Literary Vibes Edition - LXXIV (26-June-2020)
( I RISE - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya )
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 74th edition of LiteraryVibes, a rich offering of beautiful poems and interesting short stories.
The current week has been a memorable one for the suspense in the holding of the famous Ratha Yatra (Festival of Chariots) at Puri which at normal times attracts more than a million pilgrims. This year, however, the Supreme Court had initially banned the holding of the festival in view of the likely possibility of the spread of Covid19. The people of Odisha went into a shock, our faith in the supremacy of Chakadola, the round eyed Almighty, variously known as the Ocean of Kindness, (Krupa Sindhu), the Saviour of the Helpless (Dina Bandhu) and the Lord of the Universe (Jagannath), is unshakable and millions of believers prayed the Lord of the Lords to prevail upon the Lordships at Supreme Court to reverse their decision. And Lo and Behold, the miracle happened, in a subsequent judgment Ratha Yatra was permitted with the barest presence of the priests and the police. The chariots did roll on 23 June and the Trinity of Jagannath, Balabhadra and Subhadra left their abode to spend a joyful vacation with their aunt Maa Gundhicha. There was a collective sigh of relief. The tradition of the Yatra was not broken and hopefully peace and prosperity will prevail in the universe. If there was a betting on this see-saw battle between faith and a court judgment, no one would ever know. All is well that rolls well.
Despite the spectre of Covid19 casting a long shadow across the seven continents Father's Day was celebrated on 21 June with crisis-crossing messages of love, affection and reassurance. The social media was abuzz with anecdotes, philosophical musings and of course the all pervading jokes, memes and cartoons. I was curious to know how best one can describe a father. Among others, I found this absolute gem of a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye published in 1932. The poet has immortalised herself with this one solitary poem. And history depicts her as a non-poet who just scribbled this poem on a brown bag when a German Jewish woman Margaret Schwarzkopf expressed her deep sadness for her inability to go to Germany to meet her mother. The poet confessed that although she had never written poetry earlier, "the words just came to her". But this poem 'that just came to her' has been recited at funerals and at other appropriate occasions thousands of times over the years:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
As I read the poem over and over again, I feel a father could be all these and even more!
In today's edition there is a beautiful poem "An Ode to Fathers", by Dilip Mohapatra. I have also written a short story about a bereaved son's perception about his father's soul resting in peace. On 20 September last year, in the thirty fourth edition of LiteraryVibes I had published a beautiful, touching story of mine on a son's remembrance of his father under the title "The Silent Night and A Trunkful of Memories." (http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/224).
Today's LiteraryVibes is accompanied by a brilliant, scholarly article "Recalling Adi Shankaracharya’s Vedantic Legacy" by Debi Padhi. Exploring the Vedanta philosophy the erudite writer quotes Adi Shankara and delves into the truths that life embraces. It can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/317
Hope you will like the offerings in this seventy fourth edition of LiteraryVibes. Please share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/316 with your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous editions of LiteraryVibes are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes Your feedback is welcome in the Comments section at the bottom of the page.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MONA LISA
NIGHT VIGIL (Raati Khoje)
02) Haraprasad Das
LOVE SONG (1)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
AN ODE TO FATHERS
DEATHS FOR SALE
04) Dr. Pradip K. Swain
SUNDAY MORNING CALL
05) Ishwar Pati
READING A STORY
06) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
A BOUQUET OF BLESSINGS
07) Sundar Rajan
DIFFERENT STROKES
08) Thryaksha A Garla
CABLE CAR
BARE BONES
09) Molly Joseph
DRIP! DRIP !
10) Sharanya Bee
MYTHS
11) Sumitra Mishra
RUMMY
12) Vidya Shankar
DE-LIGHTFUL DARKNESS
IT IS BECAUSE OF DEATH, I LIVE
13) Hema Ravi
SALUTE GOOD HEALTH
14) Sheena Rath
HUES OF BLUE
15) Gokul Chandra Mishra
MATIA
16) Zia Marshall
THE CALLIGINOUS SKY
17) Supriya Pattanayak
ENTREAT
18) Ravi Ranganathan
DREAMS
DREAM AGAIN
19) Padmini Janardhanan
ME WITHIN THE US.
20) Setaluri Padmavathi
THE STORY OF A BOAT
21) Meera Raghavendra Rao N
VANCOUEVER---A SCENIC GEM
22) Umasree Raghunath
POEM: AN ODE TO A MISSING BOY!
23) Murukesh Panyara
MARGARET’S CATS
24) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
REST IN PEACE
25) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
REVIEW OF THE POEMS IN LV73
I handle friends
with delicate care,
fragile glass balls
liable to crack if any falls.
My memories are potted plants
needing regular watering
and manure, and the jesters,
my friends, their fair-foul games.
Wife, a sunflower in vase,
turned to me with a permanent scowl,
even if I stand clouded, mood blue,
she stares with a jaundiced pale smile.
Parents, withering creepers
on my boundary wall; their caution,
drops of dew on gossamer silk
woven by the good old spiders.
My children go out and
flow in, rippling, shimmering
soap bubbles, giggling streams,
butterflies landing on shoulders.
An impinging soft rubber ball,
I bounce among crystal faces
of my little world, squeezing
to take the shape of chutes
to enter, move, exit,
a shapeless, flowing, floating
simmer in blood; time’s melt,
I smile, unsure in mind.
A halfmoon excuses itself,
its half-smile trying to turn
into a frown as it heads
ahead though the waning phase;
the slice muses -
why the waxing phase
with the same smile
invites more joie de vivre?
The night passes open-eyed,
its doors ajar, digging nails in,
scratching the skin
of the idle bed, looking for
the night-flowers from your hair
rioting with the sweat of your
underarms, coils of dark frailty;
my eyes go wet.
Armfuls of your memory
loaded with our soulful past
open up. Knotted passions
bloom as unseasonal flowers.
But nothing works, courage fails,
I return, a defeated king,
like a tuft of grass, losing colour
in stones’ underbelly.
In late night’s bloodless pallor,
we make love, but I lay down arms
before the bugle, rolling away,
hiding face, ruing my retreat.
Back in memories’ lane, your sari
fluttering against the blue sky,
your anklet-bells singing to birds,
nose-diamond winking at stars;
I recall the last drizzle,
the deodars by our house,
wet as your hair in raw sweat,
breath of moist air billowing in sky.
(The Odia poem ‘Raati Khoje’, published in Writers’ Special Issue, June 1999 of journal ‘SUDHANYA’, 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 never promised you
priceless gifts from alien lands,
never showered on you
inane flattery -
Like, ‘you shimmer
in my heart’s mirror
like a full moon
in a rain-washed sky’.
You never complained,
never brought out
your bottled-up resentment,
but weathered family storms.
When the pain crossed
your limits, you retreated
behind locked doors,
unwittingly uttering ‘ooh!’
I have often wondered -
are we the two faces
of the same coin
called destiny?
Both the faces minted
with the same narrative
to act as time’s witnesses,
supplementing each other?
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)”
You open your umbrella
while those soft hands
cling to your shirt tails
and you guide them
to the lee side
of the wall
and keep them dry
while half of you perhaps
is wet and drenched.
You tuck them in bed
with the softest blanket
and perhaps don't have
enough of it left to
cover yourself.
You toil and sweat
to make ends meet and
bring home cornucopia
of goodies
clear all bills
and fulfil their needs
as best as you can.
No one ever knows that
your vests are torn under
your shirts
your toes peep through
your socks
or that the soles of your
shoes could give way
any day
while you don't complain
and smile away.
Sometimes you remember
the old king Bimbisara
biting his arm
in desperation
to wet his parched throat
with his blood
while rotting in the cage
of Ajatashatru
or emperor Shah Jahan
dethroned
and thrown into the dungeon
of the darkest prison.
Sometimes you are
remembered
more as the son
that you were not
than the son that you were
more as the father
that you were not
than the father that you were.
You may or may not receive
any appreciation
respect
or love
accolade
applause
or eulogy
you just carry on
for it shouldn't really matter
as long as you remember
you are the man
and
you are the father.
(Musings on the Father's Day )
Sachin Sawant climbed up the stairs to his apartment on the 9th floor slowly, since the lift was out of order. He had taken half day off from his office. He looked weary and pensive. He opened the door and entered his home. His wife Madhuri had gone off to her mother's place for a week. The children had gone to school. Sachin plunked his brief case on the bed, poured a glass of water from the jug and drank it almost in a gulp. He then walked over to the balcony and looked down while holding onto to the railings. He saw cars parked in a line on the hard pavement below. For a moment he thought how would it feel if he just flings himself down? How long will it take before he hits the ground? How long will it take after the impact for him to pass out? He broke into a cold sweat and came back to the drawing room and eased himself onto his recliner. He emptied his pockets and put the contents on the centre table, on top of a coffee table book. His wallet, the car keys and a small plastic vial with some white powder in it. He looked up to the ceiling and the day's happenings scrolled past him in slow motion.
' You are just a lab rat. You are just confined to your cage. What do you know about marketing and profit making for the company? And you have the cheek to tell me, your CEO when I should launch the product? And you threaten me that you would go public? Let me tell you, if I want, at the snap of my fingers I will destroy you. I will demolish you. You will be ostracised in the pharmaceutical industry. You will be moving on the streets with a begging bowl. Do you understand?', the irate voice of Shekharan, the CEO of Med-Labs echoed in his ears.
Sachin, a PhD in biochemistry, started his life as a scientist in Med-Labs about ten years ago. A brilliant mind, he was instrumental in developing many life saving drugs during the decade and was promoted to the position of Head of Production recently. His latest breakthrough was a possible vaccine for COVID 19, under which the whole world was on siege. He and his team worked relentlessly to develop the vaccine which was successfully tried on rats and guinea pigs. A board meeting was held to decide about the launch of the product. While Sachin was very keen to launch the product forthwith even before getting the patent, the CEO was against the idea.
' We don't have to hurry. Let us wait for the best opportune moment to go public. Let there be more deaths. Let there be more panic. We will get our best price when the desperation will peak,' Shekharan proposed.
' But, that's being unethical. We are in the business of saving lives. Not taking advantage of the situation,' protested Sachin.
' Would you please shut up? You are teaching me business? You stick to your test tubes and beakers. Leave the business to us. No one in this room is going to talk about this. The batch production of the vaccine will be done under utmost secrecy. I shall decide when it will be released to the market,' dictated Shekharan firmly.
' This is such a great discovery. My team has worked day and night to accomplish this. I would surely like to see them recognised and rewarded. The world must know about them. Its history they have made. How can we keep quiet?,' asked Sachin.
' Surely, we will reward them. I have asked HR to increase their basic by ten per cent. That should be enough. You take it or leave it. You guys are here to work for us and we decide what is right and what is not. You will be told what to do and you just deliver. No more discussions on this. My decision is final,' said Shekharan
' I am sorry Shekharan, I am not going to take it lying. I am going to the press.' Sachin retorted.
' The meeting us adjourned. Sachin, see me in my office,' said Shekharan and abruptly got up to leave the meeting room.
Sachin followed him to his office. After the dressing down he received from Shekharan, he walked back to the laboratory crestfallen. He was feeling dejected yet was seething with helpless anger. He was wondering how could people be so callous and indifferent to the deaths happening worldwide and be so much focused on profits and money. He thought how would Shekharan feel if someone dies from his family or how would his family feel if he dies. His mind was running wild. Infuriated by Shekharan' apathy towards COVID19 victims compounded by his insulting words that he spoke, he started thinking about taking his life forthwith. He definitely deserved to die. He thought that if he was carrying a gun, he would have shot him then and there. At the same time he was feeling depressed at his own impotence. He was feeling belittled and humiliated in front of his colleagues in the board room and later in the CEO's cabin. He remembered that wicked and evil look on Shekharan's face when he threatened him. He couldn't forget the smirk of ridicule on the face of his pretty secretary who had heard the altercation. Then he thought, may be ending his own life would be more appropriate. Perhaps he was the greatest failure in his life. Despite his superior qualifications and accomplishments, he was getting bullied by a guy who happened to be on the CEO's chair because his father owned the company. He perhaps had failed his team who worked so hard and being offered a ten percent raise in return. He probably failed his family by being so meek and weak. Hanging between rage and self-loathing he opened a special cupboard that contained various toxic chemicals and picked up one vial, containing a white powder. It was a substance called Ricin, an extract from castor beans. It was an intermediate compound used in the processing of the vaccine. By itself it was a potent poison. He thought this would be an appropriate instrument either to kill Shekharan or to kill himself. A suitable dosage could be easily administered with coffee, since it had no odour nor flavour and the cause of death could be due to heart failure, the real cause being undetectable. He gave himself a little more time to think at home, about which option he should take and carried the vial in his pocket.
Sachin heaved a deep sigh and picked up the TV remote to switch on a news channel. The channel was showing a 'breaking news' item, about the suicide of an actor from the tinsel town. Almost every news channel was full of this news, showing obituary and condolence messages, clips from his movies and debates as well as discussions on his untimely death. There was the conspiracy angle. There was the love triangle angle too. Even fear of extortion from the criminals featured amongst the possibilities of the causes. Sachin thought that his cadaver was perhaps getting devoured by a wake of vultures delightfully. Suddenly he felt sick and giddy, and then slowly slipped into a trance.
Sachin was wandering aimlessly in the wilderness. He could barely see what was ahead of him because of the thick mist limiting his vision. Intuitively he was moving ahead on the winding path skirted by thick bamboo plantation on both sides. He then heard some murmurs in the distance. As he continued he suddenly found himself in an opening, which looked like an exhibition ground. The mist had lifted yet the atmosphere was ominous, rather somewhat eerie. He found a long corridor ahead of him, which was flanked by some stalls. There was an entrance gate with no guards. More people were getting in rather coming out. All of them were moving like zombies, silently or muttering to themselves. He stopped short at the gate and scanned the big hoarding on top of the gate. It read,' Are you depressed? Are you angry? Do you want to kill someone? Or yourself? You are at the right place.' Below these inscriptions, written in bold capitals was, ' DEATHS FOR SALE.'
He then picked up a brochure kept in a bin near the entrance and browsed through it. It was a colour-coded map of the stalls with numbers and indicated what types of deaths each of them dealt with, whether the deaths were homicidal or self-inflicted. The legend explained the colour code which were assigned to various categories and sub categories of deaths on sale, like drug or poison induced, weapon supported, deaths by strangulation, incremental or accidental including drowning and immolation. The currencies of payment for purchase of the deaths of your choice were printed at the bottom. These were actually trade offs. The alternatives included conscience, compassion, empathy, self-belief, hope etc. Sachin took some time to grasp the connotations. Then it dawned on him. You buy a particular type of death but at the expense of your conscience. You pick up a razor blade to slice your wrists, but only after you give up your self-belief.
The very first stall was selling deaths due to poisoning. A rather short and stout man with a tooth brush moustache and a Swastika emblem on his sleeves was manning the stall. His experience in peddling deaths under this category was supposed to be phenomenal. There were pictures on the walls with detailed descriptions of his expertise in this area. Graphic details of large gas chambers administering such deaths in mass murders certified his credibility. There was also the account of his own suicide along with his sweetheart through poisoning. Poisons were classified whether they were agriculture based like insecticides, pesticides, herbicides, fungicides and fumigants. Industrial chemicals included arsenic, cyanides, mercury compounds, barbiturates, lead combinations , various corrosive acids and gases like sulphur dioxide, carbon monoxide, etc. Most commonly used sleeping pills and their lethal dosage was highlighted. Then there was a wide selection of biotoxins, which mostly were extractions from venoms of snakes, scorpions, spiders and tarantulas. They were classified in terms of availability, toxicity and lethality. The mycotoxins elaborated the use of various fungi and mushrooms. The stall keeper did a good job of taking the visitors around each and every aspect of the poisons and their efficacy as killing agents.
Sachin moved from stall to stall where the stall keepers gave him the technicalities of all kinds of instruments of death and the associated dynamics. His limited knowledge in this area underwent a drastic expansion. He learnt from a dead Samurai in one of the stalls about the old Japanese custom of seppuku or harakiri, the ritual suicide by disembowelment as part of bushido, a code of honour. He also understood the spirit behind kamikaze, the suicide attacks by pilot guided explosive missiles against enemy warships. He learnt about the use of various explosives and firearms for homicides as well as suicides. He learnt about the intricacies of deaths induced by daggers, cutlasses, katanas, swords and spears. He was exposed to the deaths through bludgeoning by spiked clubs, hammers and stones. The mechanics of deaths due to asphyxiation through drowning, hanging by ropes and strangulation by various means like pillows and garrottes in many forms, scarves, chains, wire, fishing line, curtain cord, etc. were lucidly explained to him in some stalls. There was one stall manned by a stocky bald man resembling to Alfred Hitchcock and which specialised in mysterious and unusual deaths. It also displayed various methods of disposing the bodies and gave the know-how of leaving no forensic evidence in the process. By the time he moved to the end of the corridor, he was almost exhausted. The last stall dealt with natural deaths, mostly due to old age or diseases. Except for impatience, there was no price tag on these deaths. Only one variation was euthanasia linked to terminal illness that could be unbearable.
Sachin moved out of the dark corridor which led to a garden at the end. Surprisingly it was not being subscribed by most visitors, who exited with their purchases through a side exit gate. Sachin walked near the entrance to the garden. There was a sign that read,' Defeating Death'.
Sachin was curious to know what does this section offer. The garden was divinely peaceful, with manicured lawns, beautiful topiaries and flower plants in blossom. ' Om! Traiyambakam Yajamahe , Sugandhim Pushtibardhanam..' , the Maha Mrutyunjay Mantra, the Supreme Hymn of Victory over Death was echoing in the air. There were few people happy and radiant in white robes, watering the plants, and some playing with butterflies. In one corner, there was a gazebo like structure and Sachin could see the silhouette of a sage who was perhaps sitting in the lotus pose, meditating. Sachin approached him cautiously and paid him his obeisance. The sage opened his eyes and motioned him to sit close to him.
' It seems now you know about deaths a little more. Did you choose any ?', the sage asked soothingly.
' No sire, I haven't made up my mind as yet,' Sachin replied.
' Alright, but if I tell you how to beat Death in its own game, would you consider that?,' the sage offered.
' Beating Death? Is it possible?', enquired Sachin.
' Look son, self is immortal. It was never born and it would never die. Death can only conquer your body, but not your soul. Your soul cannot be destroyed by weapons, neither can be drowned, nor can be burnt to ashes. Have you heard of the story of Nachiketa?,' asked the sage.
' Yes, sire. He had a dialogue with Yama, the God of Death, and learnt from him the mystery of life and death. But I don't remember the details,' said Sachin politely.
' Yama told Nachiketa that the body is the chariot. Your intelligence is the driver while your five senses are the horses which pull the chariot. You soul is the master of the chariot. And beyond your soul is the Supreme Being. Once you realise this Supreme Self, you become immortal. You attain your salvation. And for you Death is dead,' concluded the sage.
' Sire, it's really difficult for me to comprehend what you are saying. May I seek your blessings and know how do I get out of my current dilemma?,' begged Sachin.
' Alright, let me give you two potent weapons with which you can kill your desperation and depression. Hope and Self-belief,' the sage blessed Sachin.
The TV remote slipped from Sachin's hand and made a noise. Sachin woke up with a start. He took some time to get back his bearings, his eyes focused on the vial containing the white powder kept on the centre table.
He picked the vial up and went to the washroom. He unscrewed the cover of the vial, poured the contents into the toilet and flushed it.
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.
It is a hot summer Sunday morning. The emergency room is hectic, people standing wall to wall. The tracking board system on overload. The radio blared. “This is Hollidaysburg ambulance. We are on scene of a two-vehicle crash. Many victims- one small child badly hurt. We are enroute- Load and go- We have an ETA of 10-15 minutes."
There is a profound stillness in the emergency room while we await the ambulance. The lab techs, Xray techs, have been called in and mill around between me and the nurses, all of us drifting from ER to hall to radio. Two bottles of IV fluid are hanging with lines flushed full, needing only to be plugged in. The oxygen tube is unwrapped and ready. The ambulance entrance door is open. My mouth lining is sucked dry by the hormones of anxiety, and my heart is thrashing under a green scrub suit.
I make my brain rehearse yet again: ABC- Airway, Breathing, Circulation. I know he is in shock but check the airway first. Then the lungs. After that, he’ll need blood and probably surgery.
Has anyone called the surgeon yet? My brain hallucinates. I have already asked that probably half a dozen times.
“They are at the door!”
We swarm around the ambulance, gurney, then rush it down to the trauma room. At the edges of the blanket, I can see only an arm, into which pours fluids from a hanging plastic bag and his face. Framed by a plastic bag and his face. Framed by a plastic neck collar, sandbags at both sides and a strap holding down his forehead, is a face of chalky skin spattered with dust and glittering shards of glass. Dried blood over the left eyebrow. A dust free rivulet from eye to sandbag reveals the path of some earlier tears.
Your parents call you C.H. I briefly look at your face and felt that I knew you. Perhaps I had seen you at the mall or in the grocery store. Your belly is a little rigid and has rebound. “Are both lines in?’ Both in-wide open.” Blood pressure 70 over zero- pulse 150. At that news, my mouth goes dry again. Or at least I feel it again - maybe it hadn’t moistened but had merely been overshadowed by other stimulus.
CT scan shows ruptured liver - your abdomen is already a lake of blood, the heart and blood vessels aren’t even half full anymore, and your brain and heart aren’t getting enough oxygen, no matter how much we hose into your lungs, either organ could stop working any time.
The surgeons are here. We realize that we are just stalling - we’re not even able to keep up with the bleeding, certainly not making any headway. Surgery is the only chance. I see him loaded into the gurney to the operating room with two brave nurses who give me the thumbs-up sign and two talented, frightened surgeons whose eyes question mine. My gut tightens.
I explain to the mother with words that stick to my fly paper mouth. “Just do what’s right, Doctor”. She slices through her shock to my eyes. Her eyes turn inward behind a welling pool of tears.
The surgeons did their part. Your shattered liver could not be fixed. They wanted to give you a chance. Maybe you wanted a chance too, but all the while you told us quietly and gently that what had been broken could not be fixed. When at last the surgeons looked at one another and admitted that they can not do any more, you let go and died.
It has been many weeks since your death. The synapses that made up the memory pathways of my brain had won over the past many weeks and once again were triggered by various brain chemicals. These mixed into a soup of neurotransmitters in which I began to drown. Slipping into the soup. I thought of stories I had heard. Stories about people who had died and been welcomed by their loved ones to a new, beautiful world at the end of a tunnel filled with light. I wondered if we had pulled you back from the blissful place to watch us as we worked so hard to save you. Were you frightened? In pain? Or did you merely watch with a 4-year old’s curiosity, already removed from the fear and pain of your last moments in this world?
I have often thought about meeting you in these past weeks, sometimes I still cry a little when I do. But I have found something to hope for, too. I hope that when I travel down that long tunnel toward that endless, loving light, the first person I see is a 4-year-old boy with a sparkling smile. And I hope he says, “we met a long time ago. Thanks for doing your best.:”
Goodbye, C.H. See you around sometime.
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 Professor, 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
‘She climbed up the rugged hill so fast that she felt out of breath. She stood panting, looking down at the valley below. The view from the top took her breath away. Thou the drop was not a long one, may be a thousand feet or so, her head reeled from vertigo. She had to lie down on the grass, to get her breath back. Her bosom heaved, up and down. She closed her eyes. It was so comfortable here, she thought, under the tall trees.
‘In contrast he respected his breath and climbed slowly. He came and sat down close to her. He didn’t touch her, yet she felt his closeness. She was afraid to open her eyes. How could she look at him, knowing what was to come, what was inevitable, what she had been longing for?
‘A slight breeze, a rustling of leaves and his gentle touch was on her face! Still she refused to open her eyes. But when his nimble fingers plunged over the sharp cliff of her chin and landed on her neck, she looked up sharply. His reassuring smile told her to relax. No one was going to disturb them here. She looked around. It was deserted and silent. The valley was far below and the afternoon sun far from the horizon. They had plenty of time—and the inclination.
‘His hand crawled down, inside her T-shirt…’
“Robin, for heaven’s sake will you stop reading and do something!” his wife’s shrill voice interrupted him. “It would do us a world of good if you got around to doing what you so avidly read!”
He ignored her words. She was always like that only.
‘His hand crawled inside her shirt and attacked the buttons. One clip, then another. A sudden gust lent him a helping hand. Oh God, the sight, the feel of her! Effortlessly his palms conquered her twin peaks, so much easier than the hard climb up the barren hill! Still, he went about it slowly and patiently.
‘Her sight was getting blurred, despite the bright sunlight. Her fumbling hands reached for his shirt. She wanted to hold him and press her face…’
“Robin, do you hear me? Are you going to tear yourself away from that damned book and help me or not?”
“Oh, Martha dear. I’m coming, in a minute.”
‘She held him and pressed her face against his hairy chest. A restless swirl blew her skirt up. He reached down to caress her slim, white legs. Goose pimples erupted on her skin like tiny plants. Yes, that’s it, time to burrow, time to plant…’
“I’m ready, Robin, when you are!”
“Really, Martha, you are the limit. Can’t you be less irascible for a change?”
He threw the book in his hand on the floor and raised himself from the chair. It was so painful for him to make any movement these days. His stiff body creaked as he hobbled outside, to be with his wife who was waiting for him with a hoe. His wrinkled hand joined her shrivelled one. Together the old couple tottered their way into the garden, shuffling one step at a time.
The book ‘Gardening Made Easy’ lay sprawled on the floor where he had dropped it.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
All that I do
Because it needs to be done
Is really not done,
As it has to happen
In a flow of events
I am just an instrument.
I am neither the doer
Nor I am the owner,
I am just a silent observer
Enjoying the results.
I may be the river
But, you hold all the water,
I am not even the carrier
As flowing down into the ocean
Is governed by the law of nature.
I am thankful being a witness
To the divine confluence
With the boundless infinite ocean.
What more can I ask for
Instead of soaking in the picture.
Sometimes, I wonder
Whether,I am an actor
Without my own script
Or part of the spectators,
Just watching, mindfully,
Each and every action.
Life is just enough
To enjoy the vision
Passing before me
As a bouquet of blessings
From the creator.
"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.
Manoj seated himself comfortably in my room and flashed a smile at me.
“Anything new in the offing from you?” he enquired, his eyes scanning my table.
“Oh! What’s this?” he asked as his hand reached out for the sketch lying on my table. “I presume you are into sketching this year. Anyway, tell me. How do you find time for all these activities and what inspired you to take to sketching now?”
“Yes Manoj, I have started pencil sketching very recently and that too due to the turn of events,” I said and continued:
I had, some time back, attended a workshop on environment protection. At the workshop, we were given a gift hamper and one of the items was marked as “your pencil plant”. It contained a pencil with a capsule at the tail end and it was neatly fixed to a small board by a coloured thread. The board carried very simple instructions on how the pencil should be handled. It started off with a message saying that the pencil wanted to grow into a plant. We were instructed to sharpen the pencil and use it to draw, scribble or doodle. When it became too small, we were asked to plant the pencil sideways in the soil with the tip side up and ensure that the capsule is under the soil. I found this to be something innovative and decided to follow the instructions. Being a garden lover, I wanted to try this out in my garden.
I first had to start using the pencil to make it short so that I can plant it. I kept it safely in the cupboard but never got round to using it, as the priorities shifted.
After a few weeks, I attended a wedding where each guest was given a cover as a gift. It contained three round balls of sand. Seeing a puzzled look on my face, the smart girl at the reception smiled at me and said, “Sir, each ball contains a seed of a tree. You can leave these on the road anywhere you find some sand. They will grow on their own.”
“Can you please tell me what trees these are?” I asked.
“These are all rugged avenue trees, sir and they do not require much water but sorry sir I do not know the names of the trees.”
I welcomed this unique idea, being environment conscious. I had already initiated a tree planting exercise in my colony a year ago. So I decided to sow the seeds in my colony itself and nurture them but wanted to do it after the monsoon rains. I did not want the seeds to be washed away in the rains.
When I came home I kept these also along with the pencil plant in the cupboard. As the days flew by, other priorities took over in the routine scheme of things and the pencil plant and seeds were off my mind.
At the advent of the new year, I started cleaning up the cupboard to discard unwanted items when I discovered these two sets of covers. I realised I had not used the pencil. On seeing the covers, I hit upon a plan of action. I took out the pencil and using a knife, I cut it into two parts, an inch above the capsule. I then planted it in a pot sideways, as instructed, with the capsule in the soil and the tip of the pencil above the surface. I realised that I had to wait patiently for the seeds to sprout, to find out whether it is a pencil plant or a plant from a pencil.
I examined the second part of the pencil with me. I saw that the pencil was a bit small to hold in the hand. As I looked round the room, I saw an old calendar with a cylindrically shaped artistic holder at the top of the calendar. I immediately pulled it out and found that the piece of pencil fitted snugly into it. I started to work on it and pruned it to the required size. I held the pencil at arm’s length and was very pleased with my creativity, for, I had got value out of waste. I then sharpened the pencil and started to intuitively sketch on the paper lying on my table. That’s the sketch you are holding in your hand. So having started, I plan to try this out seriously.
To continue the other part of my story, Manoj, I then picked up the three balls of earth containing the seeds and planted them into pots in my garden. Had I thrown them on the roadside, I will never have known if the seeds had sprouted and taken root. Now that I have planted the seeds in pots at home, I can identify the saplings once they sprout and I can give them a proper home in my colony.
“Why didn’t I think differently earlier?” I muttered to myself. “I would have got a head start. But it is better late than never, I consoled myself.”
“Then Manoj, I heard a voice telling me: You are, as usual, slow.”
“Can you guess who it could have been? For once Google search will not be of help.” I gave a laugh and Manoj also joined me.
“Let me not trouble you with this question. It is the other me inside me that spoke.”
“So Manoj, I have now learnt to think differently to handle my activities and I am amazed at the turn of events.”
Manoj then asked me, “Tell me more about this. What happened to the seeds? Did they sprout? I am very curious.”
“Every day I eagerly inspected the pots and kept watering them but even after a week, I didn’t find any fresh sprouts coming up.”
“I had to leave on a short trip for a couple of days. When I return from any trip, my first priority is always to take a walk around the garden. I took my customary stroll and had an initial cursory glance at the garden. I then took another walk to have a closer look at the garden. My joy knew no bounds, when I came near the pots in which I had planted the pencil capsule and also sown the seeds. I found tender green leaves beginning to sprout in the pots.”
“I was ecstatic and was reminded of the lines “When I behold a rainbow in the sky” in the poem “My heart leapt Up” also known as “Rainbow” by William Wordsworth. However, the leaves were not big enough for me to identify what the saplings were.”
I looked up at Manoj and flashed him a smile.
Manoj smiled back at me and said, “You now have a few more saplings to decorate your colony. I am really proud of your tree planting initiative and the efforts you are taking to go green, my dear friend.”
“Let me know when you are going to transplant these on the road. I will also join you,” Manoj said.
“Not now Manoj, the summer has set in and it is not the right time. By the time the monsoon sets in, these saplings would have also grown to a good height, when they can withstand the rains. I will then replant them and for sure I will also call you.”
Manoj said, “I am sure this would inspire more people to become environment conscious and join in your initiative. Let me make a start.”
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
Little room in the sky,
With windows of glass,
As clear as my thoughts,
As I took in the height.
Flying so high,
No strings attached,
I was on fire,
I was ice-cold.
Wings from my back,
Lifting me so,
The world was small,
Problems and gold.
Heaven so close,
Hell so far,
Yet I looked below,
To the depths of tartarus.
Wings not lifting,
But wings holding,
The weight in me,
The weight in my heart.
Plummeting below,
I looked up now,
To God's abode,
My hand straining to reach.
Blue turning black,
As I neared my death,
One last time,
I looked below..
She walked confident,
He slouched behind her.
She held her chin high,
His eyes trailed the ground.
Her queenliness,
She led everywhere.
Him taking only leftovers,
Standing by her.
At the end of time,
He stood by her.
“I’m with you
till the end of the line”
Stark differences,
But yet the same,
Their starting points different,
Their destinations the same.
Two good people,
However strong,
One of them was,
Stronger than the other.
Two good people,
That’s all they were,
Stripped of jewelry,
Only blood and bone..
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/.
Drip! Drip !
they fall..
those drops
rain drops..
they cleave
the sand
and make
water puddles..
Drip! drip !
they fall
raking up
puddles of
memory...
the days
od credulous
childhood
floating
paper boats..
boarding
the boat
with ants as
travellers..
clapping hands
with joy
finding them
running amok
drenched in
rain, hiding
in corners...
the cool touch
of the drizzles
of childhood...
credulous
you were, when
told, beneath your
water puddle,
beneath your earth
lay, another world
of beauty..
of
floating fairies
magic worlds,
of
charming
princes who
would come up
when rain reached
the bottom,
to see this world...
Hah! the many
many times you
peeped at
to see the
smiling face
emerge...
the longings
of innocence
of rain soaked
dreams..
drip ! drip !
they fall...
those drops,
water drops..
ants we are
caught up
in coorona
paper boats,
tense,
awaiting the
spate from drizzle
to downpour ...
yet
hope lurks large..
though distant...
can there emerge
beautiful forms
ushering in.
better worlds
brighter morns
and sanguine eves..?
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
They say it takes time
To carve your way out through this dense forest
Of distractions, memories, regrets and fears
They say it takes time
To spot the dim light ahead
To recognize which is yours
But you'll know once you see it
You can feel
Like the tidal waves of your soul
Lifting to the moon to reach out
They say
The magnetic pull to the beam will
Let you sense the easiest route
And you'll move forward
The closer, the brighter
But what if at the end of the voyage
You find that your guiding light, your moon
Was nothing but a spherical mirror
Reflecting only you...
What if you've been the light all along,
And what if
We need no guiding light,
Or a carved out path
To be lost is good
I'd say
We're the light and
Lost, is how we find the way...
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
Don’t shuffle the cards
So rudely dear
It’s not a battle of ego
But a trial for the love left in our hearts.
In a way
It brings us together
On in even platform
Your ego, half my pride.
Let the spread cards tell us
Who is the victim, who the victor
Who wins and who sinks
In the slippery grave of love and lust.
Let the cards bring back memories
Of the ebullient nights
And the sultry afternoons.
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
Darkness, definition of de-light,
Tell me, why are you feared?
Is it because in your depths
Lie encrusted, shards of painful revelations
So fiercely true and unjust,
That can pierce open a volley of emotions,
Which, when unleashed, can cause
The carefully sewn profile of
Civic pretence
To be ripped apart
Arousing a plethora of reactions
Unwarranted?
IT IS BECAUSE OF DEATH, I LIVE
It is because of Death,
I live.
A seed I was when I began my first song,
Snuggled in a protective watery bed,
The first few words I wrote with webbed fingers,
Slight, undistinguished and hardly spread.
But as I felt my mother’s tender caress,
My song grew into perceptible roundedness,
The wrinkly tissues delicately smoothed out,
And trepidation grew to wonderfulness.
Then, when I stretched myself to sing lustily,
The waterbed broke, my mother laboured with pain.
The song then had to end, I had to die a little,
And with lyrics new upon my lips, I was born again.
My song this time an exuberant rhythm,
Girlish giggles and childlike chatter,
Swirling skirts a melody around dainty feet,
And expressive eyes enunciating the delight of pigtails splatter.
The outro next versed a romantic refrain,
A bejewelled bride in blushing blooms,
My eyes aglow with lambent love’s fantasies,
As cheeks a crimson kiss consumes.
But the sunny script was soon fading out
The scroll ended, and so did the brightness,
A snuffed out candle I was, a-dying
There was no more singing, only slightness.
Struggling tones of mature lyrics
From heart to hearth, themes of womanhood,
Shallow in pith, lines of survival instincts,
No more dances, only livelihood.
The song, it came out in a rasp
A suffocation of stagnant tale,
As day moved on into another day,
Yet sang I my song of patient travail.
Till Death suddenly one day came a knocking
And bade me abandon the raucous organ.
Glad was I to die with this wheezy song
So I could rise again for a brand new edition.
Finally I have begun this verse anew
That the Motherly Muse fondly dictates,
The simple verses flourishing into grand octaves,
A progressive crescendo happiness pulsates.
This joyous melody has no death,
Only life to tell a grateful epic tale,
An everlasting one, eternal as the soul,
Omnipresent, the ballad of the Divine nightingale.
Vidya Shankar is a poet, writer, motivational speaker, yoga enthusiast, English language teacher. An active member of poetry circles, her works have appeared in national and international literary platforms and anthologies. She is the recipient of literary awards and recognitions.
Vidya Shankar’s first book of poems, The Flautist of Brindaranyam is a collaborative effort with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan. Her second book of poems The Rise of Yogamaya is an effort to create awareness about mental health. She has also been on the editorial of three anthologies.
A “book” with the Human Library, Chennai Chapter, Vidya Shankar uses the power of her words, both written and spoken, to create awareness about environmental issues, mental health, and the need to break the shackles of an outdated society.
(Photo Courtesy N. Ravi)
Man without a leg,
from another getting sympathy
replied:'why do you see the 'kaal'
look at the 'mukkaal.' What positivity!
Global warming, global freezing,
hot to hotter, cold to colder......
Fluctuating temperatures
as temperaments,
Stress, forever, on ascending trajectory
its presence peremptory
Salutogenesis, the newest way
to foster well-being
find the means to be happy amidst
climatic changes, financial upheavals, polluted atmosphere.....
Hail your presence under the skies, do a pirouette
play with hail on the ground when you can
Drive away the phobias in the vicissitudes
of modern-day living
Have acuity of perception and thought.........
(kaal -leg in Tamil. Mukkaal- three fourths in Tamil)
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.
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few
Obsessively
Incessantly
Calming the fury of minds
In you, me and in every kind
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few
Ostracising nervous breakdown
Keeping me spellbound
In despair
Wanting to reach out to share
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few
Lonliness you create
Each one hugging their fate
Life is a mystery
Not to hate
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few
Stay calm
Every unfolding a balm
Laughters cherished
Melancholy perished
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few
Hear me talk
Friends from every walk
I will be my self
Don't read too many books
From the shelf
Hues of Blue
Soothing a few.
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)
“Ma Ma , Can we get little torani (rice water) please?” with a trembling voice some one was shouting in front of our door on that summer noon.
When I opened the door I found a man with two of children, a boy of around five-six years and a girl of about eight-nine years, sweating profusely, standing on the sun baked road, looking for some help. My mother hurriedly came from her room hearing the anguished cry.
The man was half clad with a bare and fragile chest. The children looked too weak with torn and tattered clothes which hardly covered their bodies, making it easy for any one to count their ribs. My mother asked them to sit on our outer room and gave them water in an earthen vessel. She looked as if she had met them earlier. They were asked to freshen up their dehydrated bodies. Then she offered them rice with torani to quench their hunger.
“Matia, why you were not seen for the last few years? and where is your wife who used to come with you?” asked my mother, recognizing the man.
“Ma, I could not come all these years” told Matia and started weeping unconsolably. “Ma, Gurubari left me all alone. God took her away. She was having high fever. I took all the help from the village Baidya (quack), Jaani (the tribal priest) and offered sacrifice of few hens to Gram Devata, but her fever did not go away. I brought her to the hospital carrying her in a cot tied to a rope. but after three days she died in the hospital leaving our two children with me,”
My mother could not bear the sadness of this story and started sobbing. Matia consoled my mother , "Ma, our lives are like this. We do not know what will happen to us the next moment in our forest dwellings. We are not better than the animals living with us in the jungle. But we can not go away leaving the surroundings where our forefathers were LV staying.”
When the heat of the sun became a bit tolerable, Matia called his children to level the muddy ground of our lane and started beating drums to attract audience. He fixed two pairs of crossed bamboo poles at a distance of around 15 feet to each other and tied a rope joining the poles firmly. His son, Padia, started calling the customers to watch the play and showed his caliber through aerobic acrobatics exposing his frail and unnourished physic. The lane filled up with young audience in no time to watch the alien looking kids and their magic performance.
Matia took his daughter, Geli, on his shoulder and directed her to stand on the rope and balance her body holding a long bomboo stick. Then beating the drum fiercely, he commanded, “Geli, walk on ,walk on,… wah,… a little more….”. Geli obeyed her tutor father and completed walking to the other end of the rope and returned safely, much to the astonishment of the onlookers who kept on clapping to encourage the team. After the show, the donations given by the audience were collected by Geli and Padia. Matia moved from house to house to collect the offerings of rice, pulses or any other grain. After that show, Matia went near the century old tamarind tree proudly standing as our guardian angel at the far end of the lane and rested under the tree for the night .
The tamarind tree was standing witness to all the happiness and sorrow of our village-town for centuries. Its broad branches with myriads of tiny leaves covered around thousand square feet, never allowing Rays of the sun to touch the ground below. During festival time huts used to be erected below the tree to worship swords during Dussera and to pray Shakti during “Daanda” rituals culminating on Maha Vishub Sankranti ( Pana sankranti). People used to assemble below the tree for tonsuring of heads when any of their family members died. The tree stood as testimony to the history of the village. We were warned not to go near it after evening.
Next morning, Matia came to our house, bade farewell to my mother and proceeded back to his habitat which was about 10 kms from our place, passing through mostly mountainous and snaky stretch. The makeshift path to his place was mostly dark even during day time as sun light could not penetrate the wide leaves of the tall trees of “Sal, Sesham (Rosewood) and Saguan (Teak)”. Flanked by thick bushy plants, the snaky stretch lead to Padmatola, the habitat of Matia, a tiny hamlet, situated on a small hill top, after crossing few mountain ranges on the way. The diverse landscape was also the habitat of beautiful flora and fauna, the land of tigers, elephants, bear, reptiles, leopards, cheetals, deer, sambhar etc, who co habited with Matia and another 7 to 8 households. A natural water body was there below the hill and this was the only source of water for all the living beings in the echo system.
Matia’s world was very small. He called the mountains his father and the Nature, imbibed with all the beauties of jungle, as his mother. The echo parents used to meet the demand for food and shelter of their children through out the year. The world of the habitants was limited within the mountain ranges and they led very simple but happy lives. Going around the jungles for collecting their needs during day time, singing and dancing in the evening with family members on the tunes of drum beatings by the seniors, and taking sips of Mahuli or Chauli (locally brewed alcoholic beverages) was their happy daily life, till the system was tinkered by the interference of “Babus” in the name of governance.
Matia and his cohabitants had to move from one terrain to the other, in course of time, searching for a land to settle. These babus had no concern for the nature’s children and treated them often as no more than jungle animals.
I was stunned to see the blending of poverty with happiness in human life after seeing Matia from close quarters and could not erase my from memory the acrobatics his son, Padia was displaying in our lane that summer afternoon to get few grains of rice. His frail body was showing all the bones he had on the body like a Ramdev showing his caved in stomach while doing Kapal Bharati. One was showing his innocence and painful struggle in life where as the Yoga Guru used to exhibit his knowledge and opulence. From that day I was very sentimental about Padia and his future.
During our talk Matia used to confide that they were the virtual “kings” of the jungle and enjoyed independence when the land was ruled by Royals. But they were subjugated to slavery and lost independence when the Royal rule was over. He used to say, “Baba, we are not afraid of tigers or elephants, but we are scared of the Khaki clad Babus who visit our place to take away our freedom “. This was the price these innocent and innocuous tribes had to pay to taste the gift of governance.
My village-town had grown up with establishment of a new Block Head Quarters. An old Police Station was already there. It was headed by a Daroga who used to command the respect like a king there. The forest department was upgraded, so also the primary health centre. An integrated school was opened for the benefit of children of the marginalized sectors, having classes from class 1 to Class VII. One private High school had just started with donations received from all the house holds of the area.
Myself, Abinash, took the profession of my father who was a leading Advocate of the area. After his death, my mother desired my continuance in the chamber and to retain the “siresta”. I had no hesitation in accepting the challenge and joined the bar.
It was around 10 o’ clock in the morning. I was getting ready for going to the court which was at Daspalla, a distance of around 15 kms when I saw Matia standing in front of our door holding the hand of Padia. He was visibly upset and reluctant to disclose the purpose of his sudden visit. When pressed by me, as I was getting late, he requested in folding hands, “Baba, please keep this boy and help him to grow up. You can use him to do all your household works. He is very innocent. I had given words to his mother to take care of him. But now I am finding it difficult to keep him safe at Padmatola.”
When I asked him the reasons he opened up, ”Few days back a group of young boys suddenly landed in our hamlet and enquired about all the boys of our families. They were looking fierce, covering their faces with clothes and holding guns. Speaking in our tribal dialect they were urging and luring our boys to join them with monetary incentives”. This was the first time he had seen such gun carrying youth in his hamlet and was afraid of the safety of his son.
“Baba, I can not see Padia holding a gun in his tiny and rickety hand, running from one mountain to the other for accomplishment of their mission. Unless you keep him here with you, I can not protect him.”
The passionate request of a tearful father did not allow me to go to the court that day. I informed my mother about the plight of Matia and she was wondering how to sort it out. After some time, we decided to admit Padia in the integrated school opened basically for the tribal children, where free boarding and teaching were available. Matia had to put his thumb impression on a register at the school and Padia was admitted there, with me as the local guardian. For Matia it was a different world, beyond his antenna of thought but he got convinced after I explained the integrated school system to him. He took farewell from Padia, who stood silently, suppressing his tears on being alienated from his father for the first time in his life. I had to stay there for few more hours to console Padia as a new member of my family.
I used to visit Padia almost every week initially and enquired about his adjustability to the new surroundings. Initially he had no liking for the school environment and he had attempted to flee from the hostel. But gradually he made friends with other students and started taking interest in studies. Sometimes I wondered as to why the Govt had established schools meant for the tribal students near towns or cities. Such institutions ahould have been opened in the lap of nature near the natural habitats of the students who could save their identity and culture, while getting exposed to class room studies.
Although initial hiccups were there, Padia moved upto Class III, securing top position in sports and games in the entire school. Matia was coming over to see his son once a month and met me whenever I was available at home.
One day he was too happy to inform me that Geli, his daughter, got married to a boy living in a nearby hamlet. The boy met Geli in the Makar Festival and chose her to marry. He came with his parents with the proposal and it was solemnized by the Jani, the tribal priest immediately. There was reverse dowry system prevailing among the tribals, and the family of the groom had presented Matia few goats and a piece of land suitable for growing corn and millets. While narrating this Matia was very sentimental as if he had kept his words given to Gurubari, his departed wife. Padia was his only obsession now. He also informed me how the gun-totting youths were frequently visiting the hamlet, mapping households to collect data on young boys for recruitment.
One evening when the court work came to an end I left for home. Before I could make a turn to the lane leading to my home, I noticed an unusual crowd in the Police Station. I immediately sensed some thing wrong happening in the area and straight went inside the PS and talked to Daroga sahib, who was in charge. I suddenly found Padia, standing in the crowd. As soon as he saw me, he came near and burst into tears requesting me to release his innocent father. I consoled him and enquired into the incident.
Daroga Saheb had joined the PS newly. A widower, he was staying alone and was in the fag end of his carrer. His children were in good jobs outside the state and after the death of his wife, he had not listened to the request of his son to resign from the job and stay with him. He was a different specie of cops, having profound faith in God, never taking advantage of his uniform. He informed me that the local Forest office had lodged a complaint against Matia and two other persons for causing obstruction to their staff from doing their duty and being associated with whatever wrong happening in the jungle, like poaching and timber exporting etc. The complaint mentioned that they had dug up a five feet deep hole on a ten feet wide forest road to prevent forest officials from visiting their hamlet. The hole was covered up with leaves and sand and one forest employee was injured when he fell inside.
I also collected the statements from Matia and his associates. They confided to me tha the narrow strip of patchy stretch was the road of wild boars and the hole was dug up to trap them. There was no road built by forest dept in that part of the jungle. They also denied any knowledge about any poaching or timber exporting. It was clear to me that these innocent persons were the easiest prey of the corrupt officials who used to commit all sorts of unlawful activities like poaching and timber cutting in the jungle but escaped the fangs of law by putting the blame on the helpless traibals, the sons of nature, who did not know the art of telling lies.
I confided the facts before Daroga saheb and requested him to release the innocents. He assured me of finding the truth but refused to free the accused before making a thorough investigation. He wanted one day's time for finishing the investigation and retained Matia and others in lock up for a night. I consoled Padia for a safe release of his father next day and asked him to go back to his hostel. I noticed his red eyes brimming with tears. Grief and a resolve for revenge were clear in the innocent boy's red eyeballs.
At home I completed the briefs for the cases listed for the next day and made a special preparation to fight the case of Matia, if referred to the court. I refreshed myself with the relevant provisions of the latest Forest Rights Act. But I could not forget the red eyeballs of Padia burning with vengeance and this hunted me even in my sleep.
“The court had opened in the morning. Matia was brought to the dock. He was pleading innocence but the mischievous Prosecutor was hurling cacophony of accusations at him and the Forest officials were corroborating it with loads of lies and concocted stories in their depositions to prove their mischievous complaints . Suddenly Padia arrived with a group of friends armed with guns and snatched away his father and others from the docks. I was shouting at Padia, "What are you doing Padia? This is not the world you belong to. Please hrow away the gun. Padia..Padia……"
Suddenly my mother called me , "Wake up my son, you have a busy day today. Prepare for the court work and get ready to leave.... " I woke up and thanked God that it was only a bad dream.
After getting ready I first went to the PS and found the Daroga Saheb busy on writing the investigation report. I came to know that he went to the spot early in the morning and had just returned. Then he asked one of the cops under him to go and bring the Forest staff who had complained against Matia and others. When he saw me, he offered me a chair and asked me to wait for the arrival of the complainants. In a short while the complainant Forest officials arrived at the PS. Daroga saheb asked them “When was that ten feet road built and where are the documents relating to the road?”
Then he started reading his Investigation report which mentioned that there was no road ever built there and it was a narrow stretch of walking path of 3 feet width, caused by the footprints of the inmates of the hamlet. He also recorded their innocence and refuted the theory of any culpability of crime ever committed by them. The forest Staff were exposed, and before the matter could be referred to the court for adjudication, they withdrew the complaint. Thus Matia and his friends were immediately released . Matia prostrated before Daroga Saheb Before leaving the PS.
I took Matia to the school and requested the teachers to allow Padia to see off his father. Padia ran and embraced his father releasing the left over tears lying compressed in his heart. The red eyeballs were however missing.
I stood motionless and looked on at the Union and impending separation of the father-son duo; one retreating to the wilderness in his natural habitat and the other converging with his school mates to make a life of his own.
Subconsciously, my voice echoed inside, “Oh God, protect these innocent sons of Nature, 'the Amrutar Santans'"!
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
The mellow sun
Its day's work done
Sank with a sigh
In the calliginous sky
Calliginous clouds
Do they house
Tomorrow's mystery
Or is it just nature's geometry?
Standing tall the star flowers
Confident in their mystic powers
Swaying before the calliginous clouds
Whispering promises of life well-endowed
Zia Marshall, with an MPhil and PhD in English Literature, is a Learning Designer and Communication Specialist skilled in performance and competency development for personal and professional growth. She has published a course on Time Management for Productivity and Work-Life Balance at Udemy. A member of India Poetry Circle, she is passionate about writing. Her work has been featured in Adelaide Literary Magazine, the Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Contemporary Literary Journal of India and the Scarlet Leaf Review. She was a finalist in the Adelaide Literary Awards 2018 and 2019. Her articles have been published in http://www.selfgrowth.com/ and https://elearningindustry.com/.
It's been a while,
Since we have met,
But you have never been,
Far from my thoughts.
Of late I have mostly,
complained in our talks,
the pains and stress in life,
I have blamed on you a lot.
How do you expect me,
to stay calm and quiet,
when I have to bear the,
brunt of your lies?
I know you never promised,
to always keep happy,
but you did say you will be,
eternally beside me.
Guess you have been busy,
with the world in disarray,
or is this a trial of,
my love and faith to fray?
It's unfair that you know,
so much more than I do,
whatever your plans, give me
strength to bear it through.
Now enough is enough,
I miss you, so let’s just meet,
I am waiting for the invitation,
to offer Parijat at your feet.
"The entreaties of a devotee to Lord Jaganath, as she has been unable to visit him, especially during these trying times. His favourite flowers Parijat, are lying on the ground waiting to be offered up."
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/ .
When I try to plumb
into the depth of my dreams
with surprise do I find
the changing, ever-elusive mind
becoming stranger still !
No amount of wish not will,
no force or pressure
brings in the treasure
I so yearningly long !
Fade like a forgotten song
my dreams into nothingness !
There's only incompleteness,
only unfulfilled desires
and flames of futile fires !
Yet, but in vain
erasing all my pain
I try to plumb
into the depth of my dreams !
My dream does not die a natural death –
builds up, layer upon layer, consuming all my nights
tortures my fevered soul even in broad day light.
Who gives them the wings, who the life
Who will tell me their ways and their flights?
Dreadful visions keep throbbing
Will I make it? Will I not?
Yet, soaring above my infirmities and frailties
My impatience keeps pounding me
to the pulp.
Meanings beckon endlessly...
Nothing incomplete before and
Nothing complete after...
Why do I dream? ...the dreadful dream...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
When THE ONE that breathed bloom into the budding rose
And put sweet into a stalk to make it sugarcane
Who put wings on the birds and honey into flowers
Breathed sentience into a bundle of elements
This me was born - through that, for that, and to that to return
After my tenure in the service of that divine will.
And yet am not quite complete with me and only me
A single dot cannot be all by itself complete.
Only with universal love, the elixir yarn
Weaving all the dots into a fabric divine
Does each dot find its place and purpose.
Each with every other and all together as one.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
I stand and stare at the bluish sky
freshwater lake, and flora and fauna
The musical tides force me to move
The small and shiny fish ask me to boat
I eagerly wait for my great master
who drives me gently far and near!
Ah! Every time, I travel, I really gain
tremendous happiness and peace,
I have no desires like a greedy man
I know not really how to pain someone;
I am aware of making my master glad
and see him smiling with lots of fish!
I'm made out of a trunk of a palm tree
Which is cut, smoothed and shaped
for about sixty hard-working days;
I'm not run by a machine, but by hands,
Hands that are skilled and well trained,
Hands that fully earn their livelihood!
I'm a fortunate traditional fishing boat,
Boat that bathes in rain and sunshine,
I glide, I swing, I dance and I whirl ahead
and heartily welcome my faithful master,
who works selflessly to feed the others;
I'm his valuable asset, and he is truly mine!
I pass the valleys, hills, and mountains
I come across the grassland and croplands
I see the smiles of notorious children
I push and pull my speedy tidal waves
I help him in reaching the right destination
that offers him abundant self satisfaction!
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
When I told my U.S. returned friends that I would be accompanying my husband who was going to Vancouever for a conference, they wished to know whether a visit to the U.S. was on our itinerary. Learning that it wasn’t, their reaction ranged from one of surprise to disbelief. “How can you be so foolish as not to include The U.S. which is not far from Canada? You don’t know what you are missing. You just have to see for yourself how the country has advanced technologically which makes an American feel justifiably proud of his country,” said they. Some went as far as saying Canada is considered a poor cousin of the affluent U.S. as its people ddidn’t own luxury cars or go on a holiday during weekends as the Americans did. Though I was a little cheesed off by such comments I decided to form my own opinion about the so called “Poor Cousin” of The U.S.
The first thing that drew my attention as we were making our way to the exit from the Vancouever International Airport, was the sight of two people engaged in polishing a Bronze cast which was gleaming under the lights. On closer look at what was written I learnt it was The Spirit of Haida Gwail, The Jade Canoe by the world renowned artist and carver Bill Reid who has been widely acclaimed as the pivotal force in the renewal of artistic traditions of the Haida people of British Columbia.
Nestled on Canada’s Pacific Coast Vancouever, its third largest city and the venue of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, we found is a scenic gem. The occupants of multistory offices, condominiums and apartment buildings which dominate the skyline feel proud that they can savour the beauties of nature viewing the mountains or sea from a multitude of windows and the requisite balcony. As they walk on busy downtown streets not far away, they are treated either to the sight of the Coast mountains or the splendours of Stanley Park or the waters of Burrard inlet or all the three depending upon where they are situated. A lack of freeways zigzagging about contributes a great deal in avoiding congestion in this well planned city. However it didnot mean there is a shortage of automobiles including Limousines as the rich do own them. Public transport comprises excellent bus service and sky trains and we were able to do most of our sight seeing traveling in their comfort.
Horse carriage in Stanley Park.
Grouse Mountain—nothing to grouse
There are several tourist attractions around Vancouever which include manmade wonders amidst wonders of nature. We decided to visit Grouse Mountain, a fifteen minute drive from the city of Vancouever over the Lion’s Gate Bridge. Vancoueverites boast that given the right season, it is possible to ski in the morning and swim in the afternoon when the snow melts on Grouse Mountain! It may not be technically untrue but no Vancoueverite dares it, we were informed.
GROUSE MOUNTAIN SKY RIDE
We thoroughly enjoyed the Grouse Mountain Sky ride, an aerial tram that whisked us, 1,100 metres over the tree tops in a minute reminded us of the cable car ride we had through the rain forest in Cairns during our visit to eastern Australia. The difference however was the nearly half a dozen cabins of the cable car accommodated four passengers in each whereas here we were more than 50 in the hexagon shaped single tram referred as Gondola. An elderly lady who was wheeled into it greeted us with a smile and we all returned her greeting with equal warmth. Over a brief conversation we had , she said she was fond of traveling and seeing places and meeting people (I was amazed at the facilities foreign countries offered for the disabled to travel in comfort). In Cairns we passed through Eucalyptus trees on the ascent while here the ascent was lined with a thick growth of Cedar, Hemlock and Douglas. We peeped through the glass enclosure and were mesmerized by what we saw—-ships sailing in the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean appearing like small boats on one side and the towering cone shaped trees on the other. We alighted on the Mountain top and walked along the wet mountain path, even as we were enjoying the picturesque surroundings all the way to the venue of the world famous Lumber Jack show. We were just in time to watch “Birds in Motion”, a show where rare and endangered birds of various size, shape and colour were demonstrated to the accompaniment of a running commentary regarding their classification, characteristics and lifestyle. The winged creatures flew out of their cages in quick succession and perched themselves on the lady demonstrator’s palm for her to parade them one after another in front of us. Once the show was over, they flew high up in the sky almost out of our sight and came swooping down to circle a little above us coming within our hand’s reach but none of us had the courage to touch them! Later they flew back to their respective hideouts. This fascinating show would certainly have delighted an Ornithologist, I felt. I returned with the thought that the name of the Mountain probably had some relation to the Game bird which bore the same name. After having a taste of Vancoueverian hospitality towards visitors and guests I concluded that Canada is certainly not the “ poor cousin” or its people the “ poor cousins” of the “affluent” Americans .
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.
POEM: AN ODE TO A MISSING BOY!
Life’s precious things
Come in various forms
Some take shape
Some in memory form
Gifts of life
Can be big or small
A wonder boy
Was greatest gift of all
Every precious time
Remained the shortest
To charm the soul
Yet left the memories
Never to depart
Lasting forever in heart
Can call this boy
Life’s three musketeers
All for one
And one for all
Can be the one that
Gave the life force
Or can be the one
That seeded within
Or best can be the one
That vital source
Of life energy to sustain
Ironical is the time
That all stayed in life
For which boy can I sing
This ode of mine
Happiness is the source
the wonder boy memories
Little was the time lived
Lifetime is the joy
A special source of life
That can never replace
Whispers slowly within
thoughts of the missing boy
Strange are the days
That still survive
I don’t miss you my boy
For you live well in me
As long as I breathe
And remember to love
Never will be a goodbye
Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional with IBM / Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT (Empowering Women in IT), Chennai, India. . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, 800+ blog posts, several short 2 stories, 2 published books – ‘Simply Being Sidds’ and ‘After the Floods’ and several articles on various subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is also having a live blog in her own name.
Fifty two people!
And, he couldn’t be wrong.
He was so deeply in need of someone’s help that he exercised a hugely meditated caution in his laborious task of counting the passers-by.
He was arithmetically accurate and felt proud of himself; a bit cynical to the prevailing situation, though.
Fifty two people had gone past so far.
Thirty four walked towards the east whereas eighteen of them were to the opposite direction. The road lay there in an east-west axis.
He mused upon the even trifle attributes of those walked past.
Thirty two of them walked, executing rather brisk gaits, in the company of their individual self alone. Totally drawn to the core of one’s own smouldering pith each of them walked away like shabby, shaken and grey shadows. The word ‘like’ he used to link them to the shadows might be of no value literally, he thought. Never mind.
There were females and males. Young and elderly. Some of them were carried along in the pomp of adolescences with its tremendously high priced blooms of buds and lush. He knew they represented the new generation which posed a startling contrast to the one he still formed part of.
There were people of Indian origin like Tamils, Keralites and Patel; English, coloured and European originated; a true representation of the intricately interlaced multi-cultural country of his, though he found at times hard to witness the warm spirit of integration alive and thriving. Rubbish!
Sixteen of them were in pairs. Two pairs were of females, one of males, and five pairs were of the common male and female combination. Though it did not appear the individuals of the female pairs to be partners to him, he was pretty sure that the males in their pair were so. He noticed the jokes the blue eyed, clean shaved lad of relatively younger age cracked to the older man, who put himself in a sort of tickling bondage of light metal chains linking his pierced nipples, lower lips and ear lobes, smelled flatulence breaking itself downwards. Horrible!
Four people out of the fifty two belonged to the same family. They looked as if they were of a Pakisthani background. They were rowing among themselves of an arranged marriage to be held soon. The meek looking lovely girl, apparently under seventeen, was arguing against the unjust and illegal destiny being imposed upon her while the man with a cropped beard tried to put her down with bombardment of intimidating words airing indiscriminately but targeting not the little angel but her stout bottomed mother as well; an obvious act of establishment of his abstract authority over the concrete existence of the family , his family, giving the notion the man’s word was the law with no chance of negation in any sense, neglecting and dismissing the individuality of the members comprising the little world monarchy. He felt a strong sense of commiseration towards that young woman, thinking of her plight and course of life if her father’s proclamation materialised, but still not to the verge of an empathetic contemplation. Past taught him such sentiments never brought about any positive outcome at all.
Did he construe their conversation was in that direction or his common sense made him imagine so? He was not sure. The next moment his mind corrected him saying that it was vain to extend his intelligence to such areas, which were not approachable and conventionally fundamental. True; there is a fine line, an invisible one, never to be crossed from either side at any time. Nonsense!
He implored every one, to all the fifty two, in an appallingly loud voice to give him a hand. None complied. Half of them not even showed the slightest sign of him being heard! A few of them, he saw, slowed down their stride a bit but rushed to compensate sprinkling bubbles of laughter around. Some others were listening to music being delivered to the ear canal by means of headsets and were moving in dancing steps. Not even a single person was there to give him just a hand!
How could human beings in a civilised society be like that? He glared in rising flare.
What else could he do? Nothing.
He had slipped on the glassy snow and fallen down in the narrow space between the wooden fence on the near side of the pavement and the door to his house. Just three or four days to go for Christmas. It had been snowing since morning. He had seen tiny flakes of snow descending from the sky keeping a rhythmic symphony on end for hours in sewing a white blanket of equality to cover everything under the grey heavens, impartially.
The snow is never prejudiced and biased. This always evoked some lovely streams of thoughts in his brain. During winter it was his favourite past time to sit in the kitchen, looking at the filling snow in the back garden while he smoked cigarettes one after another. Many a times he was approached by his wife, from behind, in stealthy steps, and kissed him unexpectedly. Beautiful!
Chronic arthritis and the irrecoverable damage occurred to his Achilles tendon last winter resulted changing his walking to something as if he were dragging a heavy load behind him, the load of his own left leg. In addition to it the half blinded vision due to diabetes combined with high blood pressure and constant difficulties in breathing as the blackened lungs were non cooperative. He had a mobility scooter. He sold it out to raise the fund to buy a few things. A new dress for his wife, a thick quilt, a few make up articles and some bakery products offered at reduced price were the ones bought.
It is Christmas!
If he did not do it, what sense is there in him being called the beloved husband of his partially paralysed wife? What value is there in him being called ‘man’? He felt an irresistible urge to laugh while he thought of it. And, he laughed, a silent sob like laugh.
It was quite unexpectedly that his wife let him know that she would like to have a drink. A drink with him, definitely. She told him she felt relatively well then and that she was recollecting their honeymoon days. The trickles of tears overflowing from her eyes might have been alibi to what she said; he thought -finding it hard to confirm to himself. She said something about the fabulous sex sessions they had once, sincerely apologising for a the sort of life they were having recently…sending shockwaves all through his body. He never thought she was that much soft a stuff, so sensitive and sentimental. She used to put forward her demands and requirements at that time when his body was so tensed and throbbing to release the life carrying juice into her, knowing that he would not be capable of uttering a ‘no’ to whatever asked then. It might have been the mighty realisation life had brought into her senses. Often it led to kind of row between them………..
She apologised for all those old odds like child that has woken up, woken up by a lovely dream. While she talked her voice was crystal clear but she bit her lower lip hard enough to supress a sob from jumping out into the air. She said she would not be able to tell him all those afterwards. Even he was not able to make out why his eyes were wet and his breath was short and quick after hearing her saying it. Is it something that is called love? Who knows? Strange.
He remembered what one of his old Indian friends told him. According to him each individual, when they are about to pass away, will be given a chance by the heavens to apologise to the loved ones for the nasty things they have done to them. It flashed in his mind as a gleam of lightning. His hear thumped on his ribs like thunder. He shivered as a tree engulfed in the winter gale.
Oh! My!
Was she going to die? Was it because of that she wanted to have drink with him, the last one? Couple of drinks together was always her favourite activity. It never got bored with the accustomed repetition in any way. Drinking together and having sex at the end of it was his fun too.
He felt his body going stiff with emotion.
It was at the end of one such session that all went upside down.
They were having it on the staircase and when they were about to explode into sparkles he let go her, unintentionally. She fell down to the bottom of the stairs and broke her spine. Bed was her entire world afterwards. The only part of her body that moved as per her will was her right hand.
He did not want to remember that. Bad luck.
As soon as he heard of her wish he set out to the shop to buy the drink, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of lemonade to along with it.
But quite unexpectedly he slipped on the snow and fallen down when he took the key out of his pocket to open the front door.
How could all the passers-by ignore his earnest calls to give him a hand to put himself up?
Why people grown so uncaring and non-sympathetic to a fellow being?
Were all of them deaf?
If one of them had given him a helping a hand to get up from the snow he could have been in with his wife in the warmth of heated air. What lose would that have brought to them?
The long road which lay in the east west axis had eleven council houses, odd numbered, on its left. His house was one of them.
Daniel Stevenson .
That is his full name.
People in the neighbourhood used to call him just ‘Dani’, a convenient alternative to which they have a special inclination. They would call him with that simple two syllabled name, sweetened with some sort of musical fashion to make him do little helping outs like trimming the hedge rows and setting the rubbish ready to be picked up by the council facility services. He never minded doing them and he was popular.
His wife would call him ‘Dan’.
She disliked the other sweet name though she does not have a specific reason to support it.
He does not have any grudge in her attitude at all. Why should he?
his son Harper used to call him ‘dad’ for a while, long ago.
His daughter Heather never called him dad, but called him many other names, of which some of them were obscene.
Never did he mind them. He knew he had no reason to feel offended.
His son Harper was arrested in connection with a drug deal and has long been in jail. Six or Seven years earlier it was; he cannot remember accurately now.
It was Harper’s thirty-third birthday. He was coming home with four cans of ‘Special Brew’ to gift him with. He saw Harper was seated in a police car, hand cuffed. When peeped into the car to confirm what he saw, the lady police officer looked at him in an air of asking why.
“It’s my dad”, he heard Harper saying.
“Oh! Really?” He very well realised the bursting derision in her voice. He kept mum. Bitch.
He had not seen Harper ever since.
He checked the plastic carrier bag and made sure the bottles were safe, unbroken.
Harper’s girlfriend Valarie started calling men into the house; their house precisely. It was so unbearable, beyond the limit, pushing them to the verge of the already vanishing fragments of patience that they, Dan and his Maggie, unanimously took a decision to evict her from their residence. And they put their decision into practise without wasting any more time,
Dan still remembered what Valarie shouted aloud to them while leaving the hose, crisp and clear.
‘’Look, I need money. Need money for cigarettes, cannabis, drinks, petrol and food. Don’t you remember it’s been more than two years since he left home? You know this was how I fed you all these while. Was the benefit money enough ever for you two to buy drink alone? Did your beloved daughter ever turned in to throw a penny to beggars like you? … ‘’
True.
Their daughter Heather left home and no one other than she knew where exactly she lived. She reiterated that the association with them would not go along with her new job and the status that brought in. She said that even on the last occasion when they saw her. She might have been twenty four or twenty five then; he remembered. It was two or three years before Harper went to jail. Harper stopped going school at an early age and he had never been a problem boy to them in any way. He always earned his bread either by working with thugs or selling packets of cannabis.
Heather was never like him. No way. She was always keen on her studies, always showing a voracious appetite to read stuff that would not register to him or Maggie. In addition to that she always took part in art and acting. There was a time when Margaret left home and lived somewhere else after a bitter row between them. Dan knew that it was then the seed for Heather was sworn. Whenever he made a reference to the episode, Margaret would warn him, telling him off threatening to non-cooperate with his fantasy sex sessions. Anyway they spent a good fortune on Heather that put them in pathetic state finance when they got older.
Heather attended her BBC interview in good fashion. After a week she declared her attitude and policy and went out without even showing the slightest trace of regret. She might be spending her time pleasantly in a posh flat, enjoying the warmth of the cuddle of her man and moaning on the power of his hip. Slut!
Losing the job coupled with Margaret’s lavishness brought them down to this depth. As an insult to injury the cats as well. He felt a strong guilty conscience in sending Valarie out of the house, often. It was generated by the fact that the cats were forced to survive half starving.
Margaret brought in two abandoned cats once. One male and a female.
Now they have the fourth generation, descending from the first couple. They are also a couple comprising of a male and a female.
They really are a relief and refuge to them. Margaret thought that much sensibly and sensitively in naming them and loving them.
It is quite an easy task for both of them to keep going weeks on end, if they each get six cans of strong cider a day. And to smoke, they use to find cigarette from bins around the town centre and supermarkets. They are always lucky enough to find plenty of them whenever they need them.
But the cats!
He cannot starve them entirely. It’s cruel.
So he just adapts a new course of life, secretly starving to find money to feed the cats. As Maggie was bed ridden she never knew the secret.
Often Maggie suggests to call ‘council bastards’ to get her away to some care homes, get rid of her. It will be helpful to him to keep his high blood pressure under control, she says.
She can talk silly things like that. If she went, who is there for me to have a chat, to have a row with? –Dan thinks.
Yes. He can talk to the cats. When he calls them their names, they will come nestling to him, arching their back in a loving fashion and raising their tails as the mast of a vessel, declaring sentiments. They can only love! They cannot argue or shout back foul terminology when he starts quarrelling.
‘Why are they noisy and wailing on the other side of the door? I fed them before coming out to buy drinks. Then what’s wrong within?’ He thought.
It is the habit of the cats to sit waiting at Margaret’s head and feet while he goes out. The tom sits at the head and the female at the feet of her bed. As soon as he comes in they will get up from their meditating posture to engage into the accustomed feline fun of their own.
Why are they this much agitated today? Why are they meowing restlessly?
Something happened to Maggie? Oh! No! No way.
She must wait for me to have a drink together. She must. If not what’s the point in calling her ‘my Maggie’?
How can I get in, but? Need a helping hand to get up from the freezing snow.
No one is giving ear to his miserable appeals.
Dani started to concentrate attentively for distant footsteps. He decided to make such a loud and shrieking voice to win the attention of the next passer-by to get him or her to help him. He is so desperate to get up and go in to know what is wrong with the cats. He so longingly wants have a drink with his Maggie.
Yes. Here comes Nevin Dizosa , their immediate neighbour. Dani recognised him by rhythm of the footsteps . He is a mixed race Tossar, who always complains about the cats. What a fuss he has made over our rowing habit and the cats excreting his door steps. Give him a drink! He is the best friend then. Nothing to hesitate. Dani decided to call him to help him to get up. He feels his limps frozen and bones brittle.
Dani shouted aloud. He is not sure whether Nevin heard it or not. He definitely heard the wailing cats. He looked at Dani.
‘’Please give me a hand Nevin. I fear something bad has happened to Maggie. Don’t you hear the cries of our cats?’’ Dani tuned his voice in the most appealing tone.
‘’Ah! Drunk!’’ said Nevin. Dani heard Nevin delivering a row of curse at him. Dani saw him standing aside and dialling on his mobile phone and talking.
‘’Selfish Crook ‘’ Dani said getting exasperate himself.
Nevin talked over the phone for three or four minutes. Dani could not make out what it was about as he stood a few yards away from where Dani was . But Danni noticed his body language was that of a bit of impatience.
Nevin finished the call. Then he took his own time, plenty of it, to light up a cigarette.
‘’One for me too ‘’, though Dani asked he was pretty sure that Nevin would not give him one.
They heard the emergency vehicle siren going on.
Police car arrived first. It was followed by quick response ambulance car. Then came the well-equipped van counterpart.
‘’Are you sure? When did you see first?’’ the lady officer asked Nevin.
‘’Hundred per cent sure. As soon as I saw, I called 999. Half an hour ago.’’ Nevin gave a special emphasis to the words ‘ half an hour ago’. The officer did not like those that much.
The ambulance crew who examined Dani declared, ‘’ Yes. True. Long time since. Rigor Mortis is complete.’’
Dani was transferred to the van.
As the information passed by Nevin counted to be trustworthy, they broke open the front door and got in. Right in the door way were the cats looking exhausted with continuous labour of meowing, their eyes shining with water. Seeing Nevin they expressed familiarity as if to communicate something.
The Crew who checked on Margaret said, ‘’ Oh! This is too much. She is no more as well.’’
The lady police officer sat down on the floor to puke off.
‘’What is this?’’ the fresher in the police team asked. He pointed to something that was scribbled on the headboard of the bed with a lipstick.
The lady officer, who got up failing in her attempt, read aloud.
‘’Dan is waiting out there in the snow freezing. I must go to him to have a drink together. Harper and Heather are two silly poor things. Look after them please.’’
‘’Who are these Harper and Heather ?’’ the policewoman asked as if she were speaking to herself.
‘’Those names belonged to their son and daughter. These things have the same names too…’’, Nevin said.
He pointed towards the cats when he said those words.
While the officers busily engaged in their job inside, the snow started sewing busily away whatever open patches there was in the white blanket of equality, outside, with a melancholic rhythm in her duty.
Murukesh Panayara is a Published Author & Lives in London. He writes in English and Malayalam.
REST IN PEACE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
"How dare you insult my father's memory?",
Anirudh exploded in anger. He, Manoj and Binayak were sitting in the balcony of his home. It was close to midnight. They had just returned from the eleventh day ceremony after his father's death. There had been a feast for the friends and relatives of the deceased in the evening.
Manoj flinched from the attack, surprised,
"Insult Mousa's memory? Let me assure you I have as much respect for him as you and Binayak here. I can never forget the many pleasant evenings we have spent at your home taking tea and snacks so lovingly prepared by Mousi. Ask Binayak, he was with me on every visit. Ask him how much we loved to be with your parents".
Binayak added,
"They always welcomed us with open arms. There is no question of insulting Mousa's memory".
Anirudh appeared to be slightly placated, but his anger had not fully abated,
"Do you know how many people attended the eleventh day feast tonight? At least five hundred, and all of them came to me and blessed me, appreciating how much I loved my father. I spent four lakh rupees for this feast. And if you take all the other expenses like Brahmin bhojan, funeral cost, clothes for the relatives, it will be another one lakh. There were twenty one dishes in the feast today. So why are you laughing at me when I say Baba's soul must have rested in peace. Put your hand on my head and tell me truthfully why you laughed at me. What more I could have done for the peace of his soul?"
"Ani, I have no doubt you have done a lot, but if you ask me if Mousa's soul would be smiling at you from above in peace and contentment, I have my doubt."
Anirudh thundered again,
"Doubt! You have a doubt? Blast you Manoj, I don't care, take your doubt home with you and don't ever come back here! Doubt, my foot!"
It was Binayak who tried to mend the fence, he and Manoj were shocked at Anirudh's outburst,
"Ani, you can't throw Manoj out of your life just like that. In fact I also have my doubts about Mousa's soul overflowing with peace at this moment. Why don't you listen to Manoj? For the
last eleven days, right from the time we received you and your family at the airport and helped you in carrying Mousa's body to the funeral at Swargadwar, arranging a priest for all the rituals, helping you buy all the materials for the different ceremonies, we have been with you like a shadow and you are asking Manoj to get out of your life, just like that, as if he is a paid contractor who was engaged by you for the conduct of the ceremonies! You can't do that my friend, no, you can't."
Anirudh appeared remorseful. Yes, these were the only two friends from college days with whom he was still in contact. When Bou, his mother, called him on the fateful morning that his father had died of a sudden stroke, he telephoned Manoj and found that he was already at their home, along with Binayak, consoling her. He realised that Bou must have called them after speaking to him. They had been regular visitors to his parent's home.
Anirudh was the only son of his parents. He had studied up to Intermediate level with Manoj and Binayak and then left for Cochin to pursue a degree in Marine Biology. After his post graduation and Ph.D he had got a job as a Scientific Officer at the National Institute of Oceanography at Goa. He had spent the last twenty five years there rising in the promotion ladder, becoming a Scientist E, three notches below that of the Director. Manoj had completed M.Sc from the local university and worked as a lecturer in a private college in Bhubaneswar. He had built a small house and settled down in this cute little town since his job was not transferable. Binayak had opened a pharmaceutical store after B.Sc and was doing reasonably well.
Anirudh looked at Manoj and said,
"Sorry, I got carried away by emotions, all these days of hectic activities, the stream of relatives and friends, Bou's grief, everything has made my head heavy. Now tell me, where did I fall short? I promise I won't mind what you say. After all, in the past thirty years Baba and Bou have seen you two more than me. Every time I spoke to them over phone, they would be effusive in their praise for both of you. You have looked after them like an absent son and I should not have forgotten that when I said those harsh words..."
Manoj raised his hand,
"Don't apologise. We know how stressful your days have been from the time you got the news of Mousa's sudden demise. And we share your grief, as all true friends should do, but we also had a glimpse into Mousa's grieving heart, the heart that missed you, and your family. You have been away from home for more than thirty years. After your marriage you might have come here four five times. In the last ten years probably twice, if I remember correctly, isn't it?"
Anirudh nodded,
"Yes, after the kids grew up they didn't like to come here, they kept on complaining, Odisha is boring, they had no friends to play with, no one to talk to, their cousins were too dull and the food too bland. I can't blame them, outdoor life in Goa is so vibrant, and the Goan food so delicious. And both my sons are Science Talent scholars, sometimes even I don't understand when they talk about projects, NASA fellowship and what not."
The pride in Anirudh's tone was unmistakable, Manoj agreed with him,
"Exactly, Mousa and Mousi also don't understand advanced science and NASA, but they understand what love is and craved for the love of their son, the daughter in law and the grand children. When you had got a job in the National Institute of Oceanography after a tough competition twenty five years back Mousa was so proud, I remember he called some of us home and distributed the choicest sweets. I could see how much he enjoyed rolling the word Oceanography on his tongue, like it was the Nobel Prize you had won!"
Anirudh smiled,
"Yes, it's a highly coveted job. Fantastic salary, big bungalows with huge lawns inside the campus and at least twenty to thirty foreign trips every year! No wonder Baba was so proud of me."
"Yes, we could see that. After that we had lost touch with him for a few years. And then one day we met him again. Binayak and I were having our evening tea in the famous Charminar tea stall near your house and Mousa also came there. You can't imagine how excited he was to see us. He dragged us home and Mousi was so happy seeing us after a long time. She made some lovely parathas and insisted on our having dinner there. We talked for almost two hours, mostly about you, your family, the big house and the beautiful city you were living in. They had just returned after attending the birth of your second son. They showed us the photographs. They pointed out to us the thick golden necklace they had presented to their younger grandson, exactly the same as the one they had given to your elder son. And they were full of the details of their two visits when the grand kids were born. It looked like no son in the world could match your success and the pride you brought them."
Anirudh also remembered those happy days,
"Yes, on their first visit I drove them around Goa, took them to Bombay and we stayed in a five star hotel. They had never seen such luxury in life."
Manoj nodded,
"They told us about that also. They asked me and Binayak to visit them again and we went to meet them often. Mousi would always insist on our having dinner with them. We could sense they wanted company, someone to whom they could talk about their successful son and the handsome grand kids. When you came three years after your second son was born they made preparations for a week, cleaning up your room, making them ready for "the two little princes", buying half a dozen toys for them and Mousi just couldn't stop smiling. Yet you stayed for just two days with them, and left on a tour of Puri, Konark, Chilika, Similipal and Harishankar. Rest of the time you spent at your in law's place. Tell me, didn't it occur to you that you could have taken your parents with you to Puri, Konark and all those places? Did you ask them how long it had been when they last visited these places?"
Anirudh felt a bit awkward,
"I didn't think they would have withstood the strain of so much travel and hectic schedule. We were young, we could manage. But for them it was different, comfort was their main concern."
"But did you ask them?"
Anirudh shouted,
"No, I didn't ask them and let me tell you Manoj, I don't like this interrogation by you."
"I am not interrogating my friend, I am just reminding you. Because after you left we had visited your parents. This idiot Binayak asked Mousi why she and Mousa didn't accompany you in your sight seeing tour. She just stared at us and a cloud of sadness spread over her face. She abruptly got up and left to make tea for us. Do you remember it Binayak?"
Binayak replied,
"Yes, after she left so abruptly I realised I had made a mistake asking that question. There are certain pains which are so personal and should remain buried inside."
Manoj continued,
"Anirudh, you didn't come for the next four years. Mousi didn't tell us about her deep longing to see you, but we could feel when we visited her. Words would slip out without her knowing it, some words here, some statements there would bring the agony out. And when you came after four years, you just slept at home, the kids felt restless, your wife kept watching TV. It was obvious you were just biding time and after completing the formality of the visit you wanted to return to Goa. During this trip also you spent more time at your in law's place. Anirudh, didn't it ever occur to you that your parents would be waiting for you to take them out, eat in some good restaurant, watch a couple of movies? You could have hired a taxi and taken them out to visit Nandan Kanan or the Jagannath temple at Puri. You did nothing except sleeping and complaining about boredom. That's what Mousa told us later, that you and your family was bored to the bones!"
"Yes, we were bored and I had just returned from a two weeks long assignment to Nicaragua in South America, the flight takes thirty six hours each way after two changes and I was so tired, so damn tired, I slept like a log for three days!"
"You know Anirudh, Mousa and Mousi were so keen to watch a movie in a cinema hall, two years back they asked me if I could arrange to take them to a hall. I hired a taxi, Binayak, Mousa, Mousi and I - we all went to watch an Odia movie at Shriya Talkies, they were so happy. We went once again two months after that, this time to watch a Hindi movie, but then Mousa realised that it was too much hassle for us, to get the tickets in advance, to hire a taxi and take them to the cinema hall. Next time I offered to take them to a movie he refused. Three months back Mousi wanted to go to Priya restaurant to have some South Indian snacks. This time they happily climbed onto the back seat of our motor bikes and enjoyed a ride in the open. Mousi was so thrilled when she saw the menu, "Look, look, there are six different kinds of dosas! Let's order all of them and share. And I must have their famous Mysore Pak! What a sweet Baba! I can't make it in my seven births!" You should have seen the way they were like little kids, enjoying the Dosas, the Sambhar vada, the Upma and the sweets. The way they packed some Mysore Pak for my family and and Binayak's and insisted on paying for that! Don't you think they would have wished you had taken them out?"
Anirudh made a big face,
"My kids hate Dosa and all that South Indian stuff. Give them Goan fish curry or Prawn masala, they will eat like mad, but no dosas".
Manoj and Binayak looked at each other and wondered how Anirudh missed the point. Manoj pressed on,
"You used to bring such nice sarees for Mousi and beautiful shirts for Mousa. Didn't you ever feel like telling them, "Baba, Bou, put on these nice clothes and let us go to the Photo studio nearby and take a family picture - you, your Bahu, the grand kids and me. Did you ever tell Mousi, "Bou, why don't you comb the hair of your grand kids like you used to do mine? Let's see how you can make them look smarter!" Don't think I am just imagining all these, sometimes we felt when we talked to them, they were grieving inside, missing these personal touches. Mousa would sigh and say how it had been a long time when they took a family photograph, Mousi will lament about the way she has not held her grand kids close to her, how she pines to show her love to them, to dress them, to comb their hair, to do things that will bond all of you together. I am sure even today she would be waiting for you to tell her, "Bou, why don't you cook some of my favourite dishes, the shrimp curry, the mutton fry, the ten varieties of rice cakes. No one in the world can do it better than you Bou!" Sometimes when we used to praise her cooking after our evening sessions, she would look longingly at your photo and her eyes would become moist....."
It seemed finally Manoj's words touched Anirudh. He stared at his friends for a few moments with a hint of guilt and then looked away. Manoj was not finished,
"You remember the last time they visited you? I think it was about three years back. We had gone to the airport to bring them home. They looked tired, very tired. And two days later when we visited them, we asked them about the trip. And then we realised they were tired not because of the two weeks' trip, but something had happened to make them tired of life. They told us how none of you could spare any time for them. You were busy attending meetings and conferences, you also went away on a five days' tour to Singapore during that fortnight. Your wife was busy attending parties and shopping and your children were always at the computer when they were home. They had nothing to talk to the old folks. And the day they were to leave for the airport, you were busy with some urgent meeting and they were bundled off in a taxi. That hurt them. Mousa was no longer effusive in his praise for the brilliant son, the Bahu was no longer the super Bahu she was when they had visited you fifteen years back. A sense of alienation had gripped them, and Mousa who was probably more sensitive between the two, had broken down. You were so busy that your phone calls had become infrequent. Anirudh, my friend, you were so annoyed with me when I told you that Mousa's soul would not be exactly smiling with pride at the grand feast you gave to the friends and relatives this evening. But ask yourself, which is better - making someone happy with a personal touch of love and concern for him when he is alive or to show off your love for him to the world by spending huge amounts of money on a ritual feast after his death? Which is better for his soul to rest in peace?"
Anirudh looked at his friends again. The anger was gone from his face, a deep sadness clouded it. Suddenly, tears appeared in his eyes, he covered his face with his hands and started sobbing. It was past midnight. Like a true mother Mousi was worried for her son. She came from inside to the balcony where the three friends were chatting. Seeing her son in tears, she thought he was grieving for his father. She also broke into a loud wail. Anirudh got up and went to his mother. He collected her in a hug and after crying their hearts out, he told her,
"Bou, when we leave next week for Goa, you will come with us. It's time for you to look after your son and your Bahu and the grand kids. We have been missing your touch in our life for so long! I can't leave you all alone here. I am sure Baba's soul will rest in peace if you are with us."
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.
REVIEW OF THE POEMS IN LV73
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A Commentary on Poems of the 73rd Issue of Literary Vibes.
It was a pleasure trip to start with Mrutyunjay Sarangi's erudite editorial containing quotes from Sylvia Plath in literary sense but a painful experience as it spoke of suicides in the art world, past and present. He writes with a fluidity between prose and poetry, a rare style that suits an editor.
I read all poets in one sitting over hours to stitch them into a coherent net of mental scape to pick gems out of the grit but that is poetry, a mix of crests and troughs.
Let me comment on my experiences about the younger generation of poets and hold my breath, feeling a little inadequate, regarding the poems of the pastmasters of the craft.
Poet Thryaksha has two poems - 'Sound of Music' and 'Hireath'. For the second title I had to check Google. It means 'Nostalgia', it is an Irish word. Be it as it may, but poetry is in flow in both of them, hakuna matata (don't worry!), am I right or am I right? They have imagery (the rain's Morse cipher..), mysticism (l liked the protagonist in the second poem 'he' wondering if he is a living being or just a speck of idea with life and movement), beauty, and
sweetness (ambrosia). I have a suggestion - to title the lovely second poem "Homesick".
In her poems 'Hibernating Alphabets' and 'Giving' Madhumathi H. has two different diction. The first poem chooses its words carefully to sound poetic, in the process it sounds calculated and too disciplined. Yet it has fresh imagery to counterbalance like 'silence of thunder'. But "forgiving is free verse" is a figure of speech I failed to figure out. Poet would write a line to me, my polite request, about it. I might be missing a thing there. The second poem is a flowing poem, straight outpouring from heart. I liked it more than the first one that used more poetic craft.
"An Evening Stroll" by poet Disha Prateechee is motivational. It reads like a loud thinking, so a touch of reality and many readers would identify themselves in her worldview. She is proud of her past (though she sounds that the past was not to her choice, might have been harsh), and has taught her to be what she is today. Very positive words, full of confidence.
Poet Supriya Pattanayak has a debut-contribution in LV, a lovely children poem where the spokesperson in the poem is a Rag Doll itself that takes the title also. The toy's anguish is palpable 'love me - love me not', the pain and hurt of a play-thing after being rejected out of too much familiarity, getting bored with it because it is old and worn, and unattractive by overuse. The poem can be a metaphor for adult love, that often starts like a monsoon, outpouring, and ends in dreary dry summer. The itch of love dying on the bed of boredom, familiarity, and what not including the call of greener pastures as new play-thing. Love is dangerous when played with like a toy only for pleasure that may lead to look for new dolls, discarding the old and looking for new hills and moving away from the native rocks. A lovely poem.
I continue to our senior poets. I would tread carefully in their experienced choppy waters.
Poet Haraprasad Das dazzles in his 'Kabir' in spite of the fact that the translation might have taken away some of its beauty. He uses metaphors like weaving (the social fabric) on his loom (the awakening Kabir wanted to bring) before the night (the ultimate evil) for the retarded dumb girl (the defenceless girl child who can muster hardly a voice in a male dominated society) who is a victim of marauders (lascivious elements even among moral keepers) whose prying eyes render her feel stark naked and she has to wear only a defensive smile and hide her vulnerability with bare palms. The great Kabir famous for his Dohas comes alive in this short moden poem, with dense imagery. A poem to remember and revisit.
Poet Dilip Mohaptra's "Forgiveness" is a soft satire. You kick a man and then ask his forgiveness. A contemporary theme, the whole of USA rising in revolt against the heartless racist police officer who killed George Floyd brutally. The rise of the citizen of the most powerful country enmass can be said to be like every one on his/her knees asking for apology from God, from George's surviving loved ones. Dilip writes with crisp and hitting words to suit the violence, to suit the rebuke, a transformed way of saying "sorry for what one of us has done because the victim's skin is dark." The poem brings to mind the mercy petition of Nalini, one of the conspirators in Rajiv Gandhi's killing, jailed at Chennai (incidentally, the Gandhi family has extended their forgiveness to Nalini and her other jailed colleagues in a rare gesture, though the law has not extended any mercy.) Dilip'poem also brings to mind the Australian missionary doctor (leprosy expert) Staines who with his two little sons was burnt alive by a few misguided Hindu fundamentalists. His surviving wife with his rare humility pardoned the perpetrators, and Dara Singh the main motivator. But the High Court of Odisha hanged Dara Singh. The whole of Odisha, in that charged time, was kind of on knees to ask Mrs Staine's forgiveness. The poem is full of punch and vivre.
Poet Bibhu Padhi's "Burial in Summer" was in a style I could not associate to his genre of writing. Being an astute poet who has published very widely in India and offshore, he must be experimenting. As London Anvil Press has published it in its 'Ten Contemporary Poets' it must be in the latest post-modern style, I am not exposed to this style much, and I think, the style is still fluid and in its formative state, evolving. It should be a good poem looking at its peers with plumes in one of London's publishing houses, the parental abode of English language.
Bichitra Kumar Behura, the poet, as always is his sedate, well organized shape in "My Morning Tea". It's a thanks giving in excellent poetry to the hands that makes his refreshing cuppa so lovingly, may they be of his partner, daughter, son, sister, maid, even the hands of God ( remember the famous goal of Maradona by the hand of God that brought the final win to Argentina, camera showing it was a foul by hand!), I mean the poet's own hands.
Poet Sundar Rajan's two poems are immaculate in language, but defy time by their style. He uses a style our epics were written with. May be it is intentional.
Poet Hema Ravi's poem is motivational and has packed courage and vibe in its lines in the grace of the flower-girl in every sense and essence. It keeps a suspense in the last part. I enjoyed it.
Setaluri Padmavathi, the poet in her cryptic poem "Mark" follows a pattern I can't decipher. Word 'Mark' repeats in the first line of each stanza, other words also repeat from lines to next lines. The pattern must be for an effect, I am not sure of may be because of my limited reading . That might be a discipline in poetry writing I am not aware of. I need help. It has a varied flowing theme like cause-effect cascading one leading to the other.
P. K. Routray, the poet's "Cacophony to Harmony" is a devotional poem. It is written in a style that the initiators of English Poetry by Indians like Sarojini Naidu and her contemporaries had launched.But my comparison may be superficial. Sarojini Naidu and Toru Dutta wrote in rhyme and meter and I am not sure if poet Routray followed that discipline, I am not a fit man to judge that aspect.
Last but not the least, poet Latha sakhya's painting that decorates this issue is a poem in brush and colour. Its pastoral beauty brings a tranquillity to heart.
Disclaimer - My views are mine and has nothing to do with LV except may be allowing it in the group space.
(From - Prabhanjan K. Mishra, a member of the group, and a lover of poetry.)
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