Literary Vibes - Edition LXXV
( BROTHERS - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya )
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 75th edition of LiteraryVibes with a rich collection of nice poems and nicer short stories.
In this edition we are happy to host two new writers. Ms. Neha Sarah from Jaipur, presently living in Hyderabad, is a highly creative, enthusiastic poet who loves to paint on a wide canvas of imagination and her poem in today's LV shows it. Extremely talented, she has the potential to fly high and reach the summit of creativity in the years to come. Mr. Jairam Seshadri, a veteran writer who returned from a long stay abroad to settle in Chennai, is more down to earth, but has a sensitive, compassionate heart and loves to relate to people. His article overflows with empathy and a distinct flavour of positive humanism. We welcome both of them to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them plenty of success in their literary efforts.
In today's edition of LiteraryVibes I would particularly like to urge you to read the article on "Caregiving: Remembrances and Reflections" by Debi Padhi. Coming from the pen of the former Naval Aviator who has seen the world in its multiple hues, this outstanding piece is bound to stir your soul to its depth.
We have just celebrated the Doctors' Day at a time when all over the world the human race is looking up to the doctors and their teams to provide succour to the Corona ravaged people. They have been aptly called the Corona warriors and homages pour in for them with unstinted gratitude from all over. At different times of our life we have needed them and have been attended to by them. We take this opportunity to pay our respect to them.
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a famous septuagenerian doctor friend of mine from the U.S., has sent me a short write up written by him on what doctors do. I reproduce it here:
WHAT DOCTORS DO…….
What we do is initiate care and explain to the patient what we do and why. We explain to the family what we do and why.
What we do is offer comfort. What we do is answer questions. Patiently. Repetitively. Simply and matter-of-factly. We listen to discussions of what Aunt Millie has and whether medicine is too advanced. We hear their views on hospitals and nursing without ever speaking—we are examples.
What we do is convey confidence, competence, and professionalism. We know that good doctors are the rule, not the exception.
What we do is respond. We respond intuitively with empathy or humor. The patient and family are a part of an elite club. They are members of our circle. They can sense that we are friends, that coworkers like each other. They know we are a team that works together.
What we do is trust ourselves. We know when to give in and when to stand toe-to-toe. We let patients know that we acknowledge their concerns, respect their rights, and enjoy our jobs.
What we do is educate. We offer information regarding routine things like “watch your diet,” “quit smoking and exercise.” We admonish those who say they cannot remember to take their heart pills and patients who threaten their children with shots. We know how far to go and when to stop.
What we do is public relations. We are most frequently the patient’s only perception of the entire hospital. We are creative enough to know 50 ways to build a better mousetrap and tactful enough to know that nobody likes a smarty.
What we do is communicate. We share what to do at home, what to look for and when to return. If the patient has died, we share ourselves with the family. We offer assistance, viewing the body, notifying loved ones. We offer privacy, hugs and sometimes tears.
What we do is timeless. We are there when life begins. We protect the young, sometimes from their own families. We get down on our knees to greet the little children.
We greet the older ones with respect and assume that they are able to answer most of our questions themselves. We try to foster trust in adolescents. We reassure young parents that a child’s illness is not their fault. We laugh and reassure the middle-aged parents that a child’s illness is not their fault. We laugh and reassure the middle-aged patient who says, “I’m falling apart.” We assist elderly patients with their numerous health needs and grocery bags full of pills.
For whatever reason, we are there. We assist patients, families, and one another through the toughest trials that life will ever produce. Just because.
That is what we do.
...............................................
Hope you will enjoy this 75th edition of LV at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/320
Please forward the link to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous editions of LV along with four anthologies of poems and short stories, are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Those of you who want to get your poems or short stories published in LV are welcome to send them to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
Take care, stay safe and healthy.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
COMMITMENT (Pratishruti)
THE DUNG-WOMAN
02) Haraprasad Das
LOVE SONG – 2 (Prema Kavita-2)
03) Bibhu Padhi
CUTTACK, 5 AM: WINTER
04) Dilip Mohapatra
GRAFFITI
THE INDOMITABLE
05) Debi Padhi
CAREGIVING: REMEMBRANCES AND REFLECTIONS
06) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
THE GYPSY GIRL
07) Ishwar Pati
THE LAST WALTZ
08) Sundar Rajan
THE TRAIN JOURNEY
09) Thryaksha A Garla
WHEN I READ WHAT I WRITE
BLINDED
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
WALK AWAY
11) Molly Joseph
O' KENYA !
12) Sharanya Bee
SPACE
13) Sumitra Mishra
THE MONSOON ORCHESTRA
14) Madhumathi. H
THE RAINDROPS WHISPERED...
SCARLET PENDANT...
15) Sheena Rath
ALLAMANDA
16) Hema Ravi
THE GIFT
17) Padma Setaluri
A HUT IN THE WOODS
18) Supriya Pattanayak
THE AFTERNOON THUNDERSHOWER
19) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
WHEN THE GREEN FLAG WAS HELD BACK!
20)Dr.Aniamma Joseph
CONFESSION
21) Padmapriya Karthik
PROFOUND TRUTH
22) Priya Bharati
ODISHA FOREST DIARY THROUGH MY EYES
23) Akshaya Kumar Das
LANTERNS THE ONLY HOPE....
24) Neha Sarah
PEEPING TOM
25) Jairam Seshadri
HERS, HIS and THE ONE IN BETWEEN
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE DARK LANE
You nap languorously
in this contented afternoon,
a well-fed cow
chewing the cud,
having finished her grazing.
My heartbeats rush,
a toy’s drumbeats, its crank
freshly wound up; it beats fast
as if its power may runout
by getting unwound any moment.
‘Life is committed to last long’
sounds absurd, unreliable,
a prisoner’s promise to return,
as unreal as the time’s assurance
to stand still, and wait for us,
as impermanent
as a nomads’ tents.
Even the best of karma
contains no assurance
to bring good rewards.
My days walk along slippery paths,
fickle like well-endowed fair women;
none can unequivocally claim their affection
beyond the whiff of their scented scarves.
Life may end by the next bend.
Nights are not less treacherous,
they keep measuring their mischief
against the days’, they
bring back the lost fear
and forgotten apprehensions.
When a day is with night,
either in the dawn or dusk,
I look for you, the assurance
in your eyes, in those
deciding hours.
Your moods, I carry with me
so tenderly as the fear
of losing you; hide the hot tear
as I cry so secretly
behind all eyes.
Believe me, my love, I keep
myself in readiness to forgive and
forget you in a jiffy, forgive you
for all my sleepless nights.
I stand by my commitment.
(Odia poem Pratishruti that appeared in Vishwamukti, Jan to March issue, 1996, is transformed into Commitment by the poet.)
A pregnant widow, draped
in a white sari, greying and
threadbare from overuse and
insufficient soap; collects dung
along lanes into a basket on head.
She puts the basket down,
touches her head to the ground
in front of a stone, smeared red,
under a massive Neem, asking
for blessings of the unnamed deity.
She offers sprigs of grass, picked
on her way, to the bull
from the Shiva temple, also lowers
her head with the basket
before a snake crossing the road,
that, she assumes, from
Shiva’s neck, perhaps, in search
of a mouse. Oh, that reminds her
to bow to the elephant-headed
Lord Ganesha, the trouble-shooter.
His transport is a mouse,
the food for his father’s pets,
the snakes. She muses
on the divine riddle, bowing to
both the sacred creatures.
A Banyan tree, girdled with threads
that wives had put around it in a ritual
asking long life for their husbands,
brings her to tears, she
bows before the sacred tree.
It reminds her of her late husband
who would get drunk, beat her
every other night; would love her
occasionally. He died of snake bite,
bitten while making love to her,
leaving behind a melting face,
soft fondles and half-bloomed kisses.
She tries to erase the bruises
from memory, and the welts,
from his slaps and belt-lashes
that return to her at times,
frothing up rancour, pampering
her female pride. But she cherishes
his occasional sweetness,
buries the hatchet.
She takes a graying thread
from the hem of her threadbare sari
and ties it on the sacred Banyan:
“May the sweet love, planted
in my womb on his dying night,
blossom into a flower
and bear fruit, the flesh
of my flesh. O’ Lord, don’t let
my little one be a mean pig
like the brute of a father.”
She returns without going
as far as the Pir’s Dargah;
feeling sick, she mumbles
in direction of the Sufi saint,
“O’ immortal one, bless my womb.”
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
LOVE SONG – 2 (Prema Kavita-2)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Our world has shrunk
into a close familiar dump,
we have lost curiosity to look for
the little witnesses to our love -
bells on your anklet
that jingled before falling silent
somewhere during the walk,
buried in life’s hot sands;
the cherubic little bird
that disappeared into the blue,
setting out with great plans
hopping across our Madarangaa* patch
taking off in maiden flight
with fire in the belly and
a mission on wings,
to fly over the holy Ganges.
We even don’t recall
the anklets or the little bird!
We are to realize –
more the razzle-dazzle,
less the new world
bothers with our beloved past;
paints it turn sepia,
turn history into unreal myths.
We must guard, lest we forget:
we have a humble nest,
limited needs, limited dreams;
small is our world?
(*Madarangaa is a native green-leaf vegetable in Odisha’s corn fields)
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)”
CUTTACK, 5 AM: WINTER
Bibhu Padhi
The fog lies heavy over the town.
The sun is quiet, almost tender.
Chakar Chaand Bazzar is already full
with Gandhi’s favorite prayer.
The gods are here, will stay
with us, each as kind as
the others. No one listens.
Women with large buckets
make a long line
at the roadside municipal tap;
I know, they will never get tired.
The boys of the cheap-food restaurant
are busy making the first fire.
Retired husbands walk with milk-cans
to the vendor who stays three houses from here;
an unclaimed dog crosses the road
and crosses back for no reason at all.
Lambs block the road, no one minds.
With his small daughter’s hand in his,
the young father takes a proud walk
towards the old river. A cow
stands in the middle of a road
and allows her calf her fluent milk
in innocence and gentle splendour.
The fog hangs still, the prayer
continues. No one listens.
Are the listening gods really there?
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
They are commoners
not the elite class like
murals or frescos
nor even hieroglyphics
and are accused of
being malevolent
vandals and defilers.
They are born
behind the curtains
in dark dungeons
when no one is around
in forms of their very own
through scribbles scratches
and sprays.
They survived
the Vesuvius eruptions
those incised inscriptions
and still tell a tale
sometimes sepulchral
sometimes sanguine
ethereal and eternal.
They just don't care
for the raised eye brows
of the prude
or the law enforcers
and speak their heart
lending voice
to the otherwise dumb walls.
' Open the door, you can't hide from us,' someone was banging the door and shouting.
' Who's this?,' Ameet asked while squinting through the peep hole. He saw two men in plain clothes standing opposite the door
' Police,' said one of them while banging the door louder.
As soon as he opened the latch, the police pushed open the door and pounced upon him. Before he could protest, they handcuffed him and dragged him to a waiting police jeep. They informed him that he was being charged with sedition under section 124(A) of the Indian Penal Code. To be specific it was because of his cartoons that were used as placards and posters in an anti Government rally.
Ameet Lahiri was a well known lampoonist whose cartoons appeared regularly in national dailies. His cartoons with pungent wit and humour were very popular, and he had quite a large fan base. He had more than a million followers on Twitter. A graduate in fine arts from Kala Bhavana, the Arts faculty of Vishwa Bharati university at Shantiniketan, he was attracted to the art of cartooning, inspired by the greats like R K Laxman and Shankar. He studied the styles of many cartoonists world wide and developed his own unique brand as a political cartoonist. He blended satire and wit with his dexterous comic strokes to make potent and powerful concoctions. They were like deadly potions which hit the governments harder than a thousand word editorial could. His cartoons surely tickled the funny bone of the reader, but at the same time they were effective tools to mould public opinion on various burning issues whether political or social. The political leaders whom he targeted did seethe in silent anger and hated him more than his admirers loved him.
The cartoons which irked the Government this time showed a bleeding elephant lying on its side with thousand leeches sucking its blood, depicting the multiple taxes imposed on the citizens to counter the Government's weak and ineffective economic policies. In another cartoon he depicted the Chief Minister with horns and with a forked tail, holding a trident and breathing fire through her eyes, while a terrified common man cowered in a corner.
His arrest made headlines in newspapers highlighting the police action to suppress freedom of expression, which was considered as a constitutional right of any citizen. There was public uproar and people came out on the streets in support of Ameet. The TV anchors of debate shows had a field day. A petition campaign was launched in a public protest platform by a sympathiser. The social media was on fire, people demanding his immediate release. A Public Interest Litigation was filed by an activist lawyer in the court and the court after examining the case dropped the sedition charges. The court pointed out that every citizen of the country had the right to express himself on any issue, including criticism of the state machinery in any manner. If such action didn't incite violence, sedition charges couldn't be slapped arbitrarily. After a brief period of incarceration finally he was released from police custody and the court admonished the police for having arrested him on frivolous grounds and without application of mind. He was given a ceremonial welcome by the city's gentry and was escorted to his home in a procession like a hero, amidst sloganeering on victory of truth.
' Hello, am I speaking to Biplob Mondal?, asked the Personal Assistant to the Police Commissioner to the person who had taken his call. Biplob Mondal was a dreaded Naxal leader who had moved over from Naxalbari to Dantewada in Chhattisgarh and was operating from there. A staunch believer of far- left radicalism, Biplob led a group of underground rebels from the deep forests of Dantewada. He was ruthless and always left a trail of terror wherever he decided to launch his attacks. An expert in abduction and extortion, he was the most feared outlaw in the region.
' Yes, Biplob here. Who wants me? ,' snapped Biplob gruffly.
' Hi brother, Ranjan here. the boss wants to speak to you. Just hold on, I am transferring the call, ' spoke the PA.
' Hello Biplob, how are you? Hope things are going good for you,' the Police Commissioner was on the line.
' We are doing fine. Tell me sir, what can I do for you?,' asked Biplob.
' See Biplob, you know that when all the roads end for us in blind corners, we come to you. I am sure that you would help us this time too,' said the Police Commissioner.
' No problem sir. You people take care of us too. It's always a favour for a favour. Please feel free to tell me what we may do,' Biplob offered to help.
' You might have read in the papers about this cartoonist Ameet Lahiri. His cartoons are becoming a nuisance to the people in the corridors of power. Even he had published few cartoons on your movement showing you all in the lights of ISIS. He has the public sympathy. We arrested him on sedition charges, but had to set him free because of the public outcry and court orders. But we have to sort this guy out. You know that within our limitations we now can't harm him. We need you to take care of that. Hope you understand, ' said the Police Commissioner.
' Oh, no problem. Leave it to me. I will see that he would be unable to draw even a crooked line on a piece of paper,' assured Biplob.
The next day when Ameet was returning home from his morning jog at Deshapriyo park close to his residence, an Innova approached him from behind and stopped short of him. Two people with face masks got down and caught hold of him. Before he could shout for help, they gagged him and pushed him into the rear seat. They tied his hands up and put a black bag over his head covering his face. The car sped away. Then he felt a needle prick on his thigh and lost consciousness.
He woke up in a hut amidst a dense forest. He could listen to the chirping of birds around. Then someone came in and yanked him off the charpoy he was lying on. He was then led to a clearing amidst the bushes. Seated in the middle was a man in a combat rig, a gun slung from his shoulders. Ameet was made to sit on a tree stump in front of him. Two men in similar dress stood behind him, their guns pointed at him.
' Welcome to my humble home, Ameet saheb, ' said Biplob looking squarely into his eyes.
Ameet couldn't figure out who this guy could be and where was he kept captive.
Biplob continued, ' So you are an artist, eh? I believe you draw caricatures of very powerful people and humiliate them in the public. You even drew something about us, the poor and oppressed, who live in the jungle trying just to survive, and you people call us anti social Naxalites ! You portrayed me as a man-eater of Sundarbans. You have severely damaged our reputation and now its your pay back time. Do you understand?'
' Pay back time for me? What about your pay back time? You have massacred the innocent for your own warped ideologies. You talk about equality in the society and you only create more inequalities, through terror and mindless violence. And you are talking about my pay back time ?,' said Ameet fearlessly.
' Shut up you rascal. Your court might have set you free. But you are in my court of justice now. I have thought about the right punishment for you,' roared Biplob.
' What can you do you poor wretch? Worst you can do would be to chop off my head. You can't think beyond that. You may take away my life, but can you silence the voice of truth? The voice of my spirit? The voice of my soul? How many Ameets will you obliterate? Once I am gone, someone else will take over the brushes from me. And the baton would be passed on from hand to hand. The fight against corruption and evil would go on,' said Ameet while meeting Biplob's eyes head on.
' No, no, I will not chop your head off. I will chop off something else. Remember guru Dronacharya and Eklavya. I am not your guru, but I shall surely claim your obeisance, the dues to me in exchange of your life. You will never again be able to hold your brush and draw another cartoon,' Biplob said mockingly.
He then signalled to his comrade standing next to Ameet. The man pulled out a fence cutter from his pocket. The other guy held Ameet's right hand in a tight grip and in a quick snap they cut off his thumb. Ameet shuddered in utter pain but didn't speak a word. The man picked up the severed thumb, put it inside a small casket and handed it over to Biplob.
' OK, painter babu , you are now free to go. Go and tell the world that Biblob is not a man-eater. He too has a heart. A heart full of compassion and kindness. My men will escort you to the bus station and put you in a bus to Kolkata,' Biplob said benignly.
' And Nandu,' he said to his comrade, ' send the thumb by courier to the Police Commissioner.'
They were oblivious of the fact that Ameet was left handed.
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.
CAREGIVING: REMEMBRANCES AND REFLECTIONS
Caregiving: The Hand of Assurance
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
'so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough’.”
- Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Like Alice, I too reached that point in life on a rainy day at Calcutta in mid 1990s, when I had to take a decision that went on to change my life: I sold everything for a song and took recourse to premature retirement from a service that gave me all the trappings of a good life. Not that I had to, but I took the measured decision, much against the will of my mother, to return to my birthplace and family, both of which I had missed since I left home at the tender age of nine. “There is always something to lose. But maybe more to gain”, said John Christopher in his book Beyond the Burning Lands; and I had mustered hope and courage in those lines, with my wife in consort, in taking my decision to fulfill my filial duties.
In pursuit of my enquiry into the dimensions of caregiving and to a large extent to measure my own vulnerabilities then, before my departure homewards, I sought an interview with the ‘The Saint of the Gutters’, the exemplar of caregiving, Mother Teresa. She took me in as a volunteer at the hallowed precincts of her Home for The Dying, Nirmal Hriday, at Calcutta where I was posted. My everyday interaction with The Mother at the evening prayers, where I shared with her my apprehensions, and the sight of the sisters with the blue bordered saris going about their jobs with equanimity and composure led me into a new pathway of introspection and self-discovery. Until the day of reckoning arrived, when in one of her evening prayers, Mother Teresa asked me to sit by her frail body, put her shriveled palm over my head as I held her other palm in mine, and in a whisper pronounced, “You can do it”: the simple four words were enough to resurrect a new being! What is left is a gifted rosary, a card signed by her with words of love and a lump in the throat as I recount those days. Caregiving, and I was ready.
Mother Teresa’s Nirmal Hriday, Calcutta. Courtesy:Wikipedia
Mother Teresa:The Saint of The Gutters.Courtesy:india.com
My Mother, an otherwise very healthy lady, by then had been confined to her bed after a calamitous fall some years before that resulted in a broken hip. As times went by, despite all our efforts and multiple surgeries after, her condition progressively deteriorated that took the inevitable turn and the necessity arose for taking care of her daily needs. What better opportunity for me to rise to the occasion than this, the guilt of not having been able to contribute quality time and presence to her and to my family, in need over the years! And the Caregiver in me took a firm shape and determination. My pent-up wish and desire took fruition: my short stint at Nirmal Hriday had sealed all that.
It isn’t that I had not come across or was ignorant of the term ‘Caregiver’ and the accompanying nuances of the implications earlier. My ordainment had arrived through a chance conversation with a charming lady in the foyer of the Jehangir Art Gallery, Colaba, Bombay in 1980, who later turned out to be the Founder Chairperson of the Spastic Society of India(now ADAPT-Able Disabled All People Together), Mrs.Mithu Alur. Confronted in 1966 with two choices of either to give up and let the negativities grow or to get up and fight, when doctors told Mithu that her one-year old daughter, who was diagnosed with acute cerebral palsy, had only 72 hours to live; Mithu rose to the challenge and became a Caregiver for her daughter, Malini Chib, who is today a spritely 55 years; a disability activist, an award-winning writer whose book One Little Finger(2010) was made into the movie, Margarita with a Straw(2015), starring Kalki Kolechin. It was only possible due to the undying caregiving spirit of Mithu. Mithu, aided by the media, was possibly one of the first visible examples of the caregiver who established the first institutionalized caregiving organization in India. Surely, there must be many unsung heroes, who chose to remain hidden as they went about doing their duties in silence, as a caretaker ought to be.
Photo: Mithu Alur and daughter Malini Chib(seated). Courtesy: The Hindu
Time rolled by and our mother who was endearing to all the members of the extended family lived confined to her bed for 12 years after her unfortunate fall, as we as a family gathered to take care of her retinue of needs by ourselves, doing everything to help her retain her dignity and poise. As the author JK Rowling said, “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure”. Our mother too, who was perceived to be an example of perfectionism, conscientiousness and piety, passed away to face her next adventure, on the auspicious day of Janmashtami in 2003.
On 12 May, we celebrate the World Nursing Day, in remembrance of the angelic lady, Florence Nightingale, reverently addressed as ‘The Lady with the Lamp’. If Florence Nightingale epitomized and conceptualized the fine art of nursing, that later was institutionalized throughout the world. It will only be pertinent to mention that, in that illustrious lineage, Mother Teresa, ‘The Saint of the Gutters’ took nursing to the totality of it in the form of Caregiving.
On 15 May, we celebrate the International Day of Families, a system since the ages that has dwelled as the most essential element of social solidarity and composed society. “Perhaps most important of all,” [the family] provides for emotional and psychological security, particularly through the warmth, love and companionship that living together generates, along with such humanitarian activities as caring for its members when they are sick or disabled” (Encyclopedia Britannica, Vol 5).
If we ponder deeply, we see a laden path from Nursing to Caregiving and on to the entire perspective of the family; albeit from Florence Nightingale to Mother Teresa and beyond. Family today stands at crossroads, as the world struggles to respond to the COVID-19 crisis. There is a real opportunity to rethink and transform the way our families must grow, reaffirm; both from within and beyond the boundaries to foster greater coming together of all, with a visionary roadmap of where we need to go.
Some Exalted Lives and Redefining Caregiving
“If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.”
Mother Teresa
After the demise of my mother, I rose from the aftermath with a phoenixian resolve, with a renewed vigor, faith and belief in the art of Caregiving. My mind launched itself to seek stories of caregiving with a pervading pursuit, ready to lap up every hint of share, care and compassion. My quest led to a search for online support groups, libraries, literature, films, documents, journals and other paraphernalia that would lead me to stories of courage and challenges of caregiving. Providentially, I was gifted with inspiring stories of caregiving that today form a part of my library. Let me share three of these somber but revelatory stories, each with its stamp of pathos, sacrifice and hope, of the reflective and symbiotic relationship between the caregiver and the carereciever; that can awaken the lofty spirit of man.
My first example is the life-transforming book Tuesdays with Morrie (1997). The story is of a student, Mitch Albom, and his long-lost mentor, Professor Morrie, whom the student rediscovered to renew a left-out-life-lesson; visiting the ailing Professor every promised Tuesday to caregive the senior bachelor diagnosed with the incurable Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), while the lessons continued. No books were required. The subject was the meaning of life. Hear Mitch Albom:
“You’re my only brother,” I said. “I don’t want to lose you. I love you”
I had never said such a thing to him before.
A few days later, I received a message on my fax machine. It was typed in the sprawling, poorly punctuated, all-cap-letters fashion that always characterized my brother’s words.
“HI I’VE JOINED THE NINENTIES!” IT BEGAN. He wrote a few little stories, what he’d been doing that week, a couple of jokes. At the end, signed off this way:
I HAVE HEARTBURN AND DIAHREA AT THE MOMENT – LIFE’S A BITCH. CHAT LATER? [signed] SORE TUSH.
I laughed until there were tears in my eyes.”
Their rekindled relationship turned into one final 'class': lessons in how to live. As life would have it, the revered Professor died in the arms of his dear student.
Later, Mitch the caregiver, published the book as a memoir, that went on to become a best seller, launching Mitch to grow into an author, journalist, screenwriter and television/radio broadcaster, which he is today. The book was adapted into a 1999 television film and a stage play that opened off Broadway.
The book deserves to be in the libraries of every school and college. Mitch Albom exemplified caregiving as an Art.
Book:Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom, sourced from the Author’s library.
(Photo courtesy:johnolearyinspires.com)
The second story is of the singularly dedicated caregiver-wife, Jai Pausch, of the renowned Computer Science Professor at Carnegie Mellon University, Professor Randy Pausch. Randy was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer at the peak of his career. As a tradition at the Carnegie Mellon, the Professors, before they retire, give invited talks titled 'The Last Lecture', wherein they are asked to visualize their demise and to ruminate on what matters most to them: What wisdom would we impart to the world if we knew it was our last chance? If we had to vanish tomorrow, what would we want as our legacy?
In August 2007, Randy was given a terminal diagnosis: "3 to 6 months of good health left". Randy, well aware that a few days were left of his life, volunteered before his time, and solicited to deliver such a lecture titled ‘The Last Lecture: Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams’ on September 18, 2007. The lecture became a popular YouTube video and led to other media appearances. As he neared his life’s deadline, on popular demand, he then co-authored a book called The Last Lecture on the same theme, which became a New York Times best-seller.
“We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand”, said Randy Pausch.
Pausch died on July 25, 2008, aged 47, but not before his determined wife gave up her own job to sublimate her life with that of her husband as an able caretaker.
The lecture Randy delivered wasn't about dying. It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, of seizing every moment, “because time is all you have and you may find one day that you have less than you think”, he said. It was a summation of everything Randy had come to believe. It was about living, that ended with a subtle “Thank You” to his beloved wife, who went on to pen her own memoir and life as a caretaker with Randy in Dream New Dreams, her emotional journey from wife to mother to full-time caregiver, then to widowhood and single parenting, fighting to preserve a sense of stability for her family. These are two books that will be shared for generations to come it is a must read for every married couple.
Books:Last Lecture by Randy Pausch and Dream New Dreams by Jai Pausch(wife of Randy Pausch), sourced from the Author’s library.
(Photo courtesy:pittsburghmagazine.com)
My third selection centers around the incredible story of a young oncology specialist of Indian origin, based in USA with a brilliant mind and a promising future, that was cut short by fate, falling victim to what another illustrious Indian oncologist based at USA, Siddhartha Mukherjee, his Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer(2011), in which he listed case studies and pontificated at the scourge of cancer at length -- a fate, almost in a premonitory way, that would befall his junior colleague in 2016.
Book:The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddhartha Mukherjee, sourced from the Author’s library. Photo courtesy: Wikipedia
How do you comprehend the fate of a man, who after completing degrees in English Literature and Human Biology from Oxford, realizes that there is still much to learn? And though accepted to a Master's program in English Literature at Stanford, one afternoon, pushed by his desire to understand the meaning of life, discovers the calling to practice medicine, qualifies his basic doctor’s degree, and to further understand that intelligence is not enough in the practice of medicine and that morality is also needed; pursued a neurosurgical residency at Stanford, to become a practicing neurosurgeon. Finally, just when his practice was on a rising trajectory, he became the patient himself diagnosed with stage four lung cancer to die at the young age of 36, but not before he himself wrote his memoir When Breath Becomes Air with some support from his wife for the last chapter; as she dedicated her life to her beloved husband Paul as his caregiver. She remains a single mother, with a little daughter born just before Paul’s demise through IVF.
Paul’s words live on as a guide and a gift to us all. Sample this:
"I began to realize that coming face to face with my own mortality, in a sense, had changed nothing and everything," he wrote. "Seven words from Samuel Beckett began to repeat in my head: 'I can't go on. I'll go on.'" When Breath Becomes Air is an unforgettable, life-affirming reflection on the challenge of facing death, the role of his wife as the uncompromising caregiver, and on the relationship between doctor and patient, from a brilliant writer who became both.
Book:When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, sourced from the Author’s library. Photo courtesy:npr.org
In the interregnum between the passage of Professor Randy Pausch and Dr.Paul Kalanithi, there emerged another renowned and respected author, another practicing surgeon based in USA. Atul Gawande, who through his seminal work Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End, created a stir in the world; in it he raised the bar to highlight the need for realigning the concept and dimensions of caregiving. The book, published in 2014, addressed end-of-life, hospice care that contained Gawande's reflections and personal stories. Gawande clinically chronicled the work of a hospice nurse on her rounds, a geriatrician in his clinic, and individuals reforming nursing homes; and dissected the Hippocratical practices, caregiving processes on grounds of morality and human values.
Towards the end of the book, he even discusses euthanasia and writes “[I]t is not how long you live but how well you live”, bringing in a new relationship between the doctor, the patient and the art of caregiving. Some of his influential lines from Being Mortal are:
“Our ultimate goal, after all, is not a good death but a good life to the very end.”
“You may not control life's circumstances, but getting to be the author of your life means getting to control what you do with them.”
“How we seek to spend our time may depend on how much time we perceive ourselves to have.”
“It is not death that the very old tell me they fear. It is what happens short of death: losing their hearing, their memory, their best friends, and their way of life.”
“Your chances of avoiding the nursing home are directly related to the number of children you have.”
Atul Gawande’s questions redefined health-care and caregiving. His book and ideas had a strong influence on me and brought me closer to the values of caregiving.
It was not long before that providence tagged me again in 2016, while I was still in a trance with the tragic story of late Paul Kalanithi and his wife playing on my conscience; that my young, beloved and humble brother-in-law of very sober habits, without warning was diagnosed with stage four metastatic cancer of the stomach. It was shocking and the sky opened up with its deluge of despair and despondency on my in-laws’ family. A lively, happy and contented family was disarrayed with the pain and suffering that followed with the progressive treatment and the consequent dawning of the inevitable truth that confronts every patient who is visited by “The Emperor of Maladies”! Soon we were talking of caregiving and I was not to be left wanting. As the disease took its stranglehold, in my visits to my brother-in-laws bedside and later, in my discussions with the doctors, the same questions on health-care and caregiving arose in my mind, as was in Atul Gawande’s, and I groped for possible answers. In many ways, they still do. My brother-in-law passed away a few months later, with the best caregiving by the family members, as I braced up to meet John Donne’s apocryphal line, “Death Be Not Proud”.
Book: Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End, sourced from the Author’s library. Photo courtesy: Wikipedia
My sojourn in understanding the nuances of caregiving and its enmeshed and symbiotic relationship with carereceiving continues. As said by AJ Voss, the young and rising Basketball player of USA:
“My quest fuel my dreams…my dreams fuel my quests.”
Caregiving from the time of the Epics to the modern days
Having glanced over the alluring and beguiling charm that caregiving inveigled my vision with, through the progressive experiences I went through, as enumerated in the previous part of my discourse, a new realization and a forward-looking attitude engulfed my being that said:
“God gave burdens; he also gave shoulders.” – Yiddish Proverb
And I ventured to go beyond the boundaries of the medico-patient-caregiver closet. It drew my attention to explore further and delve into the spiritual aspects of caregiving. It was then that I determined to stay closer home and take a look at the legacy of caregiving in India that merits an engaging study.
From the ancient times, India has been a land where family took the forefront in our cultural beliefs and practices.
The moralistic Indian worldview of Dharma(Righteousness) and Karma(Action) brought in the belief of Seva(Service) in our performance and fulfillment of filial and societal duties that illuminated the pathway to Moksha(Liberation). Our religions and social mores are based on these cardinal principles of social behavior, which called on the elder generations to take care of their progeny and the younger generations reciprocating the same in reverse. In Indian scriptures, seers and sages have advocated selfless service personified in the oft-quoted sloka from the Bhagvat Gita:
The spirit of caregiving is enshrined in the words of other holy books and saints.
The Bible says:
“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.” – Matthew 25:35-40
The Quran says:
“Help one another in acts of piety and righteousness” – Ch 5:2
The ancient Buddhistic philosophical text, Dhammapada, says:
“Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” – Buddha
Mahavira said:
“In happiness and suffering, in joy and grief, we should regard all creatures as we regard our own self.”
Guru Nanak said:
“He who regards all men as equals is religious.”
Role Models from the Epics
In India caregiving has been worked into the cultural milieu and consciousness through effective role models.
Shravan Kumar appears as a vital subtext in the Ramayana, enjoying the highest recall in the ambit of role models in the discourse. Shravan, a young boy, carried his aged and blind parents in two baskets over his shoulders and captured the imagination and conscience of a society that coagulated normative behavior towards elders in line with Shravan Kumar’s own sense of duty. Shravan Kumar is the ideal son, his duty to his parents is an unquestioned moral obligation that every son needs to imbibe and execute.
The other epic, Mahabharata, though less about ideal characters and their idealistic pursuits, even here we find caregiving woven into the social fabric. As the war ends, a distraught Dhritarashtra and his wife Gandhari retire into the forest, accompanied by Dhritarashra’s sister-in-law Kunti and his minister Vidur; and it is Kunti who looks after the ageing couple for a long time. She stays with them, childless as they are now, as their companion, devoted in her caregiving efforts. For the mortals, the lessons are unmistakable: that caregiving is part of filial duty and it is a moral obligation, a compulsion that necessitates acceptance.
Caregiving is thus worked into the mainstream Indian cultural tradition. In India, the family continues to be the focal point of social and group dynamics. The joint family system may have all but died today due to practical considerations, yet in spite of it continues to dominate the socio-cultural discourse. Elderly couples are supported by their families in both rural and urban India.
In India large families spell social security, especially for the elderly members. Parents provide care to their children in their younger years and the children reciprocate likewise. A person’s Dharma has always been to look after his or her parents in their twilight years.
Shravan Kumar carrying his blind parents. Image courtesy:youtube.com
A 21st Century Shravan Kumar
The curious case of Kailash Giri Brahamchari, truly a 21st century Shravan Kumar, is the story of sterner stuff to admire and talk of. Aged over 36 with little means, from an Indian village called Wargi, is presently carrying his 80-year-old blind mother, Kirti Devi, on his shoulders for pilgrimage across India, in return to the caregiving his mother accorded him when he was himself paralyzed in an accidental fall when young. He walks four to five kilometers every day, carrying his mother and taking rest at some roadside temples. He cooks food from whatever people offer him in his journey, and serves it to his blind mother first. His determined journey of 20 years has seen his mother visit the holy places of Rameshwaram, Jagannath Puri, Tirupathi, Ganga Sagar, Basukinath Dham, Tarapith, Badrinath, Kedarnath, Hrishikesh, Haridwar, Kaashi, Ayodhya, Chirtrakut, Allahabad, Narmada, Pushkar, and Gujarat; where he was framed on camera by the local media. He said that he needs to complete his journey by visiting Dwarka and Ujjain, before he returns to his village.
Kailash Giri’s story is not for the faint-hearted. It has brought forth the concept of Dharma, Karma and Seva as enshrined in the Indian scriptures that brings him closer to the ideal concept of man, propounded and practiced by many wise men of India. May the likes of this ‘Modern Shravan Kumar’, a true role model, grow and thrive everywhere. Kailash Giri’s epic story must reach every son’s ear and beyond.
Kailash Giri Brahamchari, carrying his blind mother, Kirti Devi, on pilgrimage. Photo courtesy: Dhinchak Khabar
The changing dynamics
According to the United Nations Populations Fund (UNFPA), India Ageing Report, 2017, the demographic profile of India is now witnessing changes. The ageing population which was just 7.5% in 2001 has increased to 8.6% by 2011. It is predicted that the population of senior citizens in India could be around 19% of total population by the year 2050. This will only mean that caring for the elderly and all aspects of geriatric services would come under greater focus and attention in the coming years. It has significant implications to the concept of caregiving and carereceiving. The self-explanatory demographic Figures 1.1-1.4, shown below, can be interpreted towards the future planning needs of the caregiving aspects in India, especially in reference to its senior citizens.
In accordance with a Ministry of External Affairs Report (Deccan Herald, 22 Jan 2020), there are 31 million Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) residing outside India. Every one of these NRIs, with elderly parents back home in India, is aware of that familiar feeling of constant worry lurking at the back of their minds, added to a lingering sense of guilt for having left them behind.
As families shrink, support systems vanish and children get busy with careers in faraway lands, parents are left with not just large houses that pose a security threat, but also hostile housing societies and neighbors. When thousands of Indians emigrate each year for higher education, lucrative jobs or a better lifestyle, they leave behind, either knowingly or unknowingly, their biggest treasure: their elderly parents with broad smiles and cheerful exteriors, who hide behind their moist eyes untold stories of loneliness, anxiety, fear and uncertainty that they would rather not tell their children.
As a consequence, there has been a commercialized mushrooming of Old Age Homes, Hospices, Assisted Living Accommodations, institutionalized Caregiving Organizations, Online Collaborative Eco-Systems and Online Funeral Services Providers.
Corona Pandemic and Caregiving
When it comes to COVID-19, the disease caused by the new Corona virus, older people are especially vulnerable to severe illness. Research shows that adults who are 60 and older, especially those with pre-existing medical conditions like heart disease, lung disease, diabetes or cancer are more likely to have severe, even deadly, Corona virus infection than other age groups. The younger professionals and middle-aged people too are bound to be caught between ageing parents and a career to keep in these trying times. The shrinking of the economies and fear of ‘being benched out’ adds to the uncertainty. The COVID-19 has already stretched the medico-healthcare systems to its seams, with other diseases receding to the background. There is a visible shift of priorities, of values and beliefs. The shape of things to come is hazy and uncertain with the caregivers themselves falling within the vulnerable groups. Their protection too will form a part of the emerging health-care systems. While the Corona pandemic is not to leave us anytime soon, and may become another new virus to live with like HIV as reports suggest; a caregiver of tomorrow will have to brace up to a new reality that hangs over him like the proverbial Damocles’ sword.
As I round off my ruminations on the various aspects of caregiving, enough scope for institutionalized research and prospective planning exists and the various stakeholders like the international agencies of UNO/WHO, the governments, the NGOs, the funding agencies, the social entrepreneurs, the social researchers, the medical community, the health-care workers, the community leaders must come together and rise in unison to meet the developing situation in a single voice laced with share, care, support and compassion for the carereceivers, not forgetting that the caregivers too need to be heard.
For the caregiver and the carereceiver alike, as Karl Menninger (1893-1990) writes: “Love cures people – both the ones who give it and the ones who receive it.” As Cicero (106-43 BCE) writes: “Give me a young man in whom there is something of the old, and an old man in whom there is something of the young. Guided so, a man may grow old in body but never in mind.”
(The Author dedicates this Article to Rajalaxmi Padhi and Arnav Padhi, equal partners in the author’s journey in Caregiving)
(The Article appeared earlier as a three part series in odishabytes.com)
Debi Padhi was born in the city of Cuttack, India. A retired naval aviator, with a Masters in English Literature and a Masters in Journalism and Mass Communications; has a passion for the creative arts and is a freelance writer on varied subjects that have been published widely. He, along with his wife are running an organization that counsels and empowers the youth to exploit their full potential.
Translated from Odia by Priya Bharati
34 Up Bilaspur- Indore Fast Passenger train left Bilaspur station. Two persons had boarded the first class coach. The one who boarded from the platform side was a young Divisional Safety Officer (D.S.O) and the other one who boarded from the off side was a gypsy girl.
Upon seeing the gypsy girl, the Coach Conductor and the Coach Attendant rushed towards her shouting, “Hey you, get out, get out!”
Hearing the commotion in the corridor, the Safety officer kept his attaché in his cubicle and came out. He saw a gypsy girl holding a bundle standing close to the bathroom wall and shaking in fright. Both the Conductor and the Attendant were pointing at her and telling her to get down though by then the train had gathered considerable speed.
The D.S.O saw the girl. She must have been thirteen or fourteen years of age, dusky complexioned, wearing ghagra and choli with a chunni covering her head and wearing silver bracelets. The most remarkable thing about her was her eyes. They were large and beautiful.
“What happened?” asked the D.S.O to the Conductor.
“Sir, this gypsy girl has entered this compartment.”
“She must have entered by mistake but why are you rebuking her? Have you forgotten what is written in the rule book about behaving with ladies and girls?”
He was in a mood to give a sermon on the status of women in the Indian society. The Conductor did not accord him this pleasure saying “Sir, she is a ticket less traveler. I will be answerable to the squad. The D.S.O looked at the girl still shivering in fright and wondered how could there be so much fear in such beautiful eyes.
He looked at the Conductor and replied “Write her as my attendant in your chart, O.K.?”
The Conductor nodded his head in assent. “Shall I make her sit in the second class bogey?”
“Ok.”
“You girl, come with me to the other side”, said the Conductor roughly.
The girl was still trembling. Her eyes reflected an unknown fear.
The D.S.O intervened and said, “She is frightened for some reason. Let her stay here.” He returned to his compartment and the girl followed behind him.
The Conductor and the Coach attendant looked at each other and gave a knowing smile.
The girl came and stood in the compartment. The D.S.O said, “Sit down on the seat.”
She sat on the floor. The D.S.O thought, this girl would have never sat on a chair or sofa before. This is why she has no courage to sit on the seat.
He then asked, “Where do you intend to go?”
She did not reply. So he asked the same question in a different way.
“Where is your home?”
The girl gave him a blank look. The D.S.O realized he was asking an incorrect question to her.
The gypsies do not have a permanent home. They wander from one place to another. He had seen a group of gypsies camping to the East of Bilaspur station. They carry on their everyday life under the open sky or in tents. Sometimes they are seen in Bilaspur market selling various folk remedies like roots, bones, bear nails, many types of antidotes for snake and scorpion bites. They also give amulets to ward off ghosts and spirits. One hears several rumors about them- that they steal from houses by digging secret routes and also that the gypsy women folk seduce young men. The D.S.O did not believe all this. He found them very simple and innocent. He thought that perhaps this girl was separated from her nomadic group by mistake.
He asked her again, “Where are your parents?”
The girl started sobbing loudly.
“Why are you crying?”
“My mother has died.”
“What about your father?”
“My father has sold me.”
“What?!!”
“My father left me with an old man and went away. That man…”
“Yes, tell me.”
“He tried to rape me yesterday night. I bit and injured him and ran away.”
“Ok, now tell me where do you want to go?”
“I have no idea.”
The D.S.O realized that this was a grave problem.
Would it be wise to hand her over to the police? The atrocities of policemen towards young and unprotected women were regular news items. He decided that would not be the right thing to do. He would help her get absorbed as a railway employee so that she could be self-sufficient.
He asked, “How far have you studied?”
She shook her head in the negative.
Even a fourth class employee needed to pass at least Class eight. This girl would not be having even a birth certificate. It was just not possible to recruit her in the Railways. So his next thought was that she could work as a maid servant in his house.
He asked her, “Will you stay and work in my house?”
The girl must have realized within this short acquaintance that this man was a kind hearted person. All at once her eyes sparkled with happiness.
“Do you know how to cook?”
The girl did not know what to answer. She looked at him blankly.
“Do you know how to prepare chapatti?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to make dal and curry?”
The girl looked a bit flustered at this question. The D.S.O thought that these poor people could barely afford to have onion or chili with chapattis; it was wrong to expect that she would know how to cook dal and curry.
The train halted at Kargi Road station. There was a knock at his cubicle door. Both the Conductor and Attendant had come. The Attendant was holding a cup of tea.
“Sir, your tea” saying this he placed the tea and a packet of biscuits on the table.
“Will you take tea?” he asked the girl.
She shook her head. The D.S.O realized that he had asked her an impractical question. Drinking tea may not be part of their frugal lifestyle. He himself did not develop the habit of taking tea before joining Railways. In his village none had the habit of drinking tea. In cities, drinking tea is considered sophisticated. For some it becomes a necessity for a smooth evacuation of the bowels in the morning. For people in villages however, the call of nature is more of an automatic action on hearing the first cawing of the crows.
He handed the packet of biscuits to her.
The Conductor and Attendant left after closing the cubicle door.
The girl turning her back to him opened the biscuit packet and started munching. The D.S.O opened his attaché, took out a book and started reading it.
Again there was a knock on his door at Pendra Road station.
“Sir, here they make tasty khoya jalebi. We have brought some for you……”
The Conductor was accompanied by the Station Master, the Vegetarian Tea stall owner and a firewood merchant. They paid their respects to him.
The station Porter was holding some jalebis in two leaf bowls.
“How much do I pay for this?”
“Sir, it is our pleasure, please do not make us feel bad by offering money,” said the tea stall owner with a smile.
The others present were ogling the girl from head to toe. The girl put the leaf cup of jalebisinside her bundle.
The D.S.O munched on the crispy jalebis and wondered why the Rail staffs were treating him in this manner. The post that he was holding at present was considered a dry posting. He could not show any special favor to any merchant or customer in this posting. So getting special treatment from them seemed a bit unusual. Sometimes a few Railway staff even offered him sympathy for holding such a post.
A thought came to his mind that probably this gypsy girl then, was the point of interest for them.
The next halt was at Anuppur for fifteen minutes. Passengers usually have meals in the refreshment room. The Conductor came and asked, “Sir, shall I order lunch for you here?” Though he had brought chapattis and curry in tiffin box in his attaché, yet he ordered meals for two. Two lunch trays were brought in. The girl turning her back started devouring the lunch as if famished since long. After finishing her meal, she stretched herself and then placing her head on the bundle she slept peacefully.
Whenever she turned the other side in her sleep, the anklets and bangles made tinkling sounds. Just then the D.S.O heard sounds of footsteps coming stealthily from the corridor outside. He was the only passenger in this first class cubicle, so the person walking in the corridor would be a railway staff. Were they thinking that something objectionable was going on between him and the girl? Did he commit a mistake by giving shelter to the vagabond girl in his compartment? No, as long as his conscience was clear, he would not bother what people thought about him.
The D.S.O was to get down at Sadole station. He was not prepared for the hero’s reception which awaited him at the platform. He had come for enquiry here as Safety Officer over a head on collision which was averted between two trains running on the same track. He had expected that only the Station Manager and Divisional Traffic Inspector would come to receive him. But the Station Master was accompanied by the P.W.I (Permanent Way Inspector), Loco Inspector, Signal Inspector and his team. They folded their hands in salutation but their attention was on the vagabond girl.
Was his kindness towards the girl misunderstood by others, thought the D.S.O.
He sent her with the peon to the guest house and began his inspection.
In the midst of his enquiry he received a phone call from his boss the DRM (Divisional Railway Manager).
“Where are you?”
“Sir, at Sadole.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Sir, the enquiry of the collision case is going on.”
“Ok, Carry on.”
He did not give much thought to the phone call thinking that his boss might have called him for some work.
He had a night halt at Sadole station. At night he received a trunk call. The telephone operator said, “There is a call from your wife.”
“Where are you?”
“In the guest house.”
“What is going on there?”
“You know I have come here for an enquiry.”
“What am I hearing about you?”
“Tell me, what have you heard?”
“Don’t hide from me.”
“Why should I hide from you anything? Tell me what have you heard?”
“You have a gypsy girl with you there?”
“Yes, she is here, so what?”
There was silence at the other end.
“From whom did you hear all this?”
“Why have you taken her with you?” There was the sound of suppressed crying after this.
By the time he replied, “Listen, you have misunderstood me,” he heard the phone being banged down.
He gave a ring from his end in order to clarify himself to his wife.
The telephone operator said,” Sir the long ring is going unanswered.”
He could not sleep that night. He realized that the seeds of suspicion had been sown in his wife’s mind. News travels like wild fire. He had no doubt that this news had travelled from Kargi Road, Anuppur and Sadole through section control phones and spread to Bilaspur, Anuppur and Katni.His D.R.M had himself approved this tour program of his but probably someone jealous of him had spread this news. This was the reason why he received a surprise call from his D.R.M. People have such low mind sets. They think that all men look at women only with a carnal desire. Do they think that the girls from poor families are easily available? Don’t they deserve any respect? What sick mentality!
Now he was in a grave dilemma. Should he leave the gypsy girl here at Sadole to her fate? Next moment he thought that doing this would not be correct. There is no dearth of lecherous wolveswaiting to pounce on an unprotected girl. He would rather explain to his wife and clarify her suspicion. He would tell her that she had no maid servant to help her and was facing great inconvenience taking care of their one and a half year old son. The previous maid servants had all taken advance salaries on the pretext of attending marriages or thread ceremonies in their villages and had not returned. This homeless girl had no one and she could stay with them permanently. The girl did not know cooking but his wife could teach her. At least she could baby sit their son Chhotu. He wanted to surprise his wife, but unfortunately she did not give him any scope.
He decided that he would return to Bilaspur by the first train next day morning. The enquiry for which he had come was not complete. He would come again for this he decided.
Next day he reached headquarters by Utkal Express. Standing near the first class compartment door he saw a group of Railway station staff and office staff gathered for some reason. So instead of getting down from the main gate, he got down from the parcel gate along with the girl.
On reaching home he thought that Chhotu would rush out hearing the sound of a horse cart and would clap his hands in joy on seeing a horse.
The bungalow peon informed him, “Madam is not there. She has left for the station to go to her mother’s place with Chhotu.”
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
‘I have a last waltz with you…’ Engelbert Humperdinck’s deep resonant voice swirls around my darkened drawing room. I switch off the last light too as I sit in a rocking chair in one corner and listen, mesmerised, to his soulful voice. It cuts deep into my thoughts and carries me to that evening’s party…and our last waltz before parting of ways. The last of verbal fisticuffs that are the hallmark of our relationship—a crush on the rocks?
The sting in her screaming voice still bounces in my ears. No, no melancholic music can smother the mock in her screeching tone. But if her biting tongue pierces my heart with knives of despair, the slow rhythm of Engelbert Humperdinck’s voice is sheer catharsis. I am carried far far away from the choppy shores of pain on the haunting waves of his song. ‘Lala, lala, lala, la, la, la, la…’
So captivated am I by his singing that I barely hear the ringing telephone. “Hello,” I mumble when I locate the receiver. There is sobbing, only sobbing, at the other end. I too am dumbfounded.
It is She. “Why, dear, why?” Her anguished weeping sears my heart, yet again.
I too want to ask her—why…why? But I know there’s no answer.
‘The last waltz will last forever…’ Engelbert’s song is coming to an end. Forever?
“Are you coming?” I cannot help asking her.
“Yes!” I hear her cry, and then a soft sigh, “Yes.” The heavy darkness is scattered by a grey light.
Our last waltz, if it’s the last, is not yet over. May be it’s meant to last forever.
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.
There was a lot of excitement in the house that morning. All the family members were around Rajalakshmi. She was seated on a wooden chair and had a newspaper in her hands. She was beaming with pride.
“What is it, Raji Patti?” asked Prabhu, her grandson.
“You remember, a couple of days back, I had attended a function organised by my poetry group where I had also released my book, a collection of short stories? After the release of my book, a newspaper had interviewed me and it has come as a news item in their papers along with my photo taken at the function,” said Raji Patti.
“I didn’t know you are a writer, Patti,” said Prabha, her granddaughter. “When did you start writing?”
“I have been writing since my school days,” began Rajalakshmi, to no one in particular. “I used to be fascinated by line rhymes and words enthralled me. I wrote my first poem in Std IX, which was appreciated in the English class when I read it out. I very soon became the class spokesperson and the school representative for oratorical competitions and debates. Poetry reading, writing and sharing soon became an interesting pastime in school and college.”
“After marriage, my family commitments became my prerogative and poetry, literature and other passionate indulgences flew out of the window.”
“But Raji Patti, you told us now about your passion for poetry. How about story writing?” asked Prabhu.
Rajalakshmi gave a benign smile.
“My mother-in-law was a prolific writer on religious discourses. Unfortunately, one day she slipped and fell down. Her hip was broken and she was confined to the bed. She was in her eighties. She could write no more. To lift her spirits, I offered to publish her book on the three important mantras of the Sri Vaishnava tradition. So I took up her manuscripts, transcribed them. Every day, I would wheel her to the computer and edit the manuscript. This inspired me and gave me the confidence to write stories.”
“It was time for your Upanayanam, Prabhu. I compiled a book of 20 slokas with English and Tamil transcriptions for children. I offered this book as our gift for the occasion. Along with this, I compiled a collection of short stories too. This was the book I had formally launched at the event for which there was media coverage. I had written a few other books too but never had the chance to publish them as opportunities were scarce in those days,” said Raji Patti.
“After all these years, how did this idea of publishing come to you now, Patti?” asked Prabha.
“The literary group of which I am a member had arranged this event where, apart from the launch of the anthology of the group, individual members were also given the option to launch their personal books. I spoke to my friend, Sukesh, who was anchoring the event. He encouraged me to make use of this great opportunity to release my book. I did, and there was no looking back after that,” said Raji Patti.
“Raji Patti. I am amazed at your drive and perseverance. How’s it you enrolled yourself into the Poetry Group, that too through social media?” asked Prabha in awe.
“As a counsellor, I have always been advocating the need for having a hobby or an extracurricular activity to be pursued. I had a passion for literature and poetry even during my school days. But due to family commitments they were put on the back burner and lay dormant for decades. When the doors opened, I was able to make use of the opportunities that have come my way,” said Raji Patti.
“Tell us how the opportunities presented itself,” asked Prabhu eagerly.
“It’s quite an exciting anecdote. The door of opportunity opened during a train journey from Bangalore to Chennai,” said Raji Patti.
“We were returning to Chennai by Shathabdhi Express after attending a family function in Bangalore. We three sisters were seated together and opposite to us was a family of two brothers and their sister. We soon picked up some small conversation and found that we had common interests in literature, social activities and gardening. One of the brothers, Sukesh, seeing my interest started sharing his pictures from his garden and also some of the poems he had written which were published in various anthologies. He also told me he is a member of a poetry group on WhatsApp. Throughout the journey, we had a lively exchange of communication across various topics. Soon it was time to bid good bye at the railway station.”
“Sensing my interest in gardening, Sukesh kept sharing his pictures from his garden now and then. After a few months, while we were talking over the phone, he put up the idea of my joining the poetry group. I seized the golden opportunity that had landed on my lap as it gave me an avenue to revive my passion after over two decades.”
“Normally, people allude life to a train journey. For me, literally and figuratively, that memorable train journey set me on my next journey in my life—to fulfil my passion. The train journey has also blessed me with a good friend. Very rarely does a train acquaintance blossom into a good friendship,” said Raji Patti with a beaming smile.
Prabhu and Prabha hugged their grand maa lovingly and said, "Raji Patti, you have so nicely put across the necessity for having an extracurricular activity and to capitalise on the new avenues that come our way in our life’s journey. You are an example to all of us to pursue with ardent endeavour our passion after attending to our family commitments. I only wish there is one person like you in every family, whom the children can emulate,” gushed Prabhu and Prabha.
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
As I procrastinate and push,
Not knowing what to write,
A friend o'mine told me,
To write on what I write.
Of when I read what I wrote,
A shard of my soul,
I left behind,
Dipped in a bucket of truth.
Takes me back in time,
Feels exactly the same,
Much like when a song,
Is the time machine we need.
I feel younger to that day,
I love the music of that day,
I go back to the chair I wrote in,
I go back to that feeling of now.
Brings back old emotions,
Churns up all the feelings,
I had when I wrote you,
The jagged shard of my soul.
Seldom I forget the reason,
I forget the tree behind the creeper,
But when I do, I try to understand,
The fire behind my sadness.
Oh! It's so bothersome,
To not remember the glassy piece,
That fell from being a part of me,
I feel like a stranger to myself.
When I go back all the way,
I can see myself evolving,
I regret the same mistakes,
But I'm happy I moved past them.
When I read a poem I've written,
It's like looking at my reflection in the water,
Sometimes, it's crystal clear,
Sometimes, all I see is the water...
How is it that one person can completely break down and become dust, but no one notices? How is it that no one can see that the weight the person was carrying finally won, and took her out? How is it that no one sees her dragging her feet out of bed everyday, trying to stay ahead of a race that she's already lost? How do they not know that the paint on her face is dripping off, now that it's raining? How do they not know that she's made that final step into unfamiliar territory without thinking twice, and that she's trapped there? How do they not hear her crying for help as she frowns in herself, trying to break through the surface of hurt? How do they not see past the mold she's actually inside? How does no one realise that her clothes are now nothing but a casket? How do they not realise that the label on her face is a grave marker?
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/.
Expecting love and understanding
I came there
I thought, you would receive me
Following social distancing
Fix the small house in the compound
Where I would quarantine myself
Keep away from the family
Yet be close to you all
How I had longed for your proximity!
I am sure I am not infected.
But my heart broke to smithereens
When my appeal for water
To quench my parched innards
Was cruelly denied by my parents and siblings
Then like a lightning It struck me
I am not wanted here! Your fear had blinded you
Above all you did not love me!
The truth shocked my being.
But now I realise
I can live alone as in the yore.
It is not selfish to keep to myself
No need ever to think of a family
That loved me nought.
Interested only in my income,
What they could get from me.
Random, niggling, thoughts
I never entertained and kept at bay
Now proved without doubt.
I walked away, numbed
Never looking back.
I went back, a zombie, to the shelter
My government had provided.
Family and home are places
Where you can go when you want,
And you will be accepted
Without questions whatever may be!
And that's for a blessed few!
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Where the herds stand in wait to cross the river..
Where the fleeting dark clouds clear up soon for azure blue skies..
O' Kenya !
The ten day long trip to Kenya looms large and clear as the azure blue bright skies of Kenya.
Mind grazing over the meadows of memory, like the cattle and the three million animals roaming over Masai Mara ( the world’s largest Wild Life Sanctuary) amidst the yellowish white grass fields that stretch across to Serengeti.
It was to attend the reputed Kistrech Poetry Festival conducted by Kisii University, Nairobi, that we left for Kenya on October 1st 2018. Halting at Mumbai for the flight to Kenya Airlines , we came across an unexpected delay in flight. Net result, we missed the pick up arranged by Kisii University from Nairobi Airport to Kisii.
Stranded in the strange city in the sweltering heat of the noon of 2nd October 2018, one Malayalee friend helped out with a few calls to Christopher Okemwa , the organizer of Kishtrech Fest. After an hour of waiting, a Taxi came and took us out of the airport, into the city where after much of haggling with the drivers of Vans running to Kisii, we settled into one. Then only we realised how Kisii was so far off, requiring five to six hours of travel through mountains and
valleys. The van waited to get the seats filled. Finally it got filled with twelve local passengers who spoke alien tongues. Ultimately by five in the evening when the van started to move , Nairobi was caught up in a traffic block which took more than two hours to get out of the bottle neck into those city suburbs.
The vehicle was speeding past dark lanes and roads.. Squeezed in between strangers with minimum leg space and a major part of luggage kept at the dickey with that of others, the commuters who popped in and out, apprehensions grew. Already we had been warned a lot about travelling alone in Kenya especially during the night. Looting and robbery were so common. It was said even when you opened window panes during travels, mobiles and valuables would be snatched off, by people from outside.
As the journey pdolonged, a few left , few others got in. Totally alien a feel.. Tension mounting, we called up Chris Okemwa again and he talked to the driver reminding him that this vehicle carrying the Guests from India was under surveillance. The driver turned very concerned and over obliging after that. It took more than six hours through strange, grisly looking , desolate landscapes. People dropped out one by one in different places . Ultimately it was the driver and us. It seemed in the dark mountainous area by 1’ clock at night he was also fumbling his way to the NOBO Resort which was tucked in the slopes and curves of the hill.
The unending moments ultimately ended. Gusts of chilly fresh air blew on us when we got out, thanking the driver. With only few bites for hours together, hustled and suffocated, this was the worst ever kind of journey we had undertaken so far. But stepping into the hotel, things turned bright and cheery. A thing badly begun will not spoil the rest of the show. Who said otherwise? Overwhelmed with hospitality, exposed to the pristine environment and unpolluted food, we felt like sizzling fish in fresh waters..
The days of wonder started with 3rd October. At breakfast table we met our fellow poets from different parts of the world,so warm, so friendly.. the very breakfast was organic rich, steamed sweet potatoes, steamed raw banana, fresh roasted peanuts, eggs , fruit juices.. together we proceeded to Kisii university campus. It was a grand inauguration, under the clear blue skies .. Under pagodas erected in the sprawling campus, students sat. The Vice Chancellor of the university along with us, the poet delegates and Christopher Okema occupying the dais.
I wore my typical Indian (blue) saree and it attracted the audience. Each poet addressed the students and read poems as their message.
It was a great feel when after my presentation, students hovered around me taking photos and asking for autographs. Poet Christos from Cypress bought a cook, and the noon lunch was a Cypress lunch. The after noon sessions started with papers and discussions on poetry and in between Xavier my husband sang a
“ Malayalam song” with karaoke, which became a great hit. The campus was thrilled and he had a huge fan following. Way back to Nebo we halted at the supermarket to buy some edibles.
We visited Bogiakimu village the next day. The tribal group greeted us by catcalls and visits. They were hugging and holding hands , pulling us along. Unbridled hospitality unleashed... One or two huts were allotted to each poet. The inmates took us along, ushered us in and started describing their lives , introducing the members. Sad tales of girls forced into marriage at an early age , husband either left or no more. An overgrown girl –mother started recounting her agony and challenges, how her husband died leaving her with eight children to look after. Abject poverty..what we could do...except offering them some financial help ! They worked in their sugar cane fields attached to their yards which had apportioned space for their cattle and poultry also. They cut the sugar cane to small pieces and offered them, to us, to chew and squeeze the juice out. Hah !I How I recollect the moments when the fresh sweet juice oozed out into our mouth and mouthful it slowly flowed through our flushed cheeks, while the air bringing the pristine feel of grass eaten by the cattle, and the odour of fresh cow dung wafted in .. There was a coolness inside those huts no A C could provide..
It was a rare earthen feel , sucking the canes in that cow dung air, where outside the huts the unleashed little calf and cattle raised their heads to look at us , the strangers.. as innocent as their tribal owners..The mother hen , scratching the earth in the yard was cackling and calling the chicks to gather, when we left...
That evening we assembled in a public square amongst the yards . Kisii university students, local school students and the tribals presented cultural programmes in their traditional mode.As a poet I dared to address that mammoth gathering which was a congregation of more than thousand, including students from nearby schools, tribals and local chiefs..
My first experience of its kind.. singing poems to them, addressing..
I recited a poem for them and cheered the group.
The supper was a real treat.—local food , steamed organic rich fibres, porridge, fresh bananas ..There was a kind of drink kept in a huge earthen pot... some long bamboo pipes dipped into it ..people sitting around and using them as straw.. drinking,singing..Xavier was given a glassful to taste . Wondered why the children and youth surrounded us, we being the only Indians in our group. They had a special affinity and affection for us and kept on repeating” Sir, madam, stay with us..don’t leave us.”
It was difficult to part with, children clinging, hugging, kissing..
O, Kenya! How your innocence overwhelms..
I grow moisty in my eyes....!!
Day three , Friday we proceeded to Migori campus of Kisii University which is just two hour’s drive from Kisii. Since some participants suggested visiting a lake first ( which was a waste of time) , we reached Migori Campus late by the evening. There was an overwhelming reception., the Staff and students waitng for us. They greeted us with a traditional dance, and escorted us to the Hall. The students put up various cultural programmes, Spoken poetry sessions and enacted mimes. I could motivate them with a poem “ Are you ready?” and youthful voices were piping up in tandem with the refrain ,” yes, yes..”
The tempo of their dance was exhilarating and Xavier and few delegates joined the dance imbibing their spirits. Barak Obama's ancestors are from Kenya LUO community. There are 43tribes , but the 43rd tribe( Yanku Tribe) is almost extinct. There are only 4 old men in it and they live in the forest.
Day 4 Saturday was an unforgettable day. Piercing through the dark at 4.30 a.m we started our trip to Masai mara, world’s largest Wild life Sanctuary. We reached the main Gate by 9 a.m
It was the season of migration of animals from Masai Mara to Seingeti, by crossing the river. Almost three million animals migrated before cold settled in. Without any way disturbing the pristine tenor of this wild habitat, our vehicle moved around gingerly. Through the glass windows we could see herds of cattle, wild buffaloes grazing with a few Zebras sharing the space. Nature teaching us lessons of harmony. In far off corners lions in group lay at rest , may be their feed was over. Some deers could be found trotting around them. unafraid. Once its feed is over and done with, these animals don’t disturb each other. Nor do they envy someone who takes the left over.
We halted at the riverbank and could see Rhinos and Hippopotamus. The driver asked us not to go near the water , since that lake was full of crocodiles and we could trace some surfacing . On the riverbank , we saw a sudden commotion among herds , one crocodile had emerged taking hold of one wild buffalo drinking water. The rest took to their feet. Some quickly crossing, some receding...
How nature balances life on earth!
BBC Vans eere waiting there to grab these moments..
Way back we could see the Hyna and a huge herd of elephants. Masai Mara stretches out for various species of animals, reptiles, birds, snakes. The feathery , blanket of lush grass fields offers shelter to many.
We had lunch at 3 pm in a posh well built restaurant in the middle of the forest. It was lovely, to sit on its balcony, sipping drinks and watch the surrounding Masai Mara glowing in the mid noon.
Later we bid farewell to our brethren in the forest who silently raised their heads and looked at our moving vehicle for long..
Day 5th, Sunday we started our travel to Nairobi at 9.30 a.m and reached Mash Park Hotel by 6.30 p.m. Enroute, we had thirty minutes coffee break near a Petrol Pump and half an hour lunch at Nakru. Having settled down in the hotel by evening, a Malayalee family came to greet us and take us for dinner in an Italian Restaurant. Abhram, ( I I M Calcutta Graduate, turned an Army Officer) now a flourishing business man in Nairobi , his wife Sherry working in the media ,taking Documentaries on interior Africa, its culture, and their only son.. Abraham told us how Kenya, Nairobi holds its charm for NRIs like him, offering good climate, unpolluted food, open hearted acceptance and opportunities.
Day 6 was spent on a visit to the national Museum and Snake park. The museum told us stories of the past, the vestiges of colonisation and the precious traditions and practices of aboriginal Kenyans.
Day 7 marked the pinnacle of the Kistrech Fest. Chris Okema, the zealous organiser , unassuming poet and leader, took us to Riara university . In fact they had organised an Inter Collegiate Cultural Fest there under the aegis of the Dept.of Inter National Relations and the Dept. of English. In that huge campus, I had the privilege of releasing my two new books The English translation of the Malayalam novel, ‘Hidumbi ‘ and my book of poems ‘Firefly Flickers’’. Both were released by His Excellency The Deputy Ambassador of Israel Eyall David, while Riara campus comprising the V C, Deans, Faculty and students from different colleges under the Uty, applauded.
The Media held a Special interview with me and I read out my text. Moments that reaffirmed my feel good factor about my being, becoming a writer !
The Ambassador of Israel His Excellency , Noah Gal Gendler hosted a dinner for us poets at his residence After the sumptuous lunch, there was a lively Poetry reading session each poet describing something of his country’s culture, contemporary state, crisis or whatever. I read my poem on Kerala Floods and how well we countered it. The Israeli and Palestinian Poets had their say. This session was telling me how the wide world turns into a global village on common issues and how art and literature turns out to be a mirror image of the realities of the day.
On all nights we spent together, we the poets had sat down late into the night sharing poems, singing, reciting. The pangs of each race , country, the pleasures that came at random to all, ebbed and flowed; The Israeli writers spoke of the estrangement, contempt, uprootedness thry countered.. poems resonated on different notes..Even the “ Spoken Poetry” of campus youth resonated the suppression of the elder generation during colonial era , when they were made exiles in their own land. Some reflected on the discontent they have in the existing system ie. the government turning partisan, providing opportunites to the kith and kin of the tribal group in power; how women are taken for granted, being denied proper education ; how the modern youth tend to go high in suicide rates..
The young generation of modern Kenya possess a rare kind of power and resilence, living life through the hard edges..
The take aways of the trip.
Irrespective of colour and race people are one
The naive, native beauty remains in all its pristine nature in Kenya, its landscape and in its people.
Even the innocent looking animals have an openness, a rule of law, and camaraderie while the cold wind rustles their hair and they
patiently wait in line to cross the river , until their leader studies and takes the first step. The wait may last for hours, still they wait, just as the BB C vans wait to catch the moment.
Yes, patience pays. Braving the adversities, the Kenyan youth dream of a the bright future ahead...of progress, equality, justice. They are enormous reservoirs of potential, strength and love..
I tell Elly Omulo, a student poet in Kisii..
” You are all so bright..look, your sky above, your earth around.. all so bright.. blessed you are. in this part of earth.."
And I notice the glimmer in his eyes..of hope, of promise..
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 )
In this overwhelming crowd
Will I be seen
Will I be heard
Through these incoherent sounds
Will my voice make sense
Even if they mean a lot
Will they reach out to those destined
To listen, to recognise and respond?
Give my breaths a narrow passage
To make it through and not get drowned
I know you all have a lot to say
But amidst all the speech
let my words some space
They have miles and miles to reach...
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.
As I sat ruminating
The thunder crashed
On the banister
Of my south balcony,
The rain gushed like tears
From the heavy lids of the heaven’s eyes,
I sat motionless
Listening to the monsoon orchestra
On the empty auditorium
Of my terrace.
The flat slapping noise on the roof
Like the drum seats
The reverberating music
On the tin garage roof
Like the melancholy music of a gazal
On a violin,
The soft tap-tap-tap sound of rain drops
On the glass window
Like the tabla,
The rain-spout gorging streams of excess rain
Sounding like the tambourine,
Plunging mightily into the drains
Carrying the accumulations
Of nature’s falling spirit,
The orchestra was on the crescendo!!!
The sudden crashes of thunder
Like the heavenly gong of cymbal
Followed by the rumbling manta line
Echoing in the green hills
of Khandagiri and Udayagiri
The booming command of Indra
To the summer
To surrender
The repetitive currents of wind
Blowing through the terror-struck trees
Sounding like the saxophone
To my eager ears
I listened intentionally to the
Musical monsoon orchestra
Minds uprating along the pitch
And the beats,
Soul humbled in reverence
For the divine conductor
Somewhere there-in-heaven,
Using all the notes
Flat and sharp,
Bass and trill
In a harmonic unison
Thrilling the nature with ecstasy
Thrilling the sky with lightning flashes
Thrilling the oceans with frothy billows
Thrilling the rivers, streams,
The lakes and lagoons
With immense joy and exaltation
What a jubilant chorus
You have created, O Lord!
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”.
With rain, blooms the petrichor of memories
Of smiles, laughter, and honeyed moments
Tears sprout, quiver, and trickle down the soul...
Tomorrow she might be absorbed into infinity
Or drift as another seeking soul
Under another Sky
But
Today, in this journey of
Meandering through bubbles and dreams
The raindrops whispered, she is meant to breathe through words
Inhale life, and exhale poetry...
Inhale Poetry, and eternalise moments
Inked with love...
Neither on the branches, nor
On the rain-kissed green carpet
This scarlet pendant with raindrops stones, stays...
Wants to be a spectator, a student
Observing every petal's whisperings
Watching the raindrops melt, and
Hug the rich brown soil clutched by a million roots...
The breeze held its breath, nearing the petal
Not wanting to disturb its state of meditation
Hushed the birds, and the bees
As it meandered through louvres of huge trees
Making leaves feel loved, as they quiver and smile...
How long can we be like this solitary slice of life?!
Between being a whole flower, and a withered petal
There are moments to pause, hold on
And go back to Earth
Shoveling regrets, leaving trails of gratitude and contentment...
Leaving heartprints on the pages of eternity...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
Allamanda!! Allamanda!!
Oh! how wonderful to see you from my veranda
Rich creamy custard yellow
Like a soft marshmallow
The birds yearn for your nectar
They are smart collectors
Fluttering their wings
As they swing
To and fro
In the morning sun you glow
As they slide on the petals with their toe
Your shape like the temple bell
Each one has a story to tell
The other glory burgundy
Like a refreshing candy
Rioting my garden walls
As they sprawl
Cheering me up
As I sip hot brewing tea from my cup
Allamanda!! Allamanda!!
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)
(Photo Courtesy N. Ravi)
The three day holiday at the ashram, night and day
in thoughts of Bhagavan, conversed
and discussed until dawn,
no tiredness, strangely, were tireless.
Late at night braving rains
the circumambulation, as Magellan’s circumnavigation
nothing to prove - mass of ego to remove!
As we went around the hill in our hearts a silent thrill
with no trace of perversity, Time stood still for eternity!
Reality struck soon, gaiety came to close
’was time to get back on our toes…
Beyond expression the retreat enjoyed
though from time to time that tiny void
as the trip couldn't be deferred until her visit.
She was with us, in spirit on all days
we had stayed connected;
the highlights through mobile recollected.
In naive earnestness not conforming to social expectations
wanted some memoir of experience for posterity
it’d come, in my mind the certainty… It did!
Homeward bound, stuck on bonnet slender reed-
A peacock feather!
PS: During our three day stay at Tiruvannamalai, it rained heavily at nights; there were thunderstorms too, which was a rare occurrence at that time of the year. Other than time spent in prayer and meditation, we spent hours gazing at the strutting peacocks, as they posed for the photo enthusiasts, also listening to that cry-“Hey, my place!”This lovely peacock feather was discovered on our way back, just after we left Tiruvannamalai and was on the National Highway.
It was swaying in the wind, stuck to the glass, in front of the bonnet. My husband and I, along with our son made this memorable trip, prior to his going over to the US. Our married daughter stays in that part of the world; Though conspicuous by her physical absence, she was constantly in our thoughts. I squealed in delight when I saw the feather, as I considered it a blessing!. Earlier, we had attempted to get some mementos for her, found nothing spectacular-the peacock feather made our day!
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.
I was walking alone in the woods after selling all vegetables in the market. I had to walk a few miles to reach my house. The forest was surrounded by high mountains and mountain valleys. Now and then, I could feel the movement of rabbits, monkeys, and deer. Somewhere, from a banyan tree, wickets were chirping with a loud sound. I used to get very frightened of the wicket's noise, especially when I was all alone. Besides, eerie silence throughout the forest scared me.
The greyish clouds turned into black abruptly. Thunder and lightning added more fear in my mind. Unexpectedly, within a fraction of seconds, heavy rain began and pouring down speedily. The ground became wet and slippery. I slowly put my steps forward without pause. Though I held my black umbrella, I got wet partially. The branches of big trees like neem, mango, and banyan were swaying and the whistling wind made me tremble a bit. I had no alternative except moving ahead.
All of a sudden, while walking, I found a small hut amidst the giant trees. Its roof was thatched with palm leaves and walls were made of mud. The light from the middle of the roof reflected on the land. I wished to see the dwellers of the hut and ask for a glass of water or little food. My legs were paining and I felt I was exhausted. The cool air and wet dress caused me to shiver more and more. Collecting my whole energy and patience, I moved bit faster than before.
I thought I would reach the tiny hut within a few minutes. As I was approaching the hut, I could hear a cry of a small child from inside. She's crying loudly and searching for someone there. I couldn't see her face clearly but could hear the thud of her fastened feet.
"What happened to her? Is there anyone with her? Where were her parents?"I questioned myself.
I reached the dwelling and felt very bad to see the child.
"Hello, baby! What's your name? Why are you crying? Where're your parents?" I asked her warmly.
The child answered, "I'm Ritu! Mom, dad, sister, and brother didn't return from the field still."
"Oh! Don't be panic, my child!"
She seemed to be five years old and her face was swollen due to oversleeping. She appeared a bit tired.
I asked whether she's hungry. She nodded her head and her innocent face made me love her. As soon as I stretched my hands, she ran to me and hugged me. Ah! My motherly love didn't control my mind. I held her so gently and roamed inside the house, humming a small lullaby. She smiled at me and felt comfortable in my hands. I looked around the tiny hut to find something for her. I made a glass of milk warm and gave her along with a few biscuits. I decided to wait for a few minutes and handover her to her parents once they come.
The rain stopped thereafter and sky looked very clear. The cool breeze kissed my tired face and weather warned me to stop for a while. I sighed and took a long breath. Ritu left my arms, slowly stepped out and started playing with her puppies. Meanwhile, I started noticing the status of the shelter and the things it surrounded by. Suddenly, I heard her crying and peeped out to see her. I was shocked to see a brown scorpion crawling very close to her right foot. Immediately, I moved her aside and took a big stick and hit him. The scorpion's movement stopped and Ritu was saved. I saw her eyes smiling with happiness.
After a few minutes, her parents and siblings arrived. They were surprised to see me and felt happy for helping their child in bad weather. They were in tears and awestruck when Ritu told them how I saved her from scorpion’s bite. I saw Ritu rolling her eyeballs and smiling while talking to them.
I requested her parents not to leave her alone and left the hut happily with a satisfied mind.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
It has been a week
of hard baking sun,
and my petunias
are resplendent with
snow white flowers,
delicate petals fluttering
in a warm afternoon breeze.
I sit beside them
with a hot cup of tea
on the front steps,
watching rush hour traffic
drive past my house,
probably heading home
to rest and to loved ones.
Suddenly it seems,
the lights are dimmed,
dark clouds rush in, with
a flash of lightning,
thunder deeply rumbles,
followed by big fat drops
of rain water.
I step back into the porch,
inhale the petrichor,
hear the incessant
beating of the rain,
see a drenched world form
wild running rivulets,
as settled dust washes away.
Switched on wipers,
hastily closed windows,
some on two-wheelers
zip their raincoats,
while others get soaked,
the neighbour runs out
to pick damp again laundry.
A few minutes of chaos,
then everything stops,
sunlight breaks through
fast retreating clouds,
wet feathers shrug off,
but, my dripping dull petunias,
nourished, happy, sway away.
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 THE GREEN FLAG WAS HELD BACK!
"Are you crazy, aunty?" screamed my niece when I announced that her grandmother was planning to attend a family function at my native place, Hyderabad.
"How on earth is she going to travel all that distance? Do you think she can stand the strain?" piped in her brother.
"Why not?" I exclaimed. "I agree that your grandmother, who also happens to be my mother-in-law, is on the wrong side of 80. But you forget that she is hale and hearty at her age because she is always active and young in spirit," I said, stressing every word.
I could see that my mother-in-law, who was sitting in her favourite high-backed chair, busy with her embroidery as usual, was enjoying every bit of this conversation without batting an eyelid.
"Are you taking Grandmother by flight, Aunty?" my nephew wanted to know.
Before I could reply, I heard my mother-in-law say, "Even if your aunt wants to take me by flight, I shall not go by plane. I will go by train like the rest of them."
The two children still could not believe their ears. "But Grandmother, how are you going to walk the full length of the platform with people jostling you? You start gasping while walking in the house itself. Do you think you can climb into the train?"
Their concern was obvious. With every question I found my confidence ebb away a little more! But having decided to take my mother-in-law to Hyderabad, and not one to give up easily, I booked tickets for the whole family.
Finally, we found ourselves boarding the train with the old lady in tow. She refused to get into a wheelchair to reach the coach and insisted on walking the whole distance. Once in the train, she settled herself with her paraphernalia using her own sheets and pillows having refused to touch with a barge pole the bed linen provided by the railways. The overnight journey was comfortable and uneventful and just before dawn, we reached Secunderabad.
Our heart missed a beat when we found we had to climb the over bridge to make our way out. A wheelchair was summoned and my mother-in-law reluctantly sat in it to be wheeled out of the station by the porter through a circuitous route. As I followed her, I noticed a train standing stationary on the tracks and the guard about to wave the green flag. I gasped for breath and to my relief the next moment saw the guard suddenly tucking the flag under his arm. The engine driver and the guard were smiling and waving their hands vigorously at someone before them .Even as I wondered who their object of attention could be, there was my mother-in-law gleefully waving back to them from her wheel chair and thanking them bringing her hands together for allowing her to pass by.
"You must be tired after the journey, why don't you rest for a while?" entreated our hostess, addressing my mother-in-law.
"Oh, my, not at all. I have not come all the way from Chennai to rest. Let's all get going with preparations for the function," she said and got busy after refreshing herself. Her enthusiasm was infectious. From centrestage, she made all those much younger than her run on different errands for the big event.
By evening, all of us were exhausted, the heat making its own contribution to draining our energy.
But my mother-in-law looked fresh as a daisy and was making plans to visit an old friend (literally and figuratively, as the lady was nearing 90) who lived a few miles away.
Faced with no alternative, some of us accompanied her and her delight at meeting her senior had to be seen to be believed. The two of them slowly walked towards each other with stars in their eyes and embraced with the utmost warmth and affection. They looked like two long lost teenagers meeting after several decades.
And what did they talk about? Not about their health, as is wont with people of their age, but about their younger days and the nice times they had. A tired me could not help being stunned at their abundant energy. On our way back, we could hear only one voice, telling us how much the meeting with an old friend meant to her.
Do I have to say how successfully the function in our family went off? Can you expect anything else when old people, young in heart and spirit, set an example by doing what they say and motivate others to emulate them? May their tribe increase, is all that I could wish.
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.
“ I have something to tell you, Jaya, which I haven’t yet told you.”
Roshan said in a low tone, in a very tired voice.
“What’s it, Roshan! Tell me.”
Jaya entreated.
He paused a while. Then looking into her eyes he said in a feeble voice.
“Forgive me for hiding a personal matter from you all these years!”
“Roshan, don’t ask for forgiveness. You’ve been a good husband to me all this while. I don’t think there is any reason for you to ask for my forgiveness.’
“Not like that, my dear. Of course, I’ve been loyal to you. But there’s a past for me that has been pricking me off and on all these years. If I don’t speak now, I’ll have to part with a heavy weight of guilt. “
He was struggling to speak. His wife Jaya looked at him with a terrible grief in her heart. Roshan was extremely nice to her and her two children. He has taken every possible care for his family. What is there for him to feel burdened by a heavy guilt! Jaya was confused.
“Jaya, Tell me you will forgive me. I’ll tell you what has been tormenting me all these years. I was in love with a girl before our marriage. We had known each other from our teenage. I really wanted to marry her. In fact I had promised her that I would marry her, but my parents prohibited me from doing that, as she hailed from a poor family. She had a younger brother who was differently-abled. You would never get a support from him as a brother-in-law. Her parents were incapable of giving you any assistance at all. They had a thousand reasons to tell him.Moreover, my family was in a huge debt and I had to support my family which consisted of my parents and two younger sisters. I had to marry them off. So with deep sorrow in my heart I had to withdraw from my promise. Then I went to the Gulf countries. It took a lot of time for me to settle on a job and start earning. Meanwhile I was meeting all the expenses of the family. My father was a farmer and he had incurred a huge debt because of constant failures in farming. My sisters were married off and finally we got married. I’ve never ever seen her. I had not even met her to say the parting word. Jaya, my request is, you ask my friend Suresh who knows the whereabouts of Sarayu, the girl I loved. She remains a spinster and is in the midst of lots of problems with her ailing parents and the younger invalid brother. I would like to meet her and ask her pardon also before I…”
Jaya did not allow him to finish the final word. She covered his lips with her right hand and said:
“Oh…No, Roshan, don’t say the word. I will ask Suresh to do what is needed.”
Tears trickled along the corners of his eyes. He had struggled to speak.
“Yes…The sooner…the better…” he murmured.
His children, the 10-year old Rahul and the six-year old Riya were brought by his parents in the evening. The hospital authorities did not hinder them coming into the ICU during the visiting time. Jaya was reluctant in taking the children inside. But Roshan insisted on seeing them. They came in and were sad and bewildered to see their Dad in such a state. He was in the tertiary state of cancer on the lungs.
Roshan tried to cheer up before his children. He responded to their queries as best and as natural as he could.
“When will you come home, Dad?”
Rahul asked him.
“Very soon”
He replied and then looked at Jaya meaningfully. Jaya averted her glance from him.
Rahul and Riya shared their tiny bits of information with their Dad.
“When are you going to take me to the Park, Dad?’
Riya asked in her sweet childish tone.
“Next week.’
Roshan knew that he was giving them a false hope. There was no other way. Jaya inwardly writhed in pain when she witnessed the scene with the kids.
Then it was the turn with his parents. They had nothing to say, as the stark reality was staring at them. With suppressed grief they stood there for some time. His mother caressed his hair and his hands. After a while they departed. It was time for Jaya too for getting out of the ICU. Before she parted, Roshan said.
“Please remember what I said.”
“Sure.”
Jaya replied.
The next day, Roshan expected Sarayu to come. She did not come.
Will she ever come? I had done her a terrible wrong. I did not even bother to bid her farewell. How many years have passed! It is long twenty years since I have seen her. She must have been blaming me all these years. No, she would not have done it, because she had always doubted the prospects of our marriage taking place. How we loved each other! We were in the same school, though in different batches. She was very quiet. It was the teachers who found out her talent for singing, and she sang on important occasions. She got prizes for Music competitions also. I must have fallen in love with her music first. We were in the team for group music also. We won many prizes for group music in the Youth Festival and other events. We got some occasions for personal talk also. It was on the final day after Plus Two that I told her openly that I loved her, though there were several indications of the emotion during our meetings, though neither of us dared to reveal it.
She was mature beyond her years. She told me, this must be infatuation. After sometime we would forget this love. I responded with an emphatic ‘No’.
We were in the same college also. Our love grew day by day. She used to advise me to study well, otherwise people would blame her. As for her, she had to think about her family also. She had to support her parents and invalid brother. She always thought more for others! After B.Sc she could not continue her education because of the financial constraints and the situation at home.
“After getting a job, we can think of our marriage.”
I said dreaming of the prospects.
She raised her brow. I think, she seemed to have no illusions regarding our marriage.
“I really love you, Roshan! But, I’m afraid, whether our dream would materialize. Both families have lots of problems. Will we be able to cope with them?”
She often sounded diffident.
“Don’t be pessimistic.”
I comforted her and tried to instil hopes into her.
After my B.Com I joined M.Com in the same college while she was taking tuitions for school children at home. She was a bright student. I felt sorry that she had to discontinue her education.
Occasionally we met and exchanged our love. But she was becoming more and more mature and serious those days. The problems of her home might have made her so devoid of the power of dreaming and getting romantic. Her sole intention seemed to be taking care of her parents and younger brother who was crippled.
When I expressed my intention of marrying her she hesitated to believe it. I reiterated my promise to her. But I could not go back to her. In fact, I did not dare to go back to her and break the unpleasant news. So, like a coward I fled away from her.
……..
Will she come to see me? The thought was pestering him. He counted the seconds and the minutes while the hours ticked by.
Finally, the next evening, Jaya brought a woman to the ICU. I was half-dozing when they came. I woke up to Jaya’s call.
“Here’s Sarayu!”
Jaya said.
“You talk. I will wait outside.”
Jaya went out.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Sarayu was standing by my side. Mature-looking as ever. Did I fear to see her haggard-looking? No, never did she look like that! She stood tall and straight, like an oak tree which cannot be shaken by any storm or cyclone. Or, was it a pretension on her part?
“Sarayu!” I called her in my feeble voice.
“Roshan!” She looked worried on seeing me in this condition.
“I never expected to see you like this. I was reluctant to come. The whole of yesterday I was coaxing myself to gather strength. “
“I just wanted to ask for your forgiveness. I could not come and bid you farewell that day, years back. I didn’t dare to tell you in face that I couldn’t marry you.”
“Don’t think about such things. Past is past. There’s no use in lamenting about it. Of course, I was sad when you did not come. The long silence did upset me. But I could not remain in that state for long. I had three persons’ life with me, entirely in my trust. I had to work for them. I had to take care of them. Gradually, I learned to accept things. I practised myself to be stoic.”
Sarayu paused.
“Didn’t you blame me? Didn’t you curse me when I did not come in search of you? Did you ever think that I had cheated you by giving you false promises?”
Roshan’s voice broke.
Sarayu touched his hand; as a sister tenderly touches her brother. An indefinable peace filtered into his body at the touch.
“No, Roshan! I never thought badly of you. I never blamed you. I never cursed you. I knew you could never cheat me. I had known your good intentions. I guessed, your silence was because of your circumstances. You had told me about the situation in your home. You had to take that decision for your family. My choice was also for my family. No, don’t ever think that I felt badly of your silence and absence.”
Sarayu remained silent for a minute. My eyes became wet. I folded my shivering hands and said,
“Forgive me…” Tears flowed along the corners of my eyes.
Sarayu enclosed my hands in hers and said.
“Roshan, dear! Don’t cry. I had anticipated it. I knew you didn’t have the heart to deceive me. All the time we spent and all the things we talked were our beautiful dreams! I can’t bear to see you worrying. No, Never! Be cheerful! I want you to come back to life. Suresh had told me about your condition. I was praying for you. I prayed to God to extend your life. Just think that you are alright. You have to live. You have a good wife and two good children. They are my own dream children! You have to live for them. So please come back to life. I must get the feeling that you are alive somewhere…. I still value the love we loved! It was genuine. Even if I don’t see you, you must be somewhere, alive and throbbing….”
Sarayu bent and kissed his folded hands and smiled. “Bye…” She went out walking with a straight gait.
Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 32 books of the members so far.
Engulfing the darkness,
I lay buried,deep.
I choke,suffocate with no vent.
Inertia I lay enveloped by darkness.
"Were you not buried with the gem of faith that reflects light?
Were you not smeared with drops of hope?
Break the dormancy.
Penetrate through the dark path,
For it holds secrets to emerge".
My voice within pampered.
I delve deep,stretch my arms in all directions.
Discover the treasure with firmness rooted.
With deep rooted faith,my thoughts crave to creep the path of sunshine.
I determine to break open
March ahead,raise upward.
I determine to germinate,inhale fresh air.
Petals of courage stems up,
Confidence sprouts
Braving scorching sun and biting colds.
My stem thickens as time rolls.
I grow,Yes!!I I grow.I manifest.
Bountiful gorgeous green wings spreads.
I may look drab with drooping leaves
or dropping of leaves at times,
I surrender neither to drought nor to circumstance
For my deep rooted faith always ensures
leaves anew everytime I droop or drop.
Faith does the miracle.
Faith ignites the hope.
And ,the profound truth is
Darkness opens the door of faith.
Fear not of the darkness,
For the root that penetrates deep into dark
emerges as dynamic saplings!!!
Padmapriya Karthik is an enthusiastic story writer for children and a poet.She has secured eighth place in Rabindranath Tagore international poetry Contest 2020.Her works have featured in various anthologies published by 'The Impish Lass Publishing House’.She contributes poems to Efflorescence anthology(2018,2019),Muse India an online journal.Her short stories for children have found place in The PCM,Children's Magazine.She has won 5th place in the National story writing contest 2019 conducted by The PCM,Children's Magazine.
ODISHA FOREST DIARY THROUGH MY EYES
From my childhood the thing that I was most scared of was snakes. During summer and winter vacations, we spent our days in our farmhouse at Bangiriposi. Loved climbing trees to pluck unripe fruits, jumped on straw stacks though well knowing that the legs will itch afterward. Another thing we brothers and sisters did was to run through the bunds of the agricultural fields which was a short cut to reach our uncle's place whom we call Badabapa. I remember that day's incident. I was competing with my little brother as to who would be ahead speeding on the bunds. I was in no mood to listen to something he was saying lest he would trick me and overtake me. Suddenly I heard the word “Snake ". Fear seemed to have given me wings. I jumped. The Olympic high jumper would have been proud of me. I saw a snake zoomed ahead of me. We both stopped dead and then took an about-turn and ran back. There were many such incidents when we encountered snakes probably the huge country mice coming to eat the harvested crops was their attraction to be visible so often.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I could not escape coming front to front with this slithering creature. Married to a Forest officer and having to stay in huge District Forest Officers quarter surrounded by trees, bamboo clusters, and white ant hives which serves as a den for serpents. As an Indian Forest Service Officer, after completing Training at Dehradun and Masoorie, they also were posted in various parts of their home cadre, his being Odisha. For Range Training, he was posted at Lathor a small village in Bolangir. I joined him there with my elder son just two months old. Though it was so remote, yet it was close to Raipur of Chhatisgarh. Thank God, at least for any exigency, we could go there. That evening I was going from the bedroom to the kitchen with a saucepan to boil water for the baby. Adjoining our bedroom I saw a snake almost six feet long with half the front part inside the closed-door which had enough space under the door for it to pass. I cried aloud and entered my bedroom where the baby was asleep and banged the door so hard that it swung open and the saucepan lid fell. Immediately the snake coiled with its hood up. It was a cobra. A helping hand was inside the kitchen. He ran out with a stick but halted midway seeing it to be a hooded cobra and exclaimed " Nag ta ". My husband had just returned from office and just then came out from the washroom which was built separately from the main building. He saw the cobra slowly move to the puja room. I was surprised that he was not alarmed seeing it as I was. After a while, the staff came back with several other villagers holding crowbars and lathis. Just then the electricity went off and the only source of light was an emergency light which was a necessity there with regular power disruption.
The snake seemed to have vanished. In Hindi films, we have seen cobra doing lots of acrobatics like climbing walls, trees, etc. so I thought probably the cobra would have climbed up somewhere maybe to the roof. The villagers who knew better said that cobras cannot climb high and must be somewhere near the ground. With the help of the emergency light, they found the cobra slithering sluggishly through the drain. Probably it had devoured a rat and so could not move fast enough. The villagers killed it and then as per Hindu belief they burnt it and threw turmeric into the fire. Then they asked us to go to a shiva temple the next day morning. After this incident, I could not sleep for the whole night. I dreamt that I had entered the adjoining room and the snake had bitten me. I was scared to stay there.
The next day my husband traveled to Bolangir for a meeting with the D.F.O Mr. R.V.Singh under whom he was attached. After hearing the snake episode and my fear, he laughed and joked “Snakes are a common feature in every forest quarter. So she has to either leave you or you have to leave forest service." Well, we are still together for the last thirty-two years.
Our first posting as District Forest Officer was at Khariar forest division. The bungalow was in a 5-acre land surrounded by tall trees and bamboo clusters. Like all such houses, the outer veranda was always at a height to prevent these creeping and crawling creatures to enter the home. But during monsoon, one can see them very frequently. One day a snake charmer went to my husband's office and said he would clear our campus of snakes. My husband was prudent enough to ask “Would some of them remain and may become agitated?" His reply was “Yes, that might be possible." He refused to give permission saying, “Please don't disturb the snakes. It is also against the provision of the Wildlife Act" As long as we don't disturb them, they also will not harm us."
I have come in close contact with many animals and plants and natives and collected information on how forest dept. works to conserve and protect them against all odds which I will share with you through my write-ups.
N.B - Images have been taken from Google and copyright is with the owner.
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
Nights were such ferocious in villages,
Excepting a lantern in the night no assuage,
Stories of ghosts moved here & there,
Nights stay put indoors,.
Even midnight call of nature ,
Nerves failed for some time,
Lantern the only source of faint hope,
Darkness in every inch scaring to piss in pants,
A black cat suddenly appears surreptitiously ,
To scare us with it's mercury eyeballs,
Glowing like a ghost's satanic eye,
Clutched the lantern tight,
Screaming for help a louder shout,
But none there in the middle of the night,
Except the faint lantern & my old aunt,
Sri Akshaya Kumar Das is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. He is the author of "The Dew Drops" published by Partridge India in the year 2016 andavailable with amazon/flipkart/snapdeal. Sri Das is an internationally acknowledged author with number of his poems published in India & abroad by Ardus Publication, Canada. Sri Das has been conferred with "Ambassador of Humanity" award by African Peace Art World, Ghana. Sri Das organised an Intenational Poetry Festival at Bhubaneswar in the year 2017 under the aegis of Feelings International Artist's Society of Dr.Armeli Quezon. He is presently working as an Admin for many poetry groups in Face Book including FIAS & Poemariam Group headed by Dr.N.K.Sharma. Receipent of many awards for his contribution to English literature & world peace, he is a featured poet of Pentasi B Group. Sri Das retired as an Insurance Manager and resides at Bhubaneswar.
I peeked into my soul today
And asked
"Why are you so blue?"
With forlorn eyes and a broken smile
My soul replied, "Coz of you."
The answer shook me to the core
And I began to introspect
What could I have said or done
That made my soul bleed so red!
And the it hit me like an avalanche
A light bulb came on over my head;
I said to my soul, "I'm sorry
You've not been properly fed!"
With hatred and negativity
I've been filling your coffers for a while
Just dashing all your hopefuls
And covering them up with
Thoughts...oh so vile!
So forgive me, my dearest
I've understood what's making you so sad
I promise to load you with sunshine and cheer
And clear out all that's bad!
You should have seen how it blossomed
At the mere mention of this thought
Thank God I peeked in time
Coz no one knows
What destruction all this toxicity
Could have, upon me wrought!
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
HERS, HIS and THE ONE IN BETWEEN
HERS!
Sometimes I wonder if he really loves me! Oh he loves my hair that falls down to my knees! And further! He loves the tresses and the sheen and its feel! There is no one else whose eyes light up more than when I am combing my hair. Sometimes I wish I had knotted my hair up into a tight bun and draped my sari over my head when he came to meet me for the first time. Instead I had innocently let it loose, let it flow freely in the breeze even as I served him tea. Even then I knew he had fallen in love with my hair. One thing though. Even with several grey streaks he still seems to love my hair. He has not fallen out of love with it!
All these 35 years his love for my hair has not waned! How do I know? There has not been a single day when he has not gifted jasmine flowers strung together for me to adorn my hair with. His face glows. His smile lingers so. His eyes see ethereal figures dancing that make him seem other worldly. He feels something deeply within. What it is, he has never bothered to say. And I have not asked. Shouldn’t he come out and say how he feels?. Touch my hair, my hands and say how lucky he is to be with me? But no! Not a word. All I have done these 35 years is to satisfy myself with that look in his eyes every time I adorn my hair with the fresh jasmine he plucks and strung for me by our daughters. Sometimes I am so fearful of losing my hair, becoming bald. Women are known to becoming bald! The other day I heard of the maid of my friend losing all her hair when the kerosene stove she was using to cook, burst into flames. She is ok. But she had to be fully shaven for the doctors to treat her burns. They say the hair will grow back but imagine the next few weeks without hair! I can’t bear to think...and my other neighbour went to Tirupathi and came back after donating her hair to the Lord! Imagine her freedom! To not be beholden to the fear of losing one’s hair!
If only he, my husband, would come out and say he loves me, me, my real me! Just say for once, “I love you. It may look like I am only in love with your hair. But your hair is the manifestation of all the goodness all the sacrifices you have made, all your giving of so much for me!” Just once. Quietly. And then go back to his silent admiration of my hair.
It would make my day! In fact it would make my life! Oh! Don’t get me wrong he loves me alright. He does. Even when we have our usual tiffs he never ever fails to pick jasmine flowers and get our daughters to string them together for me to adorn my hair with. Yes my hair again! It seems to get all the attention! He has never ever, not even a single day denied me that.
But even so.
Even so!
HIS!
The one thing constant, the one thing I can rely on, the one thing that is a reassuring presence in my life, is my wife. I fell in love with her the moment i set my eyes on her. And when I see her in my mind’s eye it is her hair that I see. The black, wavy, shiny, curly hair that almost seemingly never ends in length. I once found a single strand of her hair on my shirt. I wanted to cup it in my hand and place it close to my cheek. I picked it and I kept on picking it for it was one long single strand of hair with one of its ends on my shirt pocket and it had twirled itself around my collar and under the collar and around the side of my shirt and down to the side of my lungi. I carefully retrieved it in one piece and I held it at one end. It was almost my height! I felt as if I was enveloped by my wife’s love when I found that strand of hair. I twirled that lone strand and put it in my wallet. She did not know, but I had it in my wallet for several months. I can never get to talking about my love for her. She is silently there for me.
Life is fickle! Life is unpredictable! You see I lost my father and my elder brother when I was just a teenager. And my world collapsed about me. I gave up my studies to take care of my family. You see life is what you make of it. And to make of it you need to be prepared for the worst, all the time. I can’t tell my wife I love her. I might... anything can happen. It is best to show my love incidentally and go about doing what needs to be done. If she gets too attached to me and I am no more, what will happen to her? I remember my mother completely lost her mind when my father suddenly died. Of course my brother too died almost within 15 days of my father’s passing. And my mother just could not recover. I don’t want my wife also to go through that kind of pain. But to show my love, I do pluck jasmine flowers everyday, have them strung together by one of my daughters and present it to her. I do this without fail. Even if we have had a bitter argument. We argue all the time. Sometimes it gets strong, the language you know. And my children wonder if Appa will go through the usual ritual of giving Amma her jasmine flowers in the morning. But there is no question of my not giving flowers to my wife. My daily ritual is also to show my children that my love for their mother is always abiding. Arguments will happen but my love for my wife will never fade. That is a lesson I will leave, if nothing else. I only want my wife too to know I love her without my telling her outright. I am sure by now she knows. Hope she knows. There is this picture of us with my granddaughter. I so wanted to hold my wife’s hand. Sit closer to her. At least let our shoulders touch. I also wanted to put my arms around her too. But that would have been too western style! And I could feel she too wanted to be closer physically for the picture. But years of an ingrained distance prevailed. And the sadness, the slight anger in her eyes is evident to me. Maybe not to an outsider. But to me it is. But it is for the best I told myself even as the photo was clicked.
For life is unpredictable. Life is fickle.
Maybe another day I will tell you more. About how I had to bring up my sisters. And work on a farmland that I bought. Ah! Those were good days! Land alone is not fickle. Life is fickle. People are fickle. But my land...my work on the land and the pleasure it gave me far surpassed even my running a chit fund business with several employees under me. Land never gives up on you, never fades away, never dies!
But now I need to pluck some jasmine flowers for you-know-who!
THE ONE IN BETWEEN!
Love, whether within the marital fold, or without, is one. No?
Pure love without seeking, I mean.
That’s what I see in my grandfather’s eyes. And I feel the sadness of my grandmother who does not see it but seeks it in words from my grandfather. Grandfather knows that my grandmother pines for sweet nothings in words! But he has always withheld and I wondered why. Then one day my mother revealed a tidbit about her father. Then it all clicked!
My grandfather withheld only out of love, because of love!
Yes! Out of Love! Strange no?
Maybe it is all misguided reasoning. You see, my grandfather does not want my grandmother to be as much in love with him as he is with her!
Kind of selfless, in a weird sort of way!
He has seen how much his mother (my great grandmother) suffered when his father (my great grandfather) died. And my grandfather is not all that well. Diabetes! He knows he will be the first to go, leaving my grandmother. He knows it in his bones, I can tell.
But what surprises me, is that my grandmother, knowing how intuitive, we women are, does not figure out the fact that my grandfather has yet to grow out of that fear and sadness of losing his father and brother and seeing the impact of that on his mother. That double loss has certainly made him more sensitive in heart. I can tell he has vowed never to see another lady suffer like his mother did after the loss.
And that protective impulse has been part of him, throughout. Even to the point of not showing his love to his wife, in case his wife, too, fell as much in love with him and has to go through all that his mother went through if he, my grandfather, were to suddenly die.
Love, through the lenses of a protective feeling and fear, gets slightly miscued. I have often thought of explaining all this to my grandmother but I am afraid to rock the boat, you know!
Somethings are better just left unsaid!
For their love is still so evident, manifests in ways that inspires and sustains our clan!.
Jairam Seshadri returned from North America where he worked for several decades as a chartered accountant in senior positions in well established organisations. He now lives in Chennai with the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity with a smile on his mien induced by his three dogs. His legacy, he believes, will be his WOOF SONGS AND THE ETERNAL SELF SABOTEUR, a collection of poems dedicated to the memory of his three four-legged companions.
THE DARK LANE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Shefali reached the dark lane and stopped abruptly. She realised she was panting and out of breath. She had almost run all the way from Binny's house to this point. The lane abutting the compound wall of the library was frighteningly dark, it looked like a long tunnel of horror waiting to gobble her up. Streaks of feeble light coming from the open windows of a few houses made a pathetic attempt to dispel a bit of darkness, but that was not enough for a girl of fifteen to get the courage to step into the dark lane.
Shefali felt helpless. She had passed through this lane at least a hundred times in the past, but that was always in the car, with her parents or with the driver bhaiya talking to her from his seat. This lane was a short cut to reach the trijunction of the MausiMaa temple from her house. The house was actually a big mansion, owned by her father, a very successful eye surgeon and her mother, the famous gynaecologist Dr. Pratibha Samantaray. It was widely believed that half of the children in Bhubaneswar must have been brought into the world under her expert hands in her maternity hospital. Kind and soft spoken, she was the favourite doctor for all.
For the umpteenth time Shefali regretted going to Binny's place to attend her birthday party. It's not like she was Shefali's best friend or something, she just couldn't keep saying no when Binny continued pestering her. There was a bunch of friends with her from her class - Madhumita, Chhanda, Dimple, Rakesh, Sourav, Swapnil and a few other boys whose name she didn't know. Finally she had agreed to come.
And what a horrible birthday party it was! Binny's parents had left home in the evening to watch a movie, that was the condition she had put on them, insisting that she must celebrate her birthday with her classmates at home without the parents trying to supervise them "and poke their bloody nose into the celebrations." And as soon as the party started Shefali knew why. Birthday was just an excuse, their dirty minds were unto something wild. After the cake was cut and the snacks devoured, the music started, vulgar songs in Hindi boomed in the hall. English songs vibrating with loud music electrified the room. The boys and girls started dancing, their bodies gyrating to the rhythm, almost trying to merge with each other.
Sourav came to Shefali, held her hand and tried to drag her for a dance. She shook her head, pulled her hand away and walked over to the table where the snacks and soft drinks were kept. The lights were dimmed and she found Chhanda and Vikas in a tight hug behind a pillar. Binny was sitting on the lap of Gautam and they started smooching. Sourav came again to Shefali and asked her to come to where some friends were still dancing. She again said no.
Shefali was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She wished she had not come to this party. She thought she would call her parents and asked them to send the car to take her home, but it was too late for that. In one hour her mother would close her clinic and need the car to come home. And the driver anyway would be at Daddy's eye hospital in another corner of the town.
Shefali regretted coming here to attend this obscene party. She found Sourav standing at a corner looking at her like a hungry dog salivating over a bone. Two of his friends went to him and they talked. The two friends looked at Shefali and grinned like a pair of cunning wolves. They went back to the dance, Sourav disappeared. A couple of minutes later Shefali got the shock of her life when someone came from behind the curtain near the snacks table and grabbed her from behind. A hand was creeping pver her arm like a slithery snake and she could hear Sourav whispering in her ear, "Shefali, I love you."
Shefali thought she would faint out of fright, she started trembling, but gathered herself. The glass of Sprite she was holding in her hand was almost full. She turned and threw the sprite at Sourav's face. That must have hurt his eyes, he started shrieking, "You bitch, you dirty bitch..." Shefali didn't wait to hear the rest of the abuse, she ran out of the door and kept running, too scared to look back and see if anyone was following her.
And here she was, at the entrance of a dark lane, panting and her mind still numb with fear. As soon as she left Binny's house she had realised she had made the mistake of leaving her purse on the snacks table when she had run away in a hurry. The mobile phone was left in her purse. So even if she wanted she could not make a call to her parents now. She had no other option except crossing the dark lane. And she panicked at the prospect. She had no idea what danger was lurking inside the lane, little did she know about the two groups of ruffians sitting and waiting for a prey in the dark, like wild animals.
Shefali suddenly sensed a presence by her side. Startled, her heart skipped a few bits. She turned and looked. There was an old man standing a couple of feet away. He was clad in a dhoti and a kurta. Must be in his fifties, he looked mild and harmless, yet Shefali was in no mood to take any chance, not tonight, the night of horrors. She looked away.
Liike Shefali, Sadashiv Sir was also hesitating at the prospect of entering the lane. He was cursing the municipality staff for not replacing the fused bulbs on the street lights. He passed through this lane six days a week, walking from Forest Park to BJB Nagar after finishing the tuition class for two of his students. He knew there were eight street lights in the lane. Half of them were almost always out of order but at least the other half worked. Today not a single light was on. How callous of the municipality staff! Sadashiv Sir knew the lane was infested with anti-social elements. He had seen groups of young boys roaming around, often sitting on roadside culverts, smoking and shouting loudly at each other. There was a group which probably indulged in smoking charas, the nauseating smell fouling the air. The ruffians usually let the old man go, perhaps unimpressed by his poor looks and simple clothes.
This evening poor Sadashiv Sir was more concerned than usual, his pocket was filled with lots of money. He had received the remuneration of three thousand rupees from the parents of the two kids. And that was a lot of money for a poor teacher from a privately run primary school. He had already chanted a few shlokas and prayed to his favorite gods and goddesses, but was still not sure if he was fortified enough to venture into the lane.
Sadashiv Sir looked at the frightened girl and smiled,
"Beti, scared to enter the lane?"
Shefali nodded.
"This is a particularly bad night, not a single light is working."
She nodded again and asked,
"Uncle, do you have a mobile phone? If you give it to me I can make a call to my parents to pick me up. May be we can drop you at your place."
Sadashiv Sir shook his head,
"No beti, I don't have a mobile phone. I had one a few months back, but once it broke this poor primary school teacher didn't have the money to buy another one."
Shefali's face brightened,
"Uncle, are you a teacher?"
Sadashiv Sir nodded,
"Yes, at the Nageswar Tangi upper primary school."
"Oh, I have seen that school, it's right on the main road. Uncle if you are a teacher, I am not scared of you. Come, we will walk together and cross the lane."
Shefali closed her eyes for a moment in a silent prayer, and then looked at the dark lane. She flashed a cute, sweet smile in a way only a cute, sweet girl of fifteen can do,
"Don't worry uncle, let's start, I am there for you and you are there for me!"
Sadashiv Sir smiled, he liked the spirit of this girl. His hand went to the right side pocket of his kurta to check if the money was safe. He told her, "Yes, I am there for you, you are there for me."
And they started walking beside each other, to walk the longest lane of their life, a passage between light and darkness, reassurance and fear.
The feeble lights coming from the houses were of no use. The lane was indeed dark. A hundred metres into the lane a big black cat which was sitting on a compound wall cried out loud and jumped onto the street. Shefali let out a loud shriek and caught hold of Sadashiv Sir's hand in panic. The old teacher had also stopped, his heart pounding in fear. When they realised what had caused the panic they laughed, a slow, nervous laugh and started walking, holding hands and trying to give courage to each other.
Shefali's shriek had been heard by the group sitting on a culvert about seventy meters away. It was a group of five young boys, all school dropouts and vagabonds whose favorite pastime was loafing around, occasionally doing pick-pocketing, or snatching gold chains or watches from passers by and selling them to earn enough for their snacks and cigarettes. Raja, the leader of the group, looked closely. In the feeble light from the garden of two adjacent houses all of them could see in the distance a young girl and an old man walking hand in hand. It was clear they were scared, the way they were looking to both the sides and walking hesitatingly. Bhanu, one of the boys addressed the leader enthusiastically,
"Guru, looks like a lucky night for us. Look at the girl, she is a real maal! Oh, what a beauty, she looks like a fairy in her yellow dress and the red hair band. And the old man! The idiot thinks he is
a hero, the way he is holding her hand to protect her. Wait, wait, Guru, the old man must be having money in his pocket, the way his right hand goes repeatedly to the pocket in his kurta to see if the bundle is safe. Oh, oh, this is the same old man who goes this way every day. But today he has maal in his pocket and a maal holding his hand. Ah, Guru, let us loot the money and lift the girl, we will have a night of beer and pleasure. We will take turns with the girl Guru, you get the first chance and we will follow. Hah Guru, what a night it is going to be, what a night?"
Raja smiled,
"Not a bad idea! Probably the best night of our life!"
The group was waiting expectantly. Shefali and the old teacher were drawing closer, unaware of the danger awaiting them.
Suddenly Raja raised his hand,
"Wait, the plan is cancelled."
The group went into a shock, Satya and Mangu cried out in anguish,
"Cancelled? Guru, what do you mean? Why? Such a nice maal and the old man's pocket filled with money, you want this chance to slip away? Why Guru?"
Raja looked at them sternly,
"Stop calling her a maal, if you don't want to be beaten to a pulp. I just saw her in the light from a house. She is my sister."
Another shock shook the group!
"Your sister? But Guru your sister is at home, how can this girl be your sister?", Mangu asked the leader.
Raja exploded,
"Do I have to give you an explanation, you idiots? Are you asking for an explanation from me?"
Kalu, the joker of the group, tried to placate him,
"No Guru, we are not asking for an explanation, how can we even think of that? We are just curious".
Raja became serious,
"She is Shefali, the Doctor aunty's daughter. My mother says Dr. Pratibha aunty had conduced her delivery when I was born. It was a very complicated case and both she and I would have died if the doctor aunty had not toiled for eight hours and saved us. My mother thinks the doctor aunty is a goddess in human form. I have gone to her home a few times, my mother takes me there every year on my birthday with a basket of fruits and flowers. We touch the Doctor Aunty's feet and seek her blessings. I have seen this girl Shefali at her home a couple of times. She is my sister, because she is the doctor Aunty's daughter and it is the Doctor Aunty who has brought me to the world and given me life. Do you understand now, you idiots?"
The group nodded, Raja was not finished yet,
"Hey, Satya and Kalu, take my motor bike, go to the next culvert. That bastard Lambu is siting there with his gang. Tell him if he even tries to look at my sister, I will gouge his eyes out, make chutney out of them and pour it down his throat. Be there when Shefali and the old man cross that point, then follow them till Shefali reaches her home. It's about a hundred meters away from where the lane ends, that big yellow bungalow beyond the RajaRani petrol bunk."
Satya and Kalu left. Shefali and Sadashiv Sir passed the group, looking at the boys stealthily from the corner of their eyes, fear pounding their heart. There was another group a few metres away. A group of boys was sitting there, talking to a couple of boys leaning on a motor bike. No one looked at her and Sadashiv Sir. They walked on. At the end of the lane, there was light, the crowded street welcomed them like its long lost friends. Shefali could breathe easy now, her little heart started calming down. She took her hand out from the grip of the old Sir and flashed a cute, sweet smile at him, the way only a cute sweet girl of fifteen would do!
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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