Literary Vibes - Edition LXXIII (19-June-2020)
( "Green Nook" Picture Courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 73rd edition of LiteraryVibes! We are back with some wonderful poems, short stories and anecdotes.
In this edition we have with us three new poets, each of them very talented and committed. Ms. Supriya Pattanayak, from Startford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare in England, is an IT professional with a strong fascination for Nature and a great passion for writing. Her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ contains some outstanding poems and articles which testify to her incredible talent. Ms. Priya Bharati is an accomplished writer with an abiding love for flora and fauna. Her translated books have been a great success. She has authored numerous articles and is a well known figure in the field of literature in Odisha. Mr. Prashant Routray, a retired technocrat, has a great interest in literature. He is passionate about poetry and writing poems is his favourite pastime. We welcome the three new members to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them tremendous success in their literary efforts.
As we launch the current edition of LV, the heart is heavy with grief for our soldiers who have been recently martyred in the battle fields of Ladakh. We salute them and share with their families the heavy sense of loss as well as the indomitable pride of laying down their precious lives for the country. We hope against hope that the current madness exhibited by some of our neighbours will cease sooner than later and there will be peace in the region in the coming days.
The present week has started with the sad news of the suicide of an extremely talented actor, Susant Singh Rajput. Whoever has seen Chhichhore, a runaway success of a movie, will understand why so many tears are being shed for this simple, adorable actor who has a way of winning people's hearts. He is not the first one from the film fraternity and unfortunately, will not be the last, to take his own life. The sleazy world of filmdom is a dirty playfield of inflated egos, bruised souls and machinations of cut throat Mafia. Yet, when someone like Sushant dies one feels he deserved a better deal in life.
Most suicides need preparation and a breakdown of mental balance is a necessary precursor to taking one's own life. Every step towards the final moment is reversible. There are tell-tale signs of something snapping inside the mind, of a dragging frustration, a lingering depression. Yet very few people try to stop it. I made a search in Google to know how many actors, actresses, poets, writers, artists have committed suicide to end their lives. The list is long. Among the famous ones were Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath and Arthur Coestler. My attention was particularly drawn to Sylvia Plath, an incredibly gifted American poet, for the frightening prelude to the final act of her suicide at the young age of thirty.
Here are the two poems of Sylvia Plath, so moving, so foreboding, and yet so utterly unable to prevent her suicide. Edge was written on 5th of February of 1963, a week before her death when Sylvia Plath was in London with a terrible depression, abandoned by her husband and taking care of her two little children. The poem centres around the picture of the dead mother and her two dead children.
“The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag."
Lady Lazarus is the most direct poem about Plath’s suicidal attempts. She relates her own experience, her relation with death. Plath uses the metaphor of the Nazis and the Jews in the Holocaust to represent the oppression she feels. The doctors are the oppressors while she is the victim. She wants to die but the doctors would not let her to do so.
The poem begins with Sylvia Plath having tried to commit suicide twice. She is going to do it, she believes that she is invincible, she has nine lives like a cat's and seems to be waiting to wake up again, but the third time she wasn’t destined to wake up.
“And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
........................
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call
................................"
Lady Lazarus is absolutely about suicide, writeen by a person suffering mentally and about to commit her ultimate tragic act. Many people who knew her, were aware of the manic depression she was going through, yet none could save her. Interestingly, these two poems she wrote close to her death by suicide gave ample hints of her impending death. A lot has been written about those two poems, but only if someone had reached out to her! Only if someone had reached out to Sushant, we, his fans would have been spared so much grief! I always feel it is better to speak for ten minutes to your friends as often as possible than writing an hour long obituary for them after they vanish from our lives.
Mr. Debi Padhi has written a touching article on Sushant in the current edition. He has also penned a beautiful piece on Laughter, the Best Medicine which I have published in PositiveVibes at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/313
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in the 73rd edition of LiteraryVibes. It can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/314 Please share the links with your friends and contacts and remind them that all the 72 previous editions of LV along with four anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes Please post your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
Take care, stay safe
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
RAJA
VIGIL FOR YOU : BE YOURSELF (TUMA APEKHSHYAARE)
02) Haraprasad Das
KABIR
03) Dilip Mohapatra
FORGIVENESS
FROM FIASCO TO FRACAS
04) Bibhu Padhi
BURIAL IN SUMMER
05) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
DAUGHTER
06) Pradip K. Swain, M.D.
MEMORIES OF PRESIDENCY
07) Ujan Ghosh
BECOMING A FATHER IN THE US
08) Debi Padhi
OF SOLITUDE, LONELINESS AND DEPARTURES
09) Bichitra Kumar Behura
MY MORNING TEA
10) Nikhil M. Kurien
THE ROAD STORY
11) Sundar Rajan
THE SPIRIT OF CHENNAI
A BOAT RIDE
12) Thryaksha A Garla
SOUND OF MUSIC
HIRAETH
13) Hema Ravi
THE FLOWER SELLER AND THE FLOWERS
14) Madhumathi. H
HIBERNATING ALPHA..
GIVING...
15) Disha Pratichee
AN EVENING STROLL
16) Akshay Kumar Das
GOLDEN MEMORIES
MONSOON MUSIC
17) Vidya Shankar
UNCANNY FICTION
18) Sheena Rath
AFTERNOON TALES
19) Setaluri Padmavathi
MARK
20) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
THE THREE SWIMMING POOLS
A WALK IN THE PARK
21) Malabika Patal
SADHU COMES TO TOWN
22) Sanjit Singh
WABI-SABI - THE WISDOM AND BEAUTY OF IMPERFECTION.
23) Supriya Pattanayak
RAG DOLL
24) Priya Bharati
MY SOJOURN TO THE COAST OF GAHIRMATHA - THE STORY OF TARA THE TURTLE
25) P K Routray
CACOPHONY TO HARMONY
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
OUR FRIEND CHITTA, IN SEARCH OF NIRVANA
It’s mid-June,
the sky sulks darkly
form the heavy clouds,
face of a wife
not taken to movies, given flowers,
the husband’s pockets
oppressively empty,
dry as pieces of bleached bones
lying in the field,
charred by a fire
over the last three months
raining from the sun, a brute.
From behind wifely anger,
irate yet endearing
in a single hug,
the clouds cry a little
now and then,
sad tears, happy tears.
The parching soil would swell
in its soaking wetness,
a jubilation churning
inside seeds, stirred to deliver
the little green shoots,
their offspring,
turning the fields
into velvety pages
to write and mail
happy tidings,
scented by her longing
for her lover’s indulgence,
smelling sweet of wet-humus.
A cuckoo sings its last notes
of the season from distant jungles.
Girls like fleeting butterflies
in their vivid hued frocks
frolic with swings
in the mango orchard,
splitting the air with joy,
cheered and teased
by their little male mates,
standing apart, a bit away,
sprouting macho bristles.
One of the girls, resembling
a red velvet-beetle, crawling
on the green turf by the swing,
is to all, a darling.
Sweating all over,
faces bright in excitement,
undefeated by the sweltering heat,
their brittle laughs
resonating with balmy giggles;
the children would return
to mother’s kitchen
to have a bite
of her succulent rice cakes
with melting hearts
of tender coconut
dipped in the cream of milk,
rioting with a dash of jaggery.
Raja, festive as the youth,
would sway for three days
on swings of frolic and fun –
is but marred by a flagging spirit:
the first day,
an effervescent pink sun
rising in the east,
on the second,
it pales with a thought -
‘ah, a day is gone’;
the third is insipid
as an afternoon,
‘ooh, it would be over soon’.
(Raja is an Odisha specific festival, bringing the happy tiding of the onset of monsoon, announcing the arrival of Ashada, and celebrating womanhood. The three days are a joyous pomp when mother earth is rajaswaalaa, a menstruating woman, getting ready for consummation and motherhood.)
VIGIL FOR YOU: BE YOURSELF (TUMA APEKHSHYAARE)
That had to be a divine union,
you said, as would gods unite
with their holy consorts,
the sky, our sparkling witness.
But did it ever go beyond
the flesh, sweat, and spit?
Were our sheets less crumpled
than of whores’ in notorious lanes?
Did we shed ego,
give up selfishness, or
submit ourselves at the other’s feet?
Do questions hurt? Should they?
Your promises lifted you
beyond flesh, I recall
your ethereal smiles,
your dreams to travel
together with me,
be my enchantress,
a Devdashi to me, your god,
a sacrificial goat on my altar.
I have waited for you,
as you promised to be,
a shadow of it at least,
over days, across tides, ebbs.
Let’s orient our dreams
with a difference, forget
our union’s sainted divinity,
the coolness of platonic ardour;
rather live the normal needs
of hunger and thirst, learning
to smile when blessed with
small doses of joy and tears,
give up high hopes
to change the face of
earthy existence to sublime,
let weeds give the joy of a garden.
(The Odia poem ‘Tuma Apekshare’, published in SAMAYARA SHANKHANAADA, Jan-March, 1997, is self-translated for Literary Vibes)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I don’t have much to say.
The little
I wanted to,
feels frozen on my tongue.
My little darling, I am weaving
a wrap on my loom
out of the sun’s rays
that may cover you
disrobed by the hands
of the moral keepers, but you
seem to have no trust in me;
rather, wearing a smile
you hide your privacy
with bare palms.
’Am also not sure, if this piece
from my loom
would be much of a cover
for your nudity,
its opacity unsure of hiding
your vulnerable timidity
from the prying eyes;
so, you may or may not
wrap yourself with it, but this wrap
I am weaving for you only,
to fend you from evil eyes.
I must complete my task
before it is too late,
before it is too dark.
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)”
First you kneel on my neck
and slowly take the wind out of me
whether you compress
my carotid arteries
or my jugular veins
really doesn’t matter.
I plead
I beg and ask for your mercy
and my voice comes out
in a whimper
but all fall in your deaf ears
while my life
slowly ebbs away
and you continue to kneel
your knee not tired as yet.
You continue to kneel
once again
this time in public
along with your own kind
en mass
with heads lowered
hands folded
your eyes avoiding ours
you ask for our forgiveness
while cameras click
and the social media
goes agog
quietly peddling your
magnanimity
and empathy
and then you once again rise
to embark on your predatory
pursuits
on prowl to pounce
and to swoop down on us
the seemingly inferior
and the inequitable.
Note: Remembering George Floyd
The organising committee of Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta Literary Festival had their preparatory meeting in an exclusive and posh meeting room of Hotel Dolphin in Vishakhapatnam. The meeting was presided by Kakani Dhira Kumara Mallikarjuna Reddy, popularly known as KDKM, who was the chairman of the committee and was attended by all the important members. They had assembled to prepare the blue print of the forthcoming annual event. They had started this event couple of years ago and were the new entrants to the already crowded club across the country. But with the clear vision and relentless efforts of the committee members, they were gaining their foothold very fast. Their business model seemed to be working fine and the last year's profit and loss statement showed a whopping 80% return on investment. What started as a small affair in a remote town and had a gathering of local poets and writers two years ago, featured participants from other states last year.
This year, the chairman had plans to go global. With two years' experience, he had done a thorough analysis of the top competitors like Jaipur Litfest and Times Litfest, based on competitive intelligence and studied their revenue models. He was looking forward to a complete makeover of their strategic and operational frameworks and move unto the international map.
Bhanupriya, the secretary of the committee welcomed the members, while the waiters served on the table tea, coffee and biscuits. The members had been given brief cases each containing the printed agenda, a writing pad, pencil and a gift wrapped Cross pen. After the welcome address the first point on the agenda was put across on the digital screen, which was about renaming the festival. Since the plan was to go global, the local prefix to the Litfest needed to be replaced with something more eye catching and relevant. One member suggested that since Jaipur Litfest was very famous, why not choose a name closest to Jaipur like Jaigarh or Jajpur, or with just a little twist in the spelling it could be called Jaypore. 'This way we could confuse the potential participants and will get better nominations,' he suggested. This proposal was immediately rejected because it didn't reflect the global character of the event. Someone proposed to call it the United Nations Litfest. But after little deliberations it was rejected on copyright issues. Then someone suggested the name Transnational Litfest but this too was rejected since it was too close to the word Transexual ! The chairman heard everyone and came up with a name he had come prepared with. An avid Tharoorian enthusiast, KDKM proposed the name of the festival to be ' Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Litfest of the World', in short SLW. Then he quickly supplied the meaning of the tongue twister and argued that it very well fits to the philosophy of such festivals. It meant, 'something to say, when you have nothing to say.' This name was unanimously selected with clapping of hands in applause and recorded in the minutes.
The next point on the agenda was how to attract global participants. The group unanimously agreed that no poet or writer from the English speaking world worth his salt would care to come down to their festival, here in this corner of the country. The member who was in charge of the guest invitations, said, 'But we can surely manage few foreign nationals by following a strategy which some of our competitors deploy quite successfully. We can announce on the social media about a multi-lingual anthology that we would publish and which would accept work in the native languages of the participants, in addition to English. The international writers and poets who self publish their poems in multiple Facebook groups, will surely be tempted. We can track such poets from countries like Albania, Estonia, Bhutan, Nepal, Bangladesh, Indonesia, Philippines, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, etc and send them the invites. We will cover their travel and other hospitality expenses and keep aside a separate budget for it.' All agreed to work out a plan accordingly. Someone commented that more than their participation, the flags of their countries when displayed at the venue surely would give the Litfest an international colour.
Then it was time for a tea and pee break. The group broke off and dispersed like an uncoiled spring. The dining table in the corner was filled with an elaborate fare of snacks and sweet meats. Liveried stewards were busy serving a varieties of beverages. The break that was for fifteen minutes was unceremoniously extended to almost half an hour. Bhanupryawas seen requesting the members to reassemble to discuss the most vital points of the meeting which concerned with the day's agenda of the Litfest and with the celebrities who should be invited to chair various sessions.
There were supposed to be a total of six sessions during the day, three pre lunch and three post lunch. The inaugural session would start with lighting of the brass column lamps while on the background an ancient Sanskrit prayer would be playing. There was considerable debate about who should be the chief guest. Finally the committee agreed on Kelly Khare, a celebrity singer who was known for his high octave singing of folk songs. There was one mild objection from Bhanupriyaabout this name since he was a MeToo accused predator. But she was finally outvoted by the rest. The highlight of the inaugural session would be couple of songs that the chief guest would render. The other guest of honour for the session was a media mogul. This would ensure free and extensive media coverage of the event. The next session was to introduce the young poets who were just making a beginning. The committee chairman's young brother in law, BhavaKumara, who considered himself a budding poet, but whose poems never saw the light of the day was to lead the session. The session was to highlight the high-handedness of the editors who do not encourage the young talents and keep rejecting their works. The point to be emphasised was about passion and not quality of work. The third session involved a puppet show by a local troupe. When someone questioned about its literary contribution and its relevance to the Litfest, he was told to shut up, because it was the pre-lunch session and the audience should be kept entertained before they proceeded for a lavish spread of exotic food. The post lunch session was to be an on stage interview with Bhanupriya, herself a well known Kuchipudi dancer, who would perform various steps and explain their meaning. This was to be a good opportunity to promote their local culture and traditions, especially for the benefit of the foreign guests. It was decided to invite the Secretary of Cultural Affairs of the local government as the chairperson of the session . The last but one session would be a discussion session on 'Symbolism in Future writings', which would feature very young aspiring writers of the millennial generation. They would be nominated from the children of the committee members. The final valedictory session will mainly consist of a debate on 'License Raj and Poetic License'. Two leaders, one from the ruling party and the other from the opposition would be invited to slug it out. The Chief Guest however would be the chief sponsor of the event, the Founder and Head of a group of academic institutions, who would have granted the free use of their auditorium and guest houses for the Litfest.
Bhanupriya didn't seem to be very happy about the overall program. She felt that the Litfest was divorced from its core objective. When she hesitantly pointed it out, the committee decided to compress the puppet show by ten minutes and insert a book release event. The plan was to invite previously identified authors to the stage and make them stand in a line with their books for a photograph. They decided to invite few Sahitya Akademi Award recipients to honour them with shawls and signed citations. The cost of the shawls and the photographs could be collected from the authors in advance. They also planned to unwrap and launch the special anthology ceremoniously in the valedictory session, as the grand finale of the event. The committee then sat down to detail out the fund raising plans from government grants, sponsors and through delegate fees. After the deliberations, the committee looked quite satisfied with their decisions and the session ended with a scrumptious lunch.
* * * * * * * *
About three months later I received a call from one of my old school mates, Shiva Prasad , a retired English professor and a well known writer. He wanted to know if I would be attending this Litfest in Hyderabad in the coming week. I told him that I had plans to visit my daughter who stayed in Hyderabad, but I was not invited to the Litfest. My friend assured me that he would take care of the registration and asked me to meet him at the venue on the scheduled date.
' Brother, at least we will have a chance to meet and catch up after so many years,' concluded Shiva Prasad. Last we met was at the SAARC Litfest at Delhi about five years ago.
On the appointed day, I reached the venue dot at nine in the morning. Shiva was waiting for me at the registration desk, with my name tag which I hung around my neck. I took some time to read the name of the Litfest from the huge posters and billboards displayed there. When Shiva saw my bewildered look, he came to my rescue. He had already done his homework and explained me the meaning of the word 'Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'. I couldn't but appreciate the wisdom of the person who chose this for naming the Litfest. We went inside and found a corner seat for us somewhere in the middle row, ensuring that we were not too conspicuous yet not the backbenchers. The hall was almost empty. I discovered a remotely recognisable face just in front of us. To my utter surprise and joy, that was of a great poet of our generation, my old teacher and mentor, Prof Jayanthan, who had initiated me into the world of literature, now in his eighties. I got up and rushed to touch his feet. He took some time to place me and then hugged me with tears in his eyes. He told me to sit next to him. He said that he had been invited to honour some authors whose books were to be launched in a later session.
We made some small talk while waiting for the inaugural session. Kelly was expected any time since the session was tostart at 9:30. The hall was gradually filling up, mostly with the students of the campus, who were detailed by the college to attend the event. This was deliberately planned to ensure that the hall was full. The front rows were marked for some senior bureaucrats from the government and for the media, police, income tax department and the foreign delegates. The other delegates were free to sit anywhere in the back rows. Being early birds, we managed to get into the middle rows. It was well beyond 9:30 but there was no sign of Kelly. Finally about an hour later Kelly made his grand entrance, the committee members in tow. There was a flurry of activities on the stage. Amidst incantations of Sanskrit shlokas, the lamp was lit by Kelly and few chosen dignitaries from the front row. I was wondering why didn't they invite Prof Jayanthan, a living legend in the field of literature to light the lamp and seek his blessings ! After the lamp ceremony the committee members were seen competing with each other to click selfies with Kelly and Kelly graciously obliged them. It took sometime before the chairman took the podium to read out from a note about Kelly's great contribution to literature and culture through his singing. He stressed on the fact that many folk song writers and rural bards had come to limelight only because of Kelly. Kelly's contribution to revive and immortalise poets like Kabir and Meera, whom the world had forgotten, was highlighted. And then he requested Kelly to sing for the audience. Kelly cleared his throat and asked the DJ to put the music on and sang two of his popular numbers. It appeared as a live performance but no one knew that Kelly did a fairly good job of lip syncing. Then he disappeared as abruptly as he did materialise.
The next session was rather a bit abrasive. The young and aspiring poets led by Bhava Kumara expressed their anguish and acrimony towards the editors and publishers in general. Their main contention was that their works were invariably getting rejected all the time. They all read their works to garner public sympathy. Bhava Kumar concluded the session with one of his contemporary poems and asked the audience what was wrong with it and why it didn't merit to be published. I copied it in my note book and it read like this:
POOR MOON
The dogs are barking
The night is darking...
The moon looks blue
I don't have a clue.
The moon is sneezing,
the wind is breezing.
The stars call the sun,
The sun comes in a run.
The sun wanted to ask,
Where is your face mask?
Then asks moon with a frown
Don't you know it's lockdown?
-----------
Both I and Shiva looked at each other and preferred not to make any comments. After this session the puppet dance was staged. Few people from the audience started leaving for the dining hall and urged the caterer to open the counters. Before the dance could be over almost everyone had gone out, leaving behind few like us. By the time we joined others for lunch, the queues were pretty long. Some lady poets had already captured a table in a corner. I could identify few like Meenati, Neeta, Rituja, Pankaja and Jyoti. When they saw Prof Jayanthan with us, they offered us the three vacant seats on their table and we joined them.
' How you ladies find the Litfest so far?, I started a conversation.
' It's like any other. The usual sessions, the usual mismanagement of time. Not much to learn, but who cares? We are happy to meet our old friends and enjoy the hospitality. May be to see some scenic spots in sponsored tours after the event. ' answered Neeta, a writer-publisher from Kolkata.
' At least you are candid about it,' commented Shiva.
' They have served authentic Hyderabadi sweets like 'khubanika meetha' , 'Jauzi ka Halwa' and 'shahi tukda' in the dessert counter. Let's pick up our share, before they are finished,' interrupted Meenati.
The lady brigade got up leaving us behind to finish our lunch. I overheard Rituja commenting, ' Hey girls, have you seen Nandita today? She thinks she's sweet sixteen! Look at her bright red lipstick, noodle strapped blouse and crimson red georgette sari. As they say, red bridle on the old mare ! ' The last line was a literal translation of a saying in local language, Hyderabadi Urdu.
By the time the people gathered again in the hall after lunch, it was 2:30 PM , much beyond the scheduled time. Some people had called it a day after lunch and left. After sometime the Kuchipudi program started. Barring the foreign delegates almost every one had slipped into sound slumber. Before the next session came an announcement that due to slippage of time it won't be possible to hold the book release event. The authors were requested to collect their shawls and certificates from the registration counter at the end of the day. Prof Jayanthan looked at me whether helplessly or with a sigh of relief, I couldn't decipher. He wanted to leave immediately and I didn't persuade him to stay. I escorted him to the parking and bade him good bye. Then I came back for the next session of the GenX writers. I couldn't make out how the topic 'Symbolism in future Writing' was interpreted by the panelists, but each of them read a poem of their own, which was judged by some pre-designated jury from the front row. I am reproducing the award winning poem:
NVM
U r so very funny
I am ROFL at ur jokes
At the EOD
u r my BF and I'm ur GF
U know ILU with all my ??
TBH u r the apple of my eyes
When u say BRB and TTYL
but don't get back
you break my ????
IDK why do I love u so much
LMK if u know
FWIW I would like to know
Why do u HMU ?
Why do we LOL together ?
BTW I love ur ????
as much as your rebuke
when you shout STFU!
----------
I couldn't make out anything from these text abbreviations that current generation is so used to. I immediately googled for these terms and my eyes popped open. The title NVM meant Never mind. The rest I am leaving to the readers to explore for themselves or to check with their kids or grand kids.
That brought us to the last session for the day, the valedictory session. During the previous session the guests for this session had arrived. The debaters were requested to take post on the stage. The chief guest of the valedictory programme was invited to chair the session and be the moderator. On the left stood the fire brand MP from the opposition party Mr Phani Shankar Nair and on the right Shree Swaminathan Subramanium an MP from the ruling party took position. There was some demographic variations in the audience. The left side was filled up by the supporters of Mr Phani Shankar, who came with black headbands and on the right were supporters of Shree Swaminathan who sported saffron headbands. The students were told to leave to accommodate the new crowd. The debate on 'License Raj and Poetic License' started with Mr Phani Shankar. He seemed to have done some homework and elaborated on the need of the License Raj in the post independent India. He also spoke about poetic liberties and the role of poets and writers in reforming the society and building the nation. But after some time he wavered into the general topic on freedom of expression and the role of the current government to suppress it. After his tirade, Shree Swaminathan who was known for his gift of the gab and his acerbic attack on anybody and anything at anytime, came heavily on Mr Phani Shankar in an impromptu manner. He squarely blamed the opposition party being the real founder and practitioner of License Raj, when they were in power. He then attacked Mr Phani where it hurt him the most. Soon the generic discussions moved on to personal attacks and the Litfest soon flared into a slug fest, punch for punch. As the two stalwarts fought on the stage, their supporters started sloganeering and hurling abuses at one another. Then some one from the right group threw a copy of the hard bound Litfest anthology to the group on the left. The anthologies were stacked on two tables kept on both sides, and became a source for use by both the parties as missiles. It was total pandemonium, a free for all fight.
Both Shiva and I crawled our way out and rushed to the parking lot and dialled 100 and then the number of our driver.
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.
Returning home through the sun’s
midsummer-afternoon heat,
I found the house-sparrow
on the bedroom refrigerator,
its small head dipping into the foot
of the alarm clock. The clock-hands
read twenty minutes
past noon. What could a sparrow do
with time and the humid heat
of a windless day? I put on the fan,
thinking the breeze would wake it
from its worthless sleep inside
a house where sleep couldn’t
achieve much. But it stayed
where it had stayed,
listening to the ticking moments.
I waited for a minute or so,
put off the fan. Something told me
it wasn’t so. The curious ants
swarmed about its beak where
it touched the clock;
they had found their prey.
I took it up, now hard and finished
as one made from fine-grained clay
and displayed at so many makeshift
roadside shops. I went down to the garden,
dug a proper grave near a place under
the champak tree where
grandmother’s bones rested.
And while other birds sang elsewhere,
I placed it in and filled its small resting-place
with earth and stone, away from
summer’s hard gaze, within earth’s
darkness where one season
or the change of seasons wouldn’t matter.
Perhaps it is there still, dreaming
of quick impulsive flights and enjoying
its long-deserved rest, beside
grandmother’s bones.
*First appeared in Ten Contemporary Poets (London: Anvil Press)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
(Translated from Odia by Ms. Priya Bharati)
Biswajeet Ghosh was the Assistant Station Master of Akaltara Station. Pallavi was the second daughter of BiswajeetBabu. She had a very pleasant disposition and could win over all with her sweet words. Once when she was a kid, she had travelled from Akaltara to Bilaspur just to have ice-cream. In her school career, she was champion in sports, dance and music. She played the role of heroin in drama during Durga Puja.
One day she suddenly went missing. Worried Biswajeet Babu wandered listlessly in search of Pallavi. He sent people in search of her far and near to Kolkata, Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, Jaipur, Indore, Gwalior and many such cities.
Not finding her anywhere he finally reported in the police station. The description written about his daughter was something like this: Pallavi Ghosh, Daughter of Biswajeet Ghosh, Address – Assistant Station Master, Akaltara, Dist- Bilaspur(Madhya Pradesh), Age –Twenty- Three, Complexion – Bright dusky complexion, height – five feet seven inches. She has been missing since eighteenth of last month. She was wearing yellow color salwar suit and she has dimples in both her cheeks when she smiles. She speaks fluently in Hindi, Bengali and English.
Pallavi after completing Bachelor’s degree from Ghasiram University was taking training on variety of subjects and running here and there in search of a job. Her disappearance caused a lot of commotion in the railway colony for quite some time .Some were of the opinion that there is a dearth of girls in North India so she might have been kidnapped. Some others feared that she might have been taken to a brothel in some big city. How a girl like Pallavi could have such a destiny, mourned some others.
Many were blaming Biswajeet Babu for giving his daughters too much latitude. It was a fact that he could not give sufficient time to his family. He had duty on the main line and had to work hard continuously for eight hours every day. Every fifteen minutes, a train passed his station. He also had night duty for fifteen days in a month. Biswajeet Babu had a meager salary and four daughters named – Purabi, Pallavi, Karabi and Bhargavi to support. He had married off his eldest daughter. The younger two were still studying.
After a lot of speculation, finally Pallavi’s friend Rupa received a letter from her. She had written, “I have left home with Gafoor Khan at my own will. Tell my father not to worry for me. I am doing fine”.
Gafoor Khan was known as Kabuliwala in the Railway Colony. He used to lend money to people at higher rate of interest. He wore long kurta, loose pantloon, a gold bracelet in his hairy hand and grew beard. This get up of his somehow made people feel afraid of him. This was probably the reason that he made good business. Hearing her daughter eloping with this man, BiswajeetBabu was furious. He was the Assistant Station Master of Alaktara Station. After a year he would become the Bada Babu here. Because of this girl his reputation had been marred.
When he reached home he called his wife Kallolini and announced “From today your daughter Pallaviis as good as dead for me. Nobody in my family should talk about her again”. He was so much unnerved that all veins of his body were stretched and his weak body shivered while he was saying this. His wife and two daughters hearing this cried silently. Holding a stick he was moving in the house murmuring “I will perform her last rites, she is dead for me”.
Gradually the curtains behind her eloping away with Kabuliwala came to light. The pay clerk comes twice a month to the railway station from Bilaspur to distribute the salary. On eighteenth, the station staff gets their salary and on twenty fifth, engineering staff get theirs. That day, the regular work slows down. The staff stands in group and spends time in petty gossip waiting for the pay clerk. When the clerk arrives, he disburses the salary in the waiting room under the supervision of the Station Master. Each employee signs on the pay sheet or put their finger print and take their salary. The other persons who roam around near this place other than the employees are the union leaders, the grocery shop owner of that area and Gafoor Khan. This was also a good day for them. But last month there had been a deviation. Gafoor Khan was missing on both the dates. He was also not visible in the adjoining Naila and Champa stations.
Some more information could be found from the reservation clerk of Raigarh station. Last month Gafoor Khan had purchased two first class tickets in the Samata Express to Delhi. His wife’s name was given Razia Begum. It was clear that Pallavi had absconded in the disguised name of Razia Begum.
Biswajeet Babu could not arrange for the required amount of money for his eldest daughter’s marriage. He could not take out money from his own provident fund even after umpteenth visit to the head office at Bilaspur. With no other options left he was forced to take money from Kabuliwala on debt. Having a meager salary, he was not being able to pay back the interest on time after meeting both ends. For this reason, the Kabuliwala was found sitting under a tree in front of his house most of the days. Biswajeet Babu would sometimes avoid him by hiding in his own home or going away to Bilaspur or Raigarh for no definite reason. He would remain missing for days from his office. For this he used to get stricture from his seniors that he would be shunted to remote postings like Khodri and Khongasara.
When Kabuliwala came to their house, it was Pallavi who handled him. For courtesy sake she answered his queries and gave him tea or lemon juice.
One day Kabuliwala sat under a tree in front of his house waiting for Biswajeet Babu for a long time. Pallavi got irritated and said, “Why are you sitting here? Is anybody syphoning away your money. I will return it to you if my father cannot. Have some patience”.
“How will you return? Asked Kabuliwala.
“I will do a job and return your money”.
“Are jobs being produced from this tamarind tree?” His words were full of satire. After sometimes, in a low voice he said, “I am giving you a proposal which would make your father free from his loan.
“Let me know what your proposal is “Pallavi enquired?
“Come and stay with me”.
Pallavi became furious hearing this. She shouted at the top of her voice, “Get lost. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? You have such audacity to tell this. Should I call the colony people”?
Kabuliwala went away in his bike without saying anything else.
Biswajeet Babu took sick leave and stayed at home. It seemed to him as if the passengers passing that station by train were rebuking him. Even the dogs barking in his colony seemed to criticize him. He felt no peace even at home. He would get irritated upon his wife and three daughters without any reason. Pallavi realized that as long as the shadow of Kabuliwala would roam around her home, his debt ridden father would never be at peace.
One day she went to Raigarh to give interview for the post of receptionist in Jindal Steel Company. After the interview, she happened to meet the Kabuliwala while she was waiting for her train in the waiting room. Her face had lost her sheen as she had failed to qualify in the interview. Kabuliwala ran to a tea stall and bought tea in an earthen container for her and smiling a little said,” You have given me tea so many times, today it is my turn”.
Pallavi sipped her tea slowly while the Kabuliwala seemed to stand like a body guard at a distance. Her mind was in turmoil. She stood up hearing the line clear announcement of her train and while going to the platform looked at Kabuliwala and said in a low tone, “I agree to your proposal which you had put forth that day”. Hearing this from Pallavi, Kabuliwala seemed transfixed for a long time like a rock statue in a museum completely taken off guard.
Few days later, they again met in the same waiting room and decided to elope in the Samata Express.
“Go to the bathroom and wear this burkha, I will be waiting near the first class bogey”. Saying this, Kabuliwala left her. He had arranged tickets in a first class coupe. From then on Pallavi started her unending journey of her new life.
From the window of the coupe, she was staring outside as if she had forgotten to wink. Gradually the trees, fields, villages and habitation seemed to get engulfed in darkness. She could now only see the roof of the mountains. From the window, the forest fire seemed like a garland made of gold encircling these mountains. These mountains extended for a long distance like an ancientprehistoric reptile. At the foothill of a mountain was a Shiva temple. Pallavi had been there for college picnic. There she had developed relationship with Sitanshu. He had left for higher education to Bangalore and she had lost contact with him since quite some time. “Where would he be now?” Would he be still remembering her? What use would it be now even if he remembers me? Thinking of all these tears rolled down her eyes.
Now her train reached Naila station. There were scores of rice mills running parallel to the track. They seemed to compete with each other ejecting smoke from their chimneys skywards. Next the train stopped at Akaltara station, her place of birth. Here she has spent her childhood and it was here that she grew up. She was looking through the veil of her burkha with large eyes. The darkness of nightfall and smoke from the sigiri chullah (coal chullah) was making visibility difficult. Pallavi was thinking, “By now the chullah would have been lighted in the courtyard our house. Who would be fanning the chullah? Will it be Maa or Karabi? This is probably the last time that I will be seeing my birth place. I may not be able to come here again”.
Kabuliwala had left her brooding over her own thoughts. He was sitting on the attendant seat smoking and sending spirals of smoke towards the bathroom.
At Bilaspur station, dinner trays were loaded. Kabuliwala knocked the door of the coupe and said “Wash your hands and face, and have dinner”.
“I do not feel like taking dinner” answered Pallavi.
‘This will not do, “said kabuliwala. I know you are sad, but don’t punish your body”.
He held her hand and requested her to have food. Pallavi was forced to take something.
“I have brought some dresses, toiletries and a Kosa silk saree from Champa market”. “Wear this saree”.Pallavi looked at him and smiled. The smile had no mirth.
“I am holding it near your body. See yourself in the mirror”.
He was holding her along with the saree. As night progressed, their proximity became more intimate. Their breath became denser. In the four walls of the coupe, they solemnized their Nikahand had their first night.
A few years had passed by. Suddenly one day Pallavi reached her elder sister Purabi’s place at Delhi. Her husband was an engineer in a company there. Seeing Pallavi, her sister looked at her with wide eyes for some time. Pallavi had changed a lot. Her girth had increased around her waist. She had dark circles around her eyes.
“Didi, I am your Pallu, can’t you recognize me”? Asked Pallaavi.
“What a surprise. Where were you all these years?”
Both of them were holding each other tightly. They had no words. Only tears poured down their eyes uncontrollably. It seemed that both had not got any chance to cry since a long time.
“Come inside. Let me bring some water for you”.
After drinking some water, Pallavi felt better. Her sister asked, “Why did you do this Pallu?
Pallavi after a while replied, “Didi you know that father could not repay the loan amount which she had taken for your marriage. His health had deteriorated because of Kabuliwala’s harassment. I ran away with Kabuliwala to release him from his debt.
‘My foolish little sister, if you would have told me, I would have sent some money every month from my husband’s salary”.
“No Didi, father would have never agreed to take money from his son in law. He has thwarted this proposal already when mother had put forth this idea.
“You should not have put your life at stake for this. You were the most beautiful amongst all four of us and would have surely married the best husband”.
“May be I did not have such a good destiny. You have read in history books that when the enemy is more powerful, kings diplomatically make a truce by offering their daughters to them”.
“Did father make you the scape goat for this?”
“No, I have taken this decision at my own will. I am not blaming anyone”.
“Let me make tea”. Saying this Purabi went to the kitchen. Pallavi followed her.
“Forget about tea and snacks. Look at me, see how I have changed. You still look the same even after having a son”.
“By the way, where is your son?”
“He is studying in kinder garden”.
When will Jamai Babu come?
“He has gone on tour. He is in the marketing Dept. He has to go on tour quite a lot”.
Both sisters sat sipping their tea. Purabi asked, “How is your Miaan?
“Yes, he is a good person. He is at present away to his country. He has one more wife there.
“Have you never been to his land? “Asked Purabi.
“You must have read about the turmoil and disturbance in his country. The hard core Muslims might do anything seeing a Hindu foreigner there. My husband does not want to take me there for this reason. He says this land, its air, water everything is good. He has kept me well. I have never been deprived of money”. Saying this she gave a dry smile.
“Are you telling the truth Pallavi? Touch me and say that what you say is true”.
“Yes Didi, my Miaan is like a coconut. He outwardly seems tough but has a soft heart”.
“You have no issues?”
“We lead a nomadic life. Children cannot be a part of it”.
Pallavi purposefully changed the topic and said, “How is every one at home?”
“Father has become Station Master. A marriage proposal has come for Karabi. The boy is an Inspector in Railways”.
“Does no one remember me at home?’
Purabi looked at her face and then towards the window and to avoid answering her question said, “You sit here. It is time to bring my son from school. You will take your meal here before going”.
“No, Didi, I will be leaving. I have to return to Chandigarh. I will come again some other time”. She handed a packet of money to Purabi to give it to their mother for Karabi’s marriage expenses and forbade Purabi to tell that she had given the money”. She again gave a five hundred rupee note to Purabi and said, “This is for your son. I will meet him the next time I come. Purabi with teary eyes asked,” When will you come next?”
Pallabi replied, “I will definitely come. I have no one else to share my happiness and sorrow”.
“Give me your phone number?”
‘I lead a nomadic life. We do not have a phone in the place we are staying now. But rest assured, I will definitely come’.
After Karabi’s marriage, the youngest sister Bhargavi’s marriage was solemnized. Pallavi had forcefully given some money for Bhargavi’s marriage also through her Didi.
On her next visit, Pallavi came to know that her father had retired. He was yet to construct a house on his plot of land at Akaltara. As he had not vacated the railway quarters so his final settlement money has been held up. Being short tempered by nature, he was frequently at logger head with his wife. His bout of asthma attack too had increased.
Some days later Pallavi got down at the railway station in Akaltara where not much had changed except that a few more cabins had come up. There were not many passengers in the night train. Two tongas and a few rickshaws were there to take the passengers to the colony. Wearing a burkha and in the darkness of night, Pallavi slowly moved towards her colony.
At the entrance of the colony were mounted two iron pillars. She showed her obeisance bytouching her head to one of the pillars. Then she stood under the shaded tamarind tree and looked around. The colony seemed to be in deep slumber. Only the sound of the bats could be heard from the tree.
At the entrance of the colony was the house of the Station Master. Pallavi shook the bolt of the jaffre door. A stray dog started barking.
Kallolini opened the door asking” who was it?”
From under the burkha she replied in a choked tone “Maa I am your Pallu”.
“Why have you come after such a long time? Is it to see whether we are dead or alive?”
Both embraced each other and started crying. They were too choked to say anything. They had so many things to say to each other which had been long suppressed. They did not know from where to start.
“Why did you give us so much pain and why did you suffer so much? “Said Kalolini, in an emotional hurt tone.
“I could not give you happiness in this birth, in my next birth I will again come as your daughter and give you all happiness”.
Both now started crying uncontrollably.
From inside, Biswajeet Babu who was sick and sleeping, got up and cried out, “Who has come Kollolini?”
She answered wiping her nose” Pallu has come”.
Hearing her name, Biswajeet Babu could not control himself. Holding his stick and taking support of the wall, he reached the veranda.
Pallavi touched his feet to show her salutation.
Why have you come here you leech?
“Father you have not yet forgiven me? Said Pallavi chokingly.
“By eloping away with a pathan, you harbinger of evil luck have smeared black on my face.
Why have you come back? I am fortunate that I have given birth to a daughter like Purabi who stood by me and helped me at the time of crisis. I have forgotten my sorrow of not having a son by her gestures. But you are a curse of my previous birth’s sin. I don’t want to see your face”. He was so agitated that he was seized by a spasm of cough.
“Do not behave like this pleaded his wife. Let her stay here as it is so late. She will go away early in the morning”.
“She will bring more shame for us if she stays at night. Our neighbors will laugh at us”.
“Father I have not come to stay”, replied Pallavi. “Maa, keep this packet of money for father’s treatment”.
Biswajeet Babu hit her in the stick he was holding. The packet of money fell from her hand.
“I will not take money from a slut. Go away from here”. He pushed her towards the door.
Pallavi went away still looking back at her mother with mournful eyes. The stray dog followed her. It was not barking any more probably sympathizing to her plight.
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.
(Lecture delivered in 1998 while demitting office as President of the Medical Staff at Mercy Hospital, Altoona, USA)
As winter approaches, I find myself in the last few months of my two-year term as president of the medical staff. It is nostalgic, even maudlin time.
Over the past two years, there have been a host of people to whom I owe special thanks for their support and help along the way—a loving, forbearing wife, three patient children, and friends who are always willing to counsel, listen and help. There have also been Ginny, Barb, and Kandy, who have shown incredible stamina and magnificent dedication in accomplishing the goals and objectives of the medical staff and hospital.
Was it worth it?
This question seems cloying, unanswerable, and not to the point. Of course , it was worth it, but thee were costs, personal ones, which were not at all obvious, at the outset. In taking on a responsibility, I started out hoping that I wouldn’t screw it up, worrying about whether I truly have done well for the medial staff and hospital.
My greatest fear was not losing the attention and adulation, but the inherent worry—rising to the challenge. Dealing with personal adversity makes one more aware of one’s possibilities, which is much more fun than the inevitable accompanying recognition of one’s limitations.
Regrets
None whatsoever, but I am left with the sense that there is more work to be done.
What was the most difficult part of my job?
I never realized the concentration required for this position—the medical staff, the hospital is always with your own thoughts. As a result, my family has to deal with not only my physical absences but my mental lapses as well, because my mind constantly drifts back to the hospital.
The best part of my job?
The people I have met have afforded me some of my fondest memories ever. Basking in the vitality and brilliance of this medical staff, who are so essential for the success of this hospital, has made me much more aware of many of the issues of the hospital, has made me much more aware of many of the issues of the hospital and the medical staff. It has been my privilege to share experiences and ideas with my fellow physicians and I have found that their hassles are mine too.
Most poignant moment
The physicians receiving the Physician Recognition Awards in the second annual dinner at the Casino. I know these physicians as men of great personal integrity and brilliance. Recognizing their accomplishments as physicians, characterizing their strengths, dedications and commitments left us profoundly moved and newly aware of the meaning of grace. We learn from so many along the way and must thank them.
Saddest moment
The untimely death of Dr. Geitgey, a man of unusual tenacity. We all should pause for a moment of silence because our remembrance will add meaning to it all. It seems unfair that he died, not the victim of opposing political forces but of the flesh. It’s an uncertain world we reflect, and while he didn’t triumph over his life, his spirit did not go unheralded.
Most joyous moment
I express a most profound sense of joy—which can only be compared to the feelings I have when a screaming patient in four-point restraints is wheeled into the emergency department and I hear from the nurse, “Don’t worry, doctor, its’ a direct admit to Path Ways.”
There is joy too in being part of this glorious enterprise that is our medica staff and our hospital and the networks, alliances and friendships that sustain it. Despite the difficult climate we face, my greatest joy will be the opportunity and privilege to represent my colleagues and peers.
As Winston Spencer Churchill said in a moment of reflection on his 80th birthday, “I have never accepted what many people have kindly said, namely I inspired a nation. Their will was resolute and remorseless and, as it proved, unconquerable. It fell to me to express it.”
Of course, there are many other experiences, but these, in the desultory late autumn on the mountains and trees amidst the colloquy of friends, will live on in my mind and heart.
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
(Picture of Chestnut Hill Hospital)
I went to the US in 1978 to do my masters at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. By then Amita and I were married for a year. She was a graduate of School of Planning and Architecture, New Delhi, like me. She joined me after I completed the 1st semester at Penn. The scholarship I got was not enough. So when I studied, Amita did odd jobs to earn some money to support our living. I should mention here that US immigration laws haven’t changed much in these 40 years. A foreign student with a F-1 visa had to be a full-time student and could do only up to 20 hours of odd jobs inside the campus to earn some money. The spouse of the student, on an F-2 visa was not allowed to take up any jobs whatsoever. So, what most spouses, read wives, did was to take up part-time work in the informal sector against cash payment. These works typically included helping in shops, doing household works and mainly babysitting. Amita did a lot of babysitting which was not only a respectable work but also earned us good money and the parents also became great friends. Babysitters are typically young school or college girls, doing it for pocket money. Amita, an English speaking married woman, an architecture graduate and that too from culturally rich India, was a ‘dream babysitter’ for any American parent. Mimi and Bill Dimeling was one such couple. Mimi regularly hired Amita as the babysitter for their baby daughter. Infact she took Amita’s help even before the baby was born. These odd jobs gave us the much-needed money. It also kept Amita busy with a very friendly Mimi. Mimi and Bill were happy with Amita’s care for their daughter and trusted her more and more. So much so that they once went on a holiday for a few days leaving the baby with us. Us, because I too moved to the Dimeling house, along with Amita for the few days. Mimi had stuffed their kitchen and the fridge with the choicest food for us to enjoy. We used their master bedroom because the baby’s nursery was next to it. We truly enjoyed those days with the baby even though she was not our own. Her parents were very happy and so were we as we got a good sum of money for this very special service.
One day in the summer 1980, during a relaxed conversation at home we realised that Amita had become quite an expert by handling other people’s babies. She learnt a lot about issues during pregnancy from Mimi and also about childbirth and motherhood. That was when the idea dawned on us to have a baby of our own. All the learning from other babies can be utilized on our own, not a bad idea at all! Amita got pregnant in the month of October 1980 and the most exciting journey of our life started, a most fulfilling, experiential and cherished journey of parenthood. Advice and guidance from our parents and relatives was not quickly available as they lived in faraway India. Mail took more than 10 days to reach us. International telephoning was very expensive those days and we hardly called or received calls from home. In fact our first call home was to Amita’s mother to give the good news of her pregnancy. There was one before that but that one was a treat from Mimi. Amita’s only brother was getting married in Mumbai and we were unable to attend as I couldn’t miss college and also the cost of travel was very high. Amita was naturally very sad. Mimi felt it and let Amita call home from her phone as a treat. So, the exciting journey was primarily guided by couple of books on pregnancy, help from friends and of course, the doctor
Our ‘pregnant’ life became routine after the initial excitement. By then I was in a full time job, my first one after I finished my double Master degrees at Penn. Amita continued her babysitting work with Mimi under her watchful eyes and care. She visited her doctor in a nearby hospital as per the normal schedule. Unlike in India where most gynaecologists were women at that time, Amita’s doctor was a guy. During one visit when I happened to be there the doctor explained to us the various alternative labour pain reduction medicines available and their pros and cons, and asked us to choose. We were very surprised. Doctor asking us to choose a medicine!? In India, the doctor would not even tell you the names of the medicines he was prescribing, and whatever he wrote in the prescription was anyway illegible. After some deliberation, finally a particular pain reduction medicine was agreed upon and recorded.
Those days in the US, it was a craze to have your baby as naturally as possible. What it essentially meant was to minimize medicines, especially the pain reduction ones, avoid caesarean section deliveries and instead go for natural deliveries etc etc. All this sounded very weird to us. In India, yeh to sab Bhagvaan ke haath mein hota hai (all these are in God’s hand). We also hesitantly went with the craze. At least there would be something to write about later, as I am doing now. There were classes available to train people about this natural birth craze. Our hospital ran free classes for pregnant women who were registered with them. We naturally enrolled for them. It was compulsory for the husbands to join (that is, if you had one). In the introductory class itself it was drilled into every husband’s head that he was also kind of pregnant. As both were going to become parents, both had to go through the entire pregnancy and delivery process together, all the time. It sounds kind of odd but I still remember how good I felt hearing that. It was a great feeling of responsibility and satisfaction. These classes always used to be held in the evening so that working parents could attend them. Experts from different disciplines advised us on all possible subjects relating to pregnancy, childbirth and the early post-birth period. They ranged from nutrition to fitness, to mental calmness, to stress control, to health insurance, to costs of delivery, anything to everything. In one session, second-time mothers shared their experiences with others. The role of the husband was discussed in great detail. One very important thing taught was breathing exercises (Lamaze) for pain reduction during labour. These are a set of exercises, each having a number of short and long breaths arranged in a particular pattern. Both wife and husband had to memorize them and use them during labour. During the actual labour, the husband not only has to do the exercises himself, but more importantly he had to support and encourage the wife to continue doing the exercises. The idea is, when she is concentrating on doing the exercises correctly she is likely to keep her mind off the pain and feel it less. The husbands were given special instructions for their role in the labour and delivery room. I even took extra classes to be allowed to be in the operation theatre incase the delivery required a caesarean section. We were also given lists of things to be carried to the hospital on the delivery day for the mother and the newborn, and also for the father. These things were unheard of in India those days.
After graduating in summer of 1980, I left Hanna/Olin the Landscape firm where I used to work part time through my college days, and joined KSD, an Urban Design firm. Both Bob Hanna and Laurie Olin were fine gentlemen and I had earned a number of good friends in that office during my two years of work there. They all knew Amita very well and when I left their office, they offered Amita a job. We grabbed the opportunity and Amita after a long gap started doing architecture again.
Our ‘pregnant life’ went on smoothly without any anxious moments. But a very happy moment came when our friends in Hanna/Olin wanted to give a Baby Shower to Amita and they wanted to throw a surprise party for her. It was already July and the baby was due at the end of that month. So, Amita had decided to stop working and a date was already fixed. But that needed to be extended by a couple of days to accommodate the party. I was working at the nearby KSD office and was taken into confidence to somehow manage this sudden change in the last working day for Amita and still keep the reason as a secret. I couldn’t find a way and I leaked the secret to Amita and asked her to accept the extension unsuspiciously and to act normal. Till date I deeply regret not keeping the party a surprise for Amita. A great party happened. Amita did a great job of acting surprised. All at Hanna/Olin were very happy. Amita, especially, was very touched to get a Baby Shower from a group of office friends. It was even more significant because she missed many Indian rituals associated with pregnancy.
The day was nearing, but surprisingly there was no anxiety or nervousness in us. There were no close relatives to induce any such feelings in us either. Two American friends had willingly offered their help, one to take us to the hospital and the other to bring us back. I think we were the only family in the US who were going to have a baby without owning a car first!
In one of our last visits to the doctor, he had jokingly said not to disturb him during the weekend when he plays golf. But that was not to be. It was 26thJuly 1981, a Sunday, when Amita started having pains from the morning. But we didn’t call the doctor immediately as we were told to call only when the intensity and the frequency reached certain figures, which happened only towards the end of the day. During the day I was busy mowing grass in the seven acre premises we lived on, keeping an eye on our window where Amita was supposed to hang a handkerchief if she needed me. (No sign of mobile phones even in the US in the 80s). We called the doctor pretty late in the afternoon. He was probably still at the Golf Course but he informed the hospital and asked us to reach there. As per the pre-decided plan we called our friends Susan and Rob Fleming to take us to the hospital. They stayed not too far and arrived in no time with their kids. The kids were in a real festive mood and that helped in making the atmosphere rather relaxed and happy. We picked up our pre-packed suitcase and reached the hospital just before it became dark. The hospital was Chestnut Hill Hospital. It got its name from the neighbourhood it was located in. Chestnut Hill was, and still is, an old neighbourhood, at the edge of the city where the richi rich lived in their mansions in large wooded plots. How we, a student couple, landed there? Wait for another story. It was a small hospital, but quite popular. Susan and Rob dropped us at the maternity ward entrance and left. The receptionist seemed to know that we were coming and welcomed us with a smile, as they do in hotels. Soon a young lady, a trainee nurse perhaps, arrived with a wheelchair for a perfectly fit Amita. She explained that the wheelchair was mandatory and Amita hesitantly sat on it. Three of us walked slowly and reached our assigned labour room upstairs. On the way the young nurse kept on merrily chatting with us on all kinds of unrelated topics with a ‘I love India’ thrown in.
(Picture of Our House)
The labour room was a single occupancy room of reasonable size (unlike some ‘Labour Halls’ of India). Most importantly it had a TV for Amita to catch up with the infamous American soap operas. India was infected with this virus much later. The same nurse or another one, I don’t recollect, came and filled up a long questionnaire. Reaction of the nurse to the answer to one question I still remember. When listing any previous ailments, Amita said ‘Pneumonia’. The nurse’s jaw just dropped with a what-on-earth-is-that expression. It dropped further when Amita spelt it out for her. The Americans don’t hesitate to confess their ignorance about anything. The nurse explained my duties in the Labour room and left us to ourselves. The labour pain continued with increasing intensity and reducing intervals. In between a hospital doctor came and examined Amita and informed the main doctor and us the annoying news that it is a long way to go for the delivery. We could do nothing about it and continued with our breathing exercises when the pain came and watched TV in between. A nurse came and gave an injection. Before doing that she explained everything about what she was injecting and how the prick will pain a little. As if Amita, by now in intense labour pain, would have cared. I remember in a similar situation a few years later, when we were having our second daughter in a South Delhi clinic in India a nurse came into our room, gave an injection to Amita and was rushing out. I stopped her and did the mistake of asking about the injection. Quick came the sharp answer “Sab lete hain” (everybody takes).
The evening passed very slowly and painfully. Around midnight, Amita couldn’t take it anymore and hesitantly asked for the pain reduction medicine. Hesitantly, because she was trying to avoid it. I woke up a nurse. She referred Amita’s file and found out which medicine and how much of it we had agreed to take in consultation with the doctor almost a month back. In sometime the main doctor came in a red and white striped T-shirt. He looked cheerful. I don’t know why. Maybe because he didn’t have to abandon his Sunday Golf. Sometime in the early hours of Monday we moved to the delivery room. A large room with the delivery bed in the middle and surrounded by all kinds of equipment. There were four of us, the doctor, the nurse, me and Amita of course. Amita was calm, the nurse was busy arranging things, the doctor was chatting happily about his Sunday while endlessly scrubbing his hands, and I was just around. Our jobs were defined. Amita and me (yes, me too) will push and the doctor with the help of the nurse will deliver the baby. I think all of us did a good job especially Amita and the baby was born at 3.30 am. The doctor announced that it is a girl. Believe it or not, that is the first time, in the whole process; the thought came to my mind that there was another option, a boy! The doctor placed our baby on an exhausted Amita. We both kept staring at her. Amita had a special tired smile on her face. Those first few minutes between the three of us, while the doctor and the nurse were still working, still remains embedded in my mind. Soon, our baby was given in my hands for a gentle and soft hug, which the Americans call ‘bonding’. Our peaceful war was over. We won. The baby went to an incubator of some sort, Amita to the recovery room and I walked back home happily early morning 27th July 1981.
Amita stayed in a double occupancy room for the following four days with the second bed empty most of the time. During that short stay, nurses trained Amita how to feed, bathe and change the baby. It was the time of the Royal wedding in England; Prince Charles was getting married to Lady Diana. For some reason everyone in the US was very excited. The nurses put a paper crown on our daughter’s head and brought the “Princess” to her mother.
On the last night, the hospital had arranged for a candle light dinner for us in the hospital’s restaurant. While we enjoyed our dinner the nurses took care of the baby. The idea behind this was that we perhaps would not get a chance to have a peaceful dinner for a while after that. I think it was a great gesture from the hospital.
Next morning I completed all the formalities for Amita’s discharge from the hospital. The bill was 10 dollars only as we had an insurance which took care of all expenses. That 10 dollar was under charged because we didn’t know Amita’s blood group and hospital had to do the test and that cost strangely was not covered under the insurance. Anyway, we had our baby in 10 dollars!
As per plan, another friend came to pick us up from the hospital. I remember one interesting thing that the nurse that day insisted on carrying our baby herself and not us till we reached the parking. She handed over our baby to Amita only when she was seated in the car. We were very impressed with the helpful nature of the hospital staff. But we also learnt later that this was an Insurance Company requirement i.e. it was the hospital’s responsibility to handle the baby when within their premises. Anyway, we reached home soon. Our friend left after settling us in. We, with the new member in hand, for a moment wondered what to do next. Once again the “Baby Book” was there to guide. Thus started my fatherhood and our new journey of threesome.
Ujan Ghosh did his under graduate studies in Architecture from School of Planning and Architecture (SPA), New Delhi in 1975. After working for two years in Delhi he went to University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia where he completed Master of Architecture and Master of City Planning in Urban Design. He worked for few years in USA before coming back to India and joining Upalghosh Associates as a partner.
Since then he has been practicing architecture and urban design in various parts of the country. He is also a visiting professor at SPA, New Delhi and has been teaching Urban Design for the last 38 years. He was nominated to the Senate of SPA, Bhopal and has been a member of the Board of Studies in different departments of SPA, New Delhi. Presently he is a member of the Academic Council, DIT Univercity, Dehradun and on the Board of Studies,Sushant School of Art and Architecture, Ansal University, Gurugram.
He is the founder member of Institute of Urban Designers-India and its former President.
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OF SOLITUDE, LONELINESS AND DEPARTURES
Poster: Designed by the Author
"What can you say about a thirty-four-year-old man who departed at his own appointed hour, of his own volition, of his own means to reach his own ends? That he was handsome and charming. That he was talented and successful. That he was brilliant, an actor adored with a large fan-following, a promising future. That he in his ‘bucket list’ had 50 dreams lined-up which included dabbling with Quantum Physics, visiting the Moon, learning to fly a plane, train for Iron Man Triathlon, play tennis with a champion, space training at NASA, discuss policies with the PM of India and more. And that he was in love and a celebrity!”
Late Sushant Singh Rajput, reportedly took his own life on June 14, 2020 fore-noon, alone in his rented flat on the elitist Carter Road of Bandra, Mumbai; having written the poignant epitaphic last lines of his a few days earlier, as quoted in the poster above, dedicated to his late mother whom he had lost as an impressionable teenager of 16; consumed by the self-destructive passion of a kamikaze… but, Why…?
The news that arrived like a hammer blow to the brain left me in a sequence of being stunned, remorse, crestfallen and contemplative beyond reason. As I gathered myself to bring measure to my thoughts, a myriad images confounded in silence rose like genies from an Aladdin’s lamp of bewilderment and disorientation. The question recurred…Why?
Solitude and Loneliness….where does it all begin! And where it all does end!
While in school, I was lost in my world when I was rehearsing for the Declamation Contest with the recitation of William Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’:
“Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!”
As the words and their meaning sunk in, in their repetition, ably aided by my British English language teacher (on deputation from the British Overseas Education Service) from Scotland, the scene of the song, who implored me to “feel the pangs of the words in their rhyme and rhythm comparing it favourably with the cuckoo singing in spring or a nightingale delighting weary travelers in Arabia”; it indeed aroused the early emotions associated with solitude and loneliness in an adolescent mind of 16 years: the same age at which late Sushant lost his dear mother. He was the only son amongst five siblings.
Albert Einstein said, “Solitude is painful when one is young, but delightful when one is more mature.” Perhaps, Sushant realized it too and allowed himself to wait for the morrow, as he built the bricks of his life one by one. But solitude and loneliness is made of sterner stuff that reminds us of its presence like the shadows that trail us. It did so with Shakespeare:
“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,…” (Shakespeare, Sonnet 29)
Precociously, Alexander Pope at age 12, soliloquized solitude and loneliness too:
“Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground…
…Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.” (Alexander Pope, Ode on Solitude)
Youth has an uncanny identity to solitude and loneliness. Perhaps the tide of sensitivities, emotions and deep feelings turn to the highest-high-tide when youthful monologues of the mind quietly come to terms with one’s being and gets absorbed in symbols of expressions. The poet John Keats, wrote when just 19 years old, by talking, almost paradoxically, of dwelling with solitude:
“O solitude! If I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, __
Nature’s observatory__whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell…” (Keats, To Solitude)
As I write this, many a words and lines have been spoken and written on late Sushant in the last 24 hours of his departure; devastating as it is for most: some in solidarity, some in soliloquy, and many in the repetition of the oft-quoted numbers that identify of the others mired with the same malady, whether here or in the nether world. But let me step aside the statistics with the wand of a Benjamin Disraeli, “There are three types of lies__lies, damn lies and statistics”. Or better still side with Mark Twain’s passing thought, “Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are pliable”; perhaps as pliable as the vagaries of solitude and loneliness. The only thing that matters to me is the dominating question, Why?
How I wish I could question Sushant, perhaps confront him, with my own set of predicaments on solitude and loneliness; ask and seek advice to my own listings on my ‘bucket list’ and solicit answer if it were too late or in a cavalieran belief hold hope for it all to mature with time; like he too believed; or did he not! For, I believe that the best thinking has been done in solitude. The worst has been done in turmoil. Surely, Sushant too identified with it; if not why the charm, the success, the adulation, the fan-following, the ‘bucket list’, the dreamy wishes of dabbling with Quantum Physics, visiting the Moon, learning to fly a plane, train for Iron Man Triathlon, play tennis with a champion, space training at NASA, discuss policies with the PM of India and more!
Sushant had his vision cut out: like a map that is only to be traced, followed and its coordinates fixed for a definite course to charter in your ordained journey. He had his mind fixed to the star that never changes its position. And yet it did, he did and none had an inkling nor did he share those thoughts and plans, if any, with anyone! But Why Not?
Our desires and cravings only define us to the limitations of understanding of our own boundaries. The mind’s limitlessness as our scriptures and wisdom provides for, whether we like it or not, are tethered to our stars that gaze down upon us with the strings of our times in their pliable hands.
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts
His acts being seven ages...” (Shakespeare, As You Like It)
Perhaps, closer to my heart, given the chance to ruminate with a despondent but brilliant Sushant of a poetic disposition, who wished to possess a large library; on the threshold of a ‘to be or not to be’ moment preceding his apparitioned hour - I would have embraced him and recalled the elevating stories of return from despair by the likes of Al Alvarez and his Savage God that follows the black thread leading from Dante through Donne and the romantic agony; later elevating himself to become a distinguished educationist and poet. Or, summoned my courage and unfathomed the bruises in Sushant’s mind through the heroic story of return by Kay Redfield Jamison from the same despondent state to pen down his understandings in Night Falls Fast; and resurrect himself as a distinguished academician of repute. In these slipping moments I would have reminded the brilliant and well-read Sushant the exalted lines that went to change the relationships of Man, of the much loved author of his childhood, Harriet Beecher Stowe, who gave us the simple pure story of love, share and care in Uncle Tom’s Cabin:
“When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.”
Sushant in his inimitable way, played his part with honour, dignity, poise and share; endearing to all, enticing all to count on him, be cajoled in doing so, rivalled at the scenery around him like a ‘monarch of all I survey’. Until, at the appointed hour of his own choosing, of his own volition, of his own means, he slipped away into his closet of defined quietude… to sail away beyond the horizon, carrying his Ark with him, in one solemn move that defied time and space, that defied human logic, that transcended the bondings of Man, which momentarily stopped the circle of life and let the moving hands of Providence add one more to eternity’s list, albeit the dirty game of statistical reductions and deductions.
What is left are a few memories, some memorabilia, some companions of past, some deserted stages, a ‘bucket list’ of reminiscences, stories of anger and protest, a devastated family and public at large and a trace of time that harks back to a question that will linger in my mind to fade away like the distant horizon smeared into the lapse of a fading dusk.
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.
My beloved !
Don’t take any stress
I am not asking the heavens,
Give your little time
If it is convenient
That should be enough
To treasure for the life.
Never mind if you are late
I am waiting, anyway,
Without any pique.
Don’t worry
If you think
You have been ignoring,
But, let me confess
This has never been in my mind
As I always believe
Someone else may be benefiting.
While, I keep my hope alive
That someday,
I’ll also have your time.
When I get up in the morning
Forgetting all the past miseries
And set out for a new beginning,
I think of you and visualize
As if you are sitting beside
Helping me invoke
The divine blessings.
Whatever may be the season,
I feel your presence,
While sipping tea
In the morning.
"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.
It was a barely seven meter wide public road and it was used by the entire population. A space which each and every individual used, but a corridor which none cared about since it was nobody’s although it was everybody’s. An ever accommodating road through which the kings and the beggars travelled were getting more cramped day by day. There was an ever increasing number of motor vehicles and to make the matters more congested, all public utilities and unutilized things were pushed onto the road which of course knew no way to protest.
The Grand Junction was a prime example of how a road could be strangulated. A nonfunctional traffic light stood in the middle of the junction which gave an indication about the negligent road authorities. Electric posts stood on either side almost onto the road with tube lights stretching out their necks like Giraffes, but they offered no light at the hour of need. They indeed shed some light on the callous attitude of the electricity department. The electric and telephone wires along with the local cable television wires crawled entwined across the sky from one pole to the next. Banners and flags of various irresponsible political parties were festooned across and beside the road which fluttered in the air announcing their arrogance, nearly blinding the commuting vehicles. Traffic sign boards stood there as relics without serving their purpose as nothing could be understood from them. The paint had peeled away over the years and over it some previous election posters were stuck. A broken sewage system filled with waste and mud ran on one side of the road with concrete slabs which were supposed to cover them occupying the little ground which the pedestrians could have used to walk safely. The shop keepers there had conveniently mistaken the sewage for the waste disposal system. Just beside it was the ground dug for laying the fiber optic cables. It was an open graveyard inviting wayfarers to fall into it and two people have already died in it in the last monsoon.The public works department could not care less.
There was a wrecked waiting shed which was not used by the people. The buses never stopped there and the space was usurped by the hooligans to gather around and smoke the illegal drugs. The bus drivers always stopped the buses a little away from the bus stop so as to make the public feel the importance of their service. The electric transformer was there at the south end of the junction and next to it was the garbage recycle bin which had never seen any recycling event till now. The bin was now somewhere beneath the mountain of garbage. A pile of bricks unloaded for a building construction formed a wall beside the road at one part of the junction and just opposite the road were few barrels of tar kept for the next road tarring ceremony. Two old cars and a van lay there rusting in front of the police station for years which were all material evidence before the court for various crimes done with them.
All these occupied the few meters of space meant for the people to travel. But it looked as if the local vendors thought there was still more space to be exploited on that passage.The shacks of the vegetable vendors extended on to the road and the ladies who sold the fish pushed themselves almost onto the road for better space and business. They couldn’t be blamed when the religious shrine itself was encroaching onto the road. The shrine committee wouldn’t budge an inch backward when the road widening was proposed two years back. The shop keepers swept the dust and their wastes onto the road everyday morning which would be returned back to the shop by evening. All these were without counting the pot holes on the road which vehicles had to evade without touching the next vehicle or pedestrian or any of the above things.
The inconveniences for the people were created by the people themselves. They created, they complained, but did nothing to resolve it from their own side. All they would do is complain to the authorities and they in turn would pass the baton from one department to the next and then from one section to the other. The politically ambitious would promise the people on straightening the things out, but never did anything once the elections were over. The people have started to live with it. Traffic imbroglio, confusions and accidents were normal things every day in this Grand Junction. Nobody had any answer as how to fix this junction. Whenever they tried to come with the possibility of a solution or an order, a section of the people on the basis of political parties, partisan associations or religious fervor would offer a resistance. The society wanted a solution but none were ready to change themselves. It seemed as if some unnatural force had to come down to clean up this mess.
In the high school playground, the boys were playing their evening football game. They had divided themselves into two teams and a vigorous contest was going on. The tall stout boy who stood as the centre back of the green jersey team didn’t want another goal to leak into his post, for their team was already one goal behind. The forward of the yellow dressed team was a fantastic dribbler and now he was coming in once again with the ball after receiving a long pass from the right wing forward. The centre back player had to tackle him down somehow and had to kick the ball out from his half of the ground. As the yellow jersey dribbled in with the ball, the defender did what he wanted to with all his energy piled on to the foot of his right leg. He drew his leg backwards and gave the wildest of the kick any boy had ever given. In that process the ball was sent sailing over the school compound wall which separated the school ground from the Grand Junction. It took all the players in the field by surprise. No one had ever kicked the ball like that over the high wall of the school compound. The ball was now sailing onto the main road and the road was at its busiest.
The ball went like a missile in its course for some time and then it slowly lost its propulsion. Once it lost its momentum, it came down from its trajectory and crashed onto the frontglass of the passenger bus which was parked in the middle of the road, twenty metres beyond the bus stop. The driver of the bus was watching a video game in his mobile phone at the time the passengers alighted. Once he received the signal from the bus conductor to go ahead with their journey, he shifted the gear and slowly moved the bus and his eyes lazily shifted from the mobile screen to the road. It was then that he saw a round projectile travellingtowards him. At first he thought it was an image from the video which had got captured in his eyes. He was late to understand that it was an object from reality as the ball crashed onto the windshield. With one hand he swerved the steering and the bus crashed onto the useless waiting shed and ruined it further.
The ball after hitting the bus with full impact rebounded high up in the air to crash into one of the three signal lights. The ball hit the lower most light where the green signal was supposed to be given and then it travelled with lesser speed to the head of the man who was driving his motor cycle without the helmet. The motorcyclist losing his balance ran over the basins of fish kept on the edge of the tarred road and finally he stopped the bike by hitting the pole of the vegetable vendor’s shack and brought the entire thing down.
The ball after receiving a header from the motor cycle rider, bounced on the road once and just as it was losing its velocity a car speeding up from the south direction gave a new impetus to the ball with its bumper. The driver without the seat belt almost fell out of his car as it crashed into the concrete slabs which were kept beside the sewage and few of them fell over the open sewage covering a portion of it.
The ball which got a punch from the bumper of the car went and hit the top of an oncoming huge truck. A mighty blow from the big truck sent the ball thrusting into a banner which was tied like a festoon across the road. The truck driver lost his control over the steering and went on to hit the old rusting van and the two cars before it demolished the shrine and idol inside it. The van though it had flat tyres ran into the tar barrels and toppled it. The heavy liquid flowed into the pot holes on the road. One of the cars in the police custody got shoved into the piled up bricks making the bricks fall into the ground dug up for the fibre optic lines. The other wrecked car ran into a useless sign board next to it.
Hurled into the banner the football catapulted back as if from a sling onto the electric wires which swam from one post to the other. There was an electric bolt with a thunderous sound and sparks flew out as the electric wires slashed on to one another. The bats which were hanging on it flew out blindly in panic and crashed into the non- illuminating tube lights. The sparks from the electric wires fell on the festooned banners and communal flags. Soon there was a fire over the road which slowly spread out to burn up the advertising boards which blinded the advancing cars at the curve. The abnormal electric discharges made the transformer go haywire and a ball of fire erupted from it which also burnt up the huge mountain of garbage next to it. The football after hitting the electric wires got burst and fell into its pyre formed by the blazing garbage. Its job was done.
Once the havoc settled, the people around began to wonder as to what had happened. Some said they saw something like that of a ball while others said it was a stone or something similar to that which came from the sky. A meteor, said a student of geographical science. A few old people were of the opinion that it was some kind of bird. Nobody actually could interpret what had led to all these things because all eyes were fixed on one accident till the next one happened in sequence. There was no proof left behind too. Finally all people arrived at a conclusive opinion for their own relief and mitigation. ‘Some supernatural power had intervened to clear the junction when the ordinary civilians were helpless.’ They were hopeful that this could be an opportunity to plan out a new Grand Junction. The children in the school ground never spoke of their role in this road story to anybody and they went quietly, each one to their own home.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
The indomitable spirit rose to the fore,
Harnessing available social media to the core.
Espousing the need of the hour, critical,
Spontaneity brought volunteers, out of their shell.
Pressures surfacing were faced, undaunted,
Inspiring leaders took charge, for granted.
Relief came pouring in from all quarters,
Invigorating the teams to address the tatters.
Traumatic though, the events to handle,
Obdurate resilience, succeeded thro' diehard will.
Famished mouths got the feed,
Clothing, shelter were paid heed,
Health concerns were addressed at call,
Energising the spirit of all.
Nature's unbridled fury of this scale,
Nurtured a bonding, ne'er to fail,
Assuaging the agony untold,
In this century's man made calamity.
These in essence, signify,
The spirit of CHENNAI.
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
A beat followed the sound of a drop,
Making a dent in the ground, a smallest puddle,
The petrichor clearing his light-headedness,
The tunes of the sky reverberating in his heart.
Oh! he wondered, what he'd do without,
The ambrosia to his life, the strum of his strings,
Without his guitar for him to hold close,
His heart would feel cold, like a blanket of snow.
The trickle of water, wasn't that music too?
The idea of the breeze, as it brushed through trees,
The soft flapping of wings as butterflies chased eachother,
As the bees bombinate stealing nectar.
Like a mansion, gold, with all its glory hanging,
Hanging with spiderwebs, alone and dark,
All that beauty wasted, missing the echoing footsteps,
That's how he'd feel, dark and without warmth.
What was a life without music? A life without a soul?
Was it worth being at all, existing not living?
Did he even exist, he pondered, an epiphany,
Was it just the idea of him in the minds of others?
Wasn't music too just an idea, he thought aloud,
Living only in minds and maybe the cloud above,
You can feel it in your heart as it shakes your spine,
You can feel it as it flows like the blood in your veins.
But maybe music doesn't exist, just the ethereal idea,
Nothing more than a void that plays the strings of your heart,
But if he ever lost his hearing and couldn't dwell in the songs,
He'd be okay listening to the songs of his soul.
He wishes he could turn back time,
Anything to change the past that'd been,
Oh, he missed the arms he so loved,
They were only wisps of air now.
He wanted to warp through time,
To force her to stay back home, "Don't go", he'd said playfully,
He wished he'd held her back down.
It'd taken only a little second,
For his blue sky to turn orange and black.
Oh, those hours he went through,
As it crashed into itself,
Oh, those wretched flights,
Like a fire dragon in a tower of wax.
Oh, he'd do anything to get her back,
As the trade of the world collapsed,
So many lives but his heart, oh,
The hiraeth he felt for his love..
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/.
THE FLOWER SELLER AND THE FLOWERS
(Photo Courtesy N. Ravi)
Her hands busy, her mind filled with dreams
The hard work wins her the daily bread
Prevents from getting split at the seams
Stands her in good stead
She asks for help from no one
Many a battle in life, she's won.
The fragrance of the floral assortment
Fills the entire compartment
Subtly plays into the psyche
The flowers say - Be like me!
'I bend and ply as she strings the strands
I add beauty to her gnarled hands.'
"Even though my life is short
my smile till the end I sport."
'Winning even the hardest heart
having played to the fullest, my part!'
The conductor's whistle - verbal assault......
My reverie came to a grinding halt.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Her words wait like those birds
Each one taking turn, to break his wall...
His silence canopies her heart
Like the tight-lipped clouds
When it is a downpour
The words might fly away
For raindrops are gentle, but
Silence is thunder
Will he ever say
"I met our honeyed conversations
At the several lines of my poems
Shall we meet again, at those old pages..."
There is no rhyme, for silence
Just accent and modulation of muteness
Forgiving is free verse
But the repenting heart gains rhythm...
There is a pond in the sky
Surrounded by white blossoms
Lily, Daisy, Tulip, Orchid
Dahlia, Iris, and the Rose
Each takes turn
To blossom around the pond
And the birds that visit
Quench their thirst
Leaving with the fragrance
Settling on their wings
As they fly over the mountains, rivers
Another sky
The scents of the pond, and
Its friends in bloom
Spread in the air
Pampering the senses
Of a new part of the Earth
With each new flower
And each new fragrance
The Earth is perfumed
By the winged wonders
They never knew
What they give
But the petals, and the feathers
Are happy, and light
Like the pond
Ever full
Giving, and giving...
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
AN EVENING STROLL
Disha Prateechee
Calmness in the silence of the evening
As I walk in the garden in my night gown
Softly brushing the ground
Shining moonlight touching my bare face
I remember my almost forgotten past
While thinking deeply, my thoughts wrapping around my mind
As tales of the past unravel before my eyes
The unreachable yet unforgettable past can be felt in the heart
Chapters of my life, feelings hidden safely for so long, resurfaced
Sweet as a nectar from blossoming flowers of spring
A story where tears are evidence of sorrow which once brought in joy
Memories, pure like the quiet winter night snow
Sprinkling around me
This brought upon a faint smile on my lips which were once frowned
I continued to walk with my arms wrapped around me
To keep the chills of the rising old feelings,
Itching to be felt again, only to be shunned
My bare feet, touching the wet, dewy grass
Reminding me of all the times, I gave out warmth and got cold in return.
As I reached back near the porch of my house, I realised
How experiences shaped me into who I am today
No matter how joyous or difficult memories,
They are what made us more human than before.
Disha Prateechee is a final year BTech student from KIIT University, Odisha. She has have completed her schooling from D.A.V Public School, Burla, Sambalpur, Odisha and likes writing poetries in her leisure along with playing music instruments like Synthesizer and ukulele.
Life keeps beating with the treasury,
Every morning when I mediate,
Within the closed eyes flashbacks visit,
Memory acts like a capsule,
One after the other memory keeps boiling,
Very hard to do away with the past,
Past knocks the present,
Present swims in the vacuum,
Vast stretch of vacuum,
A vast blue azure sky,
Patches of clouds here & there,
Floating with water bubbles,
The shining sun brimming with energy,
Beating the drums of life with synergy,
Creativity innocently indulging in activity,
Creation & pro-creation are the basic tools of survival,
In ignorance seasons creep in one after the other,
As monsoon lashes the mother earth is moist,
Unknown seedlings sprout in warmth,
The moisture in air turns the earth into a bed of green nursery,
With rains showering seedlings enjoy the heavenly bliss, ......
Monsoon arrives with its first drops,
Soaking the hot earth with hope,
Moistened soil feels wet,
Green hopes of mother earth start to breathe,
First drops moist the creativity,
A season's best gift to nature since infinity,
Hope sprouts for the farmers,
Plant saplings for the kharif crops,
Kharif crops like paddy grown in fields,
The farmer looks at agriculture for the bumper harvest,
Bumper harvest is a dream come true,
Brings tons of happiness with colourful hues,
Innumerable seedlings sprout on earth,
Spreading greenery in the surrounding length & breadth ,
As rains shower the plantations breath new life,
Sprouting new leaves with greenery,
Agriculture picks up it's moods with the onset of the season,
Showers never come alone,
Bring wind, lightening & thunder often,
Cooling the atmosphere with fresh air in , ......
Sri Akshaya Kumar Das is poet from Bhubaneswar , Odisha the author of "The Dew Drops" available with amazon/flipkart/snapdeal published by Partridge India in the year 2016. Sri Das is a internationally acknowledged author with no. of his poems published in India & abroad by Ardus Publication, Canada. Sri Das is conferred with "Ambassador of Humanity" award by Hafrican Peace Art World, Ghana. Sri Das organised a Intenational Poetry Festival in the year 2017 under the aegis of Feelings International Artist's Society of Dr.Armeli Quezon held at Bhubaneswar. Sri Das is presently working as an Admin for many poetry groups in Face Book including FIAS & Poemariam Group headed by Dr.N.K.Sharma. Receipent of many awards for hos contribution to English literature & world peace. A featured poet of Pentasi B Group. Sri Das presently retired Insurance Manager residing at Bhubaneswar."
The mystery fiction was un-put-down-able and nothing
Would have induced me to bring my nose out of it
But for the scowl of my husband who had walked in
On my reading to grimly remind me
Of a long working day on the morrow;
And of his hand pointing to two others
That showed time was proceeding towards midnight.
Yes, I had to sleep so I could do justice to the day
That would be breaking soon. Marking the page
I parted with the book, and with wavering hesitance
Got under the blankets.
I was soon fast asleep, and quite deeply too
And in the haze, I was startled all too suddenly
By a heavy repulsiveness creeping over me.
A chill down my spine
A heaviness around my stomach
My thighs locked between another pair
A smothering constriction in my face ?
Was that a pillow I was suffocated with?
Tried I to kick my feet about as much
As the movement would allow
And fiercely flailed my arms
Trying to push away the asphyxiating offence —
A moment of luck probably, and the pillow
Overturned. My face free, I screamed
Ear-splitting intense howls for help.
(Why wasn’t I opening my eyes?)
(Why wasn’t my husband coming to rescue me?)
But the heavy repulsiveness choked my cry
My mouth was gagged with cloth
Smelly and foul
I clawed my way fisting through strong arms
(Why wasn’t I opening my eyes?)
(Why wasn’t my husband coming to rescue me?)
And just as I yanked the obnoxious stuffing out
And threw it away, I jolted to wakefulness
Eyes open, gasping and sweating, I bolted upright
And tried to decipher the darkness and the silence.
All safe.
Gingerly, I got off my bed and tiptoed to peep
Into the adjacent room
My husband, earphones and spectacles in place
Sat at his computer, at his work, blissfully unaware
Of the noise I had made a few minutes earlier.
Slipping back to the bedroom, I switched on the light
The nightmare having left me too shaken to sleep
I picked up my book, opened at the bookmark
Began to read again the passage
I was last reading before giving in to sleep
And… I was hit by the words in the book ?
“A chill down her spine
A heaviness around her stomach
Her thighs locked between another pair
A smothering constriction in her face ?
Was that a pillow she was suffocated with?”
The book that I dropped then was a hot brick
I stared at it unbelievingly, breath held tight
Moments passed… moments of sickening suspense
But nothing uncanny happened
Regaining my breath and composure
I picked up the book again so I may read further
With the book came something else
Something soft, and (how did I know it?)
Smelly and FOUL!
My blood-curdling scream brought my ear plugged husband
Panic running to my side.
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.
Today afternoon when I woke up after my mini power nap, I couldn't see Rahul and that got me a little worried. I immediately called out.... Rahul!! Rahul!!, no one responded, and finally much to my relief I found him crouched up on the sofa with a half eaten mango beside him, it looked all wiery and squeezed out. Rahul's fingers were smeared with mango pulp.He loves mangoes and oranges. I started cajoling him to get up and wash his hands, to which he obediently responded with an infectious smile and walked up to the kitchen opened the tap and cleaned his fingers....and there I go singing... "Good job Rahul!! ".Rahul's need based speech has always been musical since he was a kid.
After washing he closed the tap and walked away and immediately took a turn back towards the tap,i knew the reason, but wanted to know if he understood what had happened. Yes!!, he had heard the water trickling down as the tap was not closed properly .I immediately with much pride told the man of the house.... "our son believes in saving water ???? ???? ",he smiled.Almost all Autistic children are perfectionist, they will always complete a task with much neatness.
As for Rahul he shall never understand the deep meaning of the act..... that he has actually saved water... he has only understood that the tap was not closed properly.
#ForAutismAwareness
#ForWorldEnvironmentDay
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)
Leave me a mark of image
An image that eliminates pain;
Pain me often with a notion
A notion that boosts my mind!
Leave me a mark of peace
Peace which comforts my soul;
Give me often the tears of joy
The joy which makes me smile!
Leave me a mark of solace
Solace that wipes my tears;
Give me often the bright light
The light that removes a shadow!
Leave me a mark of compassion
Compassion that alters my world;
Give me often the pearls of wisdom
Wisdom that helps me move ahead!
Leave me a mark of remembrance
Remembrance that makes me travel;
Give me often an affectionate hug
A hug that tells me I am not alone!
Leave me a mark of a true freedom
Freedom that makes me fly so high;
Give me often the power of restriction
Restriction that stops my inner ego!
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
How did your coffee morning with the celebrity go off? asked my husband even as I was entering the house.
It was O.K., I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Well, you don't seem to sound very pleased, what's the matter? Didn't the celebrity turn up? he said.
She did but she literally breezed in and breezed out after keeping us waiting for more than an hour, I said.
That's the problem if you invite celebrities, especially if they belong to the celluloid world, he remarked.
Well, we all wanted to have a glimpse of the stunning beauty, see for ourselves if what the media made out of her looks was true or not, I said.
Since you have seen her, do you think the media is justified in calling her a raving beauty? he said.
No, I don't think so. She looked quite ordinary to me, nothing to rave about, I said.
Could you all have a chat with her over coffee?
No chance at all, as I said, she just made an appearance hardly for a few minutes and was out in a jiffy. I admire her agility and the way she carried herself, I said.
She must have come in one of those latest, flashy, chauffeur-driven cars, stated my husband.
You know she came in a Baleno, and all of us saw her off.
Aye, that means it makes two of you. You too can claim to be a celebrity, owning a similar car, observed my husband.
Haven't you heard of the anecdote of the three swimming pools? I said.
He said he hadn't.
It appears a fairy appeared in the dream of a young man and offered to grant three wishes of his.
He wished to possess a mansion, a beautiful wife and three swimming pools. The next morning he was surprised to find that all his wishes were granted by the fairy but he was still not happy.
When the fairy appeared the next day in his dream he expressed his unhappiness.
He must have been a fool, said my husband.
Probably that makes me one too, I said.
You know he told the fairy that he wanted the world to see his possessions but the fairy said she offered to fulfil only three wishes of his.
I don't understand what you are getting at, said my husband.
Only that nobody saw me getting into our Baleno for which I made you spend a fortune, I said with a sense of guilt.
Don’t you think a morning walk in the park is more peaceful than a walk down our road? Observed my husband even as he was overtaking me during our constitutional .
SSSH, I said .
What for ? Anything the matter? He asked retracing his steps.
Yes. I wish to know whether they are going to approve the life partners their children have chosen for themselves , I said.
Whose children ? he said sounding annoyed.
You see, these two people walking alongside me seem to have a common problem , I said.
Why bother to know? so saying he proceeded at his usual fast pace.
Aye, there is something more interesting happening , I said catching up with him on his fourth and my third round .
What is it this time? he asked impatiently.
You know, I said pointing to a group of people practicing Yoga.
Well, it is something I see everyday, he said .Probably it is the first time you have noticed as you rarely come to the park, he added .
There is something else I noticed which perhaps escaped you, I said.
What is that? better be fast, you are interrupting my walk unnecessarily, he accused.
I believe all those who participate in these yoga sessions, are offered sumptuous breakfast , I informed.
Well, that again is no news to me. I see people queuing up for it. In fact there is something else which you may not have noticed , he said, probably in order to provoke me.
What’s that? I asked looking eagerly at him.
I usually overhear people confessing that they help themselves liberally to ‘vadas’ or ‘bondas’, he said.
Don’t you think that’s bad for their health ? I said.
There is something worse. Infact there are some who don’t belong to the ‘yoga circuit’ but have no qualms about stealthily joining the queue to partake in the breakfast, he informed.
How do you know? I asked quite shocked at his disclosure.
Well I also have two ears like you ,don’t I ? he quipped!
N.Meera Raghavendra rao, a post graduate in English Literature, with a diploma in Journalism is freelance journalist, author and blogger published around 2000 articles ( including book reviews) of different genre which appeared in The Hindu,Indian Express and The Deccan Herald . Author of 10 books : Madras Mosaic, Slice of Life, Chennai Collage, Journalism-think out of the Box are to mention a few. Her book ‘ Feature writing’ published by Prentice Hall, India and Madhwas of Madras published by Palaniappa Bros. had two editions. She interviewed several I.A.S. officials, industrialists and Social workers on AIR and TV, was interviewed by the media subsequent to her book launches and profiled in TigerTales ,an in house magazine of Tiger Airlines. At the invitation from Ahmedabad Management Association she conducted a two-day workshop on Feature Writing. Her Husband, Dr.N.Raghavendrra Rao, a Ph.D in FINANCE is an editor and contributor to IGIGLOBAL U.S.A.
No one knew when this structure was built. It was a concrete dome like structure of 3 feet high with a cement platform circling it. Close to the Laxmi temple, not far from the seashore, the gumbaz didn’t draw much attention except for the tired devotees who used the cement platform as a sitting place to enjoy the lovely breeze that would be wafting across from the sea.
Hardly anyone noticed that a there was a hole of about twenty centimeters in diameter in the small dungeon kind of thing. The dungeon was constructed on a sandy expanse, presumably by some enterprising mason who dug a trench and then covered it up shoddily leaving only a small opening. The opening was barely enough for a small head to peep through.
For Bulu it was a discovery of sorts. All of eight years old, he was fond of roaming near the sea shore, his house being nearby. It happened one evening, during one of his forays to the sea shorewith his mother. He saw kids were crowding around the gumbaz and peeping through the hole. Some kids were jostling with each other for their chance. Bulu got his turn after much pushing and shoving. He peeped inside and what he saw was pitch darkness. He thought he will try a different trick. He squeezed himself sideways in an angle with his head folded down to his chest almost. His thin torso and limbs cooperated in twisting himself into a ring ball almost. But hisoversized head refused to become a deflated rubber...He had to give up his trapeze act. Soon others elbowed him out for repeating the same act. The noise and banter went on when Bulu heard his mother calling out.
‘Bulu Bulu where are you?’
Bulu hurried back to his mother.
‘How much will I call out for you Bulu? ...Can’t you hear or what? It is getting late for lighting the evening lamp you know. Tomorrow I am not bringing you here.’ Maa scolded.
Bulu caught hold of his mother’s hand demurely, promising himself to come back next day,away from his mother’s prying eyes.
In the night Bulu kept tossing and turning in his bed. What could be inside the dark dungeon? Pots of gold and silver? Like in Aladdin’s cave? But how to get into the cave? Why were all the kids peeping into it and trying to squeeze in? Can he be the first one to enter and find the treasure trove lying inside? Then he will become famous. Everyone in the town will talk about him… Why, even his class teacher may declare him the achiever of the day in the school assembly. His parents will then realize what a hero he is. All the time they keep rebuking him for not studying enough.
Is there some magic word like in that Aladdin story, which can help him enter the dungeon? He could hardly wait for the day to break so that he would be the first one to discover what lay inside.
Bulu could hardly sleep. He got up at the break of dawn and came to the sitting room where his father was putting on his shoes for his morning walk ritual.
‘Bapa I want to go for a walk with you’
‘Oh sure come along son’
Bulu knew his father would take the road not far from the dome. He would then cajole him to let him go there.
They were taking the road not very far from the dome, when Bulu pretended, ‘My shoes have broken Bapa.’ Father was mildly annoyed.
‘How will you walk now? Go back home then, but go back straight. No loitering here and there’
Bulu promptly turned back, walked a bit and when his father went out of sight, turned right towards the sandy expanse. With a palpitating heart he trotted to the dome only to find it deserted. Not a soul was in sight. How happy he was!
The early sun rays had bathed the dilapidated structure. The rough and black surface of the domewas looking like a baby elephant squatting on the sand. A ray of sunlight fell on the hole, appearing like a laser beam, as if inviting him to piggy ride on it and enter the dungeon. Bulu peeped into the hole with his palms cupped around his eyes...
And Lo! He could see a hand moving inside. Then appeared a pair of bloodshot eyes, which stared hard at him. Instinctively he pulled back and was about to fall down.
He was sweating like a pig when he reached home. For him, it was a run for life after the pair of red shot eyes looked straight into his.
His mother found him panting heavily.
‘Hey Bulu! What happened? Where were you loitering? You had gone with your father Na! Buthow come you are back. Good you came sooner. Have your breakfast .You know you have to study for at least two hours after breakfast. Holidays don’t mean you will not open your books, these days kids are so restless…”the harangue trailed off.
Bulu’s thoughts were somewhere else. He couldn’t take his mind off those bloodshot eyes.
Whom to tell about those eyes...He kept on thinking. He could not trust anyone other than hisgrandmother. She never asks questions. Never reprimands like his mother for studies.
‘Aai.. Are you asleep?’
‘No Bulu. Come... Have you eaten?’
‘Yes Aai.’
‘Aai I will tell you something’
‘What Bulu?’
‘One secret’
‘A secret? Tell me, tell me... I will not tell anyone’
‘Aai you know, I saw two red eyes inside that gumbaz’
‘Which gumbaz?
‘Arre… that one near the seashore, near the Laxmi temple. It has a small hole. I had told you. Yesterday I peeped into it’
‘Accha then someone is inside that gumbaz.’ Aai was nodding her head vigorously.
****
The next day priest of Laxmi temple came to Bulu’s house. Aai was quick to ask
‘Arre Panditji, that gumbaz near your temple. Who has entered into it?’
‘What are you saying Budhi Maa?’
‘Yes, my grandson says, he saw a pair of eyes from that hole’.
‘Call Bulu’
Bulu was called. Father had just returned from his morning walk. He took out his shoes and entered the room. He sensed some breaking news was taking shape.
‘What happened Panditji?’
‘Sir Bulu says he has seen a pair of eyes inside that gumbaz. Oh! that one, on the left side of the Laxmi temple on the sand dune?’
‘Oh that is a place for snakes, rats, dogs, and what have you. It should be broken and erased to the ground. God knows who built it and for what purpose’.
‘Yes but how can someone enter through that tiny hole?’
Bulu had come to the room.
‘Bulu tell us what did you see inside? First of all why did you go there...? You said your shoes are broken and you were to come back home. Why were you loitering there?’
Bulu was scared of his father... In his grandmother’s benign presence he gathered the courage to spill the beans.
‘Day before I had gone with mother that side. Many kids were peeping into the hole and trying to get in...I also tried, but could not see anything. Yesterday I went to see what is inside the cave like thing.’
‘What if there were snakes?’
‘Bapa I saw two red eyes inside ... they stared at me...I ran back’
‘It must be of some dog or cat who would have got trapped inside’
‘Panditji! Find out what is inside. If nothing you arrange to break it; two three hits of the scalpel it will crumble... such a nuisance.’
xxxx
Two days passed...Panditji came home and was found sitting near Grandmother... He was looking very serious with an important air about him as if he has discovered a treasure trove...Grandmother called out
‘Bulu come here!’ Bapa and Maa were also called
‘Listen, what Panditji is saying’
‘All because Bulu shared with me and I conveyed to Panditji. If I hadn’t told Panditji, no one would have ever noticed.’ Aai was feeling proud and creditable for herself.
Panditji with a solemn air proclaimed;
‘A sadhu has been meditating there since a month. No one ever noticed. He is without food and water. We pushed a pipe inside the hole and conveyed our pranam; he has signaled after ten days his meditation will end.’
‘So Bulu what you saw were not the eyes of a dog or cat but of a Sadhu’ father proclaimed; ‘welldone my boy’
Parleys were then held between father, his friends and Panditji on how to welcome the sadhu and how to felicitate him. Everyone agreed that to remain holed up in a furrow kind of thing for fortydays without food and water is no mean achievement. The sadhu must be a hath yogi. He needs to be revered. Since Bulu had discovered him, Bulu should be the first one to be blessed. Father wanted his family should have the honor of felicitating him first and getting his blessings.
Soon it became the talk of the town that one sadhu is meditating inside that gumbaz for long and will end his tapasya soon. People started flocking the place. Crowd swelled in the mornings and evenings, all wishing to have a darshan of the sadhu inside the tiny cave. As days passed by,flowers and agarbatti got sold in direct proportion to the days, he stayed inside.
A shamiana came up on the precincts of the gumbaz. One evening the Panditji addressed the motley crowd gathered under the shamiana. He proclaimed that the sadhu has been meditating inside the hole for days without food and water. On the completion of 40th day he will make his appearance. It will be a full moon night which is two days after and people who want his darshan will have to pay ten rupees per head to the priest who will organize the darshan.
The day of reckoning came. Father and his friends waited with garlands, nimbu pani, fruits sweets and savouries near the gumbaz for the sadhu to come out of the hole. Bulu was made to stand near the hole with his father, mother and grandmother to welcome him with a garland.
Sound of cymbals, conch shells, ulu ulu sound rented the air when the time of emerging arrived. The smell of flowers and smoke of agarbatti had made the place smokey...people were jostling to have a glimpse of the sadhu. For them it was a miracle that he had stayed alive inside the gumbazwithout food and water for forty days at a stretch. On whomsoever he casts his eyes will indeed be a blessed and fortunate person. Bulu’s parents thought Bulu should be the first recipient of his munificence as he was the first one who discovered him. All the fruits of his sadhana should fall on Bulu’s family.
At the appointed hour, a head with matted locks emerged from the tiny hole. The hole had been widened a bit by chipping away a few centimeters. Then appeared, a wiry hand with a small trishul. Then a thin, emaciated, ash covered body with only a string on the waist was seen wriggling out in slow motion from the hole. Shouts and screams of ‘Jai Baba’ rented the air. The eyes of the holy man were found closed perhaps to block the sunrays filtering through the shamiana. Slowly the eyes opened ...those blood shot eyes which Bulu was first to see. Bulu recognized them. Now his mother holding his hand released it. She was folding her palms in pranam. Bulu was now supposed to bend down and touch the feet of the sadhu. This had been rehearsed with him earlier, he knew not why. Suddenly a stampede ensued. People at the back rushed forward and fell over each other to touch the sadhu’s feet...Suddenly so many bent backs.Mother and father looked around in the melee to instruct Bulu to bend down. They looked left,they looked right. But Bulu was nowhere to be seen. Bulu! Bulu! Mother called aloud, but all they could see were the dhoti clad, trouser clad, and sari covered legs...Arre!! Where did my Bulu go? Mother’s screeching calls were getting drowned in the Jai Baba shouts...Father moved here and there frantically looking for Bulu, throwing away all his reverence for the sadhu to the winds. Grandmother holding on to the bamboo pole of the shamiana, plunked down on the sand out of sheer exhaustion.
Maa... Maa look here... look here …A high pitched sound was coming from behind the podium.
Bulu was struggling to get out of the hole of the gumbaz, half his upper torso was visible while the lower half was still inside the gumbaz. Father and his friends rushed to pull him out.
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
WABI-SABI - THE WISDOM AND BEAUTY OF IMPERFECTION.
Once there was an elderly couple named Jim and Della who were married for 30 years. Jim had the habit of waking up early to make sandwiches for himself and his wife. While making the sandwiches, Jim would unintentionally drop bread crumbs all over the floor and his wife used to come and clean it up. She constantly told him to be more careful but he still kept dropping the crumbs. One day, Della came to the kitchen and saw the bread crumbs on the floor. She became furious and angrily muttered to herself saying, "I wish that there will come a day when I don't have to do this anymore". Upon saying this, she stopped, stared at the crumbs, and started crying as she realized that the day there are no bread crumbs on the floor is the day that there is no husband. She immediately went over to Jim and embraced him as she realized that he was making the sandwiches out of love while the messy floor was just a tiny flaw in his gesture. Ever since that day, Della picked up the bread crumbs with love and gratitude. She decided to overlook the tiny quirk in her husband and started seeing beauty in that messy floor as it was a reminder of her husband's lovely gesture (i.e. Making sandwiches for the couple).
From this story, we can see that no one is really perfect and everyone has flaws. Like Della, we should also overlook some of those tiny imperfections that we see in ourselves and others in order to live a happy life. Greetings readers, I hope that you're doing well. I wish to introduce you to a Japanese concept known as "Wabi-Sabi", which believes in accepting our imperfections and making the most out of life. While Western society sees beauty in perfection, symmetry, and 100% accuracy, Wabi-Sabi states that everything is beautiful while bearing the marks of age and individuality. Wabi-Sabi takes pride in imperfections and flaws by acknowledging three basic realities to life, namely:-
1) Nothing lasts.
2) Nothing is finished.
3) Nothing is perfect.
In today's World of Social Media Influence, everyone is trying to live a "perfect life" with that perfect job, the perfect car, perfect body, etc. In reality, "perfection" doesn't really exist as everything and everyone in this World has flaws and imperfections. Therefore we should stop obsessing over perfectionism as perfection is nothing but "Pure-Fiction". Strive for "excellence" instead and do your best in whatever task you undertake. Doing this will automatically enable you to overlook those tiny flaws/imperfections you find in yourself and others which will make you a better person in the long run.
Conclusion:-
If you apply Wabi-Sabi in your own life and strive for excellence instead of perfectionism, you will live a happy and fulfilled life.
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.
Once upon a time, not long ago,
I felt like a queen, in your shadow.
I ruled your heart & pulled the strings,
Your world, revolved, just around me.
You showered me with love,
Dressed me and scrubbed.
Never did a morsel, go down the road,
Without my company and my nod.
You carried me around,
Wherever you went,
Poured all your troubles,
Into my soft head.
Together, we took a few short naps,
With me lying down, in your lap,
Nights were always spent,
In a very tight embrace.
Alas! A child's fancy,
Is a very fickle dame,
And one fine day,
You found a new game.
Now I sit alone, on a table top,
Waiting to be just picked up.
You glance at me, once in a while,
Just pat me, in your style.
I know a day, not far away,
Someone will pick me, as a stray,
I will end up in a cardboard box,
In the attic, as forgotten thoughts.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
MY SOJOURN TO THE COAST OF GAHIRMATHA - THE STORY OF TARA THE TURTLE
Every year I visit Gahirmatha on the coast of Odisha for mating and egg-laying also called nesting with lakhs of my friends. This is called Reproductive Homing. This mass nesting phenomenon is called Arribadas ( a Spanish word ) by nature-lovers.
Why do we almost 50% of the world's and 90% Of India's Olive Ridley visit the Gahirmatha coast, the dreamland for us?
What is so special about this place an expanse of around 30 km of the sandy stretch from Ekakulanasi Muhan ( river mouth ) to Maipura river mouth and Barunei Muhan to attract us? Some of us also travel to the beach at river Rushikulya mouth in Ganjam District.
It's low salinity due to the influx of water from rivers, its wide beach formed in October November during the retreat of Monsoon due to change in wind direction helps sand to get deposited to form this wide beach. Its gentle gradient towards the sea above the high tide mark, debris-free sand, and the compactness of sand with high moisture content and the right temperature and plentiful availability of planktons and variety of fishes for us omnivorous Olive Ridley, makes this an ideal place for nesting. We turtles can sense these conditions.
Large Arribadas occur between December to Mid February and between March to Mid April.
" I a mother turtle and thousands of others crawl from sea to land mostly in the evening and sometimes during the daytime when the weather is overcast and cool. We wait for the high tide. The tidewater pushes us towards the beach. I stood firm on the sandy beach with my fore flipper in resting position even after the tidewater receded. We have the sixth sense to judge if there is any disturbance or obstructions caused by humans, animals, or even due to natural phenomena. Then with a series of forward movements with my flippers, I crawl towards the beach. I press my fore flippers into the sand which gives my body an inward push. My movements are like that of a trained swimmer, pushing the water in a synchronized way to move forward. In between, I pause to take my breath. I select an appropriate spot to lay my eggs. I looked around. My friends are gradually occupying the entire expanse of sand. All are busy making their pits, laying eggs, and camouflaging them. My front flippers move vigorously and incoordination, to throw back the sand. In between, I rotate my body left and right to create a pit. The pit is still not of the right size for egg-laying. I raise the frontal portion upward with the help of my fore flippers. This allows my body to incline in my rear part. I now can dig deeper with my rear flippers. Finally, the base is broad enough for me to lay all my eggs.
I lay around 100 to 130 eggs around midnight. I remain there panting for some time. Tears start rolling down from the salt gland near my eyes. This tear is from the exhaustion of my love labour, happiness, and lo! it also clears my eyes from sand particles.
My task is not yet over. After regaining my breath, I start covering the eggs with sand using my flippers. I then thump my belly over the closed pit to compress the sand properly. Wait! I have to make my eggs safe from predators. I create some more pseudo pits to camouflage my precious eggs.
I return towards the sea tired but happy that my little ones are safe to hatch. I am still breathing heavily. The waves pull me into the sea. I know I will never see my young ones and they will never know who their mother is? But this is the law of nature. Mother nature and sea will guide and protect them in their life's sojourn.
Let me also share something interesting with you.
Our sex is determined by the temperature during the incubation period. Eggs incubated at a temperature of 31 - 32 degrees centigrade produces only females and at 28 degrees or less produces only males whereas at a temperature of 29 - 30 degrees centigrade, hatchlings are of both sexes ( 40% male and 60% female ) are produced.
I am concerned about the survival of my little ones and our species as a whole.
I am aware that the threat to life is there at every stage. There will be dogs, jackals, feral cats, raccoons, mongoose, vultures, crows, and humans ready to eat our eggs.
The Arribadas or lakhs of turtles coming for egg-laying destroy many nests in search for a place to nest. So in a way we are the greatest reason for damaging the eggs laid by other turtles previously.
Our hatchlings are predated by hermit crabs, fishes, lizards, snakes, vultures, crows, etc.
The danger to life is not yet over. We are eaten by sharks, some varieties of fish like Barracuda, big sea turtles, whales, etc even after we become fully grown.
Trawlers and fishing nets to do not spare our copulating turtles and females swimming to the coast for egg-laying. They get entangled in the fishing nets and die.
Every cloud has a silver lining. Things are not so bad after all. Due to the untiring effort of Dr. Bustard a scientist and nature lover, that this Arribadas of Olive Ridley came to be known to the outside world. The Forest Department of Odisha has declared this area a National Park ( Bhitarkanika National Park and Sanctuary ) and research and protection of our species has been initiated. Their personnel protects us from predators day and night patrolling the beach and keeping guard to ward off predators. Right from our copulation when a huge number of copulating pairs are found swimming passively in the surface current in low waters very close to the nesting site, they petrol the water to see that no trawlers and fishing boats operate in this area and we do not get entangled in fishing nets. Now we can safely come to the beach, lay eggs, and our little ones can hatch without fear of predators. They attach small sensors on our shell to monitor our path as to where we go in the wide ocean and how we come back, again and again to this same beach for nesting covering thousands of kilometers.
(The Gahirmatha Marine Wildlife Sanctuary is the only marine sanctuary of Orissa. In 1997 the Government of Orissa declared the area as Gahirmatha Marine Sanctuary considering its ecological significance and diverse floral and faunal resources. The Gahirmatha Marine Sanctuary is located in the Kendrapara district along the eastern coast of Orissa. It extends from Dhamra River mouth in the north to Brahmani river mouth in the south. The Gahirmatha beach has been a cradle to adult sea turtles and their babies since time immemorial. These turtles are known for the epic journeys that they undertake annually to breed and recuperate. It has been observed that Olive Ridley Sea Turtles migrate from pacific ocean through the coastal water of Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean to the coastal water of Gahirmatha in the north. They usually mate between November and January and the breeding period is of eight months from October to May.)
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
LO! Behold the flute holder,
His somatic curved posture
as if under pressure to tune
the divinity of egoless to croon
while playing on His flute
once, all hearts that did loot
Now thus also His devotees very well feel
while meditating upon Him with minds, still.
Alas! On flute, He used all his fingers
that the present mortal wisdom, it blurs
with queries many, mundane and natural
also deep devotional and philosophical.
To dent at His mystique power, awesome
monks in Himalayan caves are still dumb
Is it that the bamboos stick small and thin
with austerity over Him, could it win
with the penance of baking and drilling
and getting rid of knots as filth cleaning?
Vanish, His strength and mystique power
surrendering to devotees’ devotion, dour.
Or is it, to hypnotize His creations, all
his illusory powers everywhere sprawl?.
Or is it to call His devotees ardent and dear
to embrace Him, the divinity, to come near
through all senses, mind and intellect to grasp the Lord
for time, infinite within them, the Lord to hoard
and His flute- tunes devotees never to miss
to get the captivating happiness peace and bliss?.
At that age the melody from His flute
was said to stall listeners, mesmerized and mute
to listen to it, cows used to stop grazing
so also all, from creepers to a human being.
Queries arise in the mortal wisdom
when He holds on a finger not even thumb
the spinning discus the king among weapons
with thousand blades surprising billion suns
that can destroy at His call any and many
high over space, sky on land and in deep sea
Can this be held by Him on His one finger?
But uses, He all his fingers on a flute as its player.
To protect His loved ones, He could lift and retain
with his little finger the mammoth Govardhan mountain
for days and weeks together
to perish the fury of demigod, the weather
but He needs all His fingers
and frame curving postures
to play the slender little flute
Thus leads philosophers to compute
interpretations, many on acts of supreme
To listen to the melody of his flute, let us dream.
To win over ego that breeds cacophony
need is the divine vibrations in symphony
not the menacing power of the discus to kill
nor the power to hold up a massive Govardhan hill.
Let the tune of Lord’ flute break the cacophony
and blesses us to march ahead egoless in harmony.
(In Hindu philosophy the Lord as Vishnu holds four symbolic weapons and in one of His incarnations he was a flute player as Krishna when he exhibited many a human trait but with divinity. He incarnates to kill unrighteous and protect the righteous and remove the filths created by Rajasic and Tamasic traits of beings.)
Mr. Prasant kumar Routray is a retired Director (Production) from NALCO, a Central Public Sector Undertaking. An Electrical Engoneer by training, his hobby is to write English poems and read a lot of literature. He is from Bhubaneswar and can be contacted at pkroutray2009@gmail.com
OUR FRIEND CHITTA, IN SEARCH OF NIRVANA
Chitta smiled in a sad, apologetic way and whined, "Why don't you believe me, have I ever lied to you?"
I felt sorry for him, somewhat the way one feels for a friend who has suddenly lost a bit of mental balance, but Nirmal showed no such pity, he came down on Chitta like a ruthless ton of bricks, "Believe you? Who can believe you? You think we are idiots? Do you know how much mental torture we went through the whole of yesterday, the two of us and your wife Jayanti? And imagine Pranab and me going round the Bhubaneswar town on a scooter yelling your name like we were looking for a runaway cow? How can you do this to us?"
Chitta smiled again, a weak, mirthless smile and looked down. Nirmal exploded, "Don't give us that smile of a Hinjda, a hopeless eunuch, tell us what exactly made you run away from your home before the dawn broke yesterday. We deserve to know the truth."
Chitta was a little surprised, this demand for truth seemed to have unnerved him, "I have already told you the truth, I left home in search of Nirvana, why don't you believe me?"
I wanted to gently remind him that Nirvana is not like a lost cat that one goes to look for, but before I could say anything, Nirmal burst out like a bomb, "Nirvana, my foot! What Nirvana? Which Nirvana, Nirvana of your rotten, decrepit body or your deranged, demented soul? Nirvana! Hah! You think we don't know? You must be chasing some woman from the office, or must have started gambling recently. You just wanted to run away from Jayanti. When she called us at ten o clock, she was hysterical, she was howling like a widow in mourning, she wanted us to telephone your son at Banagalore and summon him. She was totally clueless. Only if she knew you had run away in search of Nirvana, she would have saved herself some unnecessary grief. You are an utterly useless fellow, shame on you! Tell us aren't you ashamed of yourself!"
Chitta looked at us again, pleadingly, as if he was imploring us to try to understand him, "No, I am not ashamed of myself. Just listen to my story once and decide for yourself if I did an unpardonable crime."
Nirmal was in a terribly foul mood, he was about to burst like a cracker again, I restrained him and asked Chitta to start.
"For the past one year or so I have been feeling quite restless. There is a monotony in life which has rendered everything meaningless, my going to office, working over files, returning home, having tea, going for a walk, Jayanti busy with her TV serials. Sometimes I sit with a magazine and keep reading without knowing what is there, in the office I open the files and turn page after page, nothing registers in the mind, the words get jumbled up and fade from the page and I feel frustrated. I often wonder if the day I am in the office is a today or a yesterday, I forget what day is it, what date, everything had become so mechanical, I felt if somebody else sat on my chair, no one will notice the difference. I, as Chitta have lost all relevance, at home, in the office, in the shops I visited, everywhere people saw a person, but didn't know whether it was me or someone else, or may be my ghost who was walking."
Chitta paused and looked at us,
"You guys haven't felt like that at any time?"
Nirmal, who was slowly getting hooked to Chitta's story, shook his head, "Only a little bit, actually twice, when I had big fights with my wife Sukanti on some trivial issue and wandered like a zombie for three four days without talking to anyone, trying to drown my sorrow in bottles of beer."
I looked at Chiita,
"Did you have a fight with Jayanti?"
Chitta flashed one of those sad, melancholic smiles again, "Fight with her? Where is the time for her to fight with me? She hardly lifts her face from her mobile phone or the TV screen. Sometimes I suspect if my neighbour comes and sits at the dining table, she may not know and serve him dinner, and hurry back to her TV serial. But I don't blame her also. I myself have been totally silent for the past one year, I am being eaten away from inside by a loneliness and hollowness, which I can't explain to myself. The monotonous routineness of life is creeping up on me like a blood sucking creeper. The other day when I was eating a vada brought by the canteen boy I found two pieces of black pepper stuck in them exactly at the same spots as in every other vada I have eaten in the past one year, I looked at the tea cup, I felt as if it was a cup of tea brought to me a year back and I have been sipping the same tea day after day like a vampire sucking blood from it and the tea never finishes. I look at the calendar where the dates of all the twelve months are printed, but I feel as if I have been standing transfixed at some date of one year ago and the days have just rolled by like scenes from a movie. My life has stood still and believe me, you can't imagine how suffocating I feel..."
Nirmal and I looked at each other and then at Jayanti, she shook her head, as if she was mourning the loss of sanity in her husband, who was sitting with his head bowed in deep thought. I gently prodded him to proceed, "I thought I would read some books of Swamy Vivekananda or Ramakrishna Paramahansa to find answers to this restlessness, but gave up after reading a few pages, because nothing registered in my mind, I couldn't understand anything of what I was reading. Somehow at some point of time I was seized with an idea that I must look for Nirvana, that ultimate state of peace, of oneness with God where I will be free from all worries, all bondages of worldly desires. I didn't know where to find it, but I wanted to try...."
Nirmal, no longer his explosive self, was showing signs of interest in this unusual story, "What happened yesterday, early in the morning?"
"I woke up from sleep at four, much before the dawn broke, there was total peace everywhere, I looked out of the window, the streetlight was spread over the road like night sleeping peacefully on a bed of silence. I thought if I could walk into the sleeping night I might find the clues to Nirvana. I took a quick bath, put on a fresh set of clothes and walked out of home. I was pleasantly surprised to see the moon in the sky, bright and happily radiant. The mix of the moon light with the street light added to the peace prevailing everywhere. At the end of the road where it turns right I found this huge white bull sitting majestically and looking at me with detached equanimity. Its eyes were like liquid crystals of peace and it was masticating like it had no worry in the world. I felt a stab in my heart, is Nirvana like this when you feel your presence in complete detached magnificence, with no worry, no malice, and no concern for anything? I stood for a few moments, looking at the bull and moved on."
Chitta looked at us and asked if we were getting bored, we shook our head and urged him to continue. Somehow we started feeling as if we had become a part of his journey, the empty street, the light shining on it and a silent morning beckoning us with a disarming smile.
"When I got into the main road, you know the one from AG Sqare to Kalpana Chhak the silence all around overwhelmed me. There was no one on the road and suddenly a song came floating from far. It was a bhajan, dedicated to Lord Jagannath, seeking to merge oneself in the God's feet. The loud bhajan resonated in the thin air like pure devotion being poured into a waiting pot. It was a milkman going to deliver milk somewhere in two big jugs hanging from the back of his bicycle. He waved to me from the other side of the road. A look at his face showed me how much he was at peace with himself and how he was moving with no fear in the world. I thought to myself, he must be feeling the hands of God protecting him and his mind, uncluttered, free from all worries, must be close to Nirvana."
Chitta took a sip of water from the glass kept before him and continued, "A few steps away there was a road side temple, a small one, you must have seen it, at the junction where the triangular traffic island ends. A priest had just finished washing the floor, he was giving a bath to the idols and decorating them with sandal paste and flowers. I stood there transfixed, the mantras being chanted by the priest were clear and resounding in my ears, soaking into my heart. Some of them I myself chant every day when I do my Pooja before leaving for the office, but yesterday in those early hours, the hours which probably belonged to God, I felt the mantras take on a new meaning. They sanctified my soul, filling it with a crystal pure divinity. I sat down on the floor and tears started rolling from my eyes. I had never felt so immersed in divine presence in my life. I came to my sense when the priest started ringing the bells and doing Arati, I prostrated myself before the Gods and sought their blessings to find Nirvana."
We could see a rare shine in Chitta's tired eyes, remembering the scene. He wasn't done yet.
"I must have spent an hour in the temple, I was so absorbed in the Pooja. By the time I came out of the temple the busy day of the Capital city was just unfolding. I kept walking. I felt like going on and on. My seemingly aimless journey, however, was taking me towards the old town, where the famous Lingaraj temple stood with its huge flag at the top fluttering in the wind. I must have seen it from a couple of miles away and my subconscious mind was leading me there. It was just past eight o clock when I was drawn by the sound of a prayer wafting into the sky like a sweet fragrance. I stood near the gate of a Middle School and looked at the children singing the prayer, with their eyes closed and hands folded. The collective prayer moved me like a mesmerising force. Without being aware of it, I also folded my hands, closed my eyes and joined in the prayer. In a moment I was transported to an ethereal world of oneness with God. I yearned for an internal peace and felt that if I could merge myself into a collective consciousness of mass prayer, may be I will attain Nirvana. When the prayer ended, I opened my eyes and saw the children moving to their class in lines. I left, an inner peace glowing in my heart. My next stop was the Lingaraj temple."
We had no illusion about the temple. It's a place of noise, chaos and utter lawlessness perpetrated by the priests. Yet we wanted to hear Chitta's experience on a day he was searching for Nirvana.
"As usual the temple was crowded, by the time I had reached the sanctum sanctorum three priests had approached me to show me around and conduct the Pooja for me for a small fee of fifty rupees, I had waved them away, one of them had used some expletives to condemn me to hell. A steady bitterness had seized me like an irritating headache. The spot near the idol was a place of cacophony, the high pitched voices of the priest asking for Dakshina - 'Give, give, give to God, what you give will come back to you a hundred fold, don't sit over your money, you are not going to take it with you when you die, those who can't pay clear off the place, let others come in, give, give to God.' They had canes in their hand and were beating any poor-looking man lingering a little longer. I felt as if my head would burst. I regretted I came there in search of Nirvana. I just folded my hands, said my prayer and ran away....what? Why are you smiling in that mocking way? Don't you like what I am saying? Should I stop?"
I hastened to correct him,
"No, no, we are not mocking you. It's just that we had known this is what would have happened. We have had that experience also, so many times, I have got the beating by the cane on couple of occasions. But just imagining it happening to you when you were seriously looking for Nirvana makes us laugh."
Chitta continued,
"I ran out like a man chased by a swarm of blood sucking bats. And then just outside the temple I stopped, mesmerised. There was a blind man sitting under a tree singing a bhajan for the Lord. Let me tell you, there was so much pathos in his voice, so much attachment to God, such selfless surrender, I was moved beyond words. I went near him, and sat on the cement platform around the tree. He must have sensed my presence, he looked in my direction and smiled and kept singing his bhajans. In a few moments I saw the Lord before my closed eyes and felt one with Him. There was an indescribable peace, a solitude, beyond all the noise outside, the passing vehicles, the crowd moving towards the temple, nothing mattered to me any more. I was in a trance, the only song I heard was the sweet bhajans as if they were coming to me from miles away, to lead me to a supreme being, the destination of all seekers. I don't know how long I sat like that, when I opened my eyes the blind man had stopped singing, the crowd had thinned and it was time for the temple to close. I looked at the man, he was not a beggar, but there was a vessel before him for collecting money. I quietly took out a hundred rupee note and put it in this vessel. He must have sensed a note dropping on his vessel, he took it out, felt it and looked in my direction, 'Babu, please take this back, just give me ten rupees which will buy me a meal. Please don't spoil me, I don't want so much money that my mind will veer away from my God, my saviour. My prayer will lose its surrender and I will be waiting for the next big donor like you and not for the kindness of my God. Please Babu, take this big note back, if you want to give me something just give enough to buy a meal for me. I am hungry, not greedy Babu. The Lord Lingaraj will take care of me as much as He will take care of you.' I was stunned, coming out of my trance I thought I had found a man who had found Nirvana, he had overcome greed, desire and was totally immersed in God through his soul stirring bhajans. I gave him ten rupees, donated the hundred rupees to the twenty or so beggars outside the temple and started walking again, towards Rabi Talkies and Kalpana Square. There is a small road side eatery near the Court complex where I usually take tea and snacks when I go there for work. It took me an hour of walk to reach the place and I had a hearty meal there, sitting and eating leisurely. There was no hurry, I didn't have to rush and I was finding a sense of peace I had not felt for a long time."
Nirmal was listening with rapt attention, he interjected, "Didn't you feel sleepy after a heavy meal? You had got up so early in the morning!"
Chitta shook his head,
"I was feeing tired having walked almost fifteen miles since morning, but not sleepy. I paid for the meal and resumed my walk. It was close to two thirty and quite hot. I wanted to take some rest. So I went to Kalpna Talkies, there was some Odiya movie running there, I bought a ticket and went in. The hall was cool, the Air Conditioner was in full blast. Within five minutes into the movie I fell asleep. I got up when the watchman woke me up three hours later at the end of the movie. I had slept though the entire movie and the interval in between the two halves! I gave him a sheepish smile and came out . It was close to six in the evening. Lights had come out, I took tea in a stall and started wondering where should I go. I stood on the road side, looking at the passers by. All of them were in a hurry, no one had time to stop and ask himself where he was going and whether his journey had any meaningful purpose, whether he will find peace at the end of it. There were labourers returning home, office wallahs, shoppers, beggars, school kids going for tuition and old people out for their evening walk. The shops and the show room were crowded, people were buying things as if their life depended on them. The hustling and bustling of the bazar in the Cuttack Road near Kalpana Talkies gave an impression that the world is moving at a maddening pace and life was on a fast track. Back in the crowd my head had started getting heavy again, I wanted to go to some peaceful place, sit and contemplate on life."
Nirmal shouted at him,
"For that you should have come home and spared us all the trouble."
Chitta smiled, as if he was trying to explain a difficult mathematical equation to a school child, "Have you forgotten, I had run away from home precisely for that, to contemplate on life and search for Nirvana! In that evening crowd, my mind was again getting restless. I was wondering what to do when I spotted an old lady, bent with age, looking helplessly to both sides. I went to her and asked her, 'Mausi, are you looking for someone?' She flashed a toothless smile at me, 'Son, I am looking for a little help. I am too scared of this fast moving traffic on the road. I want someone to help me to cross the road.' I told her I would help her and took her hand in mine. Slowly, we moved inch by inch avoiding the traffic on both sides. It must have taken us a good ten minutes to cross the road, but we finally got there. She extended her shrivelled up hand and touched my head, blessing me and with her bent body she started walking away. I wondered where she was going, this old lady with a clear, uncluttered mind, beyond thirst, hunger, desire, has she found peace with life, with her God? She took a left turn at the old Railway station road and disappeared into the darkness somewhere, and I lost track of her, because I had stopped for a few minutes looking at a make shift temple on a cement platform under a big banyan tree. There was a small group of five or six men engaged in cleaning up the place. Preparations were going on for some kind of evening Pooja. I was curious. I climbed on to the platform and sat in a corner. There were a few idols, but it was obvious Lord Shiva was the presiding deity whose framed photograph leaned against the tree. It was a huge photograph and the face of the Lord was staring down, the fearful third eye on the forehead quite prominent. I was attracted to it and decided to wait for the Pooja to start. By about eight thirty the crowd had swollen to about fifteen and devotional songs in popular film tunes were echoing in the small platform sending noisy vibrations all around. A hazy smoke had started manifesting itself and a chillum containing hashish was being passed around. The man sitting by my side handed it over to me and said, 'Hoon, Bhaina, take a dum, Jai Bholenath'! Call it peer pressure or excited curiosity, I took a drag on the chillum and passed it on. It was my first time ever of smoking ganja and believe me I experienced a life defining moment with that drag. Suddenly my mind got cleared of everything I had accumulated over the years, it became blank and then there was a mild explosion of some liquid substance and it started seeping into my consciousness like a sweet, fragrant syrup, soaking up every fibre of my being. I felt light in my head and a sort of floating feeling seized me as if I had left the floor and was levitating. My gaze was fixed on the third eye of Lord Shiva and I saw luminescent rays radiating from there. The chillum was passed on to me in the second round and this time I took two drags on it. The effect was exhilarating, beyond any description. The image of Lord Shiva, the devotees around me, the tree, the platform - all started rotating first fiercely and then slowly, sort of undulating in the air. The rays emanating from the third eye were now scanning the crowd like a beacon from a light house and every time it swept over me I felt I was being bathed in a cascade of peace and divinity. Suddenly I saw the bull of the morning appearing before me, masticating with a calm smile on its face, the milkman passed me by in a haze, the bhajan coming out loud and clear, the priest chanting the mantras again although they merged with the devotional songs and appeared to come from far away, the school children passed before my eyes in neat rows, holding flowers in their hands, the blind man raising his hand and telling me, 'Babu, give me only enough to buy my next meal, don't give me so much that I will forget my Lord and feel myself free from the hold of his mercy.' And then the old lady put her hand on my head, blessed me and showed me the way to the image of the Lord Shiva on the make shift temple. I must have taken one or two more of the drags on the chillum, but I was beyond any feeling by then. My soul, my being, my consciousness had merged with the Lord, drawn irresistibly to him through his penetrating third eye on the forehead. The pillar in front of me started enlarging, but it was no longer a pilar, it was Lord Shiva standing before me clad in his tiger skin, with a Trishul in his one hand and a Dambaru on the other. Something burst within me, I grabbed his feet with both my hands and the last thing I remember was lying prostate before him, my two hands grabbing his feet and shouting Prabho! Prabho!...... I don't know what happened after that.."
It was a long narration and Chitta was exhausted. He stopped, drank a glass of water and looked at us. I took up the narrative from him, "I will tell you what happened after that. Like you told us a few minutes back you experienced a defining moment of your life, we had a defining day of our lives yesterday. We spent the whole day thinking that we had lost a dear friend, yet we were not prepared to accept it. When Jayanti called us at ten thirty in the morning she sounded as if she was already a widow, she was inconsolable. Apparently in your twenty seven years of marriage you had never left home without telling her. Had we been living near a forest we would have thought a tiger had dragged you inside it and finished you off for a hearty lunch. She had called your office and you were AWL, absent without leave, and she was clueless. So we got unto our humble scooter and roamed around the city of Bhubaneswar looking for you at all possible and impossible places. You eluded us. We didn't have the heart to eat a lunch, we survived the whole day with endless cups of tea and about six packets of cigarettes. At eleven in the night we finally gave up, we were at Cuttack road, hoping against hope that someone would tell us you had been run over by a speeding truck on the busy highway, but no one had any such heartening news which would have helped us to close your case forever. Near the old railway station we stopped to light a cigarette and found we had run out of match sticks. All shops were closed, we got frustrated. Then we saw at a distance some small makeshift temple and a lamp still burning before the deities. This idiot Nirmal jumped up with joy, I was not sure if it was permitted to light a cigarette from a lamp in a temple. Nirmal assured me that he took full responsibility for such a sin and dragged me there. After we lighted our cigarettes, inhaling a bit of remnant of ganja smoke in the air, we found you lying on the ground, prostrate, grabbing a pillar with both hands. You were stinking like a coolie from a fish market, and you did not respond to our call. From the smell coming from your mouth we knew you were stoned to your bones. We lifted you, put you between us on the scooter, I holding on to you like I was carrying the corpse of a man I had just murdered and must make sure we reach a secluded place where we could bury you safely. We deposited you with Jayanti and ran home. This morning Jayanti called us an hour back giving the grand news that you are awake after sleeping like a drunk sailor in an abandoned boat. And here we are, listening to your story, so exciting that it will raise the hair of a freshly bathed dog still whimpering from its reluctant, life-defining bath."
Chitta smiled again, one of those weak, nincompoop-ish smiles and that brought back the animal spirit in Nirmal. He thundered, "You donkey! You brainless, gutless, spineless ass, tell us, did you succeed in finding Nirvana?"
Chitta kept mum for a couple of minutes, deep in thought, and then shook his head, "I felt I had glimpses of it but I didn't exactly get it. The only lesson I learnt yesterday was that next time a restlessness grips me, I will not run away from home, I will go out and talk to people, reach out to the poor and helpless, try to bring a smile on their worried face, and pray to the Lord to grant happiness to all. True happiness, and peace of the soul, come from within, the mirror to God is in our heart and it is there we should look for Him and the joy of Nirvana".
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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