Literary Vibes - Edition - LXXII (12-June-2020)
(Mother Earth - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 72nd edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with some beautiful poems and interesting stories.
In this edition we welcome two new writers to the family of LiteraryVibes. Ms. Umashree Raghunath is a well known literary personality in Chennai with her 400 poems, 800+ blog posts, numerous short stories and two published books. A senior IT professional, she has been writing since she was 13 years of age. Her story in the present edition of LV is a reflection of the depth of her feelings and emotions. Ms. Zia Marshall from Hyderabad is a Learning Designer and Communication Specialist who has been a finalist at the Adelaide Poetry Festival for two successive years. A member of India Poetry Circle, her writings resonate with compassion and empathy. We wish these two writers a lot of success in their literary career and look forward to seeing them regularly on the pages of LV in future.
This edition also contains a brilliant recollection of happy moments in Indian Navy, by Shri Debi Padhi, a Sainik School alumnus and a former Naval Aviator. His passion for the ocean is mind-boggling. He is a zealous advocate of "Swatchh Sagar", a concept for restoring the pristine cleanliness of the oceans. His second article of today, "Oceans and Me - Cry, My Beloved Oceans" is an eye opener to the immense beauty and riches that the deep blue waters harbour. I have published it separately in PositiveVibes for its scholastic value. It can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/312
I have experimented with a new form (new for me) of short story writing in today's edition. My "Afternoon Rains", from the beginning to end, is a conversation between two old friends. By the time the story ends, discernible readers will realise the two friends are actually the two personalities of the narrator - the hidden, subconscious persona of the professor, and the external, visible form of the officer. Most of us are within ourselves, multiple personalities, nursing our own dreams, our joys, our frustrations and our ambitions through their different existence. Hope you will like the story.
During a dull and drab evening this week, a friend sent a message, how meaningless life has become, repeating yesterday unto today and keeping the same for tomorrow. It's like every day is a Xerox copy of other days. So, Corona has reduced our lives to a Xerox existence, as if we are aimless wanderers in a silent island of faceless crowds - anyway the masks ensure our soulless anonymity! Somehow I am reminded of "The Hollow Men" of T S Eliot:
We are the hollow me
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry glass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
..................................................
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Friends, back to our own little world, our limited hopes, our handful of dreams. We live and try to find meaning in small stuff, a poem here, a story there, a smile at a corner of the house, a pearl of a song on the roof top. Life goes on, it will go on. And we at LiteraryVibes will keep bringing you the pleasures of reading, week after week.
Hope you will enjoy our 72nd edition. Please share it with your friends and contacts through the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/311 Please remind them that all the seventy two editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe and healthy,
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
- HEART: A WINDOW Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- A PAGE FROM KANT’S … Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- MONEY-MATTER Haraprasad Das
- THE NEW NORMAL Dilip Mohapatra
- LOVE STORY Dilip Mohapatra
- UNSPEAKABLE SAGA.. Krupa Sagar Sahoo
- DEALING WITH DEATH… Dr. Pradip K. Swain
- THE PERCH Ishwar Pati
- OCEANS AND ME Debi Padhi
- OVE, IMPERFECT Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- THE WELL Sundar Rajan
- GLADIO Thryaksha A Garla
- THE FORGOTTEN Thryaksha A Garla
- YEARS Sharanya Bee
- JULY RAIN Sharanya Bee
- CYGNETS IN THE POND Ravi Ranganathan
- EXTENDED FAMILY Lathaprem Sakhya
- SILHOUETTE OF LOVE... Madhumathi. H
- YOU AND ME … Madhumathi. H
- THEREFORE I MUST.. Vidya Shankar
- BLOOMS Sheena Rath
- BREAK Setaluri Padmavathi
- THE COMPARING MIND Sanjit Singh
- A DINNER PARTY Anjali Mohapatra
- PAPA'S LITTLE PRINCES.. Dr Rupali Mishra
- A FLOWER GARDEN..... Uma
- MY EXPERIMENTS.. Sunil K. Biswal
- MY WIFE AND BIPOLAR Umasree Raghunath
- PIGEON TALES.. Zia Marshall
- BASIS OF DECISION.. Prof.B.C.Das
- AFTERNOON RAINS Mrutyunjay Sarangi
With tousled hair
like the wild weeds
across the window, you perch
on the window-ledge,
invite in eyes.
You lift a bare arm, the air
seems to go berserk
in the underarm; perhaps,
tickled to goose-bumps,
choking on maddening desire.
The primal hunger
spreads wings, a slow fire
in the underbelly; hot breath
rises from my teacup,
the teapoy gasps.
In the idle winter
nestles the late afternoon,
a nip in the air;
the plants in pots have drooped
as have the sun’s rays.
The evening is eagerly arriving
bringing enchanting jasmines,
my fingers grope for a poem
from murmuration of words,
rising starlings in my sky.
Those little birds of desire,
swarming our loneliness,
spread between you and me
a disturbing stillness,
an evening of indifference.
River Kuaa-khaai lies languid,
her naked waters stream
along its sprawling bed, twisting
in naughty tangles, the ripples
prattling with primate gibberish.
You seem drifting in it,
a rudderless boat without
oarsman, freelancing across life
yet looking for a mooring point.
An oxymoron looking for metaphors!
Now, I may get up, bring you
some petals of words
to put them in your unruly hair,
they may meander like tourists
in zigzag of an alien town.
Under the white sheets
of this lazy afternoon
we may join our fate-lines
to life-lines, no more washing
our dirty linen in public.
Eyes go moist, eyelashes
wear bits of pale pearls;
would this union
mark a new dawn or
give us a go-by green flag?
Are you there, or
is it an illusion?
Is it real, or a hallucination
of my hopes, and fears?
The teacup is losing steam,
getting more tepid
every sip, yawn endlessly
the flowers in the vase,
wither my exuberant wishes,
the time haggles like a pimp.
The sunflowers are aging
as do we, entering from noon
into the post-noon phase;
perhaps our conscience,
burdened with remorse
for having wounded
the pet birds, considers
to nurse them back to singing,
like a benevolent ghost,
cloaked with white sheets.
(The Odia poem ‘JHARAKAA’ appeared in SAMAYARA SANKHANADA, July-Dec, 1997 issue, and is self-translated for Literary Vibes.)
A PAGE FROM KANT’S CHILDHOOD: RISHI AGASTYA
One morning over tea, Kant saw the head line in the Times of India announcing boxer Tyson’s World-invincibility after his latest fight in the boxing ring. A photo of Tyson raising both fists in the air adorned the page and below the photo a caption read, “I am the strongest.” He looked proud with a somewhat similar expression as that of Kant’s classmate, a brat and bully, who, affectionately as well as out of a little fear, was addressed as ‘Brute’ by his peers. Bhim being his real name, Brute accepted the second name ‘Brute’ conferred on him, with pride. He had a combative nature, ready to fight on any small issue among the children.
Kant was also given a second name by his peers. He was referred to by a funny name ‘Salaa’ meaning ‘settlement’. He loved to reason with the fighting parties and made settlements between them to renew their friendship. He had learnt the art of reasoning looking at his father’s ways with people.
When Kant’s father saw his son’s eyes brightly riveted on Tyson’s photo, he quietly commented, “He is not the best, but he is definitely good in his art of boxing. Someone somewhere may be better than him, only time will tell. He is just boasting when he says ‘he is the strongest’. It is bad for anyone to boast of his temporary glory.” Kant was curious, “How do you say so papa? He has defeated the official Olympic Champion, the professional World Champion, and the winners of sundry boxing rings. He has given open challenges to one and all worth his boxing gloves. He remains far ahead of others in his scores and in most fights, he has won by knocking out his opponent. So, how could he not be the best?”
His father yawned luxuriously after his last sip from the morning cup, and said, “Kant, my boy, I will tell you the adventures of Rishi Agastya. How that meek frail man humbled much stronger forces than Tyson. That would explain you how vain pride can be. Please, my son, take these stories as recorded in our Puranas metaphorically, and not verbatim. Here is the saga of Agastya rishi -
“Agastya rishi was an ordinary looking family man living with his wife and children in Puranic age. He was a humble, simple man practicing great spiritual feats by meditating at home while discharging his duties towards his family and friends. He was respected for his spiritual prowess by his peers, the other ascetics meditating in their hermitage in the serenity of jungles, even the gods and monsters, also referred to as demons, held him in their affectionate awe. I would like to clarify to you Kant, those so-called demons or monsters also were humans like our ancestors, the Aryans, but because of certain cultural difference between their culture and our Aryan culture, they were referred to as Demons or uncivilized brutes.
“In those days, when the civilization was taking shape in its cradle, the people believing in Aryan culture and the Demons used to fight on various matters like who owned which areas of the Indian Peninsula, who had the right over which God, what was the right ways of rituals,and similar other differences that had little to do with real spirituality. Exactly same fights are going on at present because most of us have inherited those wrong DNAs from our ancestors, and we quarrel over non-issues. The fights led the prayers and worshipping methods to lose their spiritual edge and were slowly passing into the control of those who wielded power, like kings, priests, sages, and warriors. But Agastya was an exception. He was mostly called to make settlements when swords and arrows failed to decide issues.
“There was an issue concerning two demon brothers. They ran an inn for the travelers’ night-stay and food etc. by a road passing through a dense forest where lived predator-animals as well as tribes of Demon people. Many passersby used to vanish without a trace while crossing the jungle along that route, as ships and aeroplanes are said to vanish mysteriously while crossing Bermuda Triangle, a patch of sea in the Pacific, south of Tokyo. There was a rumour, and certain travelers even bore witness to such rumours that those two brothers from the Demon race had hands in the vanishing of the passersby, when they spent the night in their inn. A point specifically highlighted was that never a demon traveler had been harmed. Of course, the role of predators could not be ruled out. But this became a point of acute quarrel between the Aryans and Demons.
“Agastya was curious to know the truth for the good of humanity. To his surprise, like a distant mind-reader, the king invited him and entrusted the work to him to find the truth on his behalf.
“Agastya traveled by that route and stayed a night in the inn managed by the brothers who did not know him. The two big-size robust young brothers behaved like little boys while receiving him with great show of affection. Their over indulgence unnerved Agastya as an unnecessary show of interest. He remained alert and secretly kept a watch on the activity of the brothers. He noticed, one of the brothers changed himself into a lamb by some sort of magical power. The other brother cooked the lamb’s meat and served it to the rishi along with a hot rice meal. The rishi enjoyed the sumptuous dinner and retired for the night. The next morning when he was starting on his journey, Agastya inquired about the absent brother.
“The other brother called the name of the absent brother repeatedly and louder every time. But he didn’t come. Agastya broke the spell, ‘My dear man, he would not respond to your call. He has been digested in my stomach.’ The surviving brother realized that he was before not any ordinary person, but an extraordinary individual with immense power. His ordinary look was deceptive. Under his humble exterior was hiding the giant of a person. He fell at Agastya’s feet and asked for his forgiveness.
“The arrangement, Agastya learnt, was that on his call, the lamb-meat in the guest’s stomach would assemble magically and come alive in his human form. In the process, the stomach of the guest would burst and he would die. The brothers would loot the dead man’s belongings and bury his body in the jungle. This time the surviving inn-keeper, not only asked Agastya’s forgiveness, but repented his mistakes, and became a disciple of the rishi, henceforth serving the travelers as a righteous innkeeper. The mischievous one with the magical powers was digested in the ascetic’s stomach as his rightful punishment.
“You know Kant, people these days also remember the good old Agastya’s great digestive feat. After a heavy meal in a feast, the gluttonous people lightly rub their stomachs, uttering, “Agastya, Agastya…”. By some fluke of good luck, it may be a placebo effect, the gesture works wonders, and the gluttons get help in their digestion.”
Father now rose and said, “My dear Kant, this evening, remind me to tell you the rest of Agastya’s adventures, not less interesting than your Phantom cartoon strips.” Kant counted every minute of that day to hear his father recounting the rest of sage Agastya’s adventures, and the day seemed to have expanded to double its length, making his waiting more intense. Kant realized, as had been explained by the great physicist Albert Einstein, he had felt time’s elasticity and relativity.
In the evening, father continued from where he had left, “Vindhya was a mountain range on the heart of India and it divided the southern part from the northern part of our peninsula. It was so high that it was very difficult for travelers to move from one side to the other. The other predicament was that, the mountain was a boasting bully and grew continuously in height, making the crossing more arduous by the day. It was drunk with powers of its vastness and never bothered for anyone’s hardship. So, the matter came to Rishi Agastya’s notice. He wanted to settle the issue amicably, once for all.
He lived north of Vindhya. He traveled south with his family on a pilgrimage. When he reached the foothills of the un-crossable Vindhya, the mountain appeared before the great sage in humility to pay his respect. He bowed very low before him and asked, “O’ great sage, what can I do for you?” The clever sage blessed Vindhya and said, “Dear me Vindhya, how nice and beautiful you look in this bowed-down state. It would be so easy to cross you when you have bowed down. Can you do me and my family a favour? Stay bowed just like this long enough until we return from pilgrimage and cross over you to the north side where we live.”
Vindhya was sport to rishi’s request, ‘O’ great soul, your asking is my command. I stay bowed like this until you return, I commit.’ The rishi and his family crossed Vindhya comfortably when the mountain remained bowed down, much less in height than when it stood tall with its proud vain glory. Agastya made the South his humble home, kept going to pilgrimages with no end to his itinerary, and never found time to return to his native place on Vindhya’s north flank, a great sacrifice for a family who loved their village and friends. Vindhya remained bowed down forever waiting for his return. From the image of a bully, Vindhya was praised for his humility, which in the long run even pleased him and changed his heart. He realized the real joy was in being humble than being a bully.”
During dinner Kant’s father broached the topic again. He spoke of the vast oceans that occupied two-thirds of earth’s surface and there was no limit to its boasting. It had cared for none. It had claimed invincibility. Holding a piece of cooked potato from his aloo-dum suspended between his plate and mouth, father went dreamy as if looking into those early periods when the nature’s forces oppressed humanity out of only pride, and not necessity. He spoke to his son like in a trance –
“My dear child, once a gang of marauder goons from the demon community spread mayhem, resulting in massacres, rape, looting, and all sorts of lawlessness. They carried out their nefarious activities in night’s dark, and took shelter on an island deep in the sea during the daytime as they had more improved boats to row there. They also escaped when chased by the king’s soldiers to their shelter, their island was even unreachable by the rowers of the royal navy of the time. They caused great turmoil to the people. Finally, the king bowed before Agastya for a settlement to the knotty problem. Agastya knew, this time his adversary was the vast ocean, and he had to invoke his yogic powers.
“He went to the seashore and humbly requested, ‘My dear sea, you are great, and we respect your invincible depth and vastness. Have mercy on the mankind and give the soldiers a passage to capture the marauders, who can be tried and punished by the king by just and fair methods. I ask your blessings for the poor residents of earth and heaven (heaven was probably a highland area like a big hill-station).’ But the proud sea laughed to his face, ‘You frail man, rishi or whatever, what do you know of my powers? I cannot surrender the ones that have taken refuge in my water-kingdom. One is to defeat me in a fight to take them. You know, I am the most powerful element in the universe, and none can defeat me.’
“Agastya meekly submitted, ‘Be it as it may. I am a peace-loving non-violent man. I always work for the good of the people, unlike you. I feel proud for my welfare work. I will not fight with you. I will do something better.’ Saying these humble words, he dipped his two joined palms into the sea’s salinity, scooped them, put down his mouth into his scooped palms and started drinking the salty water of the sea. To the surprise of the proud sea, it went dry in minutes. Agastya had drunk its entire vast stock of water. The demons were on the dry bed of the sea. The king’s solders arrested them and took away to the remand-lockup for the trial by the king.
“A satisfied Agastya turned around to go away, but his path was blocked by a repentant sea groveling at his feet. He was surprised to see the proud sea full of bravado crying for mercy. He asked, ‘What do you want, you irascible and inconsiderate fellow?’ The humbled sea groveled some more and begged, “O’ great ascetic, I have realized my mistake. I am too guilty to ask your forgiveness. But have mercy on the life forms, various flora and fauna living in my waters. They are thrashing in pangs of pain without water. Please be kind to fishes, dolphins, whales, sharks, water plants and the rest. Don’t let my subjects die for my foolishness.’
“The great ocean’s humility and repentance impressed Agastya. He also wanted in his heart of hearts to give back ocean’s water, so that the life forms living in it would not die. So, he puked out all the water. The seven seas were again full to the brim. A happy sea rose on his feet and with bowed head added ingratiatingly, ‘Sir, I will behave like a good boy in future.’ The rishi blessed him, congratulated for his turning a new page in his life as a mild and helpful element of nature, no more swollen with pride. He turned and walked away smiling enigmatically to see the sea wondering, ‘Such a little man, so humble with words, but so full of power! It is awesome.’
“Son, I have told you three stories from Indian myth. The incidents might not have happened exactly that way, I am not sure. We are to take them figuratively. The stories tell us that the real courage, pride, and strength should lie in being humble, friendly, helpful, supportive. Now I have a suggestion, why don’t you try an ‘Agastya’ on your friend Bhim, the Brute?”
Next day, Kant had a long discussion with his father, followed by secret sessions with classmates and the class teacher-madam behind Brute's back. On Brute’s birthday that came shortly, Brute had a surprise. His classmates including the ones who were hammered by him in the past, gave him a roaring birthday celebration. As the cake was being cut, the principal entered to announce Brute as the ‘Boy of the Year’ for his good conduct. He was appointed as the monitor of his class for the rest of academic year. The principal handed over a silver disc with his name and award ‘Bhimsen Rout, Boy of the Year 1964’ encrypted on it as birthday gift on behalf of the school.
The class teacher madam delivered a small speech, “Many happy returns of the day Bhim. Also, thanks for being the image of humility. We wish you to remain humble and be an example to other students for your good conduct. Congratulations for the ‘Boy of the Year’ award and being appointed as the monitor of the class.” Brute was given a rousing greeting by his peers, who stood up for a standing ovation.
From then on, Brute slowly turned into a normal lovable boy, no more a bully. But he applied his Bhim-like physical strength to protect weak boys if they were harassed. One day Kant asked, “Father, what really changed Brute into a docile Bhim?”
Father smiled, “Bhim was, in fact, feeling alienated for his big build, being a head taller than the tallest boy in the class and having a barrel chest. He got attention, but for all sorts of wrong reasons, I mean only when he bullied others. This is called ‘attention seeking syndrome’, that may be achieved by doing things like throwing tantrums, bullying others, or even by hurting or wounding oneself. Brute’s syndrome was bullying. In his inner heart he cried to get attention as Bhim, but got it only when he behaved brutish. You created an atmosphere, and all cooperated with your plan. So, he got cured of his shortcomings.”
The father then had a naughty smile, “Kant, you have proved yourself growing up to be my little Agastya. Congratulations my boy.”
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Money, my queen of abstraction,
I don’t understand you,
nor you reveal yourself
to me on your own; we start
and end our merry-go-round
at your mysterious portal.
I grope in the dark,
keep watch over the empty road
through cracks in a door;
the cipher eluding me
unlike washing hands clean
a flowing stream.
I vainly hope -
wiping my hardship
like sweat with a napkin,
stopping the rain
from soaking me wet
by putting a turban on,
expecting relief
from pain by leaning
against a support,
assuming kingship
by sitting on a mud-throne
without coronation,
believing a wound to heal
with the balm
labeled as ‘panacea’,
or believing in déjà vu
of money bags when
wife’s bangles jangle.
All that may be fake, but
they have a tingling anticipation
like a tongue tickling
body’s stone quarries.
I, go after them
with panting breath,
a wildly beating heart,
but finally, do not find
the ground under my feet.
You, the queen of seduction,
elude me as ever, a mirage,
wearing different cloaks.
I don’t give up, a seeker,
with feverish rush,
hoping against hope,
trying to pluck a fruit
when it wafts
its flavour at the sweetest.
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)”
Can’t really figure out
if it’s a product of prudence
or paranoia
but the predictions prompt
the asymptote to
the Corona curve
with an angle
that is perhaps right
though open ended
which they call
the new normal.
The parties and picnics
would soon be
things of the past
and so would be the vacations
and holidaying
in exotic locations
the sun surf and sands
to be enjoyed
only on TV screens or on the net.
No more clinking
of the beer mugs
or patting each other’s backs
or getting those magical hugs
just say hi and bye
don’t forget the
norms of social distance
for that surely would be
the new normal.
No more gyms
no more rugbies
nor any other
outdoor sports
nor sharing a pasta or a dosa
in the food court
nor enjoying a ride
in the amusement park
no mass prayers
or an open air concert
in a stadium
no fairs nor festivals
but everything
digital and virtual
for that surely would be
the new normal.
Report to the airport
a day before your flight
and cross the horde of hurdles
one after the other
like clearing the levels
in a video game
till you reach El Dorado.
Cabs you can
no longer share
and you would pay
triple the bus fare
accounting for the
spaced out seating
for that surely would be
the new normal.
The house maid services
would be defunct
and the husbands
perhaps would realise
for the first time
their wives’ worth
people will
work from home
and at home
the office premises
would close down
the delivery boys
would have a field day
your wardrobe
would be depleted and
your colourful collections
will be replaced
with varieties of face masks
for different occasions
plus personal protective
clothing in pure white
for that surely would be
the new normal.
And if it’s your funeral
there would be no mourners
no prayer meetings
nor your family and friends
coming together to
pay you their homage
no requiems will
be read out aloud
to a tearful audience
only the four pall bearers
and the caretaker
of the crematorium
as the permit decrees
for that surely would be
the new normal.
Almost all fairy tales have a happy ending, eulogising life and love and which have a concluding line, ' ... and then they lived happily ever after.' Love is perhaps one of the most enigmatic emotions. Love frees us of all the pain in life, yet grief is the price we pay for love. There are volumes written on the subject and almost all its dimensions have been sliced and diced threadbare by poets, critics, researchers, psycho-analysts and spiritual gurus. From material to spiritual, from instant to eternal, from filial to parental, love takes many forms, yet is an emotion that is not restricted to humans alone, but goes beyond. Some look at love along a continuum, transactional on the one end and unconditional on the other. Transactional love concerns with 'give and take', when love is earned or bartered, while unconditional love is considered as true altruism, or complete love 'given freely', to the loved ones, no matter what. In this perspective, one doesn't love to be loved, but loves to love.
Bhanu Pratap Singh Mehta fell in love for the second time when he turned sixty years old. His first love however had culminated in his marriage to Rajeshwari Devi, about three and half decades ago. He met his future wife in a college picnic. She was a couple of years junior to him in age and by batch. Bhanu Pratap belonged to a Rajput noble family from Udaipur , was tall, 'fair' and handsome and a good student. He had all the required characteristics that make good husband material. He was quite an extrovert, a bit of a flirt and seen on the forefront of all college activities. Quite a few girls from the neighbourhood swooned over him, but when he saw a demure, uncommunicative, conservatively dressed and rather shy Rajeshwari in the picnic, something strange happened and he just flipped over her. He was trying to figure out if he was smitten by the so called love at first sight ! Rajeshwari who came from an humbler background, her father a retired physician settled in Jodhpur, was graceful, dignified, coy and an introvert kind of a person. May be the saying 'opposite poles attract' turned out to be true here. After few meetings between the two in the college library and the ladies' hostel visitors' room, one day Bhanu Pratap proposed and Rajeshwari silently nodded her head in acceptance. It took another three years before they got married. Bhanu Pratap after acquiring his B Tech degree in Computer Science joined the country's premier IT company as a software architect in Bangalore. Rajeshwari after her Masters in Computer Applications picked up a teaching job in Jodhpur. After marriage Rajeshwari moved over to Bangalore to join Bhanu Pratap, and they set up their home in the Whitefield area.
Their initial years were blissful, both working hard in their respective jobs and enjoying their weekends to the hilt, with the best work life balance one can think of. In due course, they had their first born, a girl, who was followed by a son after two years. Rajeshwari had to give up her job and devoted herself to rearing the kids. Bhanu Pratap was doing very well in his career and was ascending the ladder fast. After few years the family moved to the US, when Bhanu Pratap was deputed to head the company's operations there. As years rolled by the children grew up, the daughter Gayatri became a dental surgeon, while her younger brother Suryakant became a textile designer. Both got their green cards and started practicing in Chicago. Meanwhile Bhanu Pratap reached to the top as the CEO of the American division of the company. The company did very well under his stewardship . But soon he felt that there was not enough job challenge left for him any more. Then he decided to call it a day and take a break from his professional life and return to India to settle down for good.
Bhanu Pratap and Rajeshwari returned to their ancestral 'haveli' at Udaipur, and made extensive renovation to the building, which was almost in ruins. Everything was going very well for them but Bhanu Pratap suddenly felt under-employed and uncomfortable since he had nothing to do. Then he hit upon the idea of setting up a fruit orchard in the suburbs of Udaipur. He bought a nice tract of cultivable land between Pratap Park and Lake Pichola, and devoted his full time to plant various fruit trees like grapefruit, mango, guava, papaya, sapota, etc. He took the advice of the agriculturists on seed selection, irrigation and use of right fertilisers and in few years the orchard was live with plush green plants and some hybrid varieties started giving fruits. He preferred to spend most of his time tending the plants. He also built a small farm house in the orchard which he used more than the sprawling and imposing haveli. Life rolled on. Both their children meanwhile prospered. However Rajeshwari had one regret that both their daughter and son decided not to get married and not walk the traditional route. Bhanu Pratap was of the opinion that as long as they are happy about it, how does it really matter? Though they never visited their parents for years, they were always in touch through video calls. During the Diwali last year, both decided to pay them a surprise visit, and their household was filled with joy and festivities. One evening after dinner, Gayatri requested all to sit for a while and discuss a serious proposal that she and her brother had worked out.
' Papa, we can see that you and Mama are quite happy here, but we also know that both of you are not keeping very well of late,' Gayatri started the conversation.
' Yes, I saw your medical reports which say that you are diabetic as well as hypertensive, while Mama is becoming frailer by the day,' added Suryakant with concern.
Bhanu Pratap immediately realised where the conversation was leading to. He cleared his throat and responded, ' Oh, don't bother about my medical reports. It's part of the ageing process. My father suffered from both these conditions and I have just inherited that. With good diet, exercise and medication it can be controlled. As for your mother, yes, she has lost some weight. She doesn't want to employ any house help and wants to do all household chores herself. And also does all these ritualistic fasting through out the month. Says it's for the good of the kids. She won't listen to me. You guys speak to her and convince her to take care of herself.'
' No, Papa, we don't take this from you. Both of you are so precious to us. We can't allow you to fend for yourself here alone when we are far away across the seas. If anything goes wrong who's going to take care of you? We can't live in guilt throughout our lives,' Gayatri interjected.
' Papa and Mama, both of you have to listen to us. Please pack your bags and we are taking both of you over to Chicago to live with us. No arguments, no discussions,' emphasised Suryakant.
Bhanu Pratap thought for a while and said, ' Look children, we surely understand and appreciate your love and concern for us. But we just can't wind up all that we have here and say good bye to our motherland in a huff. I suggest you take your Mama along. Leave me here for sometime. I will need some time to think and decide.'
Rajeshwari who normally was reticent, was emboldened by the presence of her children and looked at Bhanu Pratap straight in the eyes and told, ' Look, you just can't send me away from you and stay here alone. I know how much you need me. Who would give you your medicines on time? Who would make your coffee and tea whenever you needed ? Who would stop you from raiding the fridge at midnight for ice cream? And the food? I know how you lost your appetite when we had employed the cook for some time ! I don't mind going with the kids together with you, definitely it's a no, without you,'
' Papa, please listen to Mama, for a change. Let's not have any second thoughts. You will make us happy if you both agree to our proposal. Please consider,' implored Gayatri.
Bhanu Pratap looked a bit pensive and suggested, ' OK, this is what I suggest. Hope all of you would respect my decision. Let Mama move with you. Let me continue here. Please try to understand that I have some kids here too, who need my care. My plants in the orchard. Let me look after them here and let mama look after both of you there. Fair and square, isn't it? I will find some good caretaker who can manage my requirements at home. In fact we may sell off the haveli and I will shift over to the farm house. Of course I will come down to Chicago to look you up periodically and you are welcome to pay me a visit whenever it's possible.'
Finally all agreed reluctantly to the proposal given by Bhanu Pratap and all retired for the day.
As planned, after Rajeshwari left with the children, Bhanu Pratap sold off the haveli and moved into the small farm house in the orchard. A housekeeper was hired to take care of the household chores. Bhanu Pratap spent most of his time with the plants and trees. The evenings were somewhat lonely but gradually he got used to it. During his working days he had lost his reading habits. Now he started building a little library in the farm house to keep himself occupied. He also looked forward to his morning walks in the orchard inhaling the fresh fragrance of the vegetation along the track and silently conversing with the plants. The family kept in touch with him almost every day through video calls.
On his sixtieth birthday, the family got connected through video call to wish him. Hema, the housekeeper had ordered for a cake, which he cut while his family clapped from Chicago. Then they opened bottles of champagne at both ends to raise a toast for his good health and say cheers. At around 5 PM, he was relaxing outside the house on a wicker garden chair under a mango tree with a book. Hema served him with a cup of tea as is her usual routine. Suddenly something fell on his lap from the branches on top. He was startled and sat up straight to check what was it. In his lap was an injured baby squirrel, about three inches long, with tiny droplets of blood oozing out of its neck. He picked it up with utmost care and went inside to give it first aid. He carefully wiped the blood in a Savlon solution and dressed the wound with little Soframycin. The squirrel was breathing but lied limp on his palm. He asked Hema to warm up little milk and using a piece of cotton wool managed to put few drops into its mouth. He then got a perforated shoe box, put a soft cloth padding inside and slowly put the squirrel into it. The squirrel appeared to have gone to sleep. Bhanu Pratap prayed for its recovery and sat next to it till he had his dinner. He surmised that perhaps some bird of prey might have picked it up but accidentally it might have slipped from its claw. He then sat down to search the net about squirrels food habits and other behaviours. He didn't realise when he went off to sleep on his easy chair.
The next day morning, as soon as he got up, with pounding heart he slowly lifted the lid of the box and the little fellow was sitting erect with his tail up and curled, may be a little frightened. He offered it some pea nuts, and it slowly approached his open palm and picked up one. Then it sat on his hind legs, relishing it and looking straight at him. He squatted there and offered him more and it accepted. After a while when he extended his palm, the little one jumped onto it and comfortably perched. He took it out making some chirping sound to soothe it and brought him to his bed. He decided to name her Chhutki and started calling her that in a soft cajoling voice. Chhutki appeared to be listening to him attentively and a little later she responded by turning her head towards him. Then he lied down on one side of the bed and Chhutki started prancing on the bed, scurrying from headboard to the footboard back and forth. Whenever he extended his open palm, she would come hopping and securely perch on his palm for sometime and then would again start hopping around. While this was happening, Hema stood at the door post and watched this game amusedly.
The next few days Bhanu Pratap thought of many innovative games to play with Chhutki. One game involved hiding of nuts. He would hide the nuts in his pockets or below the pillow and Chhutki would look around till she discovered them. Another was the mirror game, when Chhutki would be left in a box with four mirrored walls. She would be totally confused to see so many images and her tail would curl up. Then she would discover that one side can be push opened and she would then make her escape successfully. Bhanu Pratap commissioned a carpenter to make a wooden maze with trap doors and Chhutki would have to find her way through to reach the cell containing the nuts. Bhanu Pratap realised her favourite nuts by trial and error. Chhutki preferred walnuts to any other nuts. She learnt very quickly how to peel a banana using her sharp teeth. Between supervision of the farm work and Chhutki, Bhanu Pratap never had a dull moment. In about six months Chhutki was fully grown and was his constant companion. She was allowed to move inside the house freely and accompanied Bhanu Pratap in his morning walk inside his specially made pockets with soft flannel lining. During the video conferences, his family loved to see Chhutki squatting on Bhanu Pratap's shoulder.
Bhanu Pratap had plans to go on a short visit to Chicago and he completed all the paper work necessary to take Chhutki with him. But the trip had to be cancelled due to the embargo on all flights following the Covid pandemic. One morning in the month of May he was reading the newspaper on the outside verandah while lounging on his garden chair. Chhutki was busy nibbling a guava. Hema brought him a cup of coffee. He kept sipping the coffee and reading the paper. Then he went off to snooze, the paper slowly fell from his hands. Little later Hema came to collect the cup and found him asleep. She found it odd, since she had never seen him taking a nap in the morning before he went for his walk. He called him twice, but he didn't respond. Chhutki suddenly jumped on the table and then on to his lap. She started scratching his chest as if to wake him up. But he never got up again.
Hema immediately contacted Rajeshwari on phone. On their instructions she called up one of his cousins at Udaipur and soon people gathered at the farm house. The priest was called. The doctor's certificate was processed. The doctor diagnosed the cause of death as myocardial infarction. The body was prepared for the crematorium. The body was laid on the pall and carried to the hearse. Hema suddenly realised that Chhutki was not to be seen any where. She called out her name while looking around all the corners, but there was no sign of Chhutki. The body was transported to the crematorium and was put on the carriage on the rails leading to the furnace. As the body slowly moved in the pall bearers saw a small creature emerging from the garlands around the neck and then sitting erect on the chest. All they could see was the silhouette of a squirrel slowly disappearing into the roaring flames, along with the body.
Someone had said that 'love is not about living together but it's about dying together.'
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.
UNSPEAKABLE SAGA ENDING IN A JAIL TERM (KAARAA KAAHAANI)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Recently, I chanced upon the memoir of a late freedom-fighter. One chapter, ‘MY ORDEAL DURING JOURNEY BY THE TALCHER PASSENGER TRAIN’, caught my attention. Having given my life’s prime period to serve the Indian Railways as an executive, I gave the chapter a thorough reading.
The incident took place a few years before India got its independence from the British clutches. In those days, though the stranglehold of the foreign control was partly relaxed because of gradual transfer of powers from the British executives to self-rule by Indians, resulting in a less oppressive atmosphere, yet people still suffered from the anomalies of the remaining whimsicality of the foreign rulers. Indian kings, who still ruled small and big princely states, mostly as puppet kings or vassals of the British monarchy in plateau areas, were running amok behaving like rogue bull-elephants, and they often harassed people more ruthlessly than the British colonizers.
In those days the Railways were owned by B.N.R. Company. Talcher area had been found to be rich in coal deposits, and coal was mined in large scale there. So, a branch railway line was laid by the B.N.R. Company to Talcher from a railway junction at Nirgundi on the main line, running from east to south along the coastal Odisha. The purpose of this newly laid line was to transport coal from Talcher coal mines to areas needing this fossil fuel the most. Also, the benefit of the newly laid rail line was extended to people by running a daily passenger train between Talcher and Puri, to and fro.
The same arrangement even continues today, and it is notorious for its worst maintenance, especially in matters of mismanagement, total lack of punctuality and absence of passenger-facilities, besides for its dubious reputation of frequent fatalities, accidents, irregular speeding, or pre-notified cancellations. But it had been far worse in the days when the freedom-fighter had written the chapter that caught my attention. The maintenance, and facilities were absent or at best medieval, and sub-human. May I highlight a few from the recorded data.
The narrow rough-hewn wooden planks were fitted to sides of compartments and were euphemistically called seats for passengers. The B.N.R. Company running the show might have had plans to keep the backbones of passengers strong enough by making them recline on these rough-hewn hard planks during their wobbling-hurtling journey for long and uncertain hours. They might have had the far-sight to keep those, who took such rides, fit and fine to brave the frequent floods and cyclones that visited Odisha by God’s curse or grace, whatever.
Another exemplary and excellent arrangement had been the total absence of toilets in the Puri-Talcher Passenger train. It was of course another thing that the run-time mostly exceeded long hours, putting the unfortunate passengers in great jeopardy as they had to hold back the urge of nature’s call till the train docks at a big station with the facilities which used to be absent in smaller stations. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the idea was futuristic and the forerunner to a practice that would happen around thirty years later in metro-city locals that would also run without toilets.
So, how did the passengers tackle their emergency calls of nature if the meals taken before the train journey had been disagreeable to their digestive tracts and the revolting elements looked for an immediate outlet? For that sort of exigency in mind, the railways had their own ingenious devices. The train was run in extreme slow speed. Also, they left the bushes and tiger-grass clumps by the tracks to grow wild, thus creating private spaces hidden from prying eyes.
The passengers, having the knowledge of those arrangements, whenever in need of urgent release, jumped down the train, relieved themselves behind the nearest bushes, and ran back to climb into the lumbering transport, the feat nothing less than that of a gymnast. While reading the freedom fighter’s memoirs, I was dismayed by the primitive arrangement of not having toilets in the train, but also was amazed by the lower authorities’ improvisation through slow speed and uncleared bushes by the track’s sides.
I feel it to be a privilege to introduce the freedom fighter-cum-author of the memoir to my readers. Narottam Naik was a simple and upright man, like any other simple upright native residents of the area. He enhanced his dapper personality by wrapping a neat white dhoti-kurta ensemble.
In his early youth, he served as a teacher in his village school. However, during the Mahatma’s Quit India Movement against the British Rule, he resigned his job and joined the movement. He evolved into a combative fighter against injustice in general, and the anomalies of the British rule in particular. The linen material of his dhoti-kurta ensemble would henceforth be of khadi material, imitating the Mahatma’s hand-spun variety.
Once he had some work at Cuttack, but to travel from his village Mardi to Cuttack was a long struggle in those days. He left his bed before the first call of crow, and finished his morning regimen quickly. Refreshed and duly attired, he was to set out on his arduous journey. He had to walk to Mahulpal Ghat, take the boat-ride across the river Ramial, and then, to board a ramshackle bus to reach Kamangara Ghat on the river Brahmani. He had to cross the river by boat again, and take another bus-ride to reach the Dhenkanal fort-town. He had to negotiate the last part of his journey to reach Cuttack on board the earlier mentioned Talcher-Puri passenger train from Dhenkanal station.
The journey was not less complicated and arduous than what the Sadhavs, the sea-merchants of ancient Odisha, took to cross the seven seas to carry out their overseas business. It demanded energy in the body, and unwavering attention without being distracted by body’s demands like hunger. So, Narottam Naik, like any clever freedom fighter worth his Dandi-salt, had a heavy morning meal, consisting of about a dozen of biri bara, fried dumplings of spiced paste of black gram. He supplemented his biri bara breakfast with a big bowl of curry, made of yellow gram dal cooked with liberal quantities of red-pumpkin. His other motivation for the large meal was not to squander away his hard-earned small income, besides saving his delicate stomach from the tongue tingling items sold by peddlers during his journey.
By the time he reached the platform at Dhenkanal Railway Station, and bought his train-ticket for Cuttack, the second bell was going ting-a-ring and the train was expected any minute. At this crucial juncture, Narottam Naik sensed his stomach turn with an inner agitation. His digestive tracts were emitting unholy sounds of protest, and low rumbles, indicating underground moving lava looking for an outlet. He took a stock of the situation, unless the outlet was provided, an imminent eruption might be unavoidable. All freedom fighters as a class belonged to a superior group of quick-thinkers in any difficult situation, might it be national, or personal.
Narottam babu was also a freedom fighter, and was one of those quick-thinkers. So, he took out his all-time companion, lota, the round brass water pail from this travel-pack, and with a pail of water ran down the platform to one of those secluded spots by the tracks surrounded by tall bramble and weeds, described earlier as one of the railway’s default-arrangements for the passengers in distress.
By the time Narottam Naik relieved himself behind a bush, the third bell for the train had been rung ushering in the train, and the train, having taken the waiting passengers on board, was ready to leave. He could notice the guard of the train on his hind guard’s cabin, waving his green flag and blowing his whistle, urging the driver in the engine at the front to proceed ahead. He shouted at the guard to stop as he was yet to clean himself, but to no avail. The train started rolling.
When he shouted some more with desperation, it appeared that the amused guard waved his flag faster and blew his whistle louder to urge the driver to increase the train’s speed. The freedom fighter, still with an unwashed bottom, his dhoti hanging loose, had no other way than running after the speeding train. He, with lota in one hand, his loose dhoti-end in the other, shouting at the top of his voice, and running on the uneven track after a speeding train looked really ungainly and hilarious. His peculiar unwieldy situation hampered his speed, and the train left without him. The passengers on board made fun of him, and the guard laughed aloud at his wobbling chase after the train.
Frustrated by the railway guard’s apathy by leaving behind a legitimate passenger with valid ticket and not slowing down the train to facilitate his boarding, Narottam Naik went to the station master’s office. He asked for the complaint-register to record his complaint. But the station master insisted to know the text and context of his complaint first. When Narottam Naik described his discomfiture and gave a pictorial description, not less vivid than one of today’s-uploaded-video-version of an incident, the station mater burst out laughing, while handing over the required register to Narottam babu.
Not only the station master but his entire staff were enjoying a good laugh, when Narottam babu completed recording his complaint in triplicate as directed, and took his complainant’s carbon-copy for his personal records, and left the place. From the station master’s mood, Narottam babu could visualize that the Bihari fellow would not take his complaint seriously because he was an Odia and the provincial rivalry cut deeper than humanism. He hazarded the guess that the Bihari would rather side with the insolent Bengali guard. He decided to file a complaint at Railway’s Divisional Office at Jatani.
It was an early afternoon when he left the railway station, and walked down a road by the railway quarters towards the Dhenkanal township. The massive evacuation of the revolting food behind the bushes, and the running around for the last one hour made him hungry. He crossed a reasonably big hillock topped with dense forest that stood between the station and the township to reach the market place.
A small restaurant of mud-and-thatch affair, came into his view. It announced on its billboard its name as ‘Saahoo Hotel’ and below it, ‘Biri bara and ghuguni (a curried preparation of dried peas) of the best quality available here’. But Narottam babu had just missed his train to Cuttack, and had faced the insulting behaviour of the railway staff because of this nuisance-causing biri bara. So, the item had decidedly lost its culinary and nutritive excellence in his eyes. He asked the owner-cum-chef-cum-cook of the Saahoo Hotel, Shri Baankanidhi Saahoo, if the latter could serve him a hot rice-meal? Baankanidhi Saahoo, like a good sport, agreed, and replied, “Why not, my good sir? I can serve you steamed rice and a bowl of dalma (lentil curried with various vegetables) to go with, both cooked afresh. Just have a seat, sir.”
After the satisfying rice-meal, followed by a good nap of a a few hours, when Narottam babu awoke languidly on a rope cot provided by the hotel owner, the sun was preparing to go down behind the hillock. He gave up the idea of travelling to Cuttack or anywhere that day, and decided to take the train the next morning. Those days, hotels with lodging facility were few and far between in small towns like Dhenkanal. So, Narottam Naik hesitantly asked Baanknidhi Saahoo, if he could accommodate him for the night at his place? The latter, being a good sport, again agreed.
The host asked him to sleep on the same rope cot on the hotel’s verandah during the night as he had done in in the afternoon. Out of apprehension for sleeping during the night in the open, Narottam babu got worried, “But if a bear or some other predatory animal comes down from the hilltop jungle by night?” Baankanidhi Saahoo had a hearty laugh, “I sleep on my rope-cot daily on this verandah, have I ever been harmed by any animal? Besides, you would have the privilege of a cool breeze blowing all night, to give you good sleep.”
In the morning, Narottam babu accustomed to an indoor toilet at home, built in the style and idea of his mentor, the Mahatma, asked his host if he had one and if so, where? His host, however, with a cajoling laugh, sent him to nearby bushes with a bucket of water and exhorting words, “Do your things in nature’s lap there, enjoying fresh cool and fragrant morning breeze amid the lush idyllic surrounding, return with a light body housing a light mind, what more could one ask from life? By the way, why do certain people do it at home, I can never appreciate the idea.” In a constipated agreement with his amiable host, Narottam Naik completed his morning ablutions outdoors, ate a plate of the hotel’s famous biri bara with ghughuni, and took the same passenger train that he had missed the previous day.
But before leaving his good host, he had a shock. The host produced a bill of twenty-five rupees, a princely sum at the time when the story was recorded. It was the cost of one night’s lodging and boarding of Narottam babu. As no pre-bargain had been done, the guest paid the bill, blaming his luck, and cursing the seven generations of the Bengali Guard of the previous-day’s train that had been at the root of his troubles. In addition, he decided to discard his opinion of ‘good Samaritan’ about Baankanidhi of Sahoo Hotel. As his train rolled towards Cuttack, he remembered his decision to make the complaint to higher authorities of the Railways’ Divisional Office; so he went over to Jatni station instead of getting down at Cuttack.
The traffic manager, who would listen to his complaint, was not in his office at Jatni railway headquarters. He was Hubert sahib, an Englishman. The office peon informed him, “The sahib is expected to return from his lunch at around four in the afternoon. You may come here around that time.” Then, being accustomed to the bad habits of an Indian peon serving a big British officer, he added insultingly, “Go away, you there, whatever your name, don’t loiter here like a stray bull.”
Narottam Naik felt very insulted and walked away in search of some light refreshment, as he had no courage to spend freely after the soft-spoken Baankanidhi Sahoo’s cut-throat looting under the guise of a kind and friendly hotelier. He returned to wait under a clump of Deodar trees, a little away from the office gate. The traffic manager returned around three. The English officer was suited and booted, and Narottam Naik, after a long wait was summoned to his august presence.
Poring over an open file before him, Hubert sahib acknowledged Narottam Naik’s salutations with a gruff ‘Yes’. In his turn, the latter handed over his carbon-copy of the complaint he had lodged the previous day at the station master’s office at Dhenkanal railway station. The sahib was unable to make head or tail of his complaint written with Narottam's cursive long hand. So, with irritation he barked, “Tell me your complaint orally. I can’t read this carbon copy.”
Narottam babu laboured hard to describe the ill-treatment meted out to him by the delinquent guard of the passenger train the previous day at Dhenkanal station. He was conscious of speaking to an Englishman, so wanted to make things crystal clear. But he couldn’t help sprinkling his hackneyed English speech with Odia words wherever his truncated English vocabulary failed him. One of the better expressed portions of his speech that covered the vital area of his resentment was like, “I ran after the train with lota and kachchha (loose end of the dhoti) in adhuaa picha (unwashed soiled bottom). Bloody guard not stopped the train. Me offended.”
Though the English man, with his rudimentary acquaintance with the locally spoken Odia, hazarded a guess of what might have happened to the fellow, yet a few key words made him confused. He asked his PA, “What he means by ‘adhua pichaa’?” The PA, who was already in splits over Narottam babu’s unique adventure, suppressed his outbursts with a great effort, and explained to his boss in his own broken English, “Sir, he says, he ran after the train with lota in one hand, and his loin cloth with the other, without washing his soiled buttocks.”
It appeared that it was the turn of the English officer to burst out laughing. His butter-fly moustache was trembling as if he was restraining a sneeze, but his PA, accustomed to his antics, knew that it was the precursor to the outbreak of a guffaw. But the white man was no ordinary traffic manager. He belonged to the British race. So, keeping with the ‘stiff upper lip’ reputation of his noble race, he applied an immediate brake over himself, and controlled his rippling butter-fly-like patch of hairs growing over his upper lip, giving an incontrovertible evidence of the superiority of his class.
Directing his glance towards Narottam Naik, he seriously questioned, “Didn’t you finish your morning regimen at home before starting for the station?” In his broken English, Narottam babu replied to the officer that he had finished his morning’s routine ablution at home alright, but then, for better transmission, he broke into eloquence, “But sir, I had eaten biri bara at home, and further, who knows what time the nature's call will come?” At this point, the freedom fighter turned a bit philosophical, “The call of nature is like call of Yamraj, who knows when knock at door?”
Mr. Hubert knew from his personal experience that people of the land, reputedly referred to as Utkal in books of references, might turn emotional and philosophical at the drop of a hat. To reach the crux of the matter, therefore, he turned aside the complainant’s emotion and philosophy, and tried to catch the moot issue. So, he wanted a clarification from his PA, “What is biri bara?” The PA hit the nail on its head, “Sir, it is a snacks item, famous in Dhenkanal Estate. It is almost their staple food. It is taken with onion and chilli, or any curry.” The Britisher asked, “It is made of what?” The PA explained the ingredients to the best of his information, but what he added after a pause for better effect turned the scales, “Sir, biri bara and red pumpkin curried with yellow dal is a deadly combination…. it creates acidity, that often leads to loose-motion.”
After the crucial revelation about biri bara causing loose-motion, the entire picture became clear before the British traffic manager. He seemed to be undergoing an underground tremor like the ground around a volcano that would heave before an eruption. In a rapturous ‘ho-ho and ha-ha’, the serious officer of stiff upper lip reputation burst into a cascading guffaw. It was a rare sight for his subordinates, and without missing the opportunity, they all joined in the merriment. The entire office of the Traffic Manager broke into resounding laughter.
Narottam Naik, the Gandhian freedom fighter of the pre-independence era of India, felt thoroughly insulted by the combined chorus of the official guffaw at the cost of his misfortune. It was the repetition of the same macabre joy that was exhibited the previous day at the office of the railway station master at Dhenkanal when he had gone there to register his complaint. In spite of his training in ethics of non-violence and Satyagraha of Gandhian teachings, he felt an urge to tear apart those insolent railway servants end to end. He sweated profusely and cried tears of blood under the mental trauma. A Gandhian would never give up easily. He shouted at the English officer, “Are you laughing at my misfortune? I came for inquiry and justice. You should finish the bloody guard. Now I will have to write to your boss, the Railways Agent at Calcutta.”
His threats incensed Hubert sahib no end. He roared, “O’ mister, you yourself were responsible for your misfortune. Your biri bara was the culprit. Why are you accusing our railway guard?” Then he summoned a peon and ordered, “Throw this man out of the gate, kick his ass.” Had Narottam babu been a meek and poor native, the peon would have carried out Sahib’s order verbatim by kicking him on his ass out of the gate. But how could he misbehave with a man attired with Gandhian ensemble, a pair of dhoti-kurta of handspun khadi material. So, the peon ushered him out of the officer’s presence and out of the office premises politely.
Narottam bubu was at a total loss, after losing his respect in hands of people who had neglected their duty, having missed his appointment at Cuttack, having suffered ignominy and misbehaviour of a train-guard, a station master, and a traffic manager besides the sundry railways’ subordinate office staff who laughed at his discomfiture. Adding to all, he painfully recalled the loss of the princely sum of twenty-five rupees of his hard-earned money to a suave looking, but greedy hotelier Baankanidhi Sahoo. He was surprised by this ruthless businessman to make him pay through his nose for a mosquito-infested night and three frugal meals. It seemed he had nothing more to lose.
That very thought filled him with a surge of courage. A sacrificial goat might be feeling the same before the thrust of knife and giving a desperate kick to its prisoner. It fueled his courage to file a complaint before the king of Dhenkanal who had given free land to the B.N.R. Company to lay the railway lines and build offices and staff quarters on that. He also thought of another recourse, though slightly displaced from his Gandhian lofty training of non-violence, so great had been his agitation! He knew a few of the secret agitators from his opposite political camp who believed in violent methods. He made out a mental plan to pay back the guard with his own coin, to apply a few blows to his selected parts with the help of those friends from non-Gandhian camp, who were practical goons who did hatchet jobs for small payments.
With those astute strategies, his agitation was calmed to some degree, and he returned to Dhenkanal town. He spent the night in Kunjakant monastery after a satisfying free meal for dinner there. In the morning he presented himself in the King’s court. The august campus was crawling with complainants who came for personal favours from the exalted authority. Their latest turmoil arose from the recent increase of land-taxes. Finally, his turn came, and he submitted in details how he was inconvenienced, humiliated, tortured, insulted, and treated like garbage bag by the office bearers of B.N.R. Company, who ran their railway business on his majesty’s tax-free land. He prayed for justice, and only justice.
The king asked, “What was the decision of the traffic manager at Jatni?” Narottam babu after repeating the complaint umpteen times had nothing to recall afresh. So, he came to the crux directly, “Your majesty, he held the biri bara as the culprit for my turmoil, and not the guard of B.N.R. Company who neglected in his duty and made me miss the train. He also shouted ‘bloody fool’ at me.” Taking a complete stock of the situation, the king’s twirled-moustache vibrated like in a minor earthquake, and he roared, “You bloody worm, you soiled the reputation of my kingdom’s world-famous biri bara. For your carelessness, our kingdom’s and kingship’s honour has gone down several notches in the standards of the British Queen. I will never forgive you.”
When the indefatigable freedom fighter stood dumfounded, twiddling his thumbs and planning his next steps to assuage this royal anger, he noticed that a few flatterers in the court, who were assessing the king’s moods with falcon eyes, were whispering into the ears of a courtier, who in his turn was whispering into the minister’s ears. The minister said something in a very low voice to the king that an attentive Narottam Naik could overhear in bits and parts. The overall gist of the transmission was, “Your majesty, this fellow is an active member of Congress Party. The spies have reported that this fellow is instigating our subjects for a revolt against the recent rise in land-tax.”
Narottam Naik wanted to protest against this white lie against him. But before that, the minister’s whisper appeared to have got the king’s goat. Narottam Naik, with the fame of freedom fight, Quit India Movement, etc. cringed like a nervous wet-cat and observed the king’s face turning tomato-red and his huge moustaches shaking like in an explosion. He helplessly heard the king’s lion-roar to his police chief, “Throw this worm into our prison with no trial.”
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
DEALING WITH DEATH : EVEN VETERAN DOCTORS STRUGGLE WITH THE INEVITABLE
It was during my first week in emergency medicine residency that a young patient with pneumonia died from cardiac arrest in the Emergency Room. We did everything possible but were not successful.
I felt very sorry and disappointed for this young man. His early death was a frightening and humbling experience for me. All my excellent education and training had emphasized curing and I would have thought no one was better equipped than I to diagnose and manage a sick patient. Had I done something wrong?
Reviewing the optimal care we had given him made me realize that not all patients get better; some, even those in their prime, die from common problems.
Still, the death of my young patient represented failure and I wanted to run away as far from it as I could. Only after years of my practice did I learn from my dying patients not to fear death. We cannot always defer the inevitable terminal events of living, but there are many things we can do to ease them.
Once a patient dying from cancer asked me what death was like. I told her, “It is very peaceful, much like a place with bright and colorful lights and quiet music.” Friends and relatives would meet her. She would not be in pain but would go into a deep sleep before her journey. Her anxious, frightened look disappeared, and she smiled. The same day she slipped into a coma and died a few hours later. She faced her death gracefully, believing that her soul and spirit remained eternally after the body perished.
Dying patients have taught me a lot that makes life more worthwhile and meaningful. I no longer run and hide from death - like staying only a minute in the room of a terminal patient to check his heartbeat. I spend time talking, listening, touching, and caring.
Dealing with dying patients is like suturing an actively bleeding wound. You are frightened and unsure with your first one, but knowledge and experience dissipate fear.
True, the dying can cause emotional trauma and pain just as a fire will burn you if you get too close. But if you don’t go near the flames, you will never feel the warmth.
I am not ashamed to admit that I cry more easily than before. The death of a patient brings tears to my eyes and I don’t feel I have lost my dignity when I cry in the presence of relatives.
Even though I am a doctor, I am permitted to be a human being and these teardrops are the ultimate expression of my care and concern for the lost loved one.
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
It’s still there, the great banyan tree by the village pond. Even in those days, when I was a boy, I marvelled at its tangled roots that twisted and turned over the bushes surrounding the tree. The intricate network of roots seems to have spread even more since I left the village almost ten years back. Now where is my seat among those twisted roots that used to be my favourite haunt? Ah, it’s still there, very much intact! A freak elbow-shaped crook formed by a meshing of the roots in mid-air, it formed a perch that was large enough to seat two children. But I often found myself sitting alone in its nestling comfort and dangling my feet over the water.
Ten years! My, how time has flown! It seems only the other day that I overcame my initial fear and daringly climbed up the roots of the banyan tree. When I scaled my way up and settled down in that crook, my chest was filled with pride. Where other children avoided it because of its precarious positioning, I treated it as a pastime to climb up to ‘my perch’ and lean back against the branches to enjoy the cool breeze that caressed my skin. If there was a heaven on earth for a youngster like me, this was it!
Even now, the perch draws me like a rusty yet powerful magnet. I have to cut my way through the heavy undergrowth that has overtaken the tree trunk over all these years. I am no longer as nimble as when I was a boy. So I huff and puff as I lift myself laboriously up the tree. There, I finally make it to my perch! I plop down and dangle my feet over the pond as I full used to do. During the rains when the pond became full, I could splash my feet in the water! I can’t help my memories from childhood flooding me…
Splash, splash, my feet strike the water. Splash, splash, I hear other feet too. I look around. There’s no one else on the tree. I look down. Oh, yes, there’s someone down there, in the water. How can I ever forget her? Her soft feet make a splashing sound as they lap the water in tune with mine.
Sangita! Such a sweet, pretty girl she was. She was a couple of years older than me. But she craved my friendship because she found in me the playmate she so badly wanted. No one except the two of us was bold enough to climb the gnarled roots up to the perch. We would heave ourselves up and lie there, side by side, whiling away the lazy afternoons. I don’t remember what we talked about. She was the one who was the chatterbox. I simply looked on, mesmerised by her face when it was lit up by the afternoon sun. I could have gone on looking at her radiant face forever, secure in our innocent world of endless todays.
But today becomes yesterday and all good things come to an end. One day she told me that her father had been transferred and they would be leaving our village within a week. She didn’t talk much that day and even our hanging legs were still. We reclined side by side on our perch, silently contemplating the grey horizon and our future, when she gently squeezed my palm. I felt like crying. She turned to console me and at that moment she slipped from the perch. I still don’t know how she slipped, but when I looked through my tears she was down there in the water, frantically crying out for help. But there was no one else and I, a boy of ten, was immobilised by shock. Numbly I watched her thrashing and splashing till she stopped and disappeared from view.
Is she there now, thrashing in the water all these years? Hasn’t she grown tired of trying to stay afloat? But I see her smiling. Her face is blooming and her body has been toned by all the exercise she has been carrying out in the water. Sangita, you have forgiven me, haven’t you? Oh, how sweet of you! You know, don’t you, I didn’t push you that day? Not deliberately in any case. It just happened. It’s true of course that I couldn’t stand the thought of you going away. In my juvenile heart I had decided that you would be mine—and remain mine—forever! How could I tolerate the very idea, even the remote possibility, of your belonging to someone else? What, you want me to prove my love for you? Right now? Well…you see, Sangita, ten years is a very long, long time. Much water has been splashed in the pond since then, enough for the sparkle of our lucid love to turn murky and stale. Don’t you think it’s time for us to move on? For me at least it’s rather late in the day. You see, I am married with a small daughter of my own. You too should move on to your eternal resting place—what they call the ‘happy hunting grounds’. You can make it your ‘happy swimming pool’ if you like! That’s the reason I have come here today—to release your ghost from these murky waters—so you can find your own perch in that land from where no one and no love has ever returned.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
OCEANS AND ME: SOME IMAGES AND CONTEMPLATIONS
Debi Padhi
( Sketches at sea: sunset, pencil, pen and ink, by the author, 1979 )
Oceans, a living word for me, effervesces myriad images that can run the entire gamut of all the figures of speech of the language of my write. It is not without reason that I take recourse to rhetoric, as I were to discover as an adolescent in a little diary of my late father that I was a Cancerian, born on the second day of July. With a new found curiosity and to track down the repertoire of an existential being called ‘I’, I burrowed the recently acquired book in my school library on Sun Signs by Linda Goodman (1968) and rummaged through the pages in the quietude of a deserted dormitory (lest my seniors found me giving wings to a young public school boy’s flights of fanciful adolescent overtures that the book was associated with, in those dreamy days of yore), to discover that I was born under a water sign. Linda, besides the usual fare, further forebade that I would take to the water bodies with glee, short of prowling them.
The beauty of our lives is that “intuition goes before you, showing you the way. Emotion follows behind, to let you know when you go astray”. Linda was ‘bulls-eye’; as I was to ascertain later, when a slew of circumstances juxtaposed in a kaleidoscope of changing visions that finally coalesced to find me joining the Indian Navy. The rest can be summed up in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s line from White Nights, “But how could you live and have no story to tell?”
The Navy gave me the opportunities to move on the oceans aboard men of war that at times sliced the placid waters like a knife through butter and at another time heaved over the merciless lofty waves fearlessly, though with a shudder. I flew above it and landed on mighty aircraft carriers that majestically roamed the seas like a city on the move. I even had an invited occasion to go under in the bowels of a submarine. Life was measured in events of variegated experiences interspersed with moments of blissful silences (if you had the flair for it) that gave you time for quiet contemplation; graced in the company of the blue vastness, pounding waves, the elusive horizon and the rapturous company of the flying fish, dolphins, the friendly sea gulls and the impromptu whale that announced its presence with a plume of water. To me, the welcome and unrestricted rains at sea came like fingers tapping at my shoulders beckoning to compose an idyll of relationships, while the vast laden sky with the caressing wind comforted like an umbrella of assuring consolation.
The isolation and the lonesome times that came as bouts of retreat from the dreary routine of a well-oiled man-machine were rejuvenating. As each went his way, I gave way to my fecund mind to lead me astray to look for lost objects with an illuminated beam. That is when I remembered the words of my virtual mentor since my schooldays, the painter Vincent Van Gogh, born exactly a century before me, but pervading in his influences on my inquiring mind. It was he who had said, “The best way to know life is to love many things” and that had become the beckoning lighthouse in my quest for seeking a new refuge, away from the hum drum of the city life that lay far beyond the distant horizon. I was soon to discover, as I read through his letters to his beloved brother, Theo, his homily for me: "I sometimes think there is nothing so delightful as drawing.” I took Vincent’s advice in my stride to pick up my pen, a pot of ink, a lead pencil and a piece of charcoal stick to start my illuminated journey into the outlines of shapes, sizes and thoughts.
Sketches at sea: charcoal and pencil, by the author, 1980
Sketches at sea: pencil, by the author, 1981
Sketches at sea: pen and ink, by the author, 1984
Sketches at sea: pen and ink, by the author, 1984
My early introduction to the Ocean was laced with traditions, like a new bride being introduced to the clan. It started with an initiation into the fold of Lord Varuna, the keeper of the Seas and all its trappings; both living and non-living. The Hindu Puranas eulogise Varuna as the god of oceans, the sky, water and the rivers. His consort is Varuni, who married Varuna after she came out of the Samudra Manthan. Varuna is revered as the king of the universe, possessing a thousand eyes with an unlimited knowledge and power over the world. As the keeper of the moral law, he punishes those who transgress his laws but forgives them out of compassion, if they repent and pray. As given in Natyasashtra, the Mantra to Varuna to be uttered at the time of obeisance is as follows, and it became the foundational words of my oceanic initiation:
I was ordained soon to discover the power and authority of the dictum of Lord Varuna(the western equivalent is King Neptune).
Having taken to little scribbles after laying down my uniform, of the many memories and nostalgic recalls, one that is indelibly etched in my mind is the occasion when I crossed the Equator for the first time on March 22, 1974 at 1400hrs IST; on way to Mauritius, aboard the history-laden Naval ship, INS Delhi, the erstwhile Second World War Royal Navy ship HMS Achilles of Battle of River Plate fame. To the ocean traveler, Equator marks the domain of Varuna and every seafarer crossing it for the first time faces the Court of Varuna, wherein you are initiated into the Lord’s domain after you are heard and sentenced, if any, for all your misdemeanours in the traverse of the Lord’s domain.
As the still ship drifted on the equatorial line, I was presented before His Majesty’s court (dramatically enacted by the ship’s selected staff), that consisted of Lord Varuna, his consort Varuni and a few creature representatives of his domain. A scroll of my misconduct, that seemed like from a previous birth, was read out with all seriousness, resulting in a terse verdict to the cheers of Varuna’s subjects, that necessitated I be thrown overboard to the mercy of the oceanic elements.
With sympathy on a flight, I was suitably heaved aloft off my all-fours and thrown overboard, in the good old tradition since the days of Marco Polo, into the waiting watery abode of the Lord’s subjects (while in all seriousness sharpshooters with guns stood on the deck to take care should the Lord’s larger Piscean subjects ‘cross the line’ themselves). It was sometime before I was hauled up, but not before a bellyful of the saline water and many a repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer! It was a humbling experience of being “between the devil and the deep sea”. At the end of the ‘Crossing the Line Ceremony’, a merciful but much cherished certificate was received from the hands of Lord Varuna (the ship’s Captain) himself, as I thanked Linda and her Sun Signs.
(Elsewhere, the ceremony observes a mariner's transformation from slimy Pollywog, a seaman who hasn't crossed the equator, to trusty Shellback, also called a Son or Daughter of Neptune. It was a way for sailors to be tested for their seaworthiness.)
Photo: Crossing the Equator Ceremony aboard Indian Naval Ship, 1970s: courtesy Vikram Karve
Crossing the Line Certificate of the Author, 1974
The Oceans were the means of my being, as it were. It stitched itself into my daily life like a fabric that I could not refuse to be wrapped with. Who can forget the young cadets days getting ones sea-legs from scrubbing the wooden decks with ‘Holy Stones’ (as they were called, in reality pumice stones), keeping your ‘Watch’ on the ‘Crows Nest’(the highest point on the mast that a lookout was placed to forewarn of the land ahead, the failure of which led to the sinking of the Titanic), stretching out on my ‘Bunk’(the bed in reality) in the ‘Chest Flat’(the room we shared) after a tiring day of hauling ‘Blocks and Tackles’(the contraptions that uses the lever system to lift and tranfer weights), rising early before the dawn beautified the unresticted distant horizon with myriad colours, to head for the ‘Heads’(the ablutionary commodes in reality) and many more nuggets of memory’s recalls that would have run parellel to the journals of a James Cook, a Columbus, a Vaso-da-Gama or a Sir Francis Drake of the pirate’s fame. Many of the sailor’s lingo still permeates my house, to the bemoan of an able wife or son. The Ocean was, is and will be all permeating, until I find myself, if lucky, to be consigned to the ‘Davy Jone’s Locker’(a metaphor for the bottom of the sea).
It is not that the mighty Oceans, expansive and enticing as they are, did not have its moments of despair and uncertainty. It is much akin to the rise and fall of the emotions of a man, full of the idiosyncrasies that we as the highest of species experience. The congruity of emotions of the Oceans and Man has stirred many a writers to kindle their minds.
It roused Shakespeare to quote in his play Much Ado about Nothing:
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.”
(Wonder, with the induction of women into the Naval ranks lately, what the Bard of Avon would have coined!)
Hear the lovelorn Juliet proclaiming to her beloved Romeo in the play Romeo and Juliet:
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give thee, the more I have,
For both are infinite.”
Or, read the poignant ocean-themed lines of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, The Ancient Mariner, with the moral of his ballad being to appreciate all forms of life:
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
Vast and mysterious, haunting and awe-inspiring in its expansiveness, shifting and unpredictable in its mood and disposition; the ocean inspired me due to its sheer size, power, enormity and unremitting beauty; but be warned, it is much more than just a bewitching mass of water.
Not only is the ocean teeming with precious marine life, it's the lifeblood of planet Earth itself, providing us with oxygen, absorbing carbon, and covering over three-quarters of Earth. It gives the colour to our planet and gave us the primordial soup from which life evolved and grew to the Biosphere of today that houses the entirety of life, living and wellbeing.
We marvel at the beauty of the ocean, rush to the beaches to view the mighty heave of the waves, feel the caressing passage of the ozone-laden breeze, view the majesty of the sun in its appointed diurnal play of hide and seek, let fly our imaginations into the ocean’s bowels that teems with marine life that has a symbiotic relation with every other living being. It has been a synchronous and orchestrated play of elements since billions of years, much earlier than the arrival of man. We are the end product of a divine design that has taken nearly 13.8 billion years since the Big Bang. On the cosmic calendar reduced to a day, it wasn't until approximately 11:48 PM or about 300,000 years ago in actual time that the anatomically modern humans, Homo sapiens, arrived for the first time; and on the same scale a single human lifetime would last just about a minuscule 0.2 seconds, on average. Incredible but true! Even the largest super computer would fail to map, measure and chronicle each of the present living 7.58 billion human beings’ cosmic existence. Yet, being ‘no-where’ in the conceivable cosmic time-line, we humans have assumed the importance of being ‘every-where’.
If we discerningly look around and ponder, both at the macro and the micro level, it is unflinchingly apparent that this seeming superiority of the ‘just arrived man’ as the ‘supramental’ (to quote Aurobindo) being of sorts has been more a bane than a boon, more a liability than an asset; for the sustenance of the only place certain to support life, Earth, in the entire known universe. The recent unannounced arrival of the minuscule Corona virus(less than a gram in its totality) that has rung a death knell notwithstanding, the warning signs of decadence had long set-in and the early bells of alarm were rung by Mother Nature itself in all the manifestations of its five basic elements: earth, water, fire, air, and space. In the elemental combinations, the Biosphere is the most affected and the oceans in particular, covering over 70 percent of the surface of the planet, are under serious threat, thanks to the capricious man. The formidable question that arises is: ‘Why and what can be done’?
Nature, or Earth, has never been considered a hostile element to be conquered or dominated. In fact, man is forbidden from exploiting nature.
Meaning: “May there be Peace in Heaven, Sky, Earth, Water, Plants, Trees; May there be Peace in All.” – Shanti Mantra
Meaning: “Take what you need for your sustenance without a sense of entitlement or ownership.” – Isha Upanishad
It is clear that the Vedic vision to live in harmony with the environment was not merely physical but was far wider and much comprehensive and this wish can be fulfilled only when environment will be unpolluted, clean and peaceful.
It is a question that should confront every citizen of this Earth, the only dwelling place for life and its sustenance that all of our wisdom and science has been able to explore and find. The scare is a matter of redefining the blurry line between reality and illusion. We cannot pretend not to know it anymore: it is in the taking care of the Oceans that our survival depends on and mankind must rise to the occassion.
As I close the day with my oration of my past naval days that came in a flurry of harried emotions; I endear my dear readers to hold breath and reason that will take you closer to the driven realities of the Oceans and Seas of today. I call upon all discerning citizens of the world to appreciate the following little presentation celebrating the recently held World Oceans Day on 8 June 2020 and reminisce the bountiful Oceans around us that need to be revered and jealously taken care of, as they solve the risen question in their minds.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4W5HultwHw
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.
I am never perfect,
Even in small things.
How can I claim
I understand love
When I don’t even know
How to reciprocate?
I always miss
The subtle nuances,
The real meaning
Behind what she says;
That is the reason
I get annoyed at times
When she teases me
With mocking smiles.
I am always at loss of words
When my heart feels
I should express my love
In songs and poems
And, I fail to choose
The right colors to paint
In spite of many attempts.
I love , nevertheless,
Even if I hold myself,
Deliberately, for her to guess.
I know, I am not perfect,
That’s the reason
I prefer to be silent
But that doesn’t mean
love is absent.
I am happy you trust
And continue to connect
That never made you digress
From the path of love,
Which together we decided,
To tread,
In spite of my idiosyncrasies
And our minor differences.
If you are consciously present,
At every moment,
You will see me
And my love
In full expression,
Smiling always
Behind the veil,
Hiding all my emotions
That may appear
Outwardly,imperfect.
"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 live in an apartment in Chennai, a city which is dependent on rains for recharging its water resources. Monsoon failures result in acute water scarcity and severe drought. A couple of years ago, Chennai experienced the rainfall of the century, followed next year by a cyclonic storm with very high wind speeds that uprooted many trees in the city. The reservoirs overflowed. On both the occasions, In some localities, people had to be evacuated by boats; many lost their lives too. Instinctively, all the citizens joined hands in providing support and relief for those who were stranded or were in distress. In many apartments, the ground floor was flooded. Household articles, including vehicles were washed away. The fury of the storm treated the rich and the poor alike.
Even as people were coming out of this traumatic experience, the scorching summer followed. This resulted in the reservoirs drying up, leading to a drought and severe water scarcity. Water is now dearer than gold.
It was in such a situation that I struck gold, not in my backyard but in my bedroom. To put your curiosity to rest, let me narrate further.
At some point in our lives each of us cherish the hope of owning a house. Not to be left behind in this, my wife and I started discussing on whether to go in for an independent house with a well and a nice garden or opt for an apartment. Obviously, the location too was a key factor in our discussion.
When we started making enquiries we realized that owning an independent house could be just a dream. The price was just no where within our reach. We consoled ourselves with the fact that maintaining an independent house would be time consuming and expensive, in addition, the security issues had to be considered... In an apartment the maintenance expenses are shared by the occupants, additionally the neighbors could prove useful in terms of company and the security factor also would be taken care of.
In right earnest we started to look out for an apartment in our locality itself that would meet our budget. We were able to locate a local builder who was quite prominent in our neighbourhood.. He had constructed several apartments in the locality. On checking out with people who had purchased from the builder, we understood that his pricing was competitive without compromising on the quality. All were his satisfied customers.
We met the builder who showed us a few apartments that were readily available. We were able to locate a good ground floor apartment that suited our family requirements. The cost was also within our budget..I had already arranged a housing loan from a reputed bank. Over the years I had also built up a good saving which I could draw to meet the preliminary margin money requirements of the bank.
I paid an advance of one lakh rupees and signed an agreement for the purchase of the property. I assured the buyer that I would complete the full payment and registration formalities in three months time.
We spoke to our local community priest to provide us an auspicious date for the registration of the property. After referring to the almanac he provided us with a few auspicious dates. After discussion we selected an auspicious date.
We duly completed the registration formalities with the builder. We performed the grihapravesh,the house warming rituals. We invited all our relatives and guests for the function and proudly showed them our house. Finally we happily moved into our own house.
The house was easily accessible from any part of the city and convenient in all respects. In the initial months we had a good supply of water and we settled down quickly in our new home.
With the onset of the summer the water supply got regulated and slowly tapered off. So much so, when we opened the tap instead of water flowing out we could hear the sweet music coming out of the tap in the form of air gushing out.
We now had to wait for the lorries to supply water to our area. We patiently stood in a serpentine queue to collect our quota of water supply for the day. The buckets for the water were also kept in a neat line by each resident.
One evening while waiting in the queue for my turn, my eyes fell on the buckets lined up for the water. My mind rolled back to my childhood days in my village where I grew up. For a moment I wished I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a standstill.
We had a small river flowing through our village which never went dry. We carried earthen pots to the river to bring water for household requirements. I was reminded of how we used to keep the pots on the shore, to take a dip in the river and came back really refreshed. Some of us, the brave hearted, would climb a ledge and jump into the river for a swim. The current in the river was not very strong while the water was crystal clear. We could see the fish swim in the river and some of us would even have fun trying to catch them. But they always gave us the slip since they were too fast for us. In another corner of the river some of the residents washed their clothes. Some cattle would also come to the river after grazing to have a fill of water.
I found some one tapping my shoulder gently. The queue had moved forward and I had not noticed it until my neighbour’s tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality .
As the days passed, the situation became acute and the supply became erratic. At times we used to keep awake past midnight to get the water supply.
After collecting the water late that night, I did the usual mopping of the floor, then bolted the door and went off to my bedroom to catch up on my sleep. I was suddenly awakened by a sudden rattling noise and my bed began to oscillate. Even before I realized I was pulled into an abyss with a free fall. This was soon halted by a splash of water all over me. It was too dark to see where I was. I was so scared that I started to yell at the top of my voice.
Soon I heard voices above me that initially seemed like a whisper but in a few minutes became audible. My good neighbours must have heard me yell and had come to know of my plight. Soon, I heard anxious voices discussing on how to rescue me. Suddenly a thin bean of light was focused on me. I soon realized I had fallen into a pool of water. The water was fresh and cool.
I heard voices calling out to me. I looked up to see a long stretch of sari neatly rolled to form a rope,being sent down for me to hold on to, so that I could be taken out of the pool. I clung on to it in despair for dear life and found myself being hauled out. There was a sigh of relief all around when I was on safe ground. My family members hugged me although I was drenched completely on account of the holy dip in the water. After this incident, none of us could sleep a wink and we were worried beyond words at the happening.My family members told me that initially they were bewildered at the turn of events and wild cries escaped their lips.Hearing their cries some of our neighbours had rushed immediately to our house to give a helping hand.
In the morning I called the builder to lodge a compliant for the poor quality of construction. He gave me a patient ear and started to speak. He told me that originally there had been a well when he had purchased the property for the construction. While designing the apartments, he could not retain the well because it was not located at any corner of the plot. Hence he had closed it when the construction of the apartment had begun. The soil being loose, it may have given way.
I now started counting my blessings. What a miracle! I was safe and so were the other articles in the bedroom.
Needless to say that I now have an apartment with copious supply of potable water from a well inside my house.
A well in an independent house is common. But owning an apartment with a well in the bedroom, is unbelievable, but true!
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
Everyday she trained,
Day and night,
Her trainer, showed no mercy,
Lap after lap she ran.
'Am I ready yet',
She panted, fuming,
She'd run kilometers at a stretch,
Run and exercised.
'Patience is a virtue',
He said, smiling,
She walked away huffing,
Unsatisfied as can get.
Days passed, one bright day,
He handed her a wooden sword,
The girl who only wanted to fight,
Shone as bright as the sun.
Months passed by,
Her upside-down frown turning back up,
"Can I use a sword now?",
She asked, gazing at the metal.
Her momentary distraction enough,
He bent and attacked her legs,
She fell ungracefully,
Appalled she missed his move.
'You're not ready',
He said, looking down at her,
Sprawled down on the floor,
'Get up and learn.'
A deep grunt as she stormed off,
He smirked as she limped,
He continued attacking,
The sack of grains.
Months turned to two years,
She stood tall and muscled,
The frown still etched,
As she parried his blows.
He struck down on her,
She blocked his move,
Feigning to move left,
She struck the blade out of his hand.
She clapped a hand on her mouth,
Shock reverberating through them,
A slow smile spread on his face,
He took the wooden sword from her.
"It is time", he told her,
"Come let us go,
Your first blade,
What will you name him?"
He wrote about dead plants,
About rotten hearts,
And their rotten love.
He wrote about the criminals,
The poor and victims,
And the pain in their hearts.
He wrote about felled soldiers,
About misguided lovers,
And their foiled attempts at life.
He wrote about autumn,
The unfinished paintings,
He wrote about the forgotten..
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 )
Where had all the summer smiles gone to?
All the weekend laughters,
the weekday whinings and the holiday ecstasies...?
Days, weeks, months and seasons fly, but they all return back,
That's something different about the years,
they leave once and are gone forever, with all that spark.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
The cold wind glides through my skin,
Carrying with it fragments of July rain,
They send a shiver all through me...
As I wonder, it's not just the freezing breeze,
It's the memories they bring, that touch and fly, unseized...
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.
My morning walk in the park
had a strange and surreal bond
with cygnets in the pond.
Smooth and suave ,sheltered by parent Swan
sailing smoothly in their short span
Encircled the pool in a lissom swim
pecked at crumbs with a rare vim...
As I circumambulated the park
eyes focussed on the pond
Thoughts transfixed on
these wondrous white birds,
saw the little ones embark
on a swift short huddle some mode
circle at centre of the pond
with the head Swan in the middle
for few moments and as swiftly moved away
like challenging the clouds above on the slide
and rearranged themselves!
It was a sight for the Gods
The bright circle in the pond
anchored by a prominent
pristine white plumage on the ride...
A lesson for me too
To get on into a seamless stride
And face the day with pride...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
Kanaka was reminiscing covid 19 struck the world when she was 60 years old. Ten years had passed by. Kanaka did not like to remember those unfortunate days, yet there were certain incidents she still treasured. Her little boys Henry and Dennis had become teenagers now. She smiled remembering the day the two were asked to wear masks for the first time. Government of Kerala had made masks compulsory for everyone. So when Juny left for work she told them if they go out of the house they should go only with masks. They gravely nodded and then Dennis asked, "Even if we go out of the house to the yard?" she said "Yes". In the afternoon they wanted to play a ball game with their grandpa so they opened the front door. Then Dennis stopped. He closed the door and came running to Kanaka, "Paattie (Grandma) give me two masks ". "Why Dennis, you are going only to the front yard to play".
"Mamma said if we go out of the house we should wear masks, the CM also said in the News yesterday."
"I too heard it", chirped in Henry. Kanaka obliged, she fitted them with masks, their grandpa too donned a mask as they trooped out to play. Kanaka grinned to herself, they looked like three thugs.
Covid 19 ravished the world. The Doctors, the medical staff, the police, the politicians and all the volunteers in various services put on a brave front and tried to keep it at bay but Covid danced its death dance. For two years everyone suffered. What Kanaka could not understand was the phrase "thanks to Covid ", which everyone uttered with aplomb as if Covid was some beneficial blessing. How could anyone thank something which was so negative, an invisible evil that was killing people without discrimination. Driving people mad with fear, forcing them to lock themselves in and even socially distancing one person from the other. Fear was gripping the hearts of everyone. Kanaka fretted and fumed, she had no heart to celebrate this pandemic. She saw it only as a killer freezing life all around the world. In the beginning lockdown were days of celebration for some. Cooking, painting, white washing, indulging in their hobbies or works they wanted to finish at home. Tik tok and zoom were reprieve for a few. Facebook and WhatsApp were full of creativity. Sitting at home and enjoying the holidays waned as people became restless and realization dawned. As days dragged on people realised the truth that they had to live with Covid and everyone suffered in their own way. She disliked the word Corona and hated the magnified picture of it when it appeared on the TV screen. She felt nauseated. In her childhood they were told that the word 'snake' should not be uttered aloud because it was feared that it would come. Kanaka who hated the creepy crawly never mentioned the word now, this word was like the word 'snake' for her, full of evil.
Kanaka hated remembering those days. The reconstruction period was worse than anyone had dreamt. The world economy crashed down, every country in the world had a terrible time resuscitating it and standing on their own feet. Every family suffered in one way or another. The home coming of the migrants and their unemployment was the greatest disaster each country faced and it was rather severe in India especially in Kerala. But people without caste, religion or money stuck together in India, as if they were in Noah's ark, promising each day that this too would pass.
There were many stories she treasured of real life heroes. One such story was about Rinu, a young saleswoman. It was not a story, it was a real life incident. Rinu worked in a shop that sold mattresses. She was assisted by a young girl Janu. She had joined the shop when sales burgeoned and they found that they could afford one more pair of hands in the shop.The owner, Majid had returned from the Gulf to settle down years back, and had built that shop. It was a popular one in the town. Everything related to cots could be found there. When the lockdown came the shop was also shut down. Weeks passed into months. The first phase of lockdown came to an end and Kerala, thanks to the guidance of the Chief minister and the health minister came unscathed with very few deaths while people were dying in thousands in other states and countries. When the country entered the third phase, people were allowed to resume their normal life with strict instructions. Everyone had to wear masks, cleanliness and social distancing were a must. People, in spite of the Government support, were finding it difficult to make both ends meet. There were rumours that the pandemic would go on for the next two years unless they found a vaccine to control it. The government machinery tired of protecting the people concentrated on the reconstruction work. The fourth phase was terrible with more and more deaths with the return of the natives from various parts of the world. In India the pandemic raged madly. Even Kerala found it very difficult to contain it. Life resumed at a snail's pace. People limped back to life resigned to the fact that they had to live with the Covid.
Thus Rinu and Janu resumed their work in Majid' s shop. After the first month, the hard realisation that they had not sold anything and that money was dwindling in his hand, forced Majid to make drastic changes. He decided to cut down labour and dismiss Janu who had joined the shop only two years back, Rinu was there from the beginning. So he called the two girls to his office and told them his situation. They listened seriously and waited for the dreaded announcement, when it came Rinu was totally devastated. Janu sat like a stone. She had guessed it coming, a few days back.
She sat with closed eyes. She could see her sick mother and her drained out father looming large in her mind. Their only steady income was from the shop. The little land they had was cultivated by her father so they got enough of vegetables.They had three goats, selling their milk brought in a bit of money. The free ration and provisions the government offered would keep them going but still they needed money. She opened her eyes and got up, there were no tears in her eyes. She smiled at Majid and started to move off. Majid extended a small packet to her which she took happily. But Rinu was crying openly. She couldn't control herself. Tearfully she looked at Majid. His eyes were also filled with unshed tears. Rinu told him "Sir, please retain Janu, give her half of my salary, she needs it". Saying so she walked out wiping her face, to find Janu who was busy arranging everything to close the shop as it was already late.
Majid had told Janu that she could work until the weekend and she had agreed. He went home heavy hearted. He told his wife Sulekha what had happened that day. Sulekha after listening gravely said, "Yes, Rinu is right, we shouldn't let go of Janu, she too needs a job badly and she should not feel that there is no one for her to support her in these fearful days". Majid pondered on Rinu and Sulekha's words. Women always think differently. Finally he decided that he would retain Janu and pay each of them half salary until they regained their sales in the coming future. Majid also decided one thing he would look after the two girls and their family like his own family, an extended family. Rinu's love for Janu and her generosity had opened his eyes too.
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
What makes her burn
What makes her melt
No one can tell
There is a bridge of glass
She walks upon everyday
With no fear
For love handles with care...
She waits not for him, neither
For long walks, holding hands
Nor for shoulder, that becomes her nest
She just wraps him safe
In all her words, and
Hide them in her eyes' depths
That can never be seen
One day
She will exit, as an unread poem
He will be searching all his life...
"YOU AND ME - THE 'WE' POETRY"
Walk with me, will you
Holding hands, we shall
Make some nectarous memories
Through honeyed conversations
Under the luminous canopy of dreams
Our eyes would glow in joy
Stopping at every blade of grass, and
Rain-clothed petals, smelling of Petrichor
While the raindrops carry the scents of gardens
As we kiss the butterfly, we feel the breeze
On its orange-wafer wings
Our souls absorb the Sun, the sea
The Moon and the mountains
Together
We shall walk into eternity...
Carrying all the moments in our hearts
Whispering love for each other
My dear darling Camera!
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
This raging feverishness has rendered my limbs weak,
And my head throbs with the heat. The unrest
That runs down my spine brings on an anxiety
Unwarranted, as my febrile tummy seems constricted
In the grip of fatigue.
And I must sleep for it all to go away.
Sleep, she hovers around me, prompting me to ease
And I drag my listless body to bed, thankful
For the reprieve, but as I lay down upon my pillow,
It is not the welcoming pleasantness of rest
That overcomes me, but pathetic cries—
Of rich evergreen forests that has never known heat
But now flaming up in an unquenchable fire;
Of rivers that once flowed gaily, but now asphyxiated
With undegradable waste; of trees facing unkind cuts;
Of hormone-infested udders; of forced wombs;
And of a displaced fauna in refugee state.
The poet Kodhai, she is the voice that makes heard
These painful expressions to an unsympathetic population—
So much to be said, so much to be done
But for now, the cries must be stifled
The eyes must be closed, for
I have miles to go therefore I must sleep
I have miles to go therefore I must sleep.
(This poem was written when the Amazon forests were burning. Nature is healing herself now. 2020 is the year for her.)
Vidya Shankar is a poet, writer, motivational speaker, yoga enthusiast, English language teacher. An active member of poetry circles, her works have appeared in national and international literary platforms and anthologies. She is the recipient of literary awards and recognitions.
Vidya Shankar’s first book of poems, The Flautist of Brindaranyam is a collaborative effort with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan. Her second book of poems The Rise of Yogamaya is an effort to create awareness about mental health. She has also been on the editorial of three anthologies.
A “book” with the Human Library, Chennai Chapter, Vidya Shankar uses the power of her words, both written and spoken, to create awareness about environmental issues, mental health, and the need to break the shackles of an outdated society.
Fuschia Pink
Silently they Wink
Carpeting the Earth
Sheer Mirth
Blushing Rainbows
As I look out of my Window
Pristine Air
Caressing my curly Hair
Beautiful Pair
A sight so Rare
Pluck Me
But don't take me away from the Bee.
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)
Thick lush green woods
where many animals creep,
chirping birds welcome,
branches constantly sway,
cool breeze kisses my face,
brought a smile on my face!
I wandered in a fine-looking place
where my tortured soul found solace,
a tired body could reach a comfort zone,
busy feet avoid their unstoppable steps,
mind and heart genuinely feel the serenity
and both tiring eyes peacefully relax!
I had a break from the hustle and bustle
of the busy schedules and plans,
that made me have rest and pleasure!
Where does happiness lie on the earth?
It is acquired in each and every happy soul
and the hearts of goodhearted folks!
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
In spite of being unique individuals with different perceptions, experiences, talents, abilities, etc. there is a natural tendency within us to compare ourselves to other people. Consciously or unconsciously, we tend to compare our lives to that of others either in the form of grades, looks, popularity, social media followers, employment, wealth, lifestyle, etc. Measuring ourselves against others is a natural tendency of the human mind and in some ways, it can be helpful. The inspiration you feel about someone else's achievements can motivate you to improve your own life. But comparisons can be harmful when it results in giving you an inferiority/superiority complex. In today's World of Social Media influence, comparing our lives to others have become an unconscious part and parcel of our daily routine. We tend to feel small when we see how amazing life appears to be for everyone else.
Unfortunately, we cannot completely abstain from comparing as it is a natural tendency of the mind. However, we can use this comparing mind to become better versions of ourselves .
Now, let us understand why we compare ourselves to others.
Why do we compare ourselves to others?
As human beings, we have a natural tendency to constantly evaluate ourselves in relation to something else. Since we live in society with many people of similar abilities, their lives become our basis for evaluation. As a result, we compare our lives to theirs in order to assess how well we are doing.
The confusion between comparison and inspiration.
There is a slight confusion between comparison and inspiration. When we take inspiration from someone's accomplishments, we tend to see how they accomplished what they accomplished and will take similar measures in our lives to accomplish our goals. When we are inspired by others, we will look at ourselves as a person who can improve.
However, when we start to compare our accomplishments with that of others, it is usually done in order to feel "perfect" about ourselves without any need for improvement. This kind of comparison does more harm than good because it is done for an ego boost and it will make you stagnant and dull.
The only person you should be comparing yourself to is "YOU".
As comparing is natural and cannot be avoided. The best thing to do is to steer that tendency in a positive way so that it will help you become the best version of yourself. If you change your focus from others to yourself and start comparing your "present self" to the person you were a day ago, a week ago, a year ago....etc. You will be able to see how far you have come and how much you have improved. Doing this will automatically help you become a better person as you will start seeing room for improvement everyday.
Count your blessings, not your troubles.
While we are busy feeling bad about ourselves thinking that others have a better life , we fail to see the blessings that have been bestowed on us. If you actually look around and observe, you will realize that you have been blessed in so many ways you cannot even imagine. Practicing gratitude will make you look at the positive side of life which will make you more happy and content.
So be inspired by people and learn from them, focus on developing yourself little by little and watch how the comparing mind steers itself to help you become the best version of yourself.
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.
‘We would wish for you to join us for dinner.’
I blinked. The words sat innocently in my inbox, unaware of the flood of emotions they caused in me. Denial, glee, anger, joy, these emotions fought for dominance; leaving me dizzy.
After years of silence from my estranged in laws, this was the first message I had received from them. A simple invitation for a dinner party halfway across the world. I analysed each word over and over again, desperate to glean the intentions -the emotions- behind the invite.
Was this a cruel joke?
A plan to humiliate me?
I shook such thoughts out of my head, it could be that they had turned over a new leaf. The uncertainty lingered, however. Three years had gone by without a single acknowledgment from Anshu’s family and suddenly they wished for my company. This had to be some ploy of theirs.
Giving up on trying to understand the reason behind the invitation, I sat and reminisced over the past three years of cold silence.
******************
Anshu told me about his parents in the fourth month of our relationship. He was teaching me how to make Indian tea, trying to wean me off of coffee. He smiled at the memory of them, told me how his mother would make tea first thing in the morning, “Her singing and the smell of tea is what greeted me every morning back at home,” he continued humming a song he remembered from her many songs. I nodded at this and pretended to not notice the pain colouring his smile and hiding behind his words. Again.
We had first met at a coffee shop, it was a busy day and we'd been forced to share a table. He was friendly and despite not being much of a conversationalist myself, we had managed to carry a pleasant conversation for hours that fortunate day.
One of the first things I had noticed about him was his pain. It stretched over every edge of him, slipped out between his words, sometimes when he spoke about his life back in India. Gradually over the course of our relationship, it had lightened.
When our relationship was six months old, I told him about my family. My father had left us at an early age and my mother hadn't taken it well. My younger sister and I only had each other and I worried for her constantly. They both depended on me, I couldn't let anything come between us. He gently took my hands in his and told me about his own family, about why he left India.
His orthodox parents were hard to please. No matter how hard he worked, they wanted -needed- more from him. It had exhausted him terribly - trying to conform to their orthodox ideals. He was their only son so their unrelenting pressure fell on him alone.
By the time he completed his masters, his relationship with his parents had soured to the point every interaction was little more than a formality. Tired of the constant arguing over his values contradicting theirs, Anshu had accepted the first job out of India and left.
They kept in touch but didn't bother to do anything other than call each other. His parents never asked Anshu to visit them and the only time Anshu had asked them to come to America was for our wedding. But they didn't respond. They'd accepted his invite and he'd happily told them the date and venue.
They never came.
*******************
“Emma?”
His voice broke me out of the memory of seeing his bitter, crestfallen face when they didn't show up. Anshu didn't speak to them for six months, feeling betrayed. They offered no excuses or apologies. The reason they gave was simple: I was not an Indian girl.
The invite had been addressed to both of us but was sent only to me. A silent way of informing me that it was my choice. Perhaps they believed that Anshu was still upset over our wedding day. He still feels hurt but three years is long enough to have dulled the sharp edges of such pain.
“Emma? You're spacing out again. What's the matter?” It wasn't much of choice for me, Anshu should be the one to decide whether he wanted to go back home or not, I silently showed him the email.
He sat there silently, much like I did before, gaping openly at the words. He gazed at me to get an answer - yes or no.
I smiled. He understood the silent gesture.
***********
“Honey, are you ready? The cab is waiting!”
“Be there in a minute”, I hurriedly stuffed the surprise inside my suitcase before Anshu could see it. I'd seen it in a little shop around the corner, its beauty captivated me and I bought it on an impulse. I hoped Anshu and his parents would like it.
India! I'd researched endlessly about its busy roads and busier people, the diverse cultures and food. Yet with all this research, I felt unprepared to meet Anshu’s parents. A million doubts raced through my mind. What if his parents really didn't like me, what if they forced Anshu to leave me.
“Emma, we have to go now!”
There was no turning back, shaking off the last dredges of doubt I took a deep breath and set forward.
**********
Noise was the first thing I'd registered.
India was noisy.
People rushed in different directions and a small army of taxi drivers pushed their way toward us and tried to tug us into their cars with different deals and prices being shouted over the din. Anshu expertly managed us through the crowd and soon we were sitting in a cab going home. Throughout the ride, Anshu shot concerned looks my way, worried about how I was dealing with his home country.
“I understand India can be a bit mu-”
“It's beautiful.”
I cut him off, it truly was beautiful. I was mesmerised by the scenes passing us by as we went off to Anshu's house. The ride ended far too quickly and I was slightly disappointed, I wanted to see more of the greenery surrounding the place but as we stood at the gate to his house my nerves came rushing back.
I had half a mind to turn around and leave but Anshu looked so happy to be home, I couldn't ruin it. The door opened and there were twin looks of delight as Anshu's parents greeted us with a shower of flowers and rice. I saw Anshu do the customary greeting of touching his parents' feet and I went to do the same when strong arms circled me and I was pulled into a warm hug by his mother.
I was stunned.
I couldn't speak at all, shocked by the warmth that greeted us, my expectations of a cold, apathetic greeting and awkward dinner were wrong. I'd never been so happy when I was wrong. Anshu himself was holding back tears as his mother pulled him into a hug as well, ten years away from home, he missed this place terribly.
We were ushered upstairs enthusiastically by his father and told to freshen up before dinner. I offered to help in the kitchen but was met with a gentle rejection as, “You must be tired beti, please, get some rest. We require no assistance.”
I gently set down my suitcase, Anshu sat on the bed, absolutely still.
“Anshu?”, I went over, only to see tears running down his face. He was shaking slowly and I took his hands in mine, much like he had when I had first told him about my family. We sat like that for half an hour until Anshu stopped shaking and set off to help his mother in the kitchen.
I took this time to unwrap the surprise and put it on. The saree was the colour of a summer ocean, golden peacocks were embroidered at the bottom and the silvery edge draped over my shoulder softly.
My mother in law was the first to see me, she was gob smacked. “Beautiful…no words…express.”, her broken English spoke the sweetest compliment and I was overcome with guilt for thinking of this soft and sweet woman as stern and unforgiving. I smiled at her and we walked arm in arm to the dining room where Anshu and his father were equally surprised by the saree.
The dinner was delicious and Anshu's family were some of the warmest hosts I'd seen. After dinner we sat around when Anshu's father cleared his throat, asking for attention. “Anshu, beta, I believe an apology is due. Your mother and I were holding onto ideals that made us lose sight of our son. We believed that you were at fault, it took us ten long years to truly understand who we were hurting. We are truly sorry for everything. Emma, you are a gracious daughter in law and I am glad that Anshu has you as his wife. We hope you can forgive these two old fools for taking so much time to realise their mistakes.”
Tears were streaming down my face and Anshu had rushed over to hug his father. The rest of the night was spent catching up on the ten years missed. It was truly an amazing, memorable night.
Ms. Anjali Mahapatra is a retired teacher from Mumbai who taught Mathematics and Science to students in Ahmedabad, Bhubaneswar, Lucknow and Mumbai for more than thirty years. She took to writing after her retirement and has penned close to a hundred stories so far. Her stories have appeared in Sunnyskyz and other magazines. Two of her collection of short stories, 'An Amazing Letter to Me and Other Stories' and 'Granny Tales' have been published in Kindle Unlimited.
As i hold your finger
Treading carefully forward
Entering a new world
Challenges at each step
Shadows pass by
Threatening to take the changes away
As i look over to you by my side
Regaining the lost self
Hoping to make it
As i hold onto you
All the light and warmth came fleeting back
Making me feel welcome and safe again
It's as if you have never left my side
Even if we are separated by a few hundred miles
I can sense you by my side
As if i am still holding your finger.
Dr. Rupali Mishra is a 2nd year Post Graduate of SCB Medical College and Hospital, Cuttack, Odisha; sketches and reads poetry, stories and articles, besides being engaged in medicine research and application ; presently working, in a workforce of doctors fighting against Corona. She can be reachable at docrupalimishra@gmail.com.
Here’s a garden of gentle good wishes,
With sweet honeybees, blowing sweet kisses,
A lotus floating, a sign of good health
And ripe Crocuses that make you glad,
Purple, delicate and dew-clad,
Let the Rosemary bring back a sweet memory
An Orchid here and there as you’re lost in a reverie,
Just as a peacock dances to celebrate,
An overcast sky and the tune of a cuckoo,
The grey clouds lined with a silver hue.
The Lavender, devoted, virtuous and shy,
A bunny hopping to his burrow with an inquisitive sigh,
A light breeze has the daffodils bowing down in respect,
A curtain of Ivy adorning the rear,
And the Chrysanthemum spreading its cheer.
The Yellow Rose stands by you as a friend
Red Tulips, dancing, to a love song, penned,
Bring you all the brightest luck
Bluebells bowed, humble and kind,
Two adorable sunflowers entwined
Hyacinths, kind, forgiving, demure,
The White Rose, peaceful, noble and pure,
A tender stag grazing, with his proud spots,
A velvety shimmer, as he ambles by,
Golden Wattles gleaming against the sky.
The Pansies look on in admiration
At the Magnolia’s love for Nature’s creation
As Iris, the sole messenger carries
In this garden of abundant wealth
The Horehound’s prayers for your eternal good health…
Uma is a student of Electronic media and broadcast communication. She is immensely passionate about the performing and literary arts. She is enthusiastic about 3D animation amd gaming. She works at an international school.
"You should make short and simple sentences. That way you will eliminate chances of errors and be able to write correct English. To pass the exam this should be your aim."
This was the advice our English teacher in class X used to give. We were students of a vernacular medium school and English was one subject of 100 Marks. We started learning the alphabets in class IV and by class VI we were supposed to be proficient at reading the text book on our own and understand it enough to answer questions given to us during exams. To improve our handwriting we had to diligently practice one page of writing in a dated handwriting note and get it checked from our teacher at the beginning of class. We had to translate one page of vernacular text into English, that too almost on a daily basis. Despite the seven years one had spent in a grueling regimen like this till reaching the high school leaving exam, many students found it difficult to read, tough to understand and an insurmountable task to write flawlessly. An average student had a handwriting that did not fit into either cursive or any other style. Our English teacher named them free style writing.
Looking back, now it seems just about everything about English teaching in the schools of those days needed improvement. Our teachers read out sentence by sentence and immediately spelled out the meaning in chaste Odia. So mentally we were programmed to read the sentence once and convert it to equivalent Odia, our mother tongue. English was the question and Odia was the answer. That left us very little scope to improve upon our English vocabulary as we had dozen other things to attend to.
Now just think of the English Handwriting. There were two types of handwriting notes available in the market. One came with a model sentence written in beautiful cursive writing on top and we were expected to reproduce it exactly about ten times in lines below. The other one came with just three lines and nothing written at top. So you had to find a catchy sentence yourself and write it ten times in any manner you thought was nice handwriting. The problem was the former one cost us a little more whereas the latter not only came cheaper but also had more pages in it. The task of teacher was to check if every student had written the handwriting note at the beginning of class as quickly as possible and move on to the main task of completing the syllabus. So he just made cursory glances at filled in pages but rarely went through in detail. In a class of 40 students it was hard for him to compare an apple of handwriting of one student to an orange of handwriting of another. So it became a ritual for everyone to fill in the pages as quickly as possible. This very system ensured that we developed freestyle of handwriting and carried it for rest of our lives.
Speaking of accents, we picked up a cocktail of accents and learned to have one of our own. But early in life I understood that we are pre-designed to pronounce things in a typical way. For example, in Class VI in the first English class our teacher asked at random to a student named Bhaskar to open the book and read aloud the first chapter.
The text went thus: INDIA IS MY COUNTRY. IT IS A BIG COUNTRY.
Bhaskar stood up hesitatingly looking here and there just to ascertain it was he who was being pointed by the teacher. He was never known to be a bright student and his chief school time preoccupation was to sneak away from the class and roam around the nearby areas of school scouting for mango, guavas, and jamoons. But this was a new school with the academic year just beginning and the teacher was yet to know the class. The axe fell on Bhaskar to his bad luck by sheer random choice.
Bhaskar : NDA (EN-DI-AAH) is my country.
Teacher: Hold on! Hold On!!! Did you say EN-DI-AAH??? Start again. Will you please?
Bhaskar: NDA (EN-DI-AAH) is my country. En-Di-Aah is….
Teacher: Stop !!! What’s that boy? Why do you pronounce it EN-DI-AAH. It is I-N-D-I-A !!! Repeat it one last time.
Bhaskar: NDA (EN-DI-AAH) is my country. En-Di-Aah is….
The teacher took a mental note of punitive measures to be applied on this student and proceeded to the next one with a call : NEXT!!!
The next boy was Venkata. Accomplice of Bhaskar on all his missions and was the watch out for Bhaskar while he climbed the trees. Venkat knew how to read and knew that Bhaskar was not exactly wrong in his attempts. So, confused he stood up.
Venkat: India is my Kan-tree, It is a big kan-tree.
Teacher: Stop stop. Next one
There was quick round of reading attempts till someone read it in a manner that satisfied the teacher. My town was an industrial town making engines for combat aircrafts and the population was cosmopolitan in nature. Our class had students from neighboring states too. Each had a peculiar accent and even our teacher had one typical accent. But he belonged to a mainstream part of Odisha and his accent was more or less considered to be pure English. This is how we were introduced to accents in English pronunciation.
We had to translate passages in Odia to English. I enjoyed this and completing a passage gave me immense satisfaction. I never ever defaulted in completing this task. The book which we followed as guidebook in translation carried a page with this saying which I find relevant even today and quote very often.
IF THE LANGUAGE IS NOT CORRECT, WHAT NEEDS TO BE SAID REMAINS UNSAID.
IF WHAT NEEDS TO BE SAID REMAINS UNSAID, THEN WHAT OUGHT TO BE DONE REMAINS UNDONE.
I have learnt how prophetic this saying is and hence whenever I give instructions to my people I ensure that the communication gap is as minimal as possible.
Our science teacher was a pragmatic man. Once when the topic veered from routine teachings to TANTRA & MANTRA he silenced the class sneering at us and chiding us for believing in such un-scientific craps. "As students of science and being in twentieth century, you should inculcate the habit of reasoning. Never ever accept anything without questioning. Your questions are your answers", he thundered. Then he gave his version of what mantra is and should be. Anything that you speak with deep conviction based on your own belief acts as a “mantra” for the listeners.
Using his logic our grammar teacher was using mantra to teach us grammar. He would ask us to use “TRAIN” and “MIND” as verb and noun. He spelled out examples for us to remember for a life time
THE SCHOOL MASTER TRAINS THE MIND, here “train” is verb and “mind” is noun.
THE STATION MASTER MINDS THE TRAIN, here “mind” is verb and “train” is noun.
How could we forget grammar when our teacher was using powerful mantras like this as teaching-aid ? We loved to attend his class and wished it to go on forever.
We had a Head Master who was very good at public speaking. He would draw a small circle on black board telling “This is what you are going to speak”. Then he would draw a slightly bigger circle encircling the smaller one and would say “this is what you must remember”. Then he would draw another big circle telling us, “this is how much you have to understand”. And finally he would draw a very big circle around other circles telling that we needed to read that much to understand only a portion, remember still less and finally speak much less.
Our town had a few English medium schools and on occasions like annual inter school sports event we did meet the students from those schools. They had Anglo-Indian teachers and the students spoke to each other and their teachers in ENGLISH!!!! For us it was unthinkable even though we could form sentences, translate passages, conversing in English was beyond our imagination! We developed a complex and thought of them as belonging to a superior class than us. But when the games began, for example football, we quickly realized that speaking a dialect has little impact on dribbling the ball. Mostly we won. That rid us of the complexes and pumped up our confidence. We made friends with many of them and found them to be as ordinary 'flesh and blood' boys like us and who were equally eager to make friends with us.
After our high school leaving exams were over, for those who opted for science stream, the scope to brush up literary skills in English were wafer thin. I started buying comic books and very soon had a huge collection of them. Subconsciously they enriched my stock of English words and also catered to my hunger for science fiction.
On Sundays the cinemas screened a few English movies. The most seen and remembered movie was that of Superman. But we merely followed the visuals and the spoken words were completely un-intelligible to us. We jokingly commented that in English Movies, the version of stories were same as number of tickets. Every ticket holder had his own version of storyline, the visuals being same.
Next came a phase of interesting reading - almost anything and everything I could lay my hands on. One day I would be locked up as a Prisoner in the Zenda Fort and another day I would be sailing down the river with Huckleberryfinn. One day I would sneak up the chimney with Oliver Twist and next day would set off on a journey to moon. I would enjoy flying in plane over Cord explosives with Jonas Cord, next day I found myself stranded in a desolate ice glacier with Night without end. I would live the pain of final diagnosis and enjoy a voyage in Hispaniola next in search of hidden treasure. If I witnessed the death of the canary bird in Rage of the Angels, I joined the the Jackal on a mission to assassinate a prez. I followed with interest how two planes collided over the Paris Airport and dived deep into ocean with Nautilas as a captive of Captain Nemo. I looked in awe at the Guns of Navrone on high cliff and hastened my steps to cover the entire world in eighty days. I enjoyed when Mountbatten was charmed by Gandhi to taste curd made from goat's milk and then the style of writing in the immensely enjoyable book Freedom at Midnight but quickly found a place to conceal myself when Don Vito Corleon’s men came haunting. Bram Stoker haunted me and gave sleepless nights and Akio Morita gave me his reasons to charge a customer more if the size of order was far beyond my plant's capacity. I believed that I am not entitled to anything and hence constantly must evolve to changing scenarios and Covey told me my habits are far from the best ones of winners.
I became a regular reader of the column KNOW YOUR ENGLISH in THE HINDU and scratched my head to understand why a Nobel laureate made a statement in news paper that INDIAN ENGLISH IS A LANGUAGE THAT INDIANS SPEAK, READ, WRITE AND BELIEVE IT TO BE ENGLISH. I matched it up to Gerge Bernard Shaw’s ON SAYING PLEASE where he said that the English People no more speak pure English and if you confront them with pure English, they feel offended (I do not exactly remember the words).
But all this happened within me, never getting a chance to check against the touchstone if my writings stood a chance to be called English? My writings were published in premium technological magazines each issue of which cost Rs.200 upwards. I wrote for various souvenirs and got warm reviews. I was consulted by people to write a speech for them. When given a chance to speak on any subject I made it a point to speak extempore and never carried a written speech. I intentionally avoided searching on internet for clues on topics to speak about, because I always believed if I do not speak from my mind, I will not be making an impact.
I am still in the process of learning and upgrading my understanding of the language ENGLISH. The learning curve is steeper now but not insurmountable.
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.
She kept looking at the sky. I could imagine what my wife would be going through, the sort of the day she was having and her mood.
Face is in the index of mind. Here, the mind is feeble and not listening. Rain, Shine and drain, all happens in the same day. Like a wild boar in the forest, like a hurt caterpillar curled up to rescue, or just like a peacock dancing in the rain. She could portray everything in one single day and still work with her daily routine. To be her caregiver was not only tiring but also confusing.
As I pushed her in the wheel chair to the hospital, this time, I know she was suffering from mixed episode, severe mental condition with moods swinging ferociously with mania, anger, depression and acute agitation, kind of loss and total disconnect. Her doctor was very kind and he had the patience to help me understand her medicines and also keep them away and give her as per the prescriptions time to time. Any lapse on my part to do this, will put me at the havoc of running with her to recuperation center trying to revive her back to life. How can I forget that one afternoon she pushed me into that state of helplessness? Medicines and treatment that made her get annoyed and more restless. But we had no choice but to listen to our doctor. Patience. Perseverance. I know my inner spiritual strength is helping me as her care taker.
Her mental pain created a mess causing disturbing episodes of anger and argument with my parents and family. Not everyone can understand her illness which is driving her and cannot endure what I do. I just stay calm for I know that arguments or justification will only lead her to get agitated and in a mood. There are times, when I just give up being a peacemaker. I feel like giving her a slap to make her shut up. I want to kick her out of our house. I am also a human and there are times that I just lose my patience. But I still endure.
She strives to orchestrate activities that keep her busy. She seems to be doing best in everything. Suddenly she gets lost. She gets tired. She shouts for a break. I silently wish I could say no to her, when she initiates hundred things at a time, triggering another episode of pain, to herself!
I was getting drained, with stress and worry, striving to look after my child, attend my job without losing it and maintain my sanity in the process. A plethora of moments in the treatment, that cause a deep sense of anxiety. Will she ever recover? She was unwell and often required hospitalization for physical illness just because her mind did not give in the immunity that the body requires. The longer the hospitalization episodes, the wheels of our apple cart seems to be coming off.
Being mentally ill, she often opened the can of worms without even realizing it. Every past hurt, difficulties with parents and parents-in-laws, past relationships, insecurities, regrets, would often surface during counseling. Instances of abuse in which she got locked away, disappointments and fear had to be slowly decoded and put back in order for her to move on.
Listening to her favorite classical music, reading her favorite fiction, and creating awesome network of friends and taking steps of recovery at work and focusing on her childhood dream were happy indicators as she slowly limped back to life.
More than 2 years of being on the roller coaster times of illness and to keep her better, I had to stay positive. Focus on her recovery and our life together.
She gave me love unconditionally and accepted me as a perfect husband with all my imperfections. She blessed me with a beautiful child as our symbol of love. She took me around the world and enjoyed every moment as a traveler. We explored several things together, passionately and in peace. I gave into love and did not give into negative emotions of anger, fear and hurt in spite of my own moments of uncertainty.
Life is just inevitable, with its own package of challenges thrust upon us by no fault of own. Keeping up my own physical wellness and mental stability was key to keep the challenges under control. There are so many aspects of our lives that we have no say in. In whatever we can, it is fine to keep with the ways to control, with the inevitable random nature of things that life throws at us.
It was much easier to explain to the world, when she met with the car accident in one of her business trips. Her bruises and cuts on the face showed her pain and was much easier for others to understand what was going on. They contemplated her path to recovery. Prayers and wishes kept pouring in till she got her physical broken parts were put back in place and got back to action.
But I had no particular way to make people understand her pain. The stigma of mental illness did not allow me to even share the episodes of her hospitalization with family and friends. However, I am just thankful to the awesome recovery which overtime, was a firm build of gratitude that became a massive relief for me. I don’t need to explain to this world. As long as I stay in her world and manage her.
Deadly silent nights when she would scroll through her entire friends list on the phone and find no one whom she could call and speak her heart out, she used to call me and cry for help. The hours of uncertainty, doubt, worry, and pain doubled when she was ill. Yet, she made every effort and listened to every suggestion of her doctor and kept her strong will sustain. Miracles started to happen.
Her episodes are not completely gone. Though they are not that frequent, she does get into a state of despair making me wonder what recovery she had. But both of us kept our hopes high and faith strong. We will together fight it.
I don’t want to question myself if she would change for good or bad permanently. Neither do I have the miniscule doubt of her love for me, my child, our family and her profession. I keep my respect for her and feelings uncompromised and truthful. Wishing our worst nightmares never repeat. Our relationship and love between us all is stronger than ever. As her best caregiver. As her husband. As her friend! Life goes on!
Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional with IBM / Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT (Empowering Women in IT), Chennai, India. . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, 800+ blog posts, several short 2 stories, 2 published books – ‘Simply Being Sidds’ and ‘After the Floods’ and several articles on various subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is also having a live blog in her own name.
PIGEON TALES – RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS
Summer is here with its blazing, corrosive heat. Although I work from my home office, I am pretty disciplined about my work and afternoon naps on a working day are a rare phenomenon. However, the heat had made me drowsy and I found it hard to concentrate on my work. So I decided that a short fifteen-minute power nap would do the trick. I shut my eyes and was trying to relax when I was woken by the sound of a loud crash emerging from the bathroom. Convinced one of my Beagles, either Fudge or Toffee, had got up to mischief as usual, I rose with a sigh and went to check on the latest mayhem they had created. But they weren’t the culprits this time. Instead a plump grey pigeon, probably seeking a cool spot from the hot, summer sun had decided to make his home in the nook of the exhaust fan and knocked the fan down in the process. I called the electrician and heard the verdict. The fan was beyond repair and I would need to replace it with a new one. The electrician put back the cover of the exhaust fan, which was now, for all intents and purposes a dummy. Since the motor of the fan had fallen out, the pigeon had enough space in the nook to make his home. I was advised to buy a new fan and cover the spot from outside with a pigeon mesh to prevent this from happening in future.
The pigeon spent the rest of the afternoon in his new home cooing and gurgling away. He seemed content to be out of the sun and in the shade. That evening, after I finished work, I decided to step out and buy a new fan. I went to the bathroom to fetch my shoes from the shoe cupboard. I heard the pigeon fluttering his wings and gurgling with pleasure as he made himself comfortable. The little fellow thought he had found himself a pleasant home away from the heat. I didn’t have the heart to take it away from him. I figured his need for a cool nook in summer far outweighed my need for an exhaust fan. I heard dire warnings about how pigeons were a menace. And ignored them. Instead I went ahead and named my feathered friend, Mr. Pi.
A few weeks have gone by and I have grown quite used to hearing Mr. Pi chortling away in my bathroom behind the cover of the dummy exhaust fan. And when he gets too loud, I gently shush him up and I like to think he understands me for he falls silent. We often find companions in strange places, don’t we?
Zia Marshall, with an MPhil and PhD in English Literature, is a Learning Designer and Communication Specialist skilled in performance and competency development for personal and professional growth. She has published a course on Time Management for Productivity and Work-Life Balance at Udemy. A member of India Poetry Circle, she is passionate about writing. Her work has been featured in Adelaide Literary Magazine, the Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Contemporary Literary Journal of India and the Scarlet Leaf Review. She was a finalist in the Adelaide Literary Awards 2018 and 2019. Her articles have been published in http://www.selfgrowth.com/ and https://elearningindustry.com/.
BASIS OF DECISION MAKING
Prof.B.C.Das
We face many problems, big and small in our everyday life. They appear before us as unwelcome, unwanted, uninvited challenges which need solutions, sooner or later. Problem-solving process begins with its emergence, followed by an analysis thereof, and a search for the most acceptable solution. The process ends after the solution is transformed as a decision ready to be activated. Hence every decision, at the sub-conscious level, is a finished product of a solution of the problem.
Every decision making process involves four elements:
i) The problem
ii) Actor(s)
iii) Situation
iv) Time
No two decisions are alike. Decision changes when one or any of the four elements changes.To decide or not to decide is also a decision by itself. One important question arises - how do we make decisions or, to put it differently, what are the basics of decision making? To find the answer to this question I have relied upon the most popular Indian story of "A herd of cattle, a wild tiger and an intelligent fox". The story slightly modified is narrated below for recapitulation.
In a dense forest lived a docile herd of cattle and an arrogant cruel and wild tiger who had unleashed a reign of terror by killing one cattle for his daily lunch and dinner. The situation of panic had spread all around and it was feared that the herd of cattle would perish soon. To solve this problem and to find a way to escape, a General Body Meeting was held to consider the following three proposals:
Proposal 1- To migrate to another forest. It was considered and rejected because of non-availiabilty of accurate and complete information about the nature of cruelty and arrogance of the tiger in the other forest. The maxim "A known devil is better than an unknown one was relied upon.
Proposal 2- To kill the tiger in a deadly war. This was also considered and rejected due to lack of war strategy and military skill of the herd of the cattle. The maxim, "What cannot be cured must be endured" was relied upon.
Proposal 3- To send a delegation to have a friendly discussion with the tiger and to reach a solution on the basics of negotiable and mutually acceptable principles. This proposal was accepted unanimously.
Accordingly a delegation met the tiger next day and after a prolonged discussion reached the solution based on the formula of 50-50 profit, mutually acceptable to both the parties that a young bull or old cow would go to the tiger alternatively in a gap of every three days.The maxim followed was that in distress wise men give up half of their assets.
On the issue of who will go first, the young bull volunteered to go to the tiger first not out of any compulsion or persuasion but as a call of his Inner soul - to become a hero of the herd of cattle.
A FORT NIGHT LATER.
One day a fox said to be the wittiest, wisest and the most intelligent among the animals, was passing through the forest to attend a social function in a neighbouring forest. As he felt thirsty he reached the herd of cattle and asked for a glass of water to drink. During the chit chat,he learnt the details from the herd of the cattle about the situation of panic and terror which had spread among them. He took a pause and decided to break his journey and to stay with them for a few days to solve their problem. Again, this decision of the fox was based on no compulsion or persuasion but it was a call of Inner Soul. During his first two day's stay with the herd of the cattle the fox moved around the forest to find out a solution to the problem.
On the third morning,after he returned from the morning walk he suddenly yelled thrice, "I got it" "I got it" "I got it".
When he was asked, what he had got he mainted a diplomatic silence and disclosed his strategy to none.
He decided to meet the tiger next morning as a self-styled third party negotiator and he did so without any compulsion or persuasion and with no self interest. Further he advised to the herd of the cattle not to send any food to the tiger for that day.
Next morning the fox gracefully went to the tiger's den and had a discussion with the tiger about an imaginary changed situation.
The fox very sincerely explained the situation,
i) Presence of another tiger in the forest. And as the new king he was a challenge to his Regal Authorityl ii)The direction of new king not to send any food for him hereafter.
Having learned this from the fox's mouth the tiger became furious and howled with anger.With a ferocious look and firey appearance,of the tiger asked the fox to take him to the place where a new tiger was staying.The clever fox was waiting for such an opportun moment.The fox very gladly accompanied the tiger to a near by well filled with water and asked the tiger to look into the well. The foolish tiger looked inside the well and saw his reflection. He mistook his own image to be a real tiger. Out of anger and jealousy the tiger roared loudly and jumped into the well to kill the rival imaginary tiger and thus killed himself.
The fox having seen the death of the tiger danced merrily and informed the good news to the head of the cattle.Thus the fox brought for them a permanent solution of that problem with the death of the tiger.
The story ends here, throwing light on decision making by different actors in varied situations.
CONCLUSION
Different actors in this story have behaved differently and have shown different traits in their decision making process:
i) Presence of mind of the fox.
ii) Call of the Inner soul of the fox and the young bull.
iii) Consensus of the herd of cattle in a general body meeting.
iv) Reliance on established maxims by the herd of cattle.
AFTERNOON RAINS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
"Are you crazy? You walked all the way drenched in these rains?"
"You know how I love the rains, looking at the sky, feeling the rain drops on my face. How I adore the way they soak me and churn my heart......Moreover, I didn't find the umbrellas. I don't know where Rajani kept them before leaving for Singapore to be with our daughter".
"I am also alone at home. Anandini has gone to Bangalore to help her ailing brother's family.
As if being old is not enough, we have to bear the pangs of loneliness also. That, my friend, is our destiny".
"Lonely? You think you are lonely? With this big lawn, the green, wet grass, the gently swaying flowers, this riot of colours! With all this how can you be lonely? You want to know what is loneliness, ask me! Being confined to a small three bedroom apartment, dirty, grimy walls outside the window, another nameless, joyless flat when you open the door, mangled electric wires and dry branches of decrepit trees overlooking the balcony, that my friend, is loneliness."
"Do you want to come in, or keep soaking in the rain drops? But let me warn you, I can't offer you even a cup of tea. The maid won't come before six and it's only three in the afternoon. Maids in Delhi, as you know, work like machines, their timings are precise, clock like!"
"I know my friend, you think I have come here to take tea? I have come to stand on your green lawn and get soaked in rain. I want to look at the yellow, orange, white, flowers, keep seeing them till they become a part of my memory like a painting on a wall. I want to close my eyes and touch their smiling petals, feel the throb of their soft hearts. I want the rain drops to soak my heart and spread their colour all over my consciousness. When I open my eyes, I want to see colours everywhere, the sky, the earth, the rains, on you, on me and on my memory."
"In your memory? What memory? You are in a terrific mood today! Is it the effect of the rains? Or the vacant Sunday afternoon of a soulless Delhi? You know I am a serious sort of person, spent my whole life pouring over government files. Unlike you, a professor spending time with young hearts year after year, I don't understand many of these delicate matters of colours, throb of hearts in soft petals and rain drops soaking the heart."
"My friend, my idiot friend, these are not things to be understood, they're are to be felt, felt with every breath you inhale."
"Oh! Felt with every breath? How do you do that?"
"Feel something? So easy! See, I am looking at you, talking to you, but you know, my mind is actually somewhere else, it has gone back to many years, feeling some presence, in my heart, in my subconscious mind. That feeling is different from what I am seeing before me. What I feel is deep within, a soft glow lighting up my soul, like a soft light hiding shyly in a corner of a room. When that feeling engulfs you, it brings mild goosebumps on you, a soft voice brings you many memories, many images, they whisper to you, don't you remember me, have I become a stranger to you, no longer a part of your consciousness! A feeling is like a shadow playing hide and seek with you, one moment you feel it intensely, the next moment it disappears leaving an aching melancholy in you. It is something that you experience when you see a good painting, read a good poem or listen to a good song."
"You are getting more and more philosophical! Come inside, you are completely drenched, you may fall sick."
"A little more rains will do no harm. Let me feel your lawn a little longer, and touch the beautiful flowers some more. God knows when Delhi will have rains like this again, a Sunday afternoon getting soaked in dripping rain, the soft glow of the sun drooping behind serious looking clouds and flowers laughing their hearts out at this primordial game. And me standing near the flowers, tormented by some long past memory, trying to touch it!"
"My God, what has happened to you? It seems the dripping rains and a bed of flowers have driven you crazy, where are you lost? What memory? Whose memory?"
"Bring two umbrellas, come out from your portico, let's go to the flower bed. I will show you how to feel the flowers..."
"Ok, here we are. Now tell me what you feel in the flowers, which I don't."
"Look at this white dahlia, what do you see in its petals?"
"Are you kidding me? What I see in the petals? They are just white colour petals!"
"Close your eyes, think of those petals and remember the most beautiful girl in your college clad in a white saree, remember a white night of splendid moon light falling like a cascading waterfall, think of the white clouds of an autumn sky, or the wild foams of breaking waves, the snow clad mountains looking benignly at you....And then touch the petals. Are you not able to feel them?"
"Yes I can think of them when you told me, but tell me how do you see so many things in such a small piece of petal?"
"If you try only to see them, you won't know what is hidden in them. Try to feel them in your mind. Haven't you ever seen a beautiful tree-canopied street, a nice building against pale street lights, a smiling moon behind doting clouds, a cute small girl laughing, and thought of capturing them in your mind's camera so that they are stored there forever? That is the power of felling something, not merely seeing it."
"What else you feel in these flowers? What about those thin yellow lines in the white flowers?"
"That is how nature tells us she is the best artist in the world. See the blue streaks in the violet flower - which painter would ever think of combining these two colours to make it so maddeningly beautiful? Look at the deep red singaneria - doesn't it remind you of a burning cinder, a full bloomed rose, the vermillion on a godess's forehead, the red bangles of a bride, or a swarm of beatles on the grass? Close your eyes, feel the colour, all these will become alive in your mind."
"Enough, enough my friend, let's go inside, the rains are getting heavier...........Take this towel, wipe yourself and put on these dry clothes. You are one hell of a crazy fellow, otherwise who wants to get wet like this?"
"Why do you look at rain as rain? Doesn't it mean anything else to you?"
"O my God, what has come over you? Rains are rains! What else can I think of them".
"No my friend, rains are not mere drops of water falling from the sky, they are cascades of memory, drops of tears from some wet eyes from the past. I came to your lawn to look at these green lawns, the coloured flowers and relive those memories, to collect those tears in my palms and wash away some traces of guilt."
"What guilt, what are you saying?"
"The cold fire that is smouldering in me for years. An abandoned milestone whose shadow lengthens with every advancing step in my life's walk."
"Looks like you are missing Rajani too much, the vibrant Rajani, the walking combination of Amrita Pritam and Simone de Beauvoir. You are so lucky, my friend to have an intellectual wife!"
"Intellectual? What do I do with an intellectual wife, who doesn't even know how to boil a potato or cook a plate of noodles! Have you ever seen her room? There are used plates, mugs, saucers everywhere, books upon books piled on the floor, on her bed, her table, if I don't clean up her room, she will have to jump over books or climb on them to reach her bed."
"What do you mean her room, her bed? Is your room different from hers?"
"Yes, for so many years we have been living under the same roof, but only as flat mates. She runs away to her daughter whenever she can. I am too non-intellectual for the mother and the daughter, too rustic, too pedestrian. But can you imagine, when we first met we couldn't live without each other even for a day?"
"That's why you got married, didn't you? Two love birds building an early nest! .......What? Are you leaving? Come, I will see you off at the gate. Take one of these umbrellas with you, don't get wet again."
"No, no umbrella, didn't I tell you, how much I like to get wet in the rains, it's like getting soaked in a tormenting memory, a memory that has haunted me for the last forty one years".
"What memory? What had happened forty one years back to torment you for so long?"
"Forty one years back, I was a twenty year old, she was seventeen. It was a rainy afternoon, like this, the sun was playing hide and seek with clouds, we stood near a flower bed in Forest Park in Bhubaneswar. I held her hand, looked into her eyes, and told her, 'look at these flowers, remember their colour, one day I will buy a saree for you to match each of these colours.'"
"Oh, I didn't know you were so romantic, at least not in the school where we studied! Who was the girl?"
"She used to live five houses away in the same street in the government colony at Unit six. She herself was like a flower, soft, delicate and innocent. A year later we walked to the Park, soaked in rain, the lawns were green, the grass was wet. There was a bed of flowers in a corner which was a riot of colours, our hearts were wet with tears, the impending separation was tearing them to pieces. I was to leave for JNU the next day, to join my MA course. I told her, 'Keep this day locked in your mind. One day I will bring you here and remind you how I had left my heart with you, how much I loved you.' She just shook her head, 'You will forget me, soon, like everyone does.' And then she started crying. I had no words to console her, I was myself in tears."
"What happened, how did you get hooked to Rajani?"
"JNU was a different world altogether, for some one coming from a small town like Bhubaneswar it was a magical world, a world of excitement and romance. Within a few months there was hardly any one who was not hooked to some one or the other. I fell for Rajani like a ton of bricks tumbling from a wayward truck. She was so slim, so smart, when she walked in her short skirt and top, she looked like a school girl who had lost her way into an university. Her father was a big officer in Kerala. The way she spoke English was mesmerising, she quoted Shakespeare, Keats and Eliot like they were her cousins, and she smoked, she drank like a fish, she danced, when she walked it was like a young, lovely deer in search of her soul mate."
"My God! Yes, I can imagine that, she must have been a livewire. How did she fall for you, a country bumpkin?"
"She didn't fall for me, she adopted me, as her little lamb, she told every one I was her pet, and I felt I was probably the luckiest pet in the world. JNU in those initial years was a hot bed of revolutionary, nonconformist ideas and she wanted to prove herself to be the champion nonconformist. So she spurned the advances of many elitist snobs and chose the most simple, shy student in the class as her pet. I tried to transform myself, I started smoking with her, cigarette, pot and then we went unto LSD, we drank beer from the same bottle, and we danced together, she like a little fairy and I like a primitive tribal. Our tango echoed in the campus, like the animal grunts of many other young couples. To show her daring, nonconformist nature, she was one of the first girls to move into the men's hostel and in my single bedded room we discovered the passion of life with hungry abandon."
"Lucky you, the taste of the forbidden fruit so early in life!"
"Yes, with Rajani in my arms I felt I was the luckiest person in the world. In a few months she found she was pregnant and like a true maverick she would point to her tummy and keep telling everyone, 'Look, look at my illegitimate child! I feel sooooo liberated!'. I was scandalised, why was she calling it an illegitimate child? I told her, we should get married. She was mostly in a drunken stupor those days. She said she doesn't care, anyway marriage is a bourgeois institution creating false bondage, but she agreed 'just out of fun'. So we got married and I entered the gates of hell with a smile on my leaps and fear of the unknown in my heart."
"Didn't you invite your parents?"
"Ha! That would have been so traditional, so conformist! Rajani would have none of that. So we got married first and went later to get their blessings. First we spent a few days with her parents. They were neither happy nor unhappy. They didn't care. Her father had got some posting abroad for three years and they were getting ready to leave. I took her to my parents, my mother shut the door on us, because Rajani looked so pregnant that my mother felt scandalised. We stayed in a hotel for two days and returned to Delhi. Our daughter was born three months after our wedding. Both of us got jobs as lecturers. As the daughter grew, we drifted apart. Rajani never forgave me for the way my parents had insulted her. Suddenly she found all the faults in the world in me. My parents were worse than tribals, they belonged to the jungle, someone like me who didn't know how to use a fork was not fit to live among civilised people, my English was worse than that of a village school master.............at one time she had loved me so intensely, now her dislike of me was equally intense. Once our daughter started going to school Rajani forbade her to speak to me, she told her if she picked up the funny accent from daddy, she will be good enough to become only a vegetable vendor selling vegetable from door to door. And one day she took our daughter to her parents in Trivandrum and left her with them. My world came crashing on me, my last hope of some semblance of a stable family life was lost forever. After that it was only a downhill journey for me, walking on a path strewn with red hot ember. You can never understand the pain, my friend, no one can."
"What happened to the girl?"
"Our daughter? She grew up to be a bigger nonconformist than her mother. In her late thirties now, she never married and is in a live-in relationship with a Chinese student in Singapore. Rajani runs away to be with them whenever she can."
"No, I was asking about the girl in the park, of forty one years ago."
"Oh, that girl? Honest to God, I don't know what happened to her. I had not written a single letter to her from JNU, her parents would have been livid if the letter fell into their hands. Moreover, I was so besotted with Rajani from the day I saw her! In the first summer vacation I went to Bhubaneswar, I tried to hide from the girl down the street, by that time Rajani had moved into my room and we were living together.......I don't know where the girl would be today, she may be in Bhubaneswar, in Indore or in Nagpur, but I know wherever she is she would be like the loveliest flower in a garden where there would be the fragrance of joy and the flavour of love. Whenever I see rains in the afternoon, I feel like running to a lawn and stand near a flower bed. How I wish, how achingly I wish, by some miracle, she would stand with me, and together we would look at the flowers. I would tell her, didn't you say I would forget you, like everyone does? Is there some way I can convince you, not only did I not forget you, hardly a day passes when I don't remember you! You are tucked away in a hidden corner of my heart like one of these soft, smiling flowers, never to fade, never to wilt.........."
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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