled with anecdotes and quotes from a wide variety of sources to the delight of the audiences who comprised a cross-section of society.
I had the surprise of my life when I opened the paper the next morning. The event was covered in two columns where a major part of the address was faithfully reported. I wondered how a nonentity till yesterday could have become a celebrity overnight. I am yet to find an answer to this!
The other day, on my flight to Hyderabad, my neighbour, a gentleman, probably in his mid-forties, engaged my attention all of the 55 minutes, right from the time he chose to dump his oversized and unshapely hand baggage into the overhead compartment above my seat.
However much he tried to push it in and close the door, the door wouldn't close because the cursed thing was protruding out several inches. I feared it may land on my head any moment. Just then the air hostess came to his rescue, and mine as well, asking whether she could check it in to which the gentleman reluctantly agreed.
He slumped into his seat with a thud and immediately got busy with the seat belt. He pulled out the part on his right and half turned towards me to find the part adjacent to my seat. It failed to yield to his groping hand and suddenly I noticed him tugging at my seat belt and trying to push the clasp in place. But the ends refused to come anywhere near each other. I felt amused at his plight and told him he had picked up the wrong belt.
He dropped it like a hot brick without so much as a "Sorry maam", and resumed his search for the right one. He managed to lay his hand on it after some struggle and fastened the belt on his centre forward. No sooner than he felt secure he pulled out the newspaper from the front seat's rear pocket and started reading loudly, drawing the attention of those around.
Breakfast arrived and I was curious to know what he would do next. He immediately crumpled the newspaper, kept it it back into the seat pocket, pulled out his large handkerchief and spread it over his lap. He picked up the toothpicks and the cotton swabs from the tray and safely deposited them in his shirt pocket. The butter and jam packets made their way into his trouser pocket. He picked up the piece of bun, took a bite and almost the same time I too bit into my piece and both of us winced at its staleness. (I chose to discard it but he consumed the whole of it).
The rest of the breakfast was polished off within minutes and the man was licking each finger at the end, probably to prove how much he relished it, (Hats off to Indian Airlines). Letting out a loud belch, he brought out the toothpick and the cotton swab from his pocket, (the latter was collected along with the chocolates, earlier on the flight). I expected him to use them for the purpose they were given but never thought he had other ideas for the pair. He tore open the packets with his teeth, took out the cotton and wrapped it around the toothpick and inserted the improvised 'ear bud' right into his ear nearest to me, not bothering whether his elbow was resting on the arm of the seat or my arm placed on it. The 'ear bud' came out accompanied by a lot of muck which was deposited on the cover of the seat facing him.
A similar 'cleansing exercise' of his nostrils was carried out with his right index finger and the resulting 'scum' too found a place next to the 'muck'. Meanwhile, the announcement for the flight's landing came and I heaved a sigh of relief. The man unfastened his seat belt (this time with less difficulty).
Even as the flight was touching down, he made an attempt to get up but sat down when he noticed nobody else did so.
After collecting my suitcase from the conveyor, I headed for the pre-paid cab outside the airport and took my place in the queue. My eyes fell on a familiar piece of baggage near me. Suddenly recognition dawned and I scooted from there deciding to wait till the baggage and its owner were out of my sight, wondering at the same time what his plans were for the packets of jam, butter and spice safely resting in his trouser and shirt pockets.
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.
Are You Really In Love or Simply In Love With The Idea of LOVE?
Relationships. How beautiful they are! Especially if you have found that perfect person who makes you feel special. That person with whom you love taking selfies with to update your social media feeds. That person with whom you enjoy going on dates and romantic walks just like in the fairy tales. That feeling of being important, being someone’s Bae, Boo, Sweetheart, etc. All these feelings are natural and beautiful if they are used in the right way. However, there are some cases where people prioritize these superficial feelings more than their partners. This becomes a major problem because people start to leave when things get difficult or when they stop getting that “BUTTERFLY FEELING.” That’s why, many dating relationships these days don’t last for very long. But why does this happen? I think it is because many of us don’t really know the real meaning of LOVE. Therefore, I would like to pose a question, “WHAT IS LOVE ACCORDING TO YOU?”
WHAT LOVE IS NOT.
Many Movies and TV shows today have given us a distorted view on how LOVE should supposedly be like. What we fail to realize is that these distorted views are fictional and have the potential to change the way we look at LOVE by subtly altering our minds and views. As a result, we have somehow been brainwashed to think that being single is a sign of loneliness. That is why some of us get into relationships just for the status so that we can show off to our friends. It makes us “feel” good but it makes the relationship very shallow and superficial because it rejects deep joy for shallow happiness and security….
THE REAL MEANING OF LOVE.
To tell you the truth, LOVE is an emotion and it has multiple meanings. In this article, I’m going to talk about “ROMANTIC LOVE.” which is the love shared between two people who are in a relationship. Romantic love today has been confused with possession, attachment and dependency. But that is not LOVE, it is a characteristic of LUST. LOVE is actually an inside job. In order to love someone, you must first accept and love yourself because you can only give what you have. So, without taking care of yourself, how do you expect to take care of somebody else? Frankly speaking, the things you love and admire in a person are simply a reflection of the things YOU are. So in reality, you are actually in love with a reflection of yourself. This is why it is very important to accept, love and understand yourself so that you can do the same to another human being.
Now you must be wondering, “If I already accept and love myself, then why should I even get in a relationship?” The answer is very simple. As human beings, we require companionship. It is a biological, emotional and fundamental need in each and every one of us. There is no problem in fulfilling these needs at all. The problem arises when we start putting these feelings above our partners as I had mentioned earlier.
LOVE ISN’T ALWAYS PERFECT.
No matter how good your relationship is, there will be disagreements and misunderstandings. What matters the most is how you approach these kinds of situations. The journey of TRUE LOVE is two imperfect people trying to better themselves together. Therefore, during conflict, it is very important to be calm and tackle the situation rationally. This comes only when you are emotionally sound and are willing to see things from another perspective.
COMMUNICATION AND COMMITMENT.
Communication is an essential tool in every relationship. In order to truly understand your partner’s needs and personality, you should be able to talk freely with him/her about anything and vice versa. It comes naturally once you and your partner commit yourselves to each other. Meaning that no matter what happens, you guys will always be there for each other. Once you make this clear, you will be able to completely open up to your partner because you know that he/she loves you and wants to be with you. And that is what we call, "MARRIAGE."
TO ALL THE SINGLES OUT THERE.
To all my single friends out there I would like to say this; don’t get into a relationship just because you don’t want to be single. Rather, use that time to develop yourself and your personality so that when the time comes for you to enter into a real relationship, you will be better prepared because the journey to LOVE isn’t always about finding “the One”, it’s about you becoming “THE ONE.”
Sanjit Singh is pursuing B.Com (final year) in Loyola College, Chennai. His hobbies include juggling, origami, shuttle badminton, public speaking and writing. He has a blog on wordpress.com named "Sanjit Singh - Unconventional Wisdom." The aim of my blog is to present simple solutions to complicated problems that his generation faces.
A SON..
A FRIEND..
A HUSBAND..
A FATHER..
Floyd was his name...
One night changed it all ..
Handcuffed & Head down..
Crushed under a white man's knee ..
& A fake 20$ bill that caused his life..
Suddenly... HE WAS just " BLACK"
For he did not KNOW ..... he was
black enough to be despised
" HE RESISTED "
Black enough to be ignored
" I CAN'T BREATH "
black enough to be held dead under legs
" PLEASE DONT KILL ME "
Sorry .. U had it wrong..
wen Skin is weapon..
wen Color is Power..
People will mourn ...
they will Rebel & Rage
And DO NOT THINK not for a moment
They ain't stopping until u BURN....
REST IN POWER GEORGE FLOYD ??
Neethu Ann Jacob is from Kottayam,Kerala. She recently obtained her BDS degree from PMS College of Dental Science & Reaserch and is waiting for admission into a Post Graduate course.
This is how she describes herself:
"Being a little girl who grew up reading & believing fairytales ..my heart always yearned for something magical..."out of the box "..Art and poetry are my escape. .more like a Therapy venting out all kinds of emotions. I spend my spare time Drawing, Painting, Writing & a bit of singing, they empower me ! My goal is to do something very new & unique, merging my creativity & profession ..that way, both sides stay Alive ! ...."
KORAPUT TO CUTTACK VIA 132KV LINE: A TRAVEL DOWN THE MEMORY LANE
As a young man, I had to often travel from Koraput to Cuttack in the eighties by the most preferred and probably the only mode of public transport - the rickety ubiquitous OSRTC Bus via the Koraput-Laxmipur-Rayagada-Digapahandi-Berhampur-Bhubaneswar-Cuttack route. It was an arduous journey of 515 kilo meters where one was condemned to travel glued to the seat for about 16 to 17 hours while the bus crawled up and down the mountainous narrow road.
Every time the bus negotiated a curve, the passengers were pushed in the opposite direction and had to grab at anything at arm’s reach to continue sticking to their sitting place. It gave just a second of breathing space as the next turn invariably was in opposite direction and one had to grab at something else to maintain the position. Added to this were innumerable tosses in vertical direction whenever the bus fell into potholes or rolled over humps. The degree of toss one was subjected to depended on where one’s seat was located inside the bus. Farther from the front, bigger would be the toss.
Once in a while someone hitting the roof of bus and shrieking partly due to panic and more due to fear of cracking the skull or snapping the spine made all passengers to curse the driver in unison, yet, the driver was so used to these regular doses of uncomplimentary and unsavory appreciations that he hardly took notice of the barrage of cacophonous voices coming his way and remained focused on the ever changing road with unregulated mixed traffic. Taking a sweet revenge was game for him. If he wished he could take punitive measures at all those voices from the rearmost of the seats by not slowing down at the next hump.
The passengers took elaborate pains to book the seat sufficiently in advance so as not to fall victim to the last rows of seats. But, as is the way of the world, one was to often reconcile to fate and brace up to travel in the most notorious row of the last seats which was called BALCONY seat borne out of Stockholm syndrome.
But, the journey had few points of halt where one could mend one’s state of being and use the space as a breather to return to as much normalcy as possible. As the bus stopped at a halt point near a hotel, passengers alighted from the bus. The first thing that greeted them was the putrid smell of burnt rubber from the tyres of the bus. It was this unmistakable odor that complicated things for few who had a tendency to vomit. But all passengers wished to use this time available. The more experienced passengers were seen crowding the eateries where the bus stopped to feed themselves of snacks, hot tea, bananas and buy something more to use till next stop. The women and other “not so experienced” ones were seen hunched and pouring themselves out by the side of the road and vomiting every morsel of food they had taken during the lunch. The time of stop just depended on how quickly the driver of the bus finished his complimentary snacks provided by the hotel owner who was grateful to the bus staff for patronizing his eatery.
The road was called 132KV line due to various reasons. The term “132KV” signifies a term used in power transmission voltage. True to its name the road ran parallel to a 132KV cross country transmission line and was probably constructed to facilitate erecting the transmission line and later on to maintain it. That is how the road came to be known initially and it struck to public imagination and remained. People of this part of state are mostly devoid of any imaginative pursuits and their political masters are also equally clueless about most things of life. Else there would have been some attempt to find a catchy name to call this lifeline of the road replacing the drab “132KV Line” tag.
The major stoppages en-route were Laxmipur for Snacks, Rayagada for Tea, Digapahandi for Dinner and then the last one at Cuttack. Bhubaneswar in those days was just another stop and was not the nerve centre as it is today. Busses usually started at 2 PM or 3 PM and reached Laxmipur at 4 to 5 PM. The winding roads of Kakiriguma to Laxmipur ghat had induced some fatigue in most of them. What added to misery of the passengers were not only the jolts, tosses, pushes inside the bus but also the foul smelling diesel smoke mixed with odor of burnt rubber and dust from the road set turbulent by other vehicles on the road. Enjoying such a journey was unthinkable and one only wished the journey somehow ended.
Condemned to be in such a situation and knowing well that there will be no respite to the unpleasant experience; every passenger devised a way to handle it and make it as tolerable as possible. Those were not the days of “walkman” a wonder companion to have. At a personal level I always enjoyed the journey. It was a great experience to sit at the window side seat and simply soak oneself with the great sight outside. The virgin forests, Blue Mountains, jungle streams all presented in an ever changing stage before me.
As the evening and then night fell engulfing everything in darkness, one could see the shining moon looming over semi-dark valleys. It was both scary to look at them and enjoyable since you knew that you are witnessing them though the safe confines of your bus. It just made immense sense to run your imagination wild and think of you being lost in those dark jungles. The moment you felt your fear overpowering you to make you numb, you simply flipped a switch to come back to reality, the reality of a foul smelling bus belching smoke, diesel and dust in equal measure.
There were many fables doing the rounds in the towns of Koraput district about buses hitting at SAMBHAR ( A type of Wild Deer in Jungles of Koraput), accidents and near-miss accidents, sighting of tiger (often imaginary), of passengers left behind in middle of ghat roads in the dead of night. Two stories were of special interest to many of us. There was a river bridge at a place called Gumuda between Rayagada and Digapahandi whose middle span was once washed away by flash flood and the first bus to come that way was from Koraput. It was late evening and there was no light except the headlight of the bus. The driver could see the missing span at the last second and applied the brakes with all his strength to stop the bus, but in vain. With god’s grace, the bus screeched to halt with half of it hanging mid-air. Imagine the commotion that must have followed. Every second there was a possibility of the bus toppling over and falling to the river bed down below. The bus was in a precarious balance. The legendary driver of the day saved the situation by asking passengers not to panic and move out of the bus starting from front row to improve the balance. No passengers were hurt in that accident and the event became a gripping tale of sheer luck, and presence of mind on part of the driver.
The other story was that of a bus hitting at a big sambhar (Wild Deer) crossing the road. It might have died or was in a critical condition. After a lot of discussion wise passengers decided to make best use of the situation. The body of the sambar was lifted to top of the bus. Next day upon arrival at destination, the sambar landed on the dinner table of many people in the town.
Then there is also the story of a passenger who got down somewhere on the ghat road in dead of night to relieve the bladder which was a regular thing for these long distance travels. Many others followed. Usually the helper of the bus kept a mental note of how many passengers had alighted and before resuming the journey to make a head count and throw a question at no one in particular to check if everybody has returned. On that day, other passengers finished their act quickly and got into the bus. But, before this poor ill-fated man could complete his act, the bus started moving. The fellow might have panicked and might have yelled or run after the bus, but it didn’t stop. There are many versions of how the story ended but just imagining the plight of the man madly running after the bus clutching at his pants one could laugh one's guts out.
By now, our bus would have reached the most important stop on its way. Digapahandi is just before the next major stop of Berhampur. Digapahandi had few hotels to serve dinner to passengers. The stop here was for about 40 minutes as the second driver of the bus takes over the driving. Taking advantage of the longer period of halt, many other varieties of shops also aimed to do brisk business. One would find many shops selling audio cassettes and they specialized in making on the spot 60 Minutes cassette of your choice. Each shop would have a speaker at entrance of the shop blaring golden oldies of bollywood and I was always attracted to these shops. Somehow I loved their ambience. To this day I remember specific songs and I am tempted to list a few for the readers to hum and enjoy.
1. Tere ghar ke samne ek ghar banaunga
2. Tere pyar ka ashra chahata hun
3. Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho
4. Chauduni ka chand ho
5. Ham ne sanam ko khat likha
6. Ye mera prem patra padh kar
7. Likhe jo khat tujhe
8. Chand si mehebuba ho
9. Thandi Hawayen Lahara ke gaen
10. Dil kya kare Jab kisise
11. Ye raaten ye mausam
12. Mujhko isi raat ki tanhai mein
As a habit I avoid taking foods in hotels where I have little confidence about hygiene and while other passengers had their dinner, I strolled around the place listening to this soothing music playing from their systems. In hind sight I now think, there must be a connoisseur of good music amongst those little music shops. How else did they make such an indelible impact on my memory that I find it inseparable from my recollections of the travels? The songs made a surreal impact on travelers like me and I picked up tunes from the place and hummed to myself through the rest of the journey.
Travelling in any form instills a sense of tranquility in our mind. You know that however important a task might be, however pleasant or unpleasant situation you may be looking forward to after arriving at your destination, you can do nothing about those pressing matters while you are travelling. So that incapability to do anything creates a moment of enforced bliss in you. Your mind becoming free of worries (After all what worries would trouble a young man?) allowed you to do a lot of introspection. And you let your mind loose, let it wander; let it bloom into all infinite possibilities, in all infinite colors one can imagine. You could make an interstellar travel, see even the horizon from close quarters, and sweep back to earth, next moment you could fly over rain forests of Amazonia la superman style or simply doze off constantly falling over your co-passenger’s shoulder.
The dinner at Digapahandi made everyone sleepy and if you consciously didn’t take a decision to remain awake and peer through your window at the dark/semi-lit countryside passing by, you tended to sleep. Hereafter the journey was less eventful till the crack of dawn. You now found yourself on the great coastal plains of Odisha and the state capital would be merely a few kilometers away. In those days Bhubaneswar was not so much significant in people’s life as it is today. The bus would enter Bhubaneswar, make a brief halt at the now non-existent old bus stand and proceed to the final destination at Cuttack.
The bus would cross long bridges over famed rivers of Odisha starting with Kuakhai immediately after Bhubaneswar to Kathajodi just before Cutttack. The passengers would then thank god for a safe n sound passage of 500+ KMs from a place 3000 feet above MSL winding down through dense forest to a place at sea level, from a sedentary life to a fast paced ever active society, from simple straight forward people to a society where people were street smart, ever ready to outsmart you, from a life of year round cool ambience to that of a hot n humid suffocative climate. The first reaction after alighting from the bus would be the humid weather that made you sweat profusely and mentally one would start missing Koraput, My Koraput! Dear Koraput!
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput.
THE SYMBOLISM OF MOTHER: AN OVATION
(The Woman with the Lamp, HL Haldankar, 1945-46, Jagmohan Palace, Mysore)
The year 1961 was a turning point in my life, when as a young boy of six, buoyant with myriad visions of a promising morrow, I and my family of two equally young siblings and a caring mother, lost our doting father that was sudden and unannounced. In one mighty sweep of fate, as the heaven’s wrath swept us into a dreary corner, the late Bard of Avon seemed to remind us, “What can be avoided whose end is purported by the mighty Gods?” Ensconced in my wary stance, I couldn’t throw caution to the wind to gather strength and reply back the late Bard in his own words, “I have a bone to pick with Fate”!
The abrupt absence of my father drew me towards my mother and I began to visualize her differently in a multitude of roles that I had hitherto not gathered. As times rolled on, like Neil Gaiman, in his book, Good Omens says, “The future came and went in the mildly discouraging way that futures do”; I grew up under the shadow of a mother, who became synonymous with love, sacrifice, share, care, small wants, a large heart and a symbol of grace under trying times. She became a persona who had the uncanny ability to make even strangers become a part of her own family: a beautiful being clad in an immaculate white sari, a wholesome being larger than life. That was the definition of a mother to me.
International Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day, celebrated on the second Sunday of May every year, is a celebration of the contribution of the mother to her family and her selfless role in the growth and well-being of her children.
It is believed that the modern Mother’s Day celebration first began in the US, when a woman by the name of Anna Jarvis, who in 1908 in deference to her pious and philanthropist mother’s desires, took up the initiative and held a memorial, at St. Andrew’s Methodist Church in West Virginia in the presence of a small gathering and publicized it as ‘The Mother’s Day’, in honor of her late mother. The sobriquet stayed and has since been followed throughout the world.
Let me step out of the conventional implications of the Mother’s Day as it is, and has been much eulogized at, to an expanded vision of the mother in some wide variations concerning maternal figures. Of the many universal realities, the Mother and Motherhood have remained as the foremost, and in the sense of maternal symbolism, in some form, have remained across cultures. Mother as a term has been applied to as diverse figures as the Stone Age Venuses, the Virgin Mary, the ancient Greeks and Romans’ mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele in the West; to the multifarious representation of the name to a pantheon of Mother figures in the Indic culture. However, the symbolism attached to maternal motives needs a closer study and I will confine myself to the Indic culture in my intended discourse.
Concept of the Ideal Mother
While ‘ideal’ is only an abstract idea, for it is individualistic in its interpretation; to gather perspectives, I threw the question on Quora, the online questionnaire platform, and solicited answers. The response was forthcoming, especially from the mothers and the about-to-be ones, and I quote one of the early responses:
“I wish I knew.
I’m a wholehearted mother: barely mediocre in some ways, quite excellent in others.
I often feel insufficient to the task. To nurture four, to make life-changing decisions, often not knowing which will prove to be the life-changing ones…
To know when to provide and when to limit, to know when to push, demand, discipline, and when to ignore, overlook, or laugh…
It requires wisdom beyond what I possess.
I’m far from ideal.”
- Joy Crotty, Mother of four
There could not be a more honest definition of Mother and Motherhood. Joy’s reply in its implied sense inches towards the ideal. I could not have asked for more, as I thanked her.
Mother and Motherhood in Indian Culture
Indian culture has long glorified the role of a woman as a Mother. She is deified as a goddess, sanctified as nature and nation, eulogized as the provider of life, food, tenderness, and affection. This interwoven cultural fabric is so thick and durable that it has muffled the experience of Motherhood from the classical era to the modern day.
Portrayal of Mother in Indian Mythology
Indian mythology depicts The Mother as a friend, supporter, guardian who plays all these roles to near perfection. Indian mythology in its implicit language expresses the power, beauty, heroism and majesty of a mother’s love in the following examples:
Kaushalaya : Despite being a victim of her husband’s 2nd wife Kaikeyi, she raised her son Rama with high morals.
Sita: Without her husband’s support, she provided the best upbringing to her sons, Luv and Kush.
Yashoda: She nurtured the most sacred and applauded motherly behavior despite not being the real mother of Krishna.
Renuka: She is remembered for her unmatchable sacrifice for the lives of her sons.
Parvati: It was her motherly love and affection that granted her the power to create a son out of a clay model.
Draupadi: She is known for the best upbringing she gave to all her five children.
Portrayal of Mother in Indian Literature and the Arts
The social construction of Indian motherhood has been influenced by antiquated texts, like the Ramayana and Mahabharata and the Sanskrit text of Manusmriti. Texts like these were perceived to be a source of law, and have been so indoctrinated in India’s consciousness that it will take serious work to undo their impact.
For the longest time, India was a land where all women were Mothers. Motherhood was the prime role and final destination for a woman. R.K. Narayan portrays this through his book The Dark Room (1938), with his protagonist Savitri, the epitome of sacrifice, endurance, and submission. Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar In A Sieve (1954), the character of Rukmini is the traditional figure of sustenance in an agrarian society. In Mulk Raj Anand’s The Old Woman And The Cow (1960), the protagonist Gauri is projected to be the cow: soft and docile, a meek and mute sufferer at the hands of her abusive husband and mother-in-law.
There are many more authors down the ages, like Sashi Deshpande, Jerry Pinto and Jhumpa Lahiri; who through their books and their protagonists have spoken about the vicissitudes of mothers in our societies.
In fine arts and the like, there could be no better example to hold the mirror of Mother and Motherhood than the inimitable painter Raja Ravi Verma (1848-1906), who has presented us a kaleidoscope of The Mother through his much admired paintings. HL Haldankar’s iconic ‘Woman with the Lamp’(presented at the top of this Article) invokes a passion within, that reminds me of my own mother going down to place the evening lamp of Sandhaya Aarati(evening prayer by lighting a lamp) at the entrance to our house, which is a tradition in India: a picture of grace, beauty and simplicity. There are many others, including the much misunderstood but a trend-setter in the art world, MF Husain, with his series Saraswati and Mother Theresa.
Saraswati, MF Husain, 1976, image courtesy: Pinterest
Mother Teresa, La Pieta, MF Hussain, 2005, image courtesy: Christie’s
Portrayal of Mother in Indian Cinema
Who can ever forget the heart-stopping dialogue in the Hindi film, Deewar (1975), between the two feuding brothers, acted by Amitav Bachhan and Sashi Kapoor: “Mere Paas Maa Hey”(“I have Mother with me”), the iconic reply to the question thrown by the elder brother, with a smack of pomposity of possessing all the worldly material niceties.
(The short video clip is at the bottom of this page)
Bollywood's depiction of a Mother has been linear of sorts: whether with the very first Indian film, Raja Harishchandra (1913), with Taramati the mother, offering herself for the sacrifice in place of her son Rohitashva; or the first Odia talkie, Sita Vivah (1936) based on Ramayana; with all of the plots being interwoven around the theme of the mother. However, the depiction of the mother have gone through a sea-change with the progressive portrayal of the mother with their easily identifiable heroines. They have been as varied as the ‘Helpless Mother’(Nirupa Roy), the Courageous Mother(Nargis Dutt in Mother India), the Tricky Mother/Mother-in-law(Bindu, Lalita Pawar, Aruna Irani), the Friendly Mother(Reema Lagoo, Farida Jalal), the Gen X Mother(Film Khubsoorat); ending with the latest incarnation of the Ultimate Mother(Sridevi in the Film Mom).
Nargis Dutt in the Film Mother India, 1957, image courtesy: Instagram
Portrayal of Mother in Indian Music
The Indian classical music is replete with examples of various forms of obeisance to the Mother: be it the traditional ragas, both in the Hindustani and the Carnataki traditions; like the raga Hamsadhwani for Goddess Saraswati, raga Bhupali for the Mother Earth or the much researched therapeutic ragas of Malkauns and Yaman rendered for the well-being of the expectant Mother. The tradition of ‘Bhajans’ dedicated for the mystic Mother Durga, sung by the doyen of the twentieth century Indian music, Pandit Jasraj, is a treat for the ears. For me, the reverential and immersive voice and words of late Jagjit Singh, invoking the word ‘Maa’, dedicated to The Divine Mother, in his musical album of the same eponymous name ‘Maa’; which I listen to often when in a sad mood, is elevating. Let me share this exalted track from the album:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Zi3kChwPfk&list=PLrbjTAvk3M7cwj21c9Rm24o-hfjrNG8uy&index=2
As I close my conversation with ‘The Mother’, taking a libertarian view of the Mother, let me recall the immortal lines of John Keats from his poem Endymion, in a solemn salutation for all The Mothers, wherever they be:
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”
Debi Padhi was born in the city of Cuttack, India. A retired naval aviator, with a Masters in English Literature and a Masters in Journalism and Mass Communications; has a passion for the creative arts and is a freelance writer on varied subjects that have been published widely. He, along with his wife are running an organization that counsels and empowers the youth to exploit their full potential.
A MAROONED BIRD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
When Sujata Aunty telephoned on a Sunday morning and called me home, little did I know I was being summoned as a referee in a friendly fight between her and Mahesh Uncle. When I reached their apartment, the fight had already commenced, although to experienced eyes it looked like an episode in a series, like one of those TV serials.
The moment uncle saw me, he exclaimed,
"Sadanand, you should never get old, the world is too unkind to us....."
I cut him short,
"Uncle, who is old here? Although you are retired, you hardly look to be in your late forties. And Aunty? She can go to any film studio and walk away with the role of the heroine's elder sister."
Nothing soothes frayed temper better than a massage of the egos by practised hands. And I can claim to be an expert masseur, being an official in a bank, dealing with irate customers, demanding netas and prickly bosses every day.
Aunty laughed,
"See Sadanand, can I really cope with the demand for fifteen cups of tea every day? Added to regular meals and snacks in between? Staying at home your uncle craves for pakodas, aloo chops and vadas all the time. Tell me, for a diabetic is it good to have all these?"
Uncle's tone descended into a pitiable whine,
"It's not because I am a diabetic that I am being denied my fundamental right to wholesome meals and nutritious snacks, it's because I am retired, no longer earning a monthly income. Sadanand, find me a job, I want to be away from home, ten to six."
"Uncle, who can afford you? A retired Distinguished Space Scientist?"
Aunty chipped in,
"But there must be something he can do, instead of sitting at home and eating all the time. Not good for his diabetes you know!"
Uncle looked at me and smiled guiltily.
Mahesh Uncle had retired eight months back from ISRO, Trivandrum, and came to Bhubnaeswar to live among his friends and relatives. He was still trying to find his footing in this town, his home town, where he had studied at the University before being selected as a Trainee Scientist and leaving for Trivandrum. The next thirty nine years he had spent in Trivandrum. He told me he loved the city and the people but his heart was always where he had left it, the tree-canopied roads, the simple, bustling markets, the cute parks, gardens and the numerous temples.
But soon Mahesh uncle and Sujata Aunty became a disillusioned couple, the relatives were busy with their own world. Mobile phones, WhatsApp, FaceBook and Twitter had taken over most lives in a way beyond anyone's control. They met his college friends in an annual get together. The welcomes were effusive, memories flowed unabated, the lunch was superb. But it was good as long as it lasted. There was no call from anyone after that, uncle's calls to his old class mates mostly remained unanswered.
Mahesh uncle was academically brilliant and the kind of exposure he had at ISRO was unique. He wanted to hold a few seminars on the latest trends in Space Research and Quantum Physics with the students in his old department. The Head of the Department was his class mate, since the Professors had two additional years of service, they retired at sixty two. He just smiled at the enthusiasm of the distinguished scientist from ISRO and arranged a seminar. It was on a working day, the other professors were busy. Only a junior lecturer introduced the Speaker and left. The students came, sat through the seminar and left. No one asked a question at the end of it. No one could answer a single question posed by uncle. He gave them copies of some journal articles he had taken with him and asked them to prepare themselves before the seminar next week.
With great enthusiasm uncle went for the seminar next week, the attendance was not even half of the previous seminar and when he asked how many of the students had read the journal articles, not a single hand went up. The students sat through the seminar like drugged zombies, many kept themselves busy with their mobile phones under the desk. No one asked a question, they obviously had no interest in anything the speaker had said. Mahesh uncle did not go back to his Alma Mater again. He had hoped that a few sutdents or his old friend, the HOD would call and ask him to come and hold a few more seminars, but no one called.
The guilty smile on that Sunsay morning spoke loud and clear of Uncle's boredom. Suddenly an idea struck me. I knew he was a voracious reader and suggested to him that he should become a member at the State Library. Uncle jumped at the idea. He was always fond of good books and the idea of the library promised to be the answer to his boredom. Luckily his apartment was only half a kilometer from the Library, it was a walking distance. Uncle started making plans in my presence, he would leave everyday after an early lunch, spend the whole day at the library and return in the evening. He looked at Aunty and said, "Good for you, Suji, I won't trouble you for endless cups of tea any more, and if I don't sleep in the afternoon I will go to bed early. Then we won't quarrel in the night. Hah, this is what I was waiting for. This Sadanand (me) is a gem of a boy, what a brilliant suggestion!" Aunty was ok with the idea, she only reminded him of his high diabetes and forbade him to drink too many cups of tea at the library canteen.
The next day uncle went to the Library. He was stopped at the gate by the watchman. Was he a member? No? Then he can't get into the Library, it has thousands of books, some of them costing thousands of rupees. So any Tom Dick Harry (the watchman used the words Radhua, Madhia, Gadhia) cannot enter. You have to be a member. Uncle, suitably chastened, asked, how does one become a member?
"Go to the Chief Librarian Sahab" he was shown the general direction of where the exalted official sat. Uncle was stopped outside the room, "Sahab is busy, you have to wait". Uncle looked around, there was no chair in sight, so he forced himself into the room. Sahab was reclining in his chair, his back to the door, busy on the mobile phone. Sahab was discussing a land deal with a great degree of zeal and did not feel the presence of a visitor. When the call ended after half an hour Sahab swivelled himself and was shocked to see an intruder. Sahab rang the bell, the peon came running,
"You bloody swine, I will put you under suspension! How did you allow this man into the room when I was doing a confidential talk?"
Before the trembling peon could answer, uncle said apologetically,
"Not his fault Sir, he asked me to wait outside, but since there was no chair outside I came in."
The peon fled from the room as if it had suddenly caught a virus which was advancing menacingly towards him.
Sahab focussed his burning gaze on uncle's face like it was an acetylene torch and he would drill a hole on his forehead,
"What do you want?"
"I am a retired person, I want to become a member here".
"Why?"
Uncle didn't understand the question, unnerved, he asked,
"What is why?"
Sahab's burning gaze became intense, as if the flame was about to burst, it was apparent Sahab had not taken the unwelcome intrusion to his chamber lightly,
"What to you mean what is why? Don't you know simple English, what, why, who, when? Why do you want to become a member now? At this late age? Why were you sleeping till now and woken up like Kumbhakarna today?"
"I was working in Trivandrum, a distinguished scientist at ISRO. I retired..."
Sahab raised his hand and cut him short, he had never heard of a distinguished scientist,
"You mean extinguished?"
Uncle got a jolt, he was certainly not extinguished, not yet, but he could not recollect in a hurry the definition of a distinguished scientist, so he let it go,
"I retired a few months back and decided to settle in Bhubaneswar. I want to spend my days reading books here in the library. And also borrow books to take home."
Sahab registered a shock on his round, polished face, as if he saw a snake jumping up on the table before him, he was truly scandalised,
No no, NO! Borrowing books not allowed. Only Ministers and top government officials can borrow books, not public."
The way he spat the word, uncle flinched, conscious that he was regarded as 'public' by the powerful official.
"Go to the counter, buy a form for fifty rupees, fill it up and submit at the counter with all documents and 500 rupees caution money."
"Can I get the membership card tomorrow, so that I can start using the library immediately?"
A slow, vicious smile spread over Sahab's face, like a swarm of locusts descending on a fat patch of leaves,
"Tomorrow? Are you dreaming? If you are eligible your case will be put up to the Executive Committee and after they approve you will get a membership card. That Commiitee sits four times a year, next meeting is two months from now. You have to wait till then. Now go, don't eat my head!"
With that Sahab dismissed uncle and dialled a number on his mobile phone.
Uncle got the form and the next one week it became a nightmare for him and Aunty. One of the "essential" documents to accompany the application was the matriculation certificate, "without which the application will be rejected in toto and ab initio', it was grandly mentioned. And despite their best efforts they could not find the folder where uncles certificates were kept. They opened all the trunks and in the process cleaned up many unnecessary papers, but the all important folder eluded them. They repeated the search after a week, still no luck. Fortunately the Ph. D. Degree which uncle had got from IIT, Madras, was available, probably because he had done his Ph. D. while in service and it was kept separately.
Uncle made a copy of his electricity bill as a Proof of residence, signed an affidavit before a magistrate that he was a domicile of Odisha, and attached a copy of the Ph. D. degree to the application along with a bank draft for 500 rupees. The clerk at the counter at State Library took a look at the from and threw it back at him,
"Attach the Matriculation Cerificate, without that the application will not be accepted", he barked at Uncle as if he was dealing with a daily wager asking for his wages.
Uncle started sweating,
"But I don't have the Matriculation Certificate, all my certificates have been lost when I ...."
The clerk did not let him finish,
"Go and meet the Chief Sahab and narrate your story, I have no time for that."
So uncle was back at Sahab's door. This time he waited for a few minutes and was admitted. Before he could sit on the chair, Sahab groaned,
"Didn't I tell you to deposit the form at the counter? Why have you come here?"
Uncle felt very humble, truly remorseful
"Sorry, there is a problem, I have lost all my certificates while transporting our belongings from Trivandrum. I have attached a copy of my Ph. D. degree as proof of my educational qualification"
Sahab's round, fat face became red at this affront to common sense, he thundered,
"Who is asking for your educational qualification? The rule says you should be.a matriculate to be eligible for membership. Does your Ph. D. degree say you are a matriculate?"
Uncle protested,
"But Ph. D. is way above Matriculation, one cannot enrol in a Ph. D. course unless he is a post graduate, and you cannot be a post graduate unless you are a matriculate!"
These calculations must have been mind boggling for Sahab, he quickly gulped a glass of water and re-thundered,
"A rule is a rule, do you have any idea how a rule is sacred? Is your ISRU FISRU an NGO or what?"
Uncle smiled at Sahab's ignorance,
"ISRO is very much a part of government. It is under the Department of Space."
Sahab looked outside, at the sky above, but its azure vastness had no calming effect on him,
"Is there a department in space? ISRU is in space? But you said you came from Trivandrum?"
Uncle squirmed, sensing that it was going to be a long haul,
"I said Department of Space, it is under Government of India."
Sahab smiled in relief, the burden of his own ignorance had probably mildly suffocated him,
"That's why I don't know about ISRU. I know all departments in Odisha, but not in India. Now go and search for your Matriculation certificate. We also need it to confirm your date of birth. Even if it is there in Ph.D degree we will not accept it. The rule says date of birth as in Matriculation certificate only will be taken as proof of age."
"Why do you need a proof of age? To establish I am an adult?"
"No, to give you special facility as a senior citizen."
"What special facility?"
"You can bring your own water bottle into the library and you can use the toilet inside. Others will have to go to the row of urinals outside at the back of the building."
A smug smile spread over Sahab's face as if this was a gift bestowed by him personally to the senior citizens and his name will go into history in the same league as benevolent emperors like Akbar and Ashoka.
Uncle was crestfallen,
"But I don't have the Matriculation Cerificate, can't you accept copy of my passport as a proof of age?"
Sahab appeared scandalised,
"Passport? Are you crazy? Which country you live in? If the Rule says only Matriculation certificate can be proof of age, nothing else will work. A rule is a rule."
Uncle almost burst into tears.
"Please help me, I am really keen on using the library. Let me put in an application for exemption from Matriculation certificate and for treating passport as proof of age. Please accept the alternate documents."
Sahab shook his head as if uncle was asking for a part of the vast Empire from Emperor Akbar and the Din-Ilahi was in no mood to oblige,
"Impossible, a rule is a rule and who am I to unrule it? And just imagine what will happen if I make an exception in one case. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, I had learnt it as a rule made by some scientist named Newton Fewton. Everyone will ask for an exception, the library administration will collapse! The books will disappear, this room will evaporate, you will evaporate, I will evaporate. How can I show my face to Sarkar Bahadur sitting in Secretariat?"
Uncle saw a ray of hope,
"Can you please forward my application for exemption to your Sarkar Bahadur?"
For some unknown reason the idea appealed to Sahab,
"OK, I can take a chance, but let me tell you, two exemptions? Next to impossible. Even one exemption is difficult, asking for two exemptions is crazy. You try at your own risk, submit the application tomorrow with your application for exemption. Don't forget to attach the bank draft, the Rule is clear that bank draft must accompany the application."
That is how uncle's application was forwarded to the Department of Culture. I had a class mate, Damnaru, working as Under Secretary in Home department. I asked him to follow up. He had a chance to take a look at the file at different stages and kept me informed about its progress. Somehow uncle was confident that the exemption order would come in a week or so. He was wrong, wrong by a long shot!
When the letter from the Chief Librarian reached the Department of Culture, the clerk simply put it aside, as something undeserving of immediate attention. More pressing matters were pending, selection of a contractor for repair of the Library building at a cost of two crores of rupees, meting of the Purchase Commitee for new books for the current year worth fifty lakh rupees, selection of the Vice Chancellor for the Sanskrit University. All these files had Bribe written on them in invisible ink, so exemption for an applicant from submission of Matriculation certificate could wait. He processed the letter after a month and simply sent it up to the Joint Secretary for orders after paraphrasing the comments of the Chief Librarian. The Section Officer vehemently opposed such exemption,
"This pernicious proposal will open the floodgate of requests from others for similar kinds of absurd, unsustainable exemptions," the wise Section Officer who took a lot of pride in his flowery English, wrote.
The Joint Sectretary tossed the ball to another court,
"Since the matter relates to educational qualification the decision for exemption should be taken by the Education Department."
By the time the file reached the Secretary of the Department of Culture four months had passed. He concurred with the Joint Secretary and endorsed the file to Education department. It travelled from Under Secretatry to Deputy Secretary to Joint Secretary to Additinal Secretary to Secretary with a brilliant suggestion,
"This is a unique case of its kind. Hence the University should be asked to give an opinion whether a Ph. D. degree can be treated as equivalent to a Matriculation certificate for the sole purpose of eligibility for membership of a public library."
The Secretary simply put his signature and the file travelled back to the section. A letter was put up to the Registrar of the University to
"carefully examine and give a considered opinion in the matter since it has the potential to create a precedent".
The Registrar got the file examined by the Legal Cell of the University and wrote to the Education department in Secretariat that for the limited purpose of eligibility for membership in the Government Library a Ph. D. degree holder can be considered equivalent to a "Deemed Matriculate". The Education Department returned the file to Culture department with the advice, "Since exemptions to rules are being sought, it is strongly advised that consultation with the Law department is a must. The issue of date of birth to determine the proof of age should also be examined by the Department of Law as they had the final say on matters requiring legal proof."
The Law department, overburdened with numerous files for legal clearance sat over the file for eight months. Close to two years had passed from the day the application was forwarded by the Chief Librarian for an appropriate decision "as deemed fit under the circumstances."
I was keeping uncle posted of all the developments as soon as Dambaru updated me on the progress in the file. In the meanwhile Mahesh uncle and Sujata Aunty had gone to the U.S. to visit their daughter who lived in Boston. They returned after four months. My orders of transfer to Ranchi had just come. I went to meet Uncle and Aunty before leaving for Ranchi. After loading me with packets of chocolates, perfumes and small gadgets, uncle asked me about the fate of his application for exemption. There was a tinge of sadness in his eyes,
"You know Sadanand, when rest of the world is moving at the speed of rockets and space crafts, we are stills in bullock cart age, trying to flog a tired bullock to run our decrepit administration. I enjoyed my stay at Boston so much that I wanted to stay for two more months, but my diabetes is troubling me. But you know what I enjoyed the most there? You won't believe if I tell you."
I looked at uncle expectantly, probably he will tell me about MIT or Harvard,
"We were staying in a small suburb named Framingham, there was a library at ten minutes walk from our daughter's place. She took me to the library on the third day of my arrival and dropped me there. The library was huge, even for a small locality like Framingham. I approached the lady at the counter, she welcomed me with a smile,
'First visit to our library? Welcome! You are from India, aren't you? My colleague Meghna there, she is also Indian, she makes fabulous Chicken biriyani! You are visiting, right? I saw someone dropping you at the gate!"
'Yes, that was my daughter. Thank you for the welcome, can I become a member here?'
'Yes, of course, are you carrying your passport with you? Yeah, give it to me, I will make a copy of the first page. Here we are, take it sir, your card will be ready in two minutes.
My colleague Susan will take the particulars from your passport page and make the card. The Library timings are ten to six Tuesday to Sunday. Monday is off. You can borrow upto five books at any time. Retaining period is two weeks, after which you can renew them for another two weeks. "
'How much should I pay as Caution Money?"
'Excuse me, say that again, what money?'
'Caution money? Like a security deposit?'
'What's that for? Where is the security risk!"
'It's to cover the cost of the books I would be borrowing''
'Cover the costs? Why should you do that? Anyone who loves to read books will return them for others. Library is a place for book lovers, not book stealers. ok sir, here is the card.
Enjoy your reading, any time you have any question please come to us, I am Jessica, these two are Susan and Meghna, I have already told you.'"
Uncle's eyes had become moist at the memory,
"Sadanand, I visited the library almost every day, except when we went on travel to some other place. Can you imagine what a nice experience I had? They have a system of discarding old books every month, paperbacks for fifty cents, hard covers for one dollar. Books are stacked in the lobby outside the main door, you just pick up as many as you want and drop the money in a box kept outside there. No one checks how many books you have taken and how much money you have put in the box. I bought about ten books and then realised I won't be able to bring them with me to India due to the weight limit on baggage. There is absolute silence inside the library, everyone is busy reading books, or watching movies with earphones. What a place Sadanand, if I had not been to a library like that I wouldn't have believed it can be so good. And look at our library here, my application is still pending! God knows if I will ever be getting a chance to use the library!"
I left for Ranchi with family a week after my visit to Mahesh uncle. Whenever I spoke to Dambaru he kept me informed about Uncle's file. It seems Law department, after keeping the files for eight months accepted the Deemed Matriculation suggestion. It also approved the passport as a valid document for date of birth. But since it involved two exemptions from rule, the Law department advised that the Chief Minsister's approval should be taken. The Culture Minstry prepared a Circulation Note and it had a long, meandering, arduous journey through the Secretaries of Culture, Education, Law, the Chief Secretary, the three Ministers and finally reached the Chief Minister's office a full three years after the date of Uncle's application for exemption. It remained there for two months and finally got approved.
Uncle's dream of using the State Library was about to come true. By a coincidence I was visiting Bhubaneswar at the time. Dambaru had managed to get a copy of the letter of the Department of Culture to the Chief Librarian conveying the approval of "the competent authority" granting the exemption. He gave it to me. I wanted to break the good news to Mahesh uncle in person. I had not spoken to Uncle and Aunty for a long time, my work at Ranchi had kept me really busy.
I rang the bell. Aunty opened the door. The usual warmth was missing, some sort of gloom had fallen over the place, the sadness was palpable. I asked her where was uncle, why he didn't open the door the way he usually did. She didn't reply. I followed her to the bed room. Uncle was reclining on some pillows on the bed. I got a shock looking at his sad, gaunt face. His eyes were covered with a pair of dark glasses. I wondered if he had undergone a cataract operation. After I touched his feet I was eager to hand over the letter to him. He took it from me, caressed it with his hand. When he didn't open it, I looked at Aunty. She shook her head.
"Uncle has lost his sight by more than ninety per cent in both eyes due to Glaucoma. It was detected about nine months back, due to his uncontrolled diabetes nothing could be done. The eyes deteriorated really fast. Now he doesn't read anymore, he simply sits there listening to old songs and bhajans."
Sujata Aunty started sobbing.
I looked at the letter.
It was sitting on Mahesh uncle's chest like a marooned bird in an island of darkness.
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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