Literary Vibes Edition - LXXVII (17-July-2020)
(STARRY NIGHT ON HILLOCK - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 77th edition of LiteraryVibes.
We have with us, in this edition, a new writer, a veteran of the army, Lt. General N. P. Padhi who has served the nation at difficult, far-flung areas, enduring hardship so that we, his countrymen could melt into the soft routine of life with ease and comfort. His article on A Ritual at Menchuka shows great insight and reveals an astounding literary skill. We salute this retired, brave officer and wish him great success in his writing ventures. We do hope he will send us more of his articles in future.
Today's edition is being published in the backdrop of a sad bereavement. Our technical consultant Shiva lost his mother on Monday, the 13th July. Our hearts go out to our friend in this hour of personal loss. It is indeed very brave of him to offer to work for the publication of today's edition for the sake of "keeping his mind occupied to lessen the sorrow." We thank him for that. We pray for his mother's soul to rest in peace.
Loss of a mother is indeed devastating. I lost mine when I was only twenty seven. She never went out of my mind, even for a minute, for many days. After the funeral ceremonies when I returned to Cuddalore in Tamil Nadu where I was undergoing district training, I could not sleep for many nights. On the night I returned to the bachelor's accommodation in the guest house, I kept tossing on the bed. Towards the early hours when my eyes must have shut out of tiredness, I heard her voice, loud and clear, "Soi padiluki?" "(Did you go off to sleep?)". I woke up, sweating, I had no doubt in my mind I had heard her voice.
A few days later, I wrote a poem which I have just dug out:
It is a lonely, sleepless night
Of a busy, hectic day
The night brings
Long, sad memories
Of my departed mother
How she looked so serene
At the final hour of silence.
For once she slept in peace and quiet
After a life of noise and turmoil.
The memory
Comes fresh as ever
The way she said
Why aren't you coming near,
Are you annoyed with me?
Now she has escaped
All annoyance, all love,
All torment and anguish,
Leaving me to wonder
When did I become so big
To be annoyed with my mother,
My dear, loving mother!
(Cuddalore, Monday, February 12, 1979)
Let us pray for the souls of all our loved, departed ones, for souls are immortal. We draw the spirit of our living from the flame they left behind. The flame is immortal.
Hope you will like the wonderful poems, short stories, travelogue and personal reminiscences in this 77th edition. Please share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/323 with all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous editions of LV including four anthologies are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Looking forward to your feedback, which can be posted in the Comments box at the bottom of the LV page.
Take care, stay safe and healthy.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SNAPSHOTS FROM THE COWDUST HOUR
02) Haraprasad Das
A LOVE SONG (4)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
REALITY CHECK
HAREM HALLUCINATIONS
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE NIGHT OF THE WATERS*
05) Ujan Ghosh
MY EAST HOSTEL DAYS - RAVENSHAW COLLEGE, CUTTACK
06) Debi Padhi
OF YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW
07) Sharanya Bee
HEARTLESS
08) Sundar Rajan
FLIGHT TO REALITY
09) Thryaksha A Garla
EPIPHANY
BREAKING
10) Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty
IS DESIRE A PLEASURE?
READ THESE STORIES WITH YOUR HEART
11) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
WORKING FROM HOME
12) Madhumathi. H
FORTUNE-TELLER...
NEST
13) Molly Joseph
SERENITY
14) Radhika Nair
WILTED
15) Jairam Seshadri
GROW A MOUSTACHE!
16) Dr Rupali Mishra
THE UNDEFINED
17) Zia Marshall
BRAVING THE STORM CLOUDS OF LIFE – LETTING IT GO
18) Sheena Rath
RAINDROPS
19) Setaluri Padmavathi
FOOTSTEPS
20) Gokul Chandra Mishra
PARCEL
21) Malabika Patel
A WHIFF OF A PUFF
22) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
FANS, FRIENDS OR FOES?
JAIPUR - WHERE HERITAGE BLENDS WITH GEMS
23) Mini K Antony
THE TEACHER AND THE TAUGHT
24) Lt Gen N P Padhi
A RITUAL AT MENCHUKHA
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE LONG WINDING PATH
Book Review
01) Hema Ravi
OF CLOUDLESS CLIMES - Poems by RAVI RANGANATHAN
SNAPSHOTS FROM THE COWDUST HOUR
In bed, he puts into his little mouth
a shrunken fig from grandma’s chest,
her undone grey strands sing lullaby.
In a terrace corner, he joins
his female friend for playing family,
imitating adults; she as his wife
pretending to go to bed with him,
delivering dolls, their children.
They playact for hours - like raising
a crop - ploughing and irrigating fields,
sowing seeds and waiting patiently
for flowering and fruition, weathering
hide and seek from the adult-eyes,
facing trials and tribulations, their rebukes
like droughts and deluges; always afraid,
if it is not a forbidden zone.
By evening, playing family all day
he feels the fatigue of a lifetime.
But contented, he goes back
to the cool sanctum of grandma’s bosom
like the heavenly lair every man
seeks after living a lifetime drudgery.
He forgets his little female friend
left in their playhouse. His soiled hands
berate him for his promises to her,
to be her all-time mate. To receive
his tired body, heavy with sleep,
grandma’s cool lap opens up
like a benevolent haven. At times,
parents’ bed is his endearing retreat.
He feels secure, their intimacy, ‘O dear,
it is just heavenly’, sending him to sleep.
But some nights, visited by
nightmares, he is scared of playing
with his female friend even in dreams,
feels guilty of hearing his parents
whispering, ‘O’ dear, it feels heavenly’
from behind his closed eyelids,
but urinates happily into grandma’s lap,
the dung pit of his dream, wetting her bed.
(GODHULIRU, the Odia poem published in 2006 in Dussehra issue of the journal Vartika, is trans-created into ‘Snapshots from Cow-dust Hour’.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
May I remind you,
what all you have lost in life –
while playing pubescent games,
you lost the pendant from forehead,
all searched for it
but in vain,
including your father
taking leave from his school
for his beloved daughter,
missing his assignments.
One of your anklets
of the pair
was lost in bed,
but your friends teased,
“Good omen,
your prince charming
is on his way
riding his winged-horse.”
You rebuked them
as superstitious
but deep down your heart
you were tickled to puberty.
You stopped looking for your anklet,
let it remain lost
as the messenger of good omen
(and lo!),
your bridegroom
arrived with pomp
exploding fireworks
riding a stately horse.
Your favorite silver dining dish
resembling the pale moon
was lost
amid the heap of utensils
but you enjoyed the loss,
your husband teasing you,
holding your face between hands,
“Are you looking for this?”
You lost your gold necklace,
you couldn’t blame anyone,
not even the Myna
that claimed to have taken it,
for you knew,
the Myna was lying,
just to please you,
it had vanished into thin air.
List of your lost articles
like a river stringing
its ripples
end to end,
jangling into distant memory;
lapsing from the present
to the past like a raga
on sarod to welcome a new dawn;
letting the lady luck
twiddle her thumbs,
you call the loss a passé
and spin new webs of trust,
push away the prejudices
into the receding dark
from the sandy shores
to reveal a blessed sea
beyond and ahead, rippling with
bounties of love
to your eyes’ reach,
inviting you to join.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
You sometimes seek sophistication
and sublime subtlety
sometimes glamour in its
gaudiest best
from the brush strokes on
your eyelids and well trimmed brows
and kohl liners doing the trick
as you peer through
the fluttering lashes and
your smokey bedroom eyes
casting your enchanting and
slanted looks of seduction.
Your Rapunzel tresses
enriched with tassels of silk
with streaks of bronze
copper and gold
cascade over your chiselled
shoulders and
flowing down the curves
of your back
lure me to delve into their depths
luxuriating and diffusing in their
gossamer softness.
The padded falsehood
accentuates your callipygian charms
the suggestive noodle straps
that perhaps arrest the sag
and the slits on your flanks
swaying mischievously
to show the satiny skin in flashes
and the unseen corset
that constricts your waist
to give it the shape of an hour glass
keep me guessing and
entice me to no bounds.
But who am I to point a finger at you?
For I am the elusive chameleon
the high priest of deceit and deception.
It's I who wants to see you that way
it's I who loves all the embellishments
and adornments that dazzle
and who perhaps is scared
to face the naked truth
and come to terms
with the reality beneath
and the reality within.
If you browse in Trip Advisor for accommodation at Jaisalmer, your eyes will not miss Hotel Helsinki Heights. Then you may wonder about the Finnish connection with the ancient Golden City. Hotel Helsinki Heights incidentally is a relatively new hotel that had come up within the perimeters of the Jaisalmer Fort, on the Trikuta Hill. Jaisalmer Fort though was built way back in 1156 AD, still throbs with life. It is believed to be one of the very few 'living forts' in the world, like Carcassonne in France. This is the most visited tourist spot in Jaisalmer. About three years ago, a local entrepreneur Azlan bought an old 'kothi' within the fortifications and gave it a face lift and new interiors to start this hotel. He saw immense possibilities in his venture because of its location and the heritage linked to it. Sure enough, during this short span of its existence, he was doing brisk business, mostly with the foreign visitors. The hotel though from outside gave an authentic heritage look, its inside was tastefully done. The yellow sandstone arches in the foyer with intricate carvings and 'jaali-work' and the elaborate chandeliers gave it a medieval yet modern look. The rooms were spacious with oriental wall to wall carpets, with modern attached washrooms, and wifi connected. The roof top garden restaurant with 'chowki' style seating and with colourful bolsters for back support served exquisite Rajasthani and mughlai cuisine. The panoramic view of the entire city from the roof top was magnificent. But it may still be a mystery to you why the hotel was named thus. What had Helsinki to do with it?
To find the answer we have to go back in time and find out a little more about Azlan who owned the hotel. Azlan belonged to a local Muslim family and did his graduation from Aligarh Muslim University. It was believed that his ancestors were originally from Turkey and had migrated to India about three generations ago. His father ran couple of camel Safaris in the nearby sand dunes of Rajputana desert. He had a younger brother Rayan, who was the pet and the spoilt brat of the family. Azlan after his graduation wanted to get into tourism industry. He had a flare for language. In a year's time he learnt and could speak Spanish, Swedish, French, Finnish and even Mandarin quite well. He was a handsome fellow with suave manners and he was sartorial savvy too. He soon started his one man tourist guide concern. He made online contact with foreign tourists directly and also offered his services to travel and tourism agencies for handling their guests, mostly for tourist spots in Rajasthan. He meticulously planned their reception, transportation, accommodation and visits and soon earned a name for himself. His hands were always full.
About four years ago he received Cecilia, a Finnish tourist from Delhi International airport. She had come to India for the first time. Her itinerary included Jaipur, Udaipur, Jodhpur, Ajmer and Jaisalmer. Azlan discussed with her the detailed plans and started her guided tour with the right earnest. The whole program was planned for about a month. As they moved from place to place on road and as Azlan explained about each of the tourist attractions with their detailed history and statistics, Cecilia's admiration for him grew exponentially. Soon their interactions strayed into personal space . Cecilia was pleasantly surprised with the young man's diligence and determination to make it big despite his humble beginnings. She was impressed with his debonair looks and impeccable manners. On her part Cecilia revealed that she was the heiress to a wealthy hotelier at Helsinki, who owned a chain of hotels in Finland and Sweden. She was a divorcee with no kids. By the time they reached Jaisalmer, they had opened up to each other. They shared jokes and laughed together. Then one thing led to the other and both found themselves attracted to each other. As her departure day drew closer, Cecilia appeared to be sad. Azlan too looked unhappy to lose her so soon. Azlan didn't want her to leave but wished if she could stay with him for ever. And then the evening before she had to depart, as they were returning from a folk show at Sunset Desert Resort , the moonlight playing tricks on the desert sands, their eyes met, and with quickened breath they were in each other's arms. Azlan then proposed to her and Cecilia agreed. After a week, much against the wishes of Azlan's parents, they registered their marriage, and started living together in a budget hotel.
One day Cecilia suggested that they may get into hotel business here, which had better prospects than his tourist guide occupation. Azlan agreed but expressed his concern about the massive funding that would be needed. His personal savings were greatly inadequate. Cecilia convinced Azlan that her father would invest the money to start with and they can easily pay him back in instalments, as the business gathered momentum. That was how the project came into being, and how the hotel got its name.
Azlan though estranged from his parents was quite close to his younger brother Rayan, though both were quite dissimilar. Azlan was a self made man, ambitious, hardworking and honest. Rayan whose name meant 'gateway to paradise' was ironically the opposite, for he was more of an 'entrance to hell'. He was a school dropout and had a notorious reputation in the town. He can best be described as a coral snake, so very beautiful yet so venomous. He was very fair, rather a little short in height for his age, with the proverbial cherubic looks accentuated by a pair of ruby red lips and chubby cheeks. His bluish eyes enhanced his benign and innocent countenance. In his school he was teased by his friends as 'sissy boy'. But as they say, appearances can really be deceptive. Beneath his soft exterior dwelled a hardened and tough menace. He was mostly seen with his vagabond friends sipping tea or smoking hashish laced cigarettes in the tea shop on the street corner and passing lewd comments to the young school girls walking by.
As if eve teasing was not enough, there had been instances when he was occasionally involved in bag snatching from the foreign tourists. He was apprehended by police couple of times but Azlan had always come to his rescue. His waywardness was bothersome to his parents but they thought that it was just a matter of time. He was just a kid. When he matured things would sort out for themselves. The boy became bolder by the day. One summer evening, he jumped over to the roof of his neighbour and tried to molest his daughter Rukshana, who was sleeping in the open. Hearing her cry, her brothers rushed from the ground floor and thrashed him black-and-blue. Azlan was at at his wits end and had no idea how to reform him.
He confided in Cecilia about Rayan and sought her advice. Cecilia told him to be patient and plan to get him involved in some business activity. Once he would be given some responsibility, he might have no time for such deviant behaviour. They got Rayan into their hotel administration and made him in charge of housekeeping, and compensated him well. Cecilia spent a good deal of time talking to him on various subjects. She introduced him to the internet. Very soon he got hooked to the net and spent considerable time in browsing various sites. The bond between Cecilia and Rayan became stronger each passing day. Cecilia took him as her own little brother which she never had. Rayan adored her and felt very comfortable to share everything with her. Azlan was happy to see the turn of events and thought that the brat was coming on track.
Though Cecilia didn't really want to snoop into Rayan's privacy, given his past record, she one day checked his browsing history. What struck her strange that while some of his browsing related to Turkey and Finland, the maximum hits were on the word 'harem' and related words. She wanted to investigate further.
' Hey Rayan, how is it going for you?, ' Cecilia casually started a conversation when they were alone at the reception of the hotel.
' I am fine. How about you?,' asked Rayan.
' Rayan have you seen this Turkish actor Burak Deniz on the net?,' enquired Cecilia.
' Yes, in fact he's one of my favourites, but only next to Kivanc Tatlitug,' answered Rayan.
' Did you notice how closely Burak resembles you? When you grow up a little and shed a bit of your baby fat, no one can tell the difference. I actually was thinking of calling you Burak,' Cecilia said with a wink.
' Oh Come on 'Bhabi Jaan', I am sure, you are pulling my legs,' said Rayan.
' No Rayan, I am serious, cross my heart,' assured Cecilia, and continued,' By the way, Azlan told that you are descendants of some Turkish nobleman. Your forefathers apparently served the Ottoman Empire.'
' That's right. But if you keep it a secret, I will tell you something very personal,' whispered Rayan.
' Hey Rayan, I am your big sister. You can always trust me,' Cecilia gave him assurance.
' Some years ago, when I was a kid I had this vision one night. I am actually an Ottoman Sultanzada and a direct descendant of Mehmed the Conquerer. My father was the Sultan and ruled the empire in the sixteenth century. I clearly remember our royal palace and my father's imperial harem and those beautiful angels, those divine divas, those nubile nymphs, those gorgeous creatures, who used to pet me and cuddle me with passionate love. I couldn't live long enough to inherit the sultanate and to set up my own harem. I fell off a horse while playing Buzkashi and that turned out to be fatal for me. I have been sent back to the world by Allah to revive the lost glory that I had seen and that is my life's aim,' Rayan confided, his eyes dreamy and dilated. It appeared as if he was in a trance and was in another world altogether.
It took sometime for Cecilia to realise that Rayan perhaps suffered from some kind of depersonalisation disorder and lived in a dream world, and she sincerely hoped that he would come out of it one day.
On Rayan's 21st birthday Cecilia gifted Rayan an iPad but the real surprise came from Azlan. In the evening the three of them drove down to the Sam sand dunes area. Next to the Desert Springs resort, a new property had come up. They drove inside the property which had three neat rows of newly pitched tents with all amenities, and a canopied dining area. In the centre courtyard there was a small open air amphitheatre with a well stocked bar in a corner. The signboard was covered with a green cloth. Rayan found a nice cake on the centre table of the dining area. He realised that it was a surprise party in his honour. Then Azlan, yanked the green cover off the signboard, that read Helsinki Dunes Resort and below it the proprietor's name was written Rayan Mehmed. After cutting the cake, Azlan showed Rayan his regal tent and said, 'Bro, this is our gift to you. You take care of this business now independently. I have kept in your account the required working capital. This resort will be affiliated to Helsinki Heights, our main hotel for any assistance that you may need. All the best.' Rayan couldn't control his tears and hugged his brother with gratitude writ large on his face. Cecilia stood there in silence looking at both the brothers fondly.
The desert resort soon gathered momentum. A steady supply of clients was ensured by the parent hotel at Jaisalmer. Rayan's father provided the Camel Safari support. Rayan had commissioned a folk artiste group from the Kalbelia tribe. The troupe consisted of its lead artiste Suraj Bhan, the main singer on harmonium, his younger brother Chandra Bhan on percussion, his young bride Gulabo and her younger sister Dhanno, the dancers. The Kalbelia tribe of Rajasthan are basically nomadic and their traditional occupation is catching snakes and selling their venom. They also deal with herbal medicines. The Kalbelia dance form has evolved to one with very supple movements of a slithering snake and is very popular amongst the tourists. The women dancers put on flowing embroidered black skirts , swerve and swirl to the lilting tunes of folk songs and beats of dholak, replicating the movements of a serpent. The other popular dance forms which Gulabo and Dhanno were adept at were from the traditional 'ghoomar' and 'bhavai' genres. While in Ghoomar , they turn round and round in colourful flowing ghagras, in Bhavai, they balance a number of earthen pots stacked on each other while nimbly pirouetting and swaying with their soles of their feet on top of glass tumblers. Rayan while enjoying the premier show in the Dunes Resort, had glimpses of the beauty of both the sisters through the semitransparent ghoonghat, that half covered their faces. While sipping a chilled beer, his mind was on over drive. His distant dream of owning a harem, suddenly appeared to be closer. He felt like a Sheikh holding court in his own sheikhdom, and he decided to make Gulabo his very first catch.
During the next few months, he was on his predatory best, and relentlessly tried to woo and seduce Gulabo and showered her with expensive gifts. One evening he succeeded and Gulabo succumbed to his lustful demands. Rayan secretly recorded their amorous tryst on his mobile. Such illicit liaison continued for some weeks and when Rayan felt he had enough, he shifted his attention to Dhanno. Dhanno resisted his lascivious advances sternly and Rayan couldn't just digest it. Then he showed the objectionable video clip to Gulabo and threatened her to make it public if she didn't help to get him his next prey. Later in the night during the small hours, when Rayan was sleeping in his tent, he felt something slithering up his quilt. He slowly opened his eyes to see in the dim light, a black cobra slowly sliding up. In one rapid jerk he threw the snake along with his quilt, and ran out. He was sweating profusely and managed to ride his scooter back to Jaisalmer.
Cecilia heard the heavy knocking on their door and found Rayan standing there, shivering, short of breath and unable to speak. She called him in and gave him a glass of water and made him sit on the sofa. Azlan woke up and joined them. Rayan had already cooked a lie and told them that he had caught Suraj Bhan stealing drinks from the bar and they had a scuffle. He also told them that he wanted to kill him through cobra bite, and how he had managed to escape certain death. He told them that Kalbelias are very revengeful and he can't go back to the resort. He told him that even hanging around Jaisalmer would be unsafe because they would track him down one day. Azlan told him to relax and they would report the matter to police. But Rayan had made up his mind. He remembered that at some point in time Cecilia had offered him to send him to Finland and get him some employment there. He had choices: either to take up a job in her father's hotels or get into something else through her friends. He was scared and wanted to get away from India. He requested Cecilia to send him to Finland and help find a job for him there. Cecilia agreed and at the end of the month he was on his way to Helsinki.
It was not difficult to locate Erica, Cecilia's friend who was front office manager of Baskeri and Basso, a well known bistro on Helsinki waterfront. Erica was only too happy to see him. Cecilia had already spoken to her about helping Rayan for stay and for arranging some engagement. Erica told that she had a two room apartment in Kamppi residential area which she shared with her friend Janika. If he wishes, they would be glad to take him in as a paying guest. Rayan was only too happy to accept it. The next day he shifted from the hotel and moved in with Erica. It was the weekend and the girls acted as perfect hosts to make Rayan comfortable. They took him around on a guided tour of Helsinki and got to know one another better. Rayan had read an article on the net, that Finland ranked as number one in female promiscuity and that foreign men were in high demand in Finland. He felt like a stallion in a stud farm and fantasised about every girl he saw on the streets. He didn't even spare Erica and Janika from his fantasy. He went out of his way to impress both the girls with his suave manners and sense of humour. He filled them with interesting stories about Jaisalmer and Rajasthan. He had a good voice and he amused them with Hindi songs. Gradually he moved closer and closer and waited patiently for the final kill. For the first few days he slept on the sofa, but finally his charm worked and he graduated to the bed.
Janika was working for a company named SkinwareSyndicate, which exported reindeer hides. She introduced Rayan to her manager, Garry and requested him if he can be absorbed in the company. Rayan was offered the job of an operations supervisor. After about a month, Garry summoned him to his office and told him that he had to travel abroad with a precious consignment. Garry's office was plush. Behind his leather upholstered executive chair was a huge digital world map, with flashing LED lights. Garry explained to Rayan the real business operations of the syndicate. Reindeer hides business was only a front for human trafficking which was the company's real business. The flashing lights on the digital screen indicated their clientele distribution around the world. The customers were the rich and powerful mostly the Sheikhs, Sultans and Monarchs still thriving in various corners of the world and Skinware Syndicate catered to their secret private harems. Rayan listened to the briefing wide eyed. After giving an overview of the company's operations, Garry gave him detailed instructions about his first assignment. Rayan was to escort and ferry five young Finnish girls to an un-named island caliphate in the South China Sea. This island was close to Brunei but was not known to the world public and couldn't be found on the maps and atlases. The island nation was ruled by Haji Omar Saifullah, a cousin of the Sultan of Brunei. Its economy was similar to that of Brunei. It's wealth came from extensive oil and natural gas fields. Rayan was to accompany the girls and hand them over to the Sultan's harem safely.
The next day Rayan and the girls in fit and flare pink laced dresses were escorted to the airport and the Sultan's personal business jet, a Cessna Citation X was waiting for them on the tarmac. As soon as they boarded, the aircraft took off smoothly. As they were airborne, Rayan levitated himself into his fantasy land. He thought that it was almost providential for him to see a real harem, which he thought were things of the past. The prospect of being a possible caretaker in Sultan's harem filled him with colourful dreams, and he slowly slipped into a magical trance. After few hours of flight, the aircraft landed at Bangkok for refuelling. Another small group of glamorous merchandise boarded the flight. A giggling bevy of oriental beauties, slim, slender and stately, all attired in rainbow coloured sarong like gowns made of Thai silk were shown to their seats. The aircraft finally landed in Sultan's private airfield and the guests were royally welcomed into two waiting orange coloured Lamborghini Aventador stretch-limos. Rayan was feeling lost in the opulence that he was not used to. It was really a long way for the gully boy of Jaisalmer. They entered the palace precincts and the vehicles stopped under an imposing portico. The liveried chauffeurs opened the car doors and the royal guests were escorted into a reception lounge. They were seated and served welcome drinks and after a while were summoned to Sultan's private chamber.
Rayan saw the Sultan in all his regalia seating on a high chair, accompanied by a young man seating on his right. Rayan copied his escort and bowed to the ruler to pay his respects. The Sultan gave an expansive smile and thanked him for all the troubles he had taken to deliver the delicate merchandise safe and sound. He then introduced to him his son, Saif Abdullah, the crown prince and future Sultan of the caliphate. Rayan had an uncomfortable feeling that the prince's piercing looks were scanning, probing, prodding and perhaps evaluating him. The Sultan then clapped his hands thrice and a tall lady in a black harem jump suit appeared. She was Salma, originally Salman who was the Kizlar Agasi , the chief eunuch caretaker of the harems. The Sultan asked Salma to show Rayan around his harems and take care of him as his esteemed guest.
Accompanied by Salma, Rayan entered his dream world and felt himself transported into a seemingly unreal realm. He was led through a long corridor with subdued lighting and with walls covered with sensuous art work. After a while he found two entrances, one on his right and another on his left. Salma led him to the right enclosure. It was bathed in a reddish hue and women dressed in harem pants, bikinis and belly dance costumes were seen relaxing. Some were cooling themselves in scented pools, some gyrating to belly dance music, and some simply lounging around. Apart from beauty and sensuality, the other thing that was common to all was the colour of their dress, different shades of pink. Salma told her that the Sultan called this section as 'Pink Paradise'. After a while he was guided into the left entrance leading to another enclosure. The girls here were mostly oriental but with smoother satiny skin and flashing smiles. Their movements were somewhat more lucid and luscious, like poetry in motion. All of them were attired in flowing dresses in rainbow colours and floated across like butterflies in a garden. Salma explained that they were really not women but 'ladyboys' specially sourced from Thailand's Pattaya area. They were the dancers of the famous Alcazar and Tiffany cabaret shows and had been specially handpicked. However, they came with a higher price tag compared to the inmates of Pink Paradise. She also added that this harem belonged to the crown prince Saif who didn't have any interest in women. Such a harem is one of its own kind in the world. This section was named as the 'Rainbow Retreat.' Incidentally Saif was the Chairman and chief benefactor of the South East Asian LGBT Association.
Salma showed Rayan around the stables and Sultan's prize horses and all other sections of the palace, except for Sultana's quarters, and led him to the guest house. Later in the evening, two inmates from both the sections of the harem were sent to his room, who gave him a luxury bath and served food and wine. Rayan could never have imagined his good fortune and enjoyed every bit of royal hospitality. Suddenly he felt tired and hit the bed. When he was half asleep, he felt a needle prick on his neck and before he could say Jack Robinson, he felt that he was being pulled into a black hole. When he got up after what felt as an eon, he was feeling exhausted as if with a strong hang over. He tried to figure out if it was due to too much wine. Then he vaguely remembered that he had been wheeled into a room with a tall table, under a large light. There were few faces covered in light green masks which converged on him. Beyond this he could not remember anything. He tried to pull himself up under the white blanket and sit, but he felt a shearing pain in his groin. He cried out loudly and felt that someone was standing at the foot board of his bed. When his vision cleared he found Salma standing there with an evil grin and offering him a rainbow coloured harem gown.
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.
We just listened to the mouthless voice
announcing through our fears and doubts
the fact of the rising waters.
The end had nearly come.
The old river swelled and gurgled
as it ran furiously from
one end of Cuttack to the other,
its rough, exploding hands attacking
the town’s weakening defences.
Early that morning, Badal Patra
arrived at our house, his
usual bass haughty voice now
reduced to a mere whisper, narrated
how the high road to Bhubaneswar
had been cut and thrown about Bhanpur
by Kuakhai’s keen and anxious waters,
how the big river had started walking into
the town’s important buildings,
the judges’ reticent quarters.
Later that day, as the sun
was about to disappear from our
waiting face, we heard the dark voice
once again, now sounding darker, more sure
through the threatening rain.
The water was everywhere--
at Hirakud, Cuttack, and further
down at Gobindpur.
At night, at the end of the rain,
we could see the stars and the moon--
round and full and enjoying
their ancient terrestrial rights
by drawing the willing waters
to the desiring sky. Sitting under
the bare sky, we tried to listen
to the thin sound of the unseen river
somewhere in the darkness
of our unguarded backyards.
Later that night, when everyone
went into a reluctant sleep,
I heard the voice again, declaring
in its own self-righteous way
the large breach created near Gobindpur
where the water had started spreading over
the irresponsible, low-lying homes
and dry fields where nothing grew except weeds.
I almost heard the deep hollow words echo
inside my wife’s disturbed sleep,
against her dream of rushing water
and half-drowned voices of children.
And, as I prepared myself
for my remaining night’s sleep,
she asked, “Didn’t you hear something?
I had heard the waters rushing towards
our gardens and homes.”
Drawing the quilt over our
dreaming two-year-old son, I said:
“You may sleep without any fear.
Cuttack is safe now.”
From my book, A Wound Elsewhere.
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.
MY EAST HOSTEL DAYS - RAVENSHAW COLLEGE, CUTTACK
(The main entrance)
I finished my schooling from Biswanath Bidyapith, Athgarh* in 1968. I had done pretty well in the school final examinations. One had to go out of Athgarh to another town for college education as there was no college in Athgarh those days. I applied for admission to the famous Ravenshaw College in Cuttack like all good students from all over the state of Orissa did. Although I was a topper in my school but I just about scraped through and I got admission in the second list. I also got a seat, rather a bed in one of the hostels of the college which had to be applied for separately. There were three hostels for boys and one for girls. Ravenshaw College is a British time college and its design followed European Campus Layouts and architectural character. Two original hostels flanked the academic complex on either side, almost attached to it and were called East and West Hostels. The third one and the one for the girls were built later and were a bit away but within the campus. I got a seat in the East Hostel. I came to know later that East Hostel is more sought after as the road to the girls’ hostel passes by it and one could ‘see’ lot of girls walking past.
(Academic block)
The hostel was a ‘C’ shaped double storied building but of rectilinear shape with three wings. At the center of the longer middle wing was the rather unimpressive entrance to the hostel. This wing also housed the larger rooms and the two shorter wings had small single rooms with two large rooms at each end. The three wings enclosed a beautiful garden. We walked to the college everyday through this garden. A wide verandah ran in front of all rooms along the garden side. The larger rooms originally designed for four beds were used for five to meet the increasing demand for hostel seats. Two beds were at the outer corners near the windows, two in the inner corners along the verandah and one at the middle.
(* Athgarh is a small sub divisional town in Odissa where I spent my childhood )
Rooms and beds were allocated according to the marks one had obtained in the qualifying examination. The single rooms were of course for the best and the best of the state came to Ravenshaw College. Then came the window seats, then the inner corner ones and lastly the centre ones. At the beginning of the session when the students joined their hostel they occupied any bed they found empty in any room till allotment list is announced by the warden.
I remember the evening I came into the hostel for the first time. I had taken a bus to Cuttack from Athgarh. From the bus station I took a cycle rickshaw to the hostel. Those days the rickshaw walas carried your luggage to the room. I had a steel trunk and a large bed roll, popularly called a ‘bedding’. It basically contained a ‘gadda’, bed sheets and bed covers, blanket and a pillow. All nicely rolled and wrapped with a colourful ‘Durri” and tied around with a rope. Both the trunk and this colourful ‘bedding’ were very common in any form of travel those days. That fateful evening, I walked along the entire corridor with the rickshaw wala following me with my unwieldy luggage and opened every door to find an empty bed. But to my surprise every bed was occupied by someone lying on it or by ‘reserving’ it by placing some luggage on it. Finally, I could convince one student to remove his suitcase from a bed which he had reserved for his friend who was to join after few days. Later on, that student who had become a friend by then, claimed that I did not quite ‘convince’ him but simply threatened him by stating the rule of first come first basis. Within few days the list of room allocation came up. I got a window bed in one of the 5 bedded rooms, overlooking the road which went to the girls’ hostel. Sadly, the window also overlooked a cluster of dilapidated bathrooms.
(Approach from college)
The hostel was very basic but with the garden and the advantage of easy access to the college, it was quite nice. Life was quite easy going. For me it was a bit disturbing because after being a topper in my school I suddenly found myself academically almost at the bottom because most of the students who got a hostel seat were better than me. That had a negative psychological effect on me. But perhaps because I was from an educated family and may be a bit smarter too than many good students who often were from villages, I could handle the situation. Soon I befriended many good students primarily by taking them to movies. In exchange they gave me their study notes. Soon we all got comfortable with our own capabilities or the lack of it.
(The garden)
Besides the rooms, the hostel had a large common room, a small library from where one could borrow even text books but there was no place to study within it. The toilet blocks were located at two corners of the ‘C’ shaped hostel block. Interestingly these had only WCs and no baths. The baths were in another block, outside the hostel, across the road, which went to the girl’s hostel. The WCs were invariably dirty with most of the flush not working. Because nobody pulled the chain, the heavy cast iron overhead flush tanks were ideal location for pigeons to make their nests. There were many instances when a pigeon had blessed the user of the WC but for some reason it was taken as a good omen.
(Outer face)
Food is always a big issue in all hostels and always of great concern of the parents and not as much for the boarders themselves. East Hostel had a Dining Hall outside the hostel block across the road, like the bath rooms. It was not quite a hall but a long verandah along the kitchen and stores which was used as a dining space. There were narrow rickety tables and benches laid out in long rows. I remember rushing to the dining hall to grab the better furniture which did not shake much when in use. I still wonder for such a good hostel building why were the dining and toilet structures were so bad and located outside across the road. The dining hall served lunch and dinner. The food was very very basic, rice daal, and sabzi. Once a week there was a non-veg item, fish or mutton. I must admit in my two years of stay in East Hostel I hardly ever got any good piece in the non-veg items. Later I came to know all the good pieces used to be served to the seniors who also stayed in the same hostel. They apparently bribed the dining staff. I also must admit, at that time we really did not care, neither the furniture nor the food.
(Inner face with toothpaste marks)
Life in East Hostel started early, starting with junior students, especially from rural areas and the senior students woke up rather late. The first ritual of the morning was brushing of teeth and it used to be a public activity. The entire length of the verandah would be lined with students with their water containers, noisily brushing their teeth. The same activity continued in the first floor too. So the ground floor guys had to mind their heads to avoid toothpaste water falling on them. Vertical white lines on the parapet walls of the verandahs made from falling toothpaste were characteristic features of the East Hostel building. After teeth brushing, started scramble for the toilets ie WCs. the hunt for a relatively clean and empty WC starts. Considering that the number of working WCs was rather low, the experience was often agonizing. Sometimes even ended in fights. Then it was the turn of taking bath for which one had to cross the road to reach the bathrooms. As the bathrooms were dark wet and dirty we never took any clothes there other than the towel which covered the lower part of our body. Before crossing the road we looked either side to avoid traffic, not of vehicles but of girls. Because this was the same road which went to the girl’s hostel. Students who had reasonable bodies didn’t care but boys like us whose ribs could be easily counted had to wait till the girl traffic passed.
Breakfast was on our own. Actually there was hardly any breakfast as the lunch used to be very early. In fact we often went to classes after having lunch. Some lucky students got a constant supply of snacks, eggs, ghee, sweets, chidua, murmura, fruits etc. from their nearby home towns, me included. I used to carry my home made ghee to the dining room in a Test Tube stolen from the Chemistry Lab. Held the tube over steaming rice, the ghee melted and fell on rice, heaven. While on food I must mention about a hawker who used to sell sundry bakery items in our hostel. He would come every day with a box full of locally baked biscuits, cupcakes, nunkhatais, cream rolls etc. and walk up and down the verandah. This box actually was a recycled tin container, usually used for oil. It had glass fitted on its sides. Through which you could see the stuff inside. He usually came around four in the afternoon when students were quite hungry after their rather early lunch. We all eagerly waited for him and scrambled no sooner we heard him coming. He would stop at every other door and keep his box on the floor and sell his goodies. A bright pink biscuit was my favorite. Those days perhaps we were not aware of harmful effects of synthetic food colours or we didn’t care.
(The verandah)
Entertainment in hostel life those days was limited to watching movies in cinema halls as there were no TVs. Eating out was also not in much practice. Sports inclined students had good opportunities to play their favorite games. Cuttack was the largest town of Orissa, its erstwhile capital but still it had only 3 or 4 cinema halls. They mostly showed Hindi films in three timings, matinee, evening and night shows. In the week ends there were morning shows too in which old English movies were projected. Only smart students (some called them bad students) saw those movies. Not too many Hindi movies were produced those days and each had a limited number copies printed. Same movie ran for months in a hall and it was not at all unusual seeing a movie more than a dozen times. Watching movies was a status symbol, more you see smarter you are. Of course, the parents thought otherwise.
(The dining hall)
There were two times when the hostels came really active and alive. One, during elections and the other, the hostel’s annual day celebrations, one political and other cultural. Although it is just for the hostel student committee but the election used to be fought quite fiercely. Some students used to get deeply involved for others it was just a disturbance but everyone enjoyed the Annual Day. It was basically an evening program where students were given prizes for various competitions held during the year, followed by an entertainment program of music, dance and theatre. The program used to be mainly for the boarders. The invitees included some faculty and members of student committees of other hostels including the girl’s hostel. This is the only occasion when girls could enter the boy’s hostel premises. That too brought lot of excitement for whatever reason.
Another important thing about these hostels is that they all maintained great gardens in their premises. East Hostel was particularly known for its gardens. There were beautifully trimmed decorative trees and shrubs along with nicely shaped hedges which bordered the paved pathways between two large lawns. There were hundreds of rose bushes at strategic locations. In winter seasonal flowers bloomed in geometrical flower beds along the lawns.
Over 50 years have passed but my East Hostel memories still remain green in my mind. The things which now seem unbelievable and uncomfortable never seemed so in those days. I visited East Hostel twice again, once in 2006 and the other in 2009. It was a nostalgic experience. Nothing seemed to have changed. The dining hall was still in the verandah, toilets looked as dirty, but unlike before the corridors were full of bicycles. The falling tooth paste still created those white stripes on the parapet walls. And the East Hostel, as a whole, with its pink building, the central court and the garden, still retains its special character.
Ujan Ghosh did his under graduate studies in Architecture from School of Planning and Architecture (SPA), New Delhi in 1975. After working for two years in Delhi he went to University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia where he completed Master of Architecture and Master of City Planning in Urban Design. He worked for few years in USA before coming back to India and joining Upalghosh Associates as a partner.
Since then he has been practicing architecture and urban design in various parts of the country. He is also a visiting professor at SPA, New Delhi and has been teaching Urban Design for the last 38 years. He was nominated to the Senate of SPA, Bhopal and has been a member of the Board of Studies in different departments of SPA, New Delhi. Presently he is a member of the Academic Council, DIT Univercity, Dehradun and on the Board of Studies,Sushant School of Art and Architecture, Ansal University, Gurugram.
He is the founder member of Institute of Urban Designers-India and its former President.
OF YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW
Painting: The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali (1931), courtesy: www.wikiart.org
Having lost the track of time over the last few days preoccupied with matters urgent that made me forget the events that makes the day significant, I settled down in the morning to rummage through the maze of solicitous Whatsapp messages, that await my daily panderings as much as me for them, in a symbiotic dance of mutual indulgences. I soon came across a post of yesterday from a school classmate of mine that said, “Happy Brother’s Day” with an alluring image of two loving and sprightly young lads resting on each other’s shoulders and the words: “Dear Brother, Today You Are Not Here By My Side…but We are Close in Each Others Thoughts and My Love Will Always Be With You. I Love You and Miss You So Much…”
As I gathered myself in a flurry of thoughts of ‘yesterdays’ and the perchance miss of an important event that I had been waiting long to reminisce on, I quickly recovered to query Google, lest I missed any further events: “What is the importance of today?” The perceptive reply was:
“Today is the most important day of your life.
This is not a cliché. It is not a reminder that life is short. It is a timeless truth, a simple truth, and a truth that few people use to guide their daily thought and action….”
Was I not wedged between ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Today’, that would soon become ‘Tomorrow’, I asked myself. It kindled in my mind the sobering words of the Sufi poet, Omar Khayyam in his Rubaiyat:
“Ah, fill the Cup, what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn TOMORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet!”
My Hindi/Urdu translation goes something like this:
Omar Khayyam, in his metaphoric relationship between the unreality of the phenomenal world and the annihilation of the old and the creation of the new self, brings forth the flowering of the higher consciousness closer to us as a manifestation of truth and reality. He at once obliterates the seeming distinction between the past, present and future into the sublime state beyond the triad of time to a Nirvanic (Liberating) experience of ‘Now’.
However, it is undeniable that our yesterdays and the memories of them shape our todays and tomorrows. In the conceivable measure of time, the past events have a consequential influence in our memories imprint. They illuminate our consciousness towards share, care, remembrances and growth as beings in the drama of life and living. Humans being social by disposition, extend intense importance to relationships, especially of the kinship kind. We get anxious when the kinship equilibrium is disturbed, bringing in a sense of dismay. It is with this sensitivity that the significance of the ‘Brothers Day’ should be seen in its essence.
Rolling back the event of yesterday let me recall my time with my brothers. We were a humble family of three brothers, under the caring eyes of our mother, having lost our father very early in life as toddlers. Life for us was simple, of relatively limited means, full of meaning with an abiding concern for excellence; having earned an early responsibility of being ahead of the curve. We were fortunate to be endowed with an extended family of both paternal and maternal uncles, aunts and cousins that more than compensated for the absence of a father. The household was a throbbing ensemble of relationships where encore was the repeat of our lives we identified with. “Family is not an important thing. It's everything”, said the veteran actor, Michael J. Fox, and we believed in him wholeheartedly.
Recalling from memory, from early 1960s; we shared the few books(the yellow covered anthology of poems, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, shifted hands akin in tune to the orbs of the moon), the few clothes that defied the concern for sizes, the collected coins neatly stored in our little piggy banks to be broken-open when time came to humour ourselves beyond our means, walks and foray to the nearby railway station of Cuttack to browse the Wheeler bookshop free of cost and await the fall of the green signal and be thrilled at the trundle of the steam engine moving-in majestically in a cloud of fading steam(we even dare climb it and impressed the driver to give us a lift at times, as the engine shunted to its yard), the turn-by-turn fetching of coal and firewood to help mother keep the hearth burning(until the arrival of the first lot of Caltex gas cylinders in the city), vegetable from the daily haat at Chhatra Bazaar and ration from the nearby kirana store often on a monthly credit; of hand-in-hand chaperon by the elder brother to the imposing Britsh-era Jobra sluice gates that opened the only fair-weather road to the other side of mighty Mahanadi or my naughty escapades to view the unloading of the barges at the city’s supply lifeline of Taladanda Canal(I was later ordained to have my first swimming lessons in those not-so-clean waters and sun-bathe until my clothes were dry enough to slip-in home), our incursions to the ancient Barabati Fort and witness the cricket matches in the nearby impressive stadium, the unforgettable words of caution and advice of our protective grandmother who awaited us till we returned from school and ensured our mind and bodily stresses were weaned away with a loving caress of her fingers that often translated to an invigorating massage of the limbs.
The reading under a lone hurricane lamp in an impromptu study room shared in silence, the lucky one accompanying our competent veena-playing mother( I have preserved her carefully written music notes with copying pencil, laced with the arohan, abarohan and the antaraa and mukhdaa of her favourite Raag Hamsadhwani and a few words from her co-learner, the prodigious Chitti Babu of later years) to the Bengali movies at Hind Cinema and being introduced to a charming Charulata of Satyajit Ray; or when the old HMV Gramophone player with its winding handle would be brought out and we be entertained to the vintage 78 RPM lac records collection of our late father with the lilting voices of Pandit Balakrusna Das’s endearing “Basi Kanduthiba Maanini (My girl would be crying)”, CH Atma’s hunting “Pritam Aan Milo (Come my love, be a part of my heart)”, the pioneer of Indian film music Pankaj Mullick’s “Piya Milan Ko Jaana (O my love, I would come to you disregarding everything)”, the immortal KL Saigal’s “Main Kyaa Jaanuun Kyaa Jadu Hai (What do I know what magic you hold for me)”, the passionate cadence of Dulal Das’s “Jebe Bhul Kari Priya Chali Jaye Durey Tume Paakhaku Dakina Neba (O my love, if I ever commit the error of leaving you, and move far away, wouldn’t you ask me to come back to you?)”, the inimitable voice of Kamala Jharia singing “Bedana Diyana Prane Priya Bedana Diyana Praney (O my lover, please don’t hurt my heart the way you do)”, that not just moved our mother visibly but also honed our creative interests early in life. (Listen to these enduring numbers, ad seriatim below):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=153BNbmkf1M
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1H4qUl3lUxY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJlHdQlw9y0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DFrMQfgFb-w
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CpY_I7tRsQ
Three Brothers: Left to right: Middle Brother Debi, Elder Brother Bibhu, Youngest Brother Shakti
If we had our moments of anguish and despair, which must have been, they were skillfully kept away from us by the combined duo of our mother and grandmother. It never entered our impressionistic minds or the lexicon of a purposeful life. Today, when my only child, my son queries me on why I denied him a sibling to share, it pauses me to think as I stealthily draw within to feel the inadequacies of my own limitations and a sense of melancholy overpowers me. In the permeating subtle gravitas between the father-son duo, I can hear my son whisper the words of James Boswell, “I, who have no sisters or brothers, look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to be born to friends.”
As time progressed, we went our ways. Love grew further in our absences. We excelled in our own domains; be it as a Professor of English Literature, a Naval Aviator or an Economist of repute, in that order. But the common quotients remained firm in the share of our lives: a passion for the arts; be it literature, poetry, music, painting and the celluloid. Each of us went on to garner our little collections of our artistic beliefs, interests and variously tried to contribute to it, with some fair amount of success; while we pursued our professional paths independently. In many ways, our modest but dearly curated libraries form the centroid of our homes and believes; perhaps the only legacy we possess to leave for our progeny.
Three Brothers: Left to right: Youngest Brother Shakti, Elder Brother Bibhu, Middle Brother Debi
Life and living progressed in tandem in the timeline of share, care and the love of our wives and children who joined us in our journey in continuum. Our professions took us to different places, introduced us to new relationships, who became members of the family even transcending the blood relations; a coalescence of relationship in its very definition. Perhaps, unbeknown we perceived that the gains outweighed the losses in the balance sheet of our lives; a joi de vivre of life’s celebrations of sort.
Life is a cyclical phenomenon that struts between the metaphor of joy and sorrow, bliss and despair that we seem incognito to in the hum drum of our daily routine. None of us are out of its gambit and it comes when it will. The waiting strokes of providence befell us when our grandmother and mother left us respectively, leaving a void in our existential souls as they were centric to our beings. Death came creeping in its silent apotheosis to enter our lives again after thirty years of our father’s passing. We brothers rode out the storms valiantly having been tested on the tragedies of life early in our upbringing. Notwithstanding, the balances of life re-gathered and picked up the momentum to fathom new journeys as we threesome continued in our pursuits with alacrity in our hearts.
It was the morning after Holi, while the city and its people were in pause following the variegated celebrations of the day before; nemesis struck its mighty blow and took my loving younger brother away from our fold in an unannounced tragedy that numbed us other two brothers into submission. Our threesome was broken and we the two elder of the three were remorse beyond repair. Our once reflective mirror was splintered and what remained were fragmented images of angst of an unforgiving past. We were shattered and later, writing in my younger brother’s Obituary Memoriam Souvenir, my elder brother Bibhu penned in his poetic dirge:
“…I manage to produce a gesture of refuge and
decipher, at the same time, the utter fiction inside me
and try to balance, in your presence,
the one with the other.”
And I wrote:
“Now when I pen these random thoughts rather earlier than expected, I know I too will sail away into the sunset, on my little ship, alone in my resplendent white uniform like a true sailor, perhaps with answers in my hold. To partake, I would just like to take a last glance at the fading horizon, and with the pomposity of a mighty Admiral, so much like you today, pronounce to the world: “Death be not proud”.
Brothers and Brotherhood are mighty words of universality. We too stood up to it in our own ways. We never let anyone of us wander into life’s little alleys of darkness. If we wrestled, it was only to hug each other. If we came together, it was with the belief that the three of us formed the centricity of our combined existence. As we went by, we discovered each other, never invented. We gave with the full realisation that we received. Early pangs of life cemented us with the commitment of oneness that relationships never codified and examples only make it pedantic. With one of us, possibly the best amongst us, having departed only redefines the necessity to live out the remnants of our lives in the cycle of Samsara, in the just alignment of Atman with the all encompassing Brahman.
Thus completes my little story of ‘Three Brothers’: not just recalling the spirit of the eventful threesome coming together as a reminiscence of time past but also with the background of the concept of time as the only primordial dimension that will withstand the rise and fall of every conceivable occurrence around us. In a way, we all are bound by one dimension: Time, the rest being only appendages in the cosmic scheme of things. It reminds me the dominance and yet the transformative concept of time in the words of Vidura to a distraught king Dhritarashtra in Mahabharata (Stri Parva, verse 2.22) and repeated by Chanakya (Chanakya Niti, verse 6.7):
The coming together of us three Brothers, to me, is an event to reminisce, relive, recall, live for and protract upon in a grander scale of remembrance of things past that persists in our memories, a la Salvador Dali.
(The author dedicates this Article to his son, Arnav, with an affirmation that the world is a Brotherhood of Man and a silent prayer of unsaid words)
(The Article appeared in a shorter version 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.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
Press your fingers against my wrist
Anticipate a throbbing nerve
Sing your saddest melodies to me
And look in vain for a teary eye
Take me close to the love of my life
Wait endlessly for a flushed visage
Connect them puny wires to my chest
Check the screen, you'll see no lines
And when you're tired of hiding your wonder
Open your heart to me
Then and only then
Will I tell you why
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.
Kavya heaved a sigh of relief as she cleared the security at the Columbus airport in Ohio and walked over to the boarding gate. She found a suitable seat, put down her cabin baggage, and opened her laptop to give some finishing touches to her report as she waited for the call to board the flight.
“Oh God! I forgot. I need to call up home. Amma will be eagerly expecting my call,” she muttered to herself.
Kavya immediately gave a call home and Amma, as usual, picked up the call at the first ring of the mobile.
“Hello Kavya. How are you, kanna? Are you in the plane?” came an excited voice from the other side.
“Yes maa, I am at the airport and will soon be boarding the flight to Philadelphia. I will be taking the international flight from there and will reach Chennai via London. I will call you once I reach Philadelphia. The waiting time for the connecting flight is about three hours at Philadelphia. Bye maa. Waiting to hug you all.”
In the first leg of the journey to India, Kavya alighted at Philadelphia. After the routine security check, she found a comfortable seat at the airport from where she could keep a tab on the various announcements on the display screen. She looked at the time, plugged on her ear phones, closed her eyes and started to enjoy the music from her mobile.
Suddenly she sensed some commotion and quickly opened her eyes. The passengers were hurriedly rushing here and there and there was pandemonium She pulled out her ear phones and was startled to hear the tense announcement.
“Your kind attention please. We request all passengers to evacuate from the site immediately and assemble at a particular location as directed by the staff. Please follow the instructions. There is a bomb scare. But let me assure you there is no danger and this is only a precaution we are taking.”
Kavya, now fully alert, picked up her cabin baggage and made a rush to safety at the location. All the passengers had assembled at the specified area and there was apprehension on the faces of most of them. There were also loud exchanges among them, trying to piece things collectively. The passengers were all huddled together for over two hours, while periodic announcements were being made, which were muffled and not clearly audible at the location. But the passengers could figure out that it was for departure of flights too.
After some time, an announcement was made for the passengers to get back to the gate to board their flights. Kavya hastily looked at her watch, gave a cry and rushed to the boarding gate. She pulled out her boarding pass and passport from her purse and showed it at the counter.
The girl at the counter checked the boarding pass, looked up at Kavya and said, “You have missed your flight, madam. Where were you all along?”
Kavya replied, “I was here on time but because of the alarm raised for a bomb scare, I followed your instructions to move to a safe arena.”
“But that was only a mock drill”, replied the girl at the counter. You need to get your tickets rebooked as you are not entitled for a refund.”
Kavya flared up. “Listen, madam. This is no fault of mine. It is purely because of the instructions you had announced which I had followed and this has left me in the lurch. Put me on to the customer relationship cell, please.”
“I request you to wait, madam. I will clarify with the customer relations and revert to you. I understand the difficulty you are facing and I will do my best to put you on board your flight at the earliest.”
Kavya realised that the waiting time at London was six hours and she would not be able to catch the originally booked connecting flight to Chennai unless she got her revised flight in a couple of hours.
As Kavya turned round from the counter, she saw that over a dozen passengers were also in the same plight, having missed the flight like her due to the mock drill.
After a few minutes, the girl at the counter put down the phone and beckoned Kavya.
She said, “As a special case, the airlines would provide you a seat in the next flight.”
Kavya waited anxiously as the girl at the counter scanned the screen in front of her for some time.
She then looked up with a solemn face and said, “No luck, madam. All flights are overbooked. The earliest flight is only tomorrow, same time but not through this airline. It is through another airline and it will not touch London.”
“What about my check in baggage then?” asked Kavya.
“Not to worry, madam. The original airline will deliver it at Chennai as that is the final destination given while loading your luggage.”
“Oh! I need to manage a day here at the airport lounge. It’s a real pain,” Kavya muttered to a co-passenger.
She quickly realised that her uncle was close by at New Jersey. She immediately rang him up and explained her situation. Her uncle was too glad to pick her up from the airport and take her home. On the drive home, Kavya narrated her adventure in detail to her uncle.
“Wow Kavya. You have handled this very nicely without getting panicky. Your amma will be very proud of you. I will talk to her when we reach home.”
“That’s mainly because of the freedom my parents have given me to think on my own instead of thrusting instructions upon me to be blindly followed. This has helped me handle these situations very objectively. I must thank my parents for this”
“Right. This has made you think on your feet without getting perturbed, Kavya.”
Kavya’s aunt and cousins were waiting for her at the gate. They all hugged her warmly and even as they took her into the house, a volley of questions broke out from every one as Kavya took them through her experience of the bomb scare which had resulted in her missing her flight to Chennai.
Kavya immediately called up her amma in Chennai.
“Hi maa. I am now in New Jersey with uncle, aunty and my cousins.”
“What! You never told me you are breaking your journey. We are all eagerly waiting for you here.”
“No maa. I missed my flight at Philadelphia.”
There was total silence at the other end.
“Maa. Maa,” called Kavya.
“Yes, kanna. What happened? I am shocked. Are you safe?”
“No fault of mine, maa,” said Kavya.
She then recounted the events and heard her maa heave a sigh of relief when she was done.
Kavya’s uncle took the phone from her and started talking excitedly.
“Hi Anjali. Kavya is awesome. The way she has handled this is incredible. She has been able to arrange for a free ticket and has also checked on her luggage and ensured it will be safely delivered. Hats off to her. She’ll be delayed by a day but will be under our loving care. An unexpected bonanza for all of us. We’ll put her on the flight safely. Bye for now.”
Kavya’s uncle handed over the phone to her and gave her a big hug.
Kavya suddenly felt so drained out and exhausted that she fell asleep. After a good rest, she found herself very relaxed.
She then called the original airline to check on the status of the baggage.
A voice at the other end said, “Madam, in the normal course, your baggage would have been delivered at Chennai but since your ticket has been cancelled and rebooked through another flight we have held back your luggage in London as the passenger is not travelling in the flight. Further, since you are not travelling in our flight we cannot transport your baggage. It is the responsibility of the airline in which you are now booked.”
“But look,” declared Kavya. “This is due to a combination of factors for which I should not be penalised. Please put me on to your superior and I will explain my situation.”
After a volley of exchanges, the person at the other end relented and agreed to reach the baggage to Chennai safely.
Kavya gave a smile and closed the call, relieved.
The next day, Kavya boarded the flight and after a long journey, reached Chennai.
Her Amma Anjali, Appa, Patti and Atthai Shanthi were at the airport to receive her.
Kavya called up over the phone. “Amma. I have landed here in Chennai safely. I checked up with the original airline for the status of my baggage. They told me that my baggage has been despatched and will be available in Chennai in a couple of hours. So we have to wait for a few more hours before we can meet and go home.”
There was a sigh of disappointment all around
After a few hours' wait, Kavya came out of the airport, sporting a beaming smile, though looking tired.
“Oh! What an experience," said Kavya to no one in particular as she hugged each one in the family.
"And what a relief," everyone said in chorus.
# Kavya first appeared in my book Eternal Art in the story Match Makers.
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 the grim reaper stood over him, I watched as he, the soul, fought to hold on to his body as long as he could. I watched as he refused to let different eyes be the windows to the outside world.
An epiphany shook me to my heels and had me falling backwards into a couch.
I wondered if it'd be different in my case, in any writer's, in any reader's at all. We've worn bodies as garments for so long now. The Caucasian male's skin was no more than a jacket for me, as I fused myself to his soul, his mind, my mind, his heart, my heart. The African woman's face, no more than a mask I put on to feel what she was feeling, to hear what she was hearing.
It wasn't much of a task for me to imagine myself to be a Korean trans man, as I changed myself to the very soles and tips.
I'm a writer, a reader. I've put myself into so many shoes, so many shirts it's normal for me today.
The Indian girl whose skin I wear now is no more than an outfit for me today. There is a 'me' totally separate from the skin I walk around in today, so maybe I wouldn't hesitate when he comes to claim my body from me. Maybe I would look eagerly for my next house, as my ethereal self transcended into a state of eternal bliss...
Breaking,
Inside I'm breaking,
Ceramic tile in pieces,
Shattered to the core.
Wasted,
I feel like I have wasted
Time, as precious stories,
Stooped in and around.
Shaking,
My whole pretence is shaking,
I'm fine, I'm fine, my voice cracks,
I'm slowly giving up.
Hollow,
My heart is missing, hollow,
Bones and flesh and nothing else,
I have lost all purpose.
Screaming,
All around there's screaming,
At me, pointing at me,
I'm cornered under glares.
Patience,
Now I'm losing patience,
A rope is all it does take,
Breathing evens out...
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/.
Questions: Enigmas Wrapped in Mystery
“Desire is the essence of Life”
--Mahabharat, Canto XII
Is desire a pleasure?
Fulfilment like the spring harvest,
A part of ‘becoming’,
The sky of compressed blue
Sought after and craved for,
The horizon opening its mouth
To savour and satiate.
Does desire etch your destiny?
Like a road, missed bends
And gaping meanderings,
The ‘Will’ created in a bush of fire,
‘Action’ a meaning packed journey,
Destination as enchanting
As a brief crack of light
Between blankets of darkness,
A spirit to break free
Leaving the harbour behind.
Does desire hinge on completion,
Full and lasting,
An endless exuberance,
Or is it an anticipation of the good, great and lovely,
Full of allure and grace
Which decants into timelessness.
Or is it an endless pain
A sure recipe for suffering,
Where getting burnt
Will not alchemize virtue.
The Pandavas desired one woman
In private, five brothers lusting
After one woman.
Coiled like a snake,
Lust sprang open
To slither forward
For war, revenge, death and annihilation.
Senses move into the imagination,
A ladder to an empty field of sky,
Fantasy, the promise of a blooming garden.
Pleasure came from flowers in play,
Buds bursting open,
To create a deluge of colour and scent,
Memory green like the stalks.
After they die what next?
Ashes of boredom,
Difficult to salvage from
And impossible to fly in the arc.
READ THESE STORIES WITH YOUR HEART
Read these stories with your heart,
They will not be told often;
The world is a story
Etched by telling it.
You can’t see them
As time would wash them ashore.
See them feelingly
As they would return
Tomorrow or millennia after
Or they would be living among you
Hidden in the stories crafted by time
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
WORKING FROM HOME
Dr.Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
For the last three months we are all imprisoned at home because of the lockdown. A tiny virus has held the whole world captive in its clutches. We are all overloaded with household chores. In the Indian scenario we are so dependent on the maid and the cook that everything from the scrubbing of the utensils to the scrubbing of the floors to cooking healthy and tasty food for the family is on us now.
All of us are working from home. My husband a busy lawyer is continuously on video conferences or Microsoft meetings on his computer. He is also sharing the whole load of house work. My daughter has come from her hostel and is taking online classes which are happening in a regular basis from her college. I am also doing a lot of online meetings on zoom for work and quite a lot of events on Facebook Live and Instagram.
The fourth member of our family is our pet parrot. He talks nineteen to the dozen. He is very fond of junk food especially French fries. He has total trust on me but has a love-hate relationship with my husband. But my husband goes on pampering him a lot. If you have read or watched the Feluda series of Satyajit Ray, you will know that the character Jatayu sometimes find people “highly suspicious”. My daughter and I tease my husband saying that our parrot finds him, “ highly suspicious”. He will roll his eyes and show his claws whenever my husband is close to him. Although coo and gurgle with happiness when my husband gives him mint masala(the one you get in aircrafts). The parrot’s other favourite food is walnut along with its shell. He will twist and turn it and then break it with its beak and relish the walnut within. During breakfast he likes a crispy brown bread toast with melted butter…mind you if it is not crispy he will throw it away. His comfort food is sunflower seeds, but he loves carrots for an evening snack.
Like I told you before my husband is a lawyer so he wears a white shirt when he is on a video call. Sometimes I from the kitchen hear my parrot talking when my husband is on a call. One day my husband was howling with laughter and called me. I saw my husband putting on a white shirt and my parrot was asleep but suddenly seeing him wearing the shirt became alert and sat upright on the upper perch. My husband started his video conference and my parrot also started talking…he was incoherent but was interspersing with ‘Okay’ and ‘Thank you’. So all three of us shouted out that our parrot is “working from home”.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist by education, educationist by profession and an author and poet by passion. She has published five books and has received several awards for her poetry including the Golden Rose from Argentina for promoting literature and culture. Some of her poems have been translated into 31 languages and her poems have been published in more than 250 national and international journals. Paramita has started and is the President of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) Mumbai Chapter. She also writes travelogues which are published regularly in e-magazines. She lives in Mumbai, India with her husband and daughter.
FORTUNE-TELLER...
Madhumathi. H
Today, is spread as the golden shore
Innumerable footsteps on the sands of time
A caged bird awaits to predict the tomorrows...
For a grain or two, dutifully comes out
Stares, or may be smirks, and looks away
"Why should you know what awaits your future?
Can't pick a card for you!", said the bird, reluctantly...
"Hey! It's okay; take a break, darling!", said I
Hiding my welled-up eyes
A quick brief conversation
That went unnoticed by the astrologer
I smiled, and kept quiet
The deep ache, of clipped wings and lost sky
To whom shall the parrot vent
Today it chose me
But tomorrow?
I can't even set the bird free
Why should I know my future
When 'Now', THIS moment
I live, but the helpless bird just exists
All I need to know, is
Gratitude must be a way of life
In all my tomorrows...
Cajoling the bird, the astrologer read out the card
It picked with its tired blunt beak
Not knowing, am oblivious to whatever is read...
My fortune I saw, in the longing eyes of the bird
Asking me to invest love, love, and more love...
My heart has several shelves...
For memories, emotions, secrets
My favourite souls, Sakha, Sakhi
My childhood, teenage, my crush, and heartbreak
My Amma's love, and our 'Tom and Jerry' moments
My appa's trust, and friendship we shared
All the episodes with cousins, and friends
Nectarous moments that money can't buy...
My heart has several shelves
For the unspoken too
Each quivering word, would come to the edge
And run back to the corner
As they choose, to live as the unheard rhythm
To eternally swirl in the universe
In my memory, meeting a myriad voice
That share the same sentences from their souls
My heart has several shelves
For poems
Each poem unfolds my heart
In each heart I discover more poems
Metamorphosing into mirrors
I see me in all the shelves
Poems smiling at me, confusing me
Mischievously, they wink
I laugh and the shelves echo my laughter
I sleep in one of those shelves
While all the poems surround me
To be cuddled, and ask for a lullaby
My heart has several shelves
I sometimes choose a random one
To hide myself too, from the world
From all the noise, chaos, dissonances of life
To wrap myself in honeyed silence
Drinking cups of solitude
My heart has several shelves
But
Without doors
My poems are my opaque curtains
They Soundproof my soul
I hibernate in peace
I celebrate euphoric moments, too
Through words
As long as my heart has
These many shelves
Made of love, and poems...
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
The clouds
talk about
a stillnes
that carries
clarity,
sanity..
no point
in pressing
the acclerator...
breathe
easy..
how they
stand
still
those
fluffy clouds,
separate,
watching
the saffused
glow
on the
cheeks
of the sea
parting
with
the sun.
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).
Sketch by: Mukund Nair
The dimple, devoured by age
The twinkle in her eyes, snuffed
The lush hair, now a sorry knot at her nape
Her wilted mind
Lives in the shadows
But for the occasional
Speck of light
That filters through the shambles.
Her gnarled fingers
Lie clenched on her lap
Desperate to hold on
To the words
Fading
From the frayed pages -
The stories of
Her laugh lines
And the pain
Hidden in her wrinkles.
Radhika Nair, a computer science engineer, left her corporate career for delving within. She lives in Kochi and when she is not writing, she sings.
(A reminiscence of much value during this pandemic!)
I was on a train bound for Chennai from Chidambaram after having visited the Chidambaram temple with both Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva worshipped within its hallowed precincts some twenty-four years ago.
A couple came to occupy the berth opposite mine. They were from France. The man immediately begins conversing with me.
“Is it ok if we spread our, how to say…. stuff around?” he said, waving his hands.
“Hope we are not too much… crowding you.”
“I have some camera equipment you see, they can’t be put …”
He made a sign of one hand on another.
He smiles inviting a smile from me. I returned his smile.
I had not yet said a word and he was already fully forthcoming, within minutes of stepping in! The woman, whom I presumed was his wife, seemed shy, even reticent to show herself to me. She pretended to be busy with her luggage, opening it taking things out, then putting them back in and opening another bag and shuffling things around.
I smiled again. The man noticed my quizzical look.
“She is shy. She does not like talking too much. You see she has some bad experiences with Indian men!”
Extraordinary that he should volunteer this information to someone who he had only just met. I have been told my looks convey no harm, but even so! And I am Indian too! Did he think I was not from around these parts that he should insult my country and the men of India?
“Ah,” I said.
“We own a castle in France,” the man continued.
This made me raise my eyebrows even higher than when I heard of his wife’s fear of Indian men.
“My wife and I are touring India. My wife is a photographer. Me too. But I am more of a writer, you know. We will publish our work in magazines in France.”
“In English?”, I asked pointedly, in a tone that revealed, ever so slightly, my irritation at having to talk.
I was beginning to tire of his incessant chatter without letting us, strangers that we were, imbibe of each other silently, eye each other quietly, without being observed, size each other up without knowing that we were sizing each other up and then slowly foray into a conversation.
“Non non. Francaise. Je suis…, I mean to say, how you say? I am beginning English standard.”
“Oh I don’t know. You speak well. Very well. I wish I knew French as well as you know English,” I said, trying to salvage my aura of friendliness.
“Oui. French is easy to learn. You just need to, how to say….”
“Apply yourself,” said the lady.
I had purposely not cast my eye toward her, keeping her out of my periphery of vision, not glanced at her even, after the man’s remark about Indian men and her fear of them. And here she was feeling comfortable enough to butt into a conversation with me, an Indian man.
“Ah,” I said. “Application! Yes, that was never my forte!”
“Forte! Forte! C’est Francais!”
“Excuse me?”
“Forte. That is French! You know Francais.”
“No! I do not know French. Anyway ‘forte’ is an English word, you know. As well as French.”
“Oui oui.”
There was a pause, a lull in our conversation. It was at that moment I began feeling a kinship with both of them. Here they were in a foreign country. Amiable. Conversational. Trusting with all their expensive equipment. And their abode – a castle! No less! Somewhere in France!
“Southern France?” I asked.
“Pardon?” she asked. It was the French ‘pardon’ with the ‘n’ remaining a mere nasal.
I noticed she had assumed center-stage in the conversation, sidelining her husband for I had addressed the question looking at the man.
“Is your castle in Southern France? Since you say you own a castle.”
“Ahh! Oui, oui! I don’t know why Jacque told you we live in a castle. Makes us sound, how do you say?... la-di-da! You know. But it was an inheritance. Has been with my family for centuries. And now it is… how to say…?”
“A white elephant?”
“Oui oui! I just learned that expression two days ago. We were in this temple and several elephants were there. And I was looking at them you know! And an Indian man, standing next to me, close, very close, too close, says, ‘They look black madame. But they are white elephants for this temple.”
I smiled a big smile. She was trying her best to imitate the Indian accent. And was good at it as well. Shaking her head sideways, assuming a namaste! I should have been offended. But I was not. After all I have imitated the French accent several times.
“Yes, yes. They are all white elephants now that the temple is so short of funds. But you know something. I want to learn French. I really do.”
“Oh you do?” the man chimed in.
“And why is that?”, said the lady, in a tone that indicated she was not to be ignored!
On the contrary! I mean, au contraire!
“Well I do because I would just love, just love to speak English in a French accent!”
The man smiled a wry smile.
The lady burst out laughing!
“It won’t work in France with the girls,” she said, still laughing away. “No girl is going to fall for an Indian speaking English in an artificial French accent!”
“Why do you think I want to impress girls, my wanting to speak in a French accent may be because I just feel good speaking like that.”
“Oh come on! All you Indian men, all you ever think of, is women! Especially French women from what my experience tells me.”
I looked at her silently. A steady gaze. She was not particularly pretty or beautiful or even svelte. She was definitely on the large side. She was vivacious in her manners and easy to converse with. I was not particularly attracted to her! And I am Indian I thought! How is she so frank and open with me? I thought. I felt I needed to salvage the reputation of Indian men. But before I could fashion a riposte she was on to the next topic.
“And why do all Indian men, all without exception, have a moustache? Look around! On the next platform, in the train…
Just then the ticket inspector stepped in to make sure we were not travelling ticketless.
And he too had a moustache.
I felt my upper lip. I was sporting a moustache too. I don’t usually. It was just that during this week long break in South India, I was not inclined to shave at all, letting my stubble grow into a beard. I did shave that morning though, but decided to leave my moustache intact.
I smiled!
“Even you! You have a moustache!” she said with finality.
I turned to see her husband’s face. Clean shaven. He smiled. He nodded in agreement with his wife. He was waiting for a response from me.
I was instead marveling at this lady who seemed to have something against Indian men, from what her husband told me and yet here she was confessing heartily to having observed Indian men and pointing out an observation that I had missed.
She must secretly like Indian men, I thought. After all, she is talking to me as if she has known me for a long time!
I was going to say, ‘no not all Indian men sport a moustache’ but instead I asked her,
“Have you read PG Wodehouse?”
She repeated ‘PG Wood House’ with a glaring gap between the Wode and the House.
“Non.”
“He was an English author. And one of his characters wanted to grow a moustache. In England it is rare for Englishmen to sport one. Anyway this proper Englishman wanted to grow a moustache.
The lady was getting confused. (I never did find out her name!) What has Indian men’s penchant for moustaches anything to do with some English author and his character?
That was the look in her face.
I ignored it and went on.
“Well this character had a very efficient and wise butler.”
“Butler?”
“Majordome!”, Jacque said immediately, to her.
“Ah! Oui, oui!” It was obvious she was interested in finding out where this was leading.
“Well this majordome of our Englishman was dead against his master sporting a moustache. And this majordome always had his way!”
“Ha Ha,” she guffawed. Jacque too smiled.
“The Englishman protested weakly. But Jeeves, the majordome, would have none of it.”
“Jeeves was the name of the majordome?” the lady asked.
“Yes. And after a lot of back and forth, arguing and pleading…”
“But why should the Master take the permission of the majordome to grow a moustache?”.
“Well the Englishman was dependent on the majordome for everything. He was always getting into trouble and it was always his Jeeves, that was the butler’s name, who rescued him from trouble.
“Ah! Ok.”
So anyway, the Englishman in a final appeal said that even one of his best friends is now sporting a moustache. He should also be allowed to grow a moustache. Jeeves never had a very high opinion of his master’s best friend! Jeeves, the majordome, detested his master’s best friend and retorted ‘No doubt sir to hide his hideous face a little!’”
The humour was not lost on the French couple.
They laughed!
And the lady kept laughing and I thought she had forgotten all about Indians universally sporting moustaches.
But no she had not!
“Is that why Indians grow moustaches? To hide their faces? Ha Ha!”
I was glad she was laughing. After all laughter is the greatest bonding agent.
But I still could not explain why most Indians grow moustaches. I had to come up with a reason. I felt compelled to! I wanted to soften and raise this woman’s opinion of Indian men, even as she continued to laugh at Jeeves’ retort.
“No, not because of that!”
“Then why?” she asked through her tears. It was obvious she wore the pants in her relationship with Jacque. He had gone quiet. Even he was surprised that his lady was so animated and free with another Indian man!
“Well you know India is dusty. Wherever you go, dust is in the air.”
“Mon Dieu! I know. So dusty everywhere. And the…”
“And so,” I continued, “we Indians do not want to breathe that dust in. We don’t want to wear masks. And a moustache acts as an additional filter of the air that is breathed in!” I said. It was a fit of inspiration! No less! No less!
“Mon Dieu! That is ….my my,” she said in deep thought, her right hand on her upper chest.
And then, “Jacque, you should grow a moustache. At least till you are in India.”
“Yes you should,” I said.
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.
An independent woman is undefined -
As centuries passed by, it made us wonder
Still we tried to define her
And we were called feminists
We struggle to define her
As she stands tall today
Yet she has to be defined
She can be Durga, Kali, Parvati
Cannot be left alone without definition
If nothing works,
Add a Miss or Mrs
Independent man, a term non-existent
No questions asked,
Nor is he defined by gender
In an everchanging society,
Certain terms remain the same
Hoping for a better tommorow
May be it's time to give up definitions
Holding her back like shackles
Let her be free
Let an independent woman be "independent "
Dr. Rupali Mishra is a 2nd year Post Graduate of SCB Medical College and Hospital, Cuttack, Odisha; sketches and reads poetry, stories and articles, besides being engaged in medicine research and application ; presently working, in a workforce of doctors fighting against Corona. She can be reachable at docrupalimishra@gmail.com.
BRAVING THE STORM CLOUDS OF LIFE – LETTING IT GO
There comes a point in life when it is necessary to let things go as painful as the process may be. We may need to let go of a job, a career or something very close to our heart. Often it is necessary to let things go, simply because it is time to do so or because we need to make room in our lives for something better. It is in letting go that we let God enter our lives and find the best version of ourselves.
“You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.”
C. JoyBell C.
Is your life a whirlwind of chaotic activity? Is your life an endless round of things you are supposed to do, places you are supposed to go, and people you are supposed to meet? Do you have your all important goal list ready and a master plan on how you are going to achieve those goals? Are you always on the move – seeking, achieving, and then reaching out for some more? But what happens when the rug is literally pulled out from under your feet? What happens when life takes an unexpected twist you never planned for?
Life is very unpredictable and there may be twists and turns in your path that you never anticipated. Life may take you down some unexpected hard-to-travel pathways leaving you bewildered and confused. You may think this isn’t quite how you imagined your life would be. Life may throw a curve ball at you in the form of an unexpected illness, the sudden loss of a loved one, a financial difficulty or the loss of a job. You don’t see it coming and you just aren’t prepared.
Your immediate reaction when faced with the unexpected – say a life-altering serious disorder – is bewilderment. There is a feeling that this can’t possibly be happening to me. You always think you are quite safe in your little cocoon and nothing bad is going to happen to you. It may happen to someone else, but not to you. You are taken completely by surprise when the blueprint you so confidently laid out for your life goes awry. So how do you deal with such situations?
Acceptance is the key
Human instinct when faced with a problem is denial. But the first step in coping with a difficult life-altering situation or problem is acceptance. Accept the problem, embrace it, and make it the new reality of your life. Often when faced with a life-altering situation you may spend a considerable amount of time wishing you could turn back the clock and make things go back to the way they used to be. But this is only likely to leave you with a gnawing sense of disbelief and unhappiness. It may take some soul searching and introspection but it is important to accept the new reality that your life has become. With this acceptance will come an immeasurable level of peace and happiness. Accepting your problem is the first and most important step in facing it and dealing with it.
Share your problem with Your Close Circle of Friends
It is trite but true to say that a problem shared is a problem halved. Remember you are alone only if you choose to be. Don’t undermine the value of family and social support. You need not publicize your problem. At the same time there is no need to do a solo act and refuse to tell anyone what you are going through. The trick is to be choosy. Share your problem with a handful of people you trust.
There are two benefits you will gain from sharing your problem. You will receive support from those who know the challenges you are facing in life. You will gain a new perspective to your problem or situation.
Distance yourself from the problem
Don’t allow the problem to become the center from which the rest of your life spirals. Distancing yourself from the problem is by far the hardest step. It is also the most important one. Distance yourself from the body if it is a health problem you are facing. Distance yourself from the situation if it is some other problem you are facing.
Always remember that no problem can alter who you are as a person. The core integral aspect of your nature will remain unchanged. Distancing doesn’t come easily. But if you make your will like steel and work on it, you can do it. And when you finally achieve a level of distance from your problem, you will realize that distance lends perspective to the problem. It doesn’t make the problem go away. But it does make the problem appear small. And you will find that the fears that once overwhelmed you will eventually lose their hold over you.
Be positive and savor the beauty of life
It’s incredibly easy to smile when life is progressing smoothly. But it’s incredibly hard to smile in the face of a serious life-altering condition or problem. The trick is to avoid focusing on the negative aspects of life. They are like heavy weights that will drag you down and prevent you from moving on. So let go of the negatives in your life and you will be exhilarated at the incredible sense of freedom you experience. Smiling and staying positive changes your mental outlook. You learn to savor each moment of life. And when your positive outlook becomes an integral part of who you are, you will find that there are times when the sheer beauty of life takes your breath away. You learn to count your blessings and realize how incredibly lucky you are. And as time goes by, you realize that problems and difficulties are blessings in disguise because they help you grow as a person. The problem you are facing may test your limits but it will also help you realize you possess inner reserves of strength.
The ball is in your court now.
Do you want to be weighed down by your problems and difficulties?
Or do you choose to “tie no weights to [your] ankles” and fly free?
Zia Marshall, with an MPhil and PhD in English Literature, is a Learning Designer and Communication Specialist skilled in performance and competency development for personal and professional growth. She has published a course on Time Management for Productivity and Work-Life Balance at Udemy. A member of India Poetry Circle, she is passionate about writing. Her work has been featured in Adelaide Literary Magazine, the Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Contemporary Literary Journal of India and the Scarlet Leaf Review. She was a finalist in the Adelaide Literary Awards 2018 and 2019. Her articles have been published in http://www.selfgrowth.com/ and https://elearningindustry.com/.
Silver pearls shower down
Coating each flower with a crown
On the window pane they lash
Sending sounds of a crash
Thick grey clouds hover over the sky
Like a thick blanket dry
Lush green foliage in every corner
A soothing sight for evey traveller
The clouds are tearful
Making us all cheerful
Colourful sight of umbrellas
Dancing to the rains like Cinderella
Munching away hot pizzas loaded with mozzarella
Longing for drives
If the storm we can survive
Pitter patter rain drops
Falling on every crop
Scattering the fragrance of wet soil
Leaving behind footprints as we toil.
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)
The magical sound of footsteps
alerted prisoners behind bars,
Pin drop silence in the jail
warned my mind at once!
The rapid motility of footsteps
Ceased the cry of ailing patients,
Nurses stirred with their records
Treatment hushed the other folks!
The gentle movement of footsteps
made the baby open his wide eyes,
Mother touched his tender body
The baby fell asleep with confidence!
The quick footsteps of a strict teacher
Hushed the notorious boys and girls
Who wander restlessly in and out,
Gestures changed the place at once!
Footsteps signified the right people
At the right time and at the right place,
Footsteps became more prominent
than the people who utter words!
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
The courier man knocked at the door on that sunny afternoon. Beena rushed immediately to open the door but was surprised to receive a parcel from him. While rushing to the dining table she murmured, "Who has sent this parcel unexpectedly? Oh ! Bhaina from Kolkata!!". Hearing this, Mahi, her younger brother jumped to the dining hall and began snatching the parcel from her, "Give me, I will open it" but Bina was not ready to surrender the opportunity. Avinash babu and Bharati rushed on hearing the quarrels of their children and tried to intervene. They were also puzzled on the sudden arrival of a parcel without information from their eldest son, Aditya, (Adi).
Avinash babu retired from government service after making many mammoth marathons from one place to the other, along with Bharati and three children. He was a civil servant in the state cadre. Never did he get chance to work in the state capital where he had bought a two bed room flat for his post retirement stay.
The children mostly availed state sponsored educational system upto matriculation but thankfully secured good ranks in Colleges. Honest officers like him always faced such ordeal in service as they were incapable of cultivating the cult of creating Godfathers in the system, because of their sole dependence on the modest salary income. So getting a good and choice posting was a dream for him, but he was satisfied by what he had achieved in life. The eldest son, Adi got into the banking service in the first chance and had become a branch head in one of the sub-urban branches in the outskirts of Kolkata within five years. Other children were good at studies and were preparing for competitive exams. Bharati Devi, a post Graduate, did not pick up any job because of the migratory service condition of her husband but settled herself adeptly to the situation as a house wife
The quarrel between Mahi and Beena to open the parcel was abruptly stopped at the arrival of Jhuni, their neighbour, friend and classmate of Beena.
"Why so much sound was heard", asked Jhuni.
"Jhuni, Bhaina has sent a parcel and the courier man delivered the same to me. So am I not the virtual custodian? But Mahi is bent upon opening the same, useless fellow" replied Beena.
Jhuni was almost a member of the family because of her closeness to Beena. "Now you open it." Beena left the parcel in the custody of Mahi and proceeded to the bedroom balcony with Jhuni.
" Hi, a Louise Philippe shirt for me, " Mahi shouted with excitement.
"And a dress material for Beena nani! Why has he sent this costly dress kapada for her, presumably more costly than my shirt ?" yelled Mahi.
He was picking up the materials one by one and was engaged in giving live commentary.
"A kurta pyjama for Baba!! Colour is good".
"Nothing else? What about Bou? How Bhaina has forgotten Bou?" Mahi spoke to himself.
"Oh ! An envelope for Bou! Nothing else?", he questioned.
Bharati Devi was very much pleased on receiving the envelope. Before opening the same, she prayed God with tearful eyes to bless Adi.
In the mean time, Jhuni had left for her home in sensing the charged atmosphere there, of course
not before taking farewell from Bharati Devi and Avinash babu.
Bharati Devi took the post and placed it before the photo of Lord Ganesh. Then she opened the same but no letter was found inside. She was stunned to see only a photograph. But when she lifted the photo and looked at it, she was in a completely different world, happy, unstoppable tears flowing from her eyes. It was not just an envelope but an elixir of life for her. She showed the photo to Avinash babu instantly who sensed the purpose behind sending the invaluable message through the photograph. Beena rushed to her parents finding them in a rare blissful moment. She snatched the photo from them out of curiosity said, "Both are Chhupa Rustams. Why Jhuni had never revealed about this". She felt like going to Jhuni' s house immediately, but was dissuaded by Bharati Devi.
Finding an auspicious time from the almanac (Panjika), Bharati Devi and Avinash babu decided to go to Jhuni's place next morning and meet her parents asking for her hands for Adi.
The night was too long for Bharati Devi. Adi has finally selected his life partner. She had been pursuing him to select a girl for last two years but Adi was constantly ignoring her words, saying, "Bou, I am a banker, I leave my flat at 8.30 am and return back at 9 pm. Where is the time for searching for girls? Moreover, I do not have the art of hypnotising girls. It is an impossible task for me. I can not find out a girl". She was restless through out the night.
Next day, both Avinash babu and Bharati Devi proceeded with the proposal to place before Jhuni's parents during the "Amrit Bela". They surprised them with the proposal. Her parents were pleasantly taken aback at the unexpected turn of events . They called Jhuni too to express her opinion, but the matter had already been leaked to her by Beena. Jhuni gently touched the feet of Bharati Devi and Avinash babu and left the place covering her shy face.
Bharati Devi thanked the parcel and placed the envelope with the photo inside, in the Puja room.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
Bulu got up earlier than his usual time. Bulu’s cot was next to his Grandpa’s. His was a little bigger than a baby crib. In the daytime it was pushed under his Grandpa’s cot which had taller legs. In the night it was dragged out. Well Bulu was only eight years old.
Grandpa was snoring away while Bulu lying in his bed tried to recount his dream. Since two nights a strange dream has been recurring in his sleep. His dream was high up in the sky amidst the feathery wispy clouds, where he is seen floating around with elves who wore caps and elfins who had silky wings. Bulu closed his eyes to replay the scene. Oh what a lovely place! There were clouds all around like candy floss, white instead of pink, the blue sky was sparkling with twinkling stars and the moon queen with a dazzling crown was smiling upon them. But first of all how he went there, he wondered. Was there a rocket on which he sat and reached or was there a magic carpet which carried him? Closing his eyes tight he tried again to find out the mode of transport to the fairyland. Lo! This time he could see a smoky ring which was carrying him up and up. From where did the smoky ring come from? Was it a smoke bellowing engine? Bulu was baffled. He tried again to recall the dream with closed eyes. But soon it vanished. Oh no!
Meanwhile Grandpa had got up with his usual coughs and grunts. Mama came to hand over the bed tea to Grandpa. Grandpa then routinely asked for his tumbler of water which is always kept on the side table. Bulu passed it on mechanically. He was listless; for his sojourn to the dreamland had been abruptly cut short. He thought he can’t lounge on the bed any longer. Now he has to shove the cot under Grandpa’s and rush to the bathroom before Mama comes calling. The call will be for breakfast. He will then sit at the dining table to eat while Grandpa will have it on bed. Suddenly the thought of food irritated him. It is the same boring chuda and curd. Today he will insist on poori aloodum. Lets’ see if Mama will make it. After all she only says Bulu is her ‘nayana pitula’, the apple of her eye.
Bulu went to the toilet. At least sitting on the commode he can make a mental trip to his dreamland. Suddenly he remembered a scene. He tried to recall it. Sitting on the wooden arm rest chair with crossed legs, looking out of the window, Grandpa would be creating smoke circles. His creased face would be looking the most content. A wistful look would come upon his eyes as soon as the rings came out, as if he is soaring up to a dreamland. Bulu recognised the smoke rings. This is what he had seen in his dream. No wonder Grandpa looks so mast once he closes his eyes and enters the ring. He must be also travelling to the same dreamland the same way. Should he ask Grandpa what does he dream while making the rings? Or should he test himself?
Coming out of the toilet, he saw Grandpa was all spruced up and enjoying his breakfast of Poori Aloo dum.
“Jeje, poori aloodum is my favourite. Because of me you are having it.”
“Yes Bulu. What will I do without you? You are my ‘Aasa baadi’, ‘andhara laudi’ (My hope stick, my clutch).
Ha! Ha! Bulu guffawed. Suddenly he went all fours crawling on the floor and started going to every nook and corner of the room. Grandpa asked “Arre what are you searching Bulu? Are you looking for your pencil? Here it is and your eraser. I found it in one corner”
“Jeje I am looking for a nut which has slipped from my compass.” Bulu feigned innocence. Grandpa was solicitous. I will ask the maid to sweep the floor well tomorrow. It must have slipped to some corner, don’t you worry.”
Bulu did not get what he was searching. Then it struck him that Grandpa sits near the window. So he must go outside the window and look for it. He waited for an opportune time.
Breakfast over, Bulu quietly slipped out of the house and came below the window sill. The one storey house was off the main road with few houses nearby. Just below the window was a dirty patch of sand and lo! He found what he was looking for. Cigarette butts of various sizes were littered on the sandy patch. No sweeper had ever come that side. Bulu picked up quite a few of the butts and filled his pocket while looking over his shoulder here and there for any possible onlooker. Nobody was around. He thanked his God profusely.
Now he had to make trial runs with those left overs. How to and where? It was early summer, his school was closed but Papa and Mama were moving in and out of the house making arrangements for arrival of some guest. His little sister Kuni was making a ruckus with her dolls. Bulu had no privacy whatsoever. He thought of roping in his friend Tuna but that would mean going to the dream spot together. No let him make the first attempt. If it is successful he can guide his friends. They will then acknowledge what a hero he is.
Bulu searched for a match box and found one. After lunch when the house was quieter, he went into the bathroom, sat on the commode and lit one of the butts. A bit of smoke emanated but soon petered out. He lit one after another and puffed each one in his mouth trying to imitate his grandpa for the rings. Not a single one obliged. Soon his stock got over and he had to flush them in the toilet repeatedly. Now there was no other method but to whack a fresh one from Grandpa’s box.
Bulu had seen his Grandpa neatly arranging the cigarettes in a silver box. It is always kept near the side table. Bulu had never paid any attention to the box. Now it shone before his eyes. It appeared to him like a magic box carrying his ticket to the dreamland. Bulu could hardly contain his excitement. How will he pinch one of them became his mental obsession. He grew restless as the evening shadows became darker. When will the lights be switched off and when will Grandpa go to bed? He pulled out his bed before dinner. Grandpa asked Arre Bulu! Why so early? Are you not well? You want to sleep so early? Won’t you read your comic books? Bulu didn’t answer any of the questions. His mind was focussed only on one thing. He looked at his object of desire longingly and visualised how to whack one magic potion from it. At dinner table Mama asked,
“Did you open your books today Bulu? You appear to be daydreaming all the time. I will send you to Tution School if you don’t study on your own.”
Bulu was eating with his head down; he kept silently murmuring to himself, ‘these books are so boring. How will one read them and that too during holidays?’
After dinner Grandpa said his customary prayers and switched off the light. But not a wink crossed Bulu’s eyes. It must have been a little past midnight. Bulu could wait no longer. He got up from his bed and tiptoed towards the side table. He had assessed the position of the table earlier. Ten steps away. He came near, but in the pitch darkness he had to rummage with his hand and feel the box. Then he has to open it. His hands went exploring hard when it hit the bedside lamp and the whole thing fell on the floor with a crashing sound. The light bulb broke in splinters and the ceramic lamp cover fell with a loud thump. The sound of bulb crashing and cover smashing was enough to wake up Grandpa. The sound was so piercing that Bulu’s parents too came rushing from their bedroom. Grandpa was hollering “Who is there? Bulu Bulu?” Mama was shrieking “Bulu what happened? Where are you?” She switched on her pencil torch and the light fell on Bulu standing near the side table and trembling.
The room light was put on and Mama saw the table light on the floor lying in smithereens. “Bulu how did it fall? Were you searching for something on the table? Why are you standing there?”
Grandpa rubbed his eyes and in a baffling tone yelled,
“What is happening? Why so much noise? Where is my cigarette box?”
In the melee the box had also slipped and its contents were sprawled on the floor as if some mischievous monkey had torn it open. Meanwhile Papa had come. He heard Grandpa howling. He saw the entire scene was like a battle field with glass splinters and cigarettes lying all over the floor.
“Baba when will you stop smoking?” Papa’s stern voice was heard.
“This box should be thrown into the sea. How many times I have told you not to set a bad example before Bulu. Will he not be tempted? You have to forget the whole thing. You are now 75 years old. If my mother was there she would have nagged you to stop it. Because we are not telling you anything you are carrying on with your old habit.” He minced no words.
“Bulu that box is lying on the corner. Pick up all the cigarettes put it inside and give it to me. No more smoking for your Grandpa. Bulu have you worn you slippers? First wear them and pick up that box for me. Mama will have to clean the floor.” Papa’s voice was strict and firm.
Bulu quietly obliged and sat next to his Grandpa. He felt bad for him. But worse, for his dream lay shattered on the floor. It took some time before the whole mess was swept and mopped by Mama. Till then Bulu was sitting on the edge of his bed with his head down. Grandpa was sulking, pulling a long face.
“Go to sleep Bulu. I will have to take you to the tuition class tomorrow early morning. How naughty you are getting I can see. Wait! The teacher will set you right” Mama trailed off.
Bulu obeyed, pulled over the bed sheet on his face and closed his eyes trying hard for his favourite dream to recur before his closed eyes.
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
Why are you throwing tantrums like a child? It's unlike you to be moody like this, said my husband noticing me in one of my worst moods.
I have all the reasons in the world for the state I am in, I snapped.
But I am sure I am not one of the reasons, he said defensively.
No, not this time, I can assure you, I said.
Thank God for that, at least for once I have escaped being blamed, he said appearing relieved.
Then what's your problem? Is it something where you need my help, he said sounding genuinely concerned.
No, I don't think even "you" can do anything about it, I said, my voice trailing.
Why don't you tell me what it is that's bothering you? You seem to under estimate my capacity in solving problems. Come to think of it every problem has a solution. It depends on how you look at it, he reassured me.
Enough of your sermon, but this problem doesn't appear to have a solution at all because it has to do with my Fans, I complained.
Then it's something you should feel happy about... Naturally, writers like you are bound to have some Fans, he said sounding very pleased.
I have some loyal Friends as well, I said.
Consider yourself lucky that despite your candid writings you still have some friends left, he remarked.
But the trouble is both my "Fans" and "Friends" who follow me seem to be really my "Foes", out to settle on my skin, bite me and suck my blood wherever I am, not sparing me 24/7, I said frustrated.
JAIPUR - WHERE HERITAGE BLENDS WITH GEMS
Mention Jaipur, the Pink city and what immediately comes to mind is the Hawa Mahal and the Literature festival held annually in Diggi Palace where authors/poets from all over the world congregate /participate. But on our recent visit I realized the city has much more to offer and the direct flight from Chennai by Air Costa, introduced in October 2013 enables one to reach the place in a little over two hours.
As we were emerging from the Sanganeer Airport , the sight of beautiful ladies, all dressed in pink saris resplendent with Jaipur gems and jewelery greeted us and even as we wondered the reason for their presence, the scene outside lined with richly decked horse carriages was enough to guess a wedding party was expected to arrive any moment.
While on our way to the hotel, our cabbie informed us that a high profile couple were getting engaged that evening where a number of film personalities were expected to attend. Abhijeet Panwar, our guide was a dashing young man who knew the city like the back of his hand and his ability to communicate in English was excellent. The first on our itinerary was a visit to Amber Fort, a 11 km drive from the city with a photo stop at the famous Hawa Mahal, an icon of the Pink city. This five storeyed stunning semi octagonal monument built in pink sand stone in 1799 by poet King Sawai Pratap Singh for the royal ladies to witness various cultural activities through the windows resembles Lord Krishna’s crown. The view from the front appeared like an enlarged picture post card to me.
Alighting at the car park for our visit to Amber Fort We were tempted to take an elephant ride when we saw pachyderms with elderly couples on their backs plodding up the ramparts road to reach the Amber Palace However when we found the animal stopped in between the steep climb, it gave us goose pimples but our fears were laid at rest with the mahout’s reassurance that it was only a ‘toilet stop’ the elephant chose to take and we were in safe hands and had no reason to doubt his ability or that of his faithful elephant.
We breathed a sigh of relief when the honey coloured Amber palace came into view. It rambles over a rugged hill reflecting in the Maota lake below. On the highest ridge overlooking the valley we could have a distant view of Jaigarh Fort which was built 400 metres above with an express purpose of strengthening the defence of Amber. Our tour of the palace started with the Dil-e-Aaram Garden which is laid out in the traditional Moghul style .The complex of halls, palaces pavilions gardens and temples was built by Raja Man Singh, the Rajput commander of Akbar’s army, Mirza Raja Jai Singh and Sawai Jai Singh ,over a period of about two centuries. The Diwan-I-Aam (hall of Public Audience) has latticed galleries and double row of columns each having a capital in the shape of elephants on the top. The king would sit in the centre on a charpoy and regularly give audience to the public. From here we took the flight of stairs which directly lead to the Shila Mata temple which had huge doors made of silver. It is said the Maharaja Man Singh prayed to the goddess for victory during a particular battle .The goddess is believed to have come in his dream and said if he won the battle, he should retrieve her image which was lying at the bottom of the sea and the Maharaja fulfilled her wish after winning the battle.(the image of the patron goddess was brought from Jessore by Raja Man Singh to be installed here, informed our guide. ) To the south of Hall of public audience is an imposing gateway, The Ganesh Pole which has a beautiful carved statue of Lord Ganesha. On top of the gate is Suhag Mandir its windows have marble grills, from where the ladies of the royal family used to watch proceedings at the Diwan-I-Aam.
The Diwan-I-Khas or Hall of Private Audience is decorated with beautiful mirror work with intricate carvings on the walls and ceiling. We found it also had miniature murals made of coloured glass (this reminded us of the stained glass windows of cathedrals in Europe we had seen) depicting Radha and Krishna. The Sukh Nivas or the Hall of Pleasure is right opposite this ,its special feature is the airconditioning effect created by the cool breeze blowing across the channels of waters , informed Abhijeet. Adjacent to Sukh Nivas is the Jai Mandir or the Hall of Victory which displays a superb blend of Hindu Muslim architecture.The piece de resistance here is the Sheesh Mahal or the Hall of Mirrors completely encrusted with minute mirrors of various colours. On close observation we found the dezign in each window is different. When you light a candle inside this Mahal and close the doors and windows, you feel stars are twinkling in the sky, we were told.
From here we proceeded to the CityPalace which again has a rare combination of Moghul and Rajasthani architecture. Though my legs were protesting and refusing to cooperate after nearly a three hour tour of the Amber Palace, I decided not to miss the opportunity of seeing this another Gem of Jaipur depicting the pomp and splendour of the bygone era still in evidence with exhibits and interior dezigns coupled with richly decorated doors and gateways guarded by sentinels decked in full royal livery. A visit to Maharaja Madho Singh 11 museum is a must for a tourist to see the array of royal costumes, shawls, embroidery work, Benaras silk saris, kamarbands, musical instruments like the giant sized tanbura and a set of clothes of Sawai Madho Singh 1 who was just over seven feet tall and four feet wide weighing 250 kilo grams like a goliath. It was amusing to look at the abnormal width of his pyjamas displayed among his other costumes worn when he was a child.
Outside the Hall of Private Audience situated nearby are two silver urns known as Gangajalis which were used by Sawai Madho Singh to carry pure ganga jal with him during his trip to England in 1902 to attend the coronation of King Edward 7. Each urn has a capacity of 8,182 litres, weighs about 345 kilo grams with a height of five feet three inches and a circumference of 14 feet, 10 inches. They are listed in the Guiness Book of World Records as the biggest silver vessels in the world.
On our return we had another photo stop at the Jal Mahal palace considered an architectural beauty built in the Rajput and Moghul styles of architecture (common in Rajasthan) providing a picturesque view of the lake. The palace, built in red sandstone is a five storied building out of which four floors remain under water when the lake is full and the top floor is exposed. We could only have a distant view of its grandeur.
A visit to Jaipur is not complete without shopping for gems the city is famous for and the best place to pick them up is from whole sale shops rather than from retail outlets.
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.
Translated by Sreekumar K
My head on your feet,
I greet You
The meandering river
The wandering breeze
Said something
The Landslides
The forest ablaze
Said something else
The opening bud
The feasting bee
Said yet another thing
Within the four walls
Of classrooms
Within the warmth
Of my home
What was revealed
Was mostly misleading
What I looked at
Branded my brain
What I did
Undid me
Every experience I had
Each a new chapter
I learned the hard way
Experience made me experiment
Bitter failures of yesteryears
Sweet successes of tomorrows
Those old pointers were all right
I recall with painful regret
An apology from me
From the depth of my heart
For lessons set aside.
Mini K Antony runs her own boutique at Thrissur, Kerala. She is a fashion designer whose creations are in good demand. A passionate, prolific writer in Malayalam, she contributes poems and short stories regularly to on-line literary groups and e-magazines. She lives at Kattukuzhy with her husband C V Xavier and her two kids, Seethal Grace and Alen Venus.
Jehangir may have been wide of the mark when visiting Kashmir, he had said “Gar firdaus bar-rue zamin ast, hami asto, hamin asto, hamin ast” (If there is heaven on earth, it’s here, it’s here’ its’ here). One can’t fault him for he did not have the opportunity of visiting the seven sister states in the North East of India. Lush green forests, pristine rivers and mountain streams, snow capped mountains and wide spread tea gardens reflect scenic beauty and splendor beyond imagination, as if looking up to snaps out of National Geographic. That’s the closest to God one can be.
As member of the defence forces, one gets opportunity to travel across the length and breadth of the country and reside in the remotest areas. I was fortunate to have multiple posting to the North East and despite the difficulties of terrain, weather and remoteness always look back to them with very fond memories.
In the year 2005, I was posted to Tezpur with the operations in the states of Meghalaya and Arunachal Pradesh under the jurisdiction of our headquarters. The first item on my agenda was to carry out a familiarization visit of my area of responsibility, go to the forward posts and see the condition of roads and camps en route. That’s how, I reached Menchukha on the third day of my trip.
Menchukha is situated in a forested valley, surrounded by pine trees and thorn bushes. The river Siyom (known locally as Yargyapchu) flows in the valley of Menchukha. The town is only 29 kilometers away from Indo-China border. The name Men-chu-kha means medicinal water of snow where men is medicine, chu is water and kha is snow. It is part of the state of Arunachal Pradesh. Prior to the construction of the modern road, the only access to the village was via an airstrip, used by the Indian Air Force to supply goods to local people. It is home to the people of the Memba and Adi people. Other local people include Tagin tribes. Religions practiced in the valley include Tibetan Buddhism, Donyi-Poloism, and Christianity. Menchukha is known for both its religious and historical significance. The 400-year-old Samten Yongcha monastery of Mahayana Buddhist sect is a contemporary of the much-revered Tawang Monastery. The languages spoken in Menchukha are Memba (a Bodish language), Tagin, Hindi, and English.
Menchukha town at dusk
The Indian Air Force maintains an airstrip, known as the Advanced Landing Ground (ALG) in Menchukha. The airstrip is used frequently to bring in vital supplies from cities in Assam via Antonov-32 aircraft and helicopters. The area has a significant military presence, which also creates some employment opportunities for civilians. There is a twice a week helicopter service under the UDAN scheme on Monday and Saturday. Menchukha had recently been connected by road to Along, the district headquarters about 180 km away.
Menchukha is gradually becoming a popular tourist destination in Arunachal Pradesh due to its scenic beauty, exotic tribes, gentle hills and snow-capped mountains The major tourist attraction here is a 400-year-old Buddhist Monastery, which is located at a hilltop in the westernmost part of Menchukha. Numerous ancient statues can also be found here.
On the third day of my visit, I left Along in the morning and after a rough ride, reached Menchukha in the evening. The scene was breathtaking and a refreshing change from the dreary ride along a narrow road, which had been washed away at a number of places. I was accommodated in a small cottage along the bank of the river, just outside the airfield. As I entered the cottage, I got a call from my sister, reminding me to carry out the monthly “Shradh” ceremony of my mother the next morning. She was not aware that I was away from Tezpur in the remotest corner of the country. My mother had expired a couple of months earlier and unfortunately I could not attend her cremation, unable to get a timely flight from my duty station. The cremation was performed by my brother. As is the custom, the family is required to perform a monthly “shradh” ceremony” for one year and my brother reluctantly agreed to let me perform the rituals. Monthly “Shradh” is a simple ceremony conducted early morning after a bath, either at home or in a temple premise. It involves praying to the Sun God and to the departed soul while chanting mantras with offerings. In the end, the priest is gifted grocery, vegetables and cash. The dates are decided as per the Vikram Samvat calendar, of which I had no understanding. Therefore, my eldest sister took on the responsibility of obtaining the dates from the family priest and intimate me to perform the ritual.
In the midst of my tour, I had completely forgotten about it and had neither arranged for the priest nor for the offerings. How things can be arranged in such a short time in this remote locality? I explained my predicament to the officer present there, a young captain who was the detachment commander of the Infantry troops. They did not have a priest in the detachment but one of their soldiers performed the pooja in the makeshift temple in the detachment. He assured me that everything will be arranged by early morning the next day. I handed over the money to buy the pooja items and he left.
I had an early dinner and a peaceful sleep despite the cold. By six O’clock the next morning, I was ready after a bath, wearing a fresh set of pyjama and kurta. The ad hoc Pundit Ji arrived sharp at six O’clock. He was accompanied by another jawan with all the required items - flowers, sandal paste, incense sticks, Doob grass, the items of grocery and vegetables. Outside, it was very cold but the sun was rising and the sound of water flowing in full fury over the gravel bed of Siyom was music to the ear. I had never seen such scenic beauty. They quickly spread a mat on the bank of the river where the ritual was to be held. The Pundit Ji chanted the hymns and asked me to pray to the Sun God and my departed mother. The ritual was carried out in the serene and scenic atmosphere of Menchukha. My heart was filled with gratitude to the Almighty. I am sure that my mother in her heavenly abode was very happy that I could pay her homage in such a beautiful place. I considered myself blessed that day.
When I moved out of Tezpur to Delhi, I was entrusted by the Air Force to develop eight Advanced Landing Grounds in Arunachal Pradesh. Coincidentally, the ALG of Menchukha was one of them. The runway has since been renovated, strengthened, upgraded to a concrete runway and extended to 4,700 feet in 2017.
An alumnus of Sainik School Bhubaneswar, National Defence Academy, IIT Delhi and Osmania University, Lt Gen N P Padhi was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in June 1976. During his career spanning 39 years, he held many challenging technical and administrative appointments, namely; Chief Engineer of a Corps, Works Adviser to the Air Headquarters, Chief of Staff of Tri-service Andaman & Nicobar Command, Chief Engineer of Southern Army Command, Director General Works in Ministry of Defence, Chief of Staff of Eastern Army Command. As Director General Weapons and Equipment in the Ministry of Defence, he was responsible for Capital procurement of weapon systems for the Army. Apart from winning the Silver Grenade as the best Young Officer, best officer in Mountain Adventure Course, he won the Gold Medal in BE and a CGPA of 10.0 in M Tech from IIT, Delhi. He was awarded the Harkirat Singh Gold Medal for Excellence in field of Engineering in 2000, Commendations of CISC ( 2005), Chief of Army Staff (2008 and 2010) and Chief of Air Staff( 2009). The officer is recipient of the Vishist Seva Medal from the President of India in 2014 for Distinguished Service of a High Order and the Param Vishist Seva Medal in 2015 from the President of India for Distinguished Service of the Most Exceptional Order. On superannuation in May 2015, he worked as President and Unit Head in a 1980 MW Super Critical Thermal Power Plant at Allahabad.
THE LONG WINDING PATH
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
We are not alone any more,
strange dreams walk with us
bringing the stars down,
the grass underneath wilt in fear.
We talk in whispers
of the friends we once had
who have gone missing from the town,
leaving ominous footsteps.
Shadows left behind miles away
come back creeping
we dare not look back
lest we see us in the broken mirror.
The man begging with a doleful song
comes running to return to us
the coin we had thrown at him
he no longer needs it.
He has aligned with others
and made friends with the milestone
content to count the footsteps
that pass through the deserted streets.
The old man in the park
who used to share our bench
seems to be walking ahead
but it could be just an apparition.
We are no longer sure
of anyone, anything
we are out on an uncertain journey
not knowing when and where it will end.
The houses that used to ring
with laughter have fallen eeriely silent,
the town is emptying
an unknown fear gripping its folks.
The most innocent of all,
the signpost with the name of the town
has turned into a blue light
emitting a strange noise like a dog whining.
There is a smell of death in the air
we try to shoo it away,
yet it clings to us
like the remnants of a horror story.
The walk is long and weary
yet we are no more alone
strange dreams will take us
down the winding path.
To a stranger land
bereft of all that we held dear.
but we dare not look back,
what we leave behind brings no solace.
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.
Book Review
OF CLOUDLESS CLIMES by RAVI RANGANATHAN
(Published by Authors Press, New Delhi)
One, two three……. A person who is excellent with numbers can surpass in language as well! Ravi Ranganathan, retired banker, who already has two books of poetry to his credit ‘Lyrics of Life’ and ‘Blade of Green Grass’ has regaled poet lovers with his third book ‘Of Cloudless Climes.’ In his own words – ‘it has been indeed a rewarding poetic journey which has helped me understand myself better.’ I did wonder at the choice of the title ‘Of Cloudless Climes.’ However, I was convinced after reading the poet’s reference to Lord Byron’s poems during his college days and how ‘cloudless climes and starry skies’ had left a deep, but inexplicable impression on his mind –‘celebration of simplicity’ as he states.
‘Of Cloudless Climes’ has been ‘dedicated to all the poets of the world. They are the best people around…. They should always be abound.” This reveals the personality of Ravi Ranganathan as affable, respectful, and sanguine.
Divided into four parts as ‘Inner Scape’ ‘Myku’ ‘Micro Muse’ and ‘Ravisdom’, the book of poems comprise a range of topics from human emotions, relationships, and moves on into the metaphysical and spiritual, which brings out the repertoire and expertise of the poet. Without a doubt, he is worthy of the awards conferred upon him by ‘Poiessis Online’ and ‘Literati Cosmos Society.’
How easily he glides from nostalgia to self-quest in ‘My Inner Scape’ is incredible.
The black and white picture of my grandmother
Mounted in my room is more than enough
For me to find solace this time, like every time
From the unreal world to my true, real one…….. (page 21)
And in the concluding lines,
To that invigorating task of reaching deeper and deeper
Task of peeling ourselves layer by layer
To reach the core; to resemble keenly the purge…. (My Inner Scape, page 21)
One gets to recognize his love for nature and environment in Ferndom (page 22), where he expresses with childlike glee ‘I suppose it liked my friendly looks….’
In the next stanza, the lines -
Life eternal is here, in this eerie little silence
In this compliance, this natural balance (page 22)
The phrase ‘eerie little silence’ evokes melancholy, of course, with positivity when he speaks of ‘the natural balance.’ The message to readers to exercise care and concern for natural surroundings is loud and clear in the poem.
In ‘Seeing Rivers as Life’ the poet has expressed his gratitude for the waters of Life. The following lines make the reader pause; reflect upon the gifts of Nature that we have been enjoying.
Our ancestors have known them even better
For their souls have grown like these sacred rivers (page 25)
He implores and asks if we would like the rivers to ‘shed tears.’ The concluding message also serves as a caveat, despite its seemingly optimistic tone.
You do not want them singing like ghosts
You want them to enjoy for ages, celebrate changes
You want them to sing along like angels……..(page 25)
His love for rivers has overtly been expressed in the verse Bridge, Flow and Me (page 26). The poem is highly evocative; in fact, it evoked memories of the all-time favorite R. L. Stevenson’s ‘From a Railway Carriage.’
If I would ever get down from the train
To kiss its mesmeric waters flowing thick and long?
Or would I ever stand at this enchanting riverbank
Watching trains pass by, bogies moving headlong? (page 26)
‘Why are we not like them?’ In this poem ‘Ask’ where the poet questions the sky, birds, trees, stars, clouds, flowers, rainbows, waves, dewdrops, rain and the sun, a great philosophical thought is expressed with words used sparingly –
You may have a hundred reasons
To question them why….
They have a thousand reasons
Not to reply……(Ask, page 33)
I believe that the poet spends many of his evenings watching the clouds pass by, marveling at the everchanging hues of Nature. Use of expressions such ‘clustered clouds,’ ‘sheltered ecstasy,’ ‘verdant woods’ ‘glorious clouds’ ( Beseeched, page 32) and ‘overbearing day,’ ‘restive stillness,’ ‘muted murmurs,’ ‘nocturnal inaction,’ ‘hapless plight,’ ‘silent sighs’ (The Reluctant Relent, page 38) depicts his mastery over the language.
Nostalgic memories of revisiting his village after several years evokes mixed feelings. Reminiscing the ‘unalloyed fun’ of childhood, he succinctly depicts his fondness for that all-time favorite game of stumps. The poem is rich with imagery. A twinge of disappointment is revealed while describing the changes that have come about in the process of development - kith and kin are there and not there!’
At the corner of the grass-laden field
Where we drew three irregular vertical lines
With black charcoal to signify three stumps
In front of which we struck the tennis ball
With gay abandon like there’s no life beyond cricket…
…….And there where now I see a row of lined prototype houses
Was once our unsearchable hiding place……(Memories Resonate, page 47)
Endurance of bodily pain is part and parcel of life. The discomfort and pain endured has been expressed with subtle humour, which brings out his resilient spirit.
But in hindsight, it was good to endure
For now I love my little toe more!...(Corn on the Little Toe, page 55)
The resilient spirit is underlined with optimism in ‘You have it in you.’
Believe me dear, everything you have
Like a pearl in an oyster shell
Everything is within your tiny self…..!!((page 58)
The poet’s devout temperament is revealed in the ‘Corridors of Grace’ (page 74) when he revisits an ashram, enjoys the sylvan surroundings, peace, and aura of the place-
Here leaves, flowers, birds and cows
All meditate as much as we do…..(page74)
On the other side, the gracious temperament of Ravi Ranganathan is revealed when he declares the ‘euphoria’ in “Guntur Poetry Meet is a Glorious Annual Retreat.” (page 65). The poet has generously heaped praises and complimented the indefatigable spirit of the organizers (the college professors),
Patiently they read and re-read thousands of verse’
Penned and sent by hundred score poets intense
Do we know their pains behind and sacrifice of time? (page 65)
The poet’s three liners that he has patented as ‘myku’ expresses his ‘views and hues.’ The poet has woven words with such dexterity, celebrating the varied hues of Nature with bliss. ‘Myku’ adorn the pages as the thazhampoo (screw pine) flowers interspersed between jasmines and kanakambharams (firecracker flower) in the kadhambam (colourful floral string) enhances its aesthetic appeal. Here are some samples-
even a river day dreams
if left undisturbed
by human footfalls…(page 84)
kiss of light
dew breaks at dawn
a thousand sunlight’s!... (page 86)
to attain an aura divine
be like a pure petal
bathed by sunshine…(page 86)
lawn of green carpet
night scented jasmine shades
serene refuge…(page 87)
birds and words
in full form
exude eternal charm…(page 89)
halo driven one
between me, cloud and
a fine spiritual thread…..(page 90)
The Micro Muse in pages 95 -117 is a continuation of that communion with Nature and the environment, the philosophical truths of life with utmost simplicity and mathematical accuracy.
Flowers in full bloom
await blossoming of the sun
for tame submission…(Surrender, page 96)
…leave, leave everything behind
for you cannot even carry dust
when you are laid to rest…..(Reality, page 97)
‘Water me,’
said the young, wayside tree
I watered…
‘Daughter me,’
said the orphaned girl child
I ‘daughtered’…(Fruit, page 98)
……if your acceptance is innate
fate will never checkmate….(Date with Life, page 111)
‘Ravisdom’ brings out his sensitivity and love for nature with utmost brevity and candour.
Have you seen a dew drop cry?
I did and it opened up to me tenderly…… (Ravisdom, page 122)
In the process of addressing a flower, the impermanence of things has been brought out with such ease -
When he greeted the flower with a smile
Little did it realise that it was a guile
And its life would be plucked in a while……(Ravisdom, page 124)
In conclusion, the poems in this collection urges the reader to stay connected with Nature, without pretence or ignorance, but with passion and sensitivity.
A poetry collection that readers of all ages would enjoy and feel invigorated.
ABOUT THE REVIEWER: Hema Ravi is a poet, reviewer, critic, and editor of Efflorescence (published by the Chennai Poets’ Circle). She writes metrical verses, haiku, haibun, tanka, and ‘vers libre.’ Her verses and write ups have been featured in several online and international print journals, noteworthy among them being the International Writers Journal, Amaravati Poetic Prism, the Hindu, the new Indian Express, Femina, Woman’s Era, International Indian and Khaleej Times. A few haiku poems and write ups have been prize winners. Her short story won the first prize in the Pratilipi competition in 2020.
She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ She scripted, lent voice support for ‘Everyday English with Hema,’ series of English lessons broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio. After a stint in the Central Government, she has been in the field of education for over two decades. Currently, she is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. She is known to motivate learners to their fullest potential, urges them to be excellent all-rounders. As Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, she encourages young voices to express themselves through poesy.
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
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