Literary Vibes - Edition LXXVIII
(Title : My Unicorn - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in offering to you the 78th edition of LiteraryVibes, filled with beautiful poems and exquisite short stories and a couple of nice anecdotes.
Ms. Latha Prem Sakhya, one of our senior contributors has launched a series on "Kanaka's Musings" from this week with an interesting episode. Hope she will continue to entertain us with delectable episodes week after week.
In today's edition we have four new writers who have presented their literary creations to us. Dr. Dipty Patnaik from Bhubaneswar is a retired Professor of Chemistry whose love for science is equally matched by her passion for literature. She writes well and with zeal. Ms. Gita Bharath lives in Chennai and dazzles the literary world with prolific outpourings of poetry. A well published poet, her fan following is amazing. Shri Abani Udgata, a retired top executive from the Reserve Bank of India devotes his post retirement days in Bbubaneswar to pursuit of literature. His writings reflect compassion and empathy for the downtrodden. Shri ashok Kumar Roy, a retired official from Governent of Odisha spends his time in pursuing his life-long desire to roam around the world. He writes travelogues with élan. His story in today's edition of LV speaks of a hair raising experience in Bangkok and he swears that his encounter with the ghost is true.
Let's welcome the new members into the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them lots of success in their literary endeavour.
The repeated lockdowns and prolonged confinement at home has cast a long shadow on our lives. To say that we miss our freedom to go out, roam around and enjoy the rustle and bustle of life Is an understatement. Some people I know get hysterical and break down. It's a fact that Covid19 has dented and chipped away a big part of our life and living. Yesterday I saw a post in the Facebook which captures this angst graphically. But mercifully it gives us hope, which we need in plenty in these difficult times. Let me reproduce it here. The authorship is unknown, but my grateful thanks to whoever has written this:
Me: Hello God.
God: Hello...
Me: I’m falling apart. Can you put me back together?
God: I'd rather not.
Me: Why?
God: Because you're not a puzzle.
Me: What about all the pieces of my life that fall to the ground?
God: Leave them there for a while. They fell for a reason. Let them be there for a while and then decide if you need to take any of those pieces back.
Me: You don't understand! I'm breaking!
God: No, you don't understand. You're transcending, evolving.
What you feel are growing pains. You're getting rid of the things and people in your life that are holding you back. The pieces are not falling down. The pieces are being put in place. Relax. Take a deep breath and let those things you no longer need fall down. Stop clinging to pieces that are no longer for you. Let them fall. Let them go.
Me: Once I start doing that, what will I have left?
God: Only the best pieces of yourself.
Me: I'm afraid to change.
God: I keep telling you: YOU'RE NOT CHANGING! YOU'RE BECOMING!
Me: Becoming, Who?
God: Becoming who I created you to be! A person of light, love, charity, hope, courage, joy, mercy, grace and compassion. I made you for so much more than those shallow pieces you decided to adorn yourself with and that you cling to with so much greed and fear. Let those things fall off you. I love you! Don't change! Become! Don't change! Become! Become who I want you to be, who I created. I'm gonna keep telling you this until you remember.
Me: There goes another piece.
God: Yes. Let it be like this.
Me: So... I'm not broken?
God: No, but you're breaking the darkness, like dawn. It's a new day. Become!! Become who you really are!!"
I do hope you will enjoy the above post as much as I did.
As someone said, for knowledge, pleasure and wisdom there are Facebook, Google and WhatsApp.
For anything more you need, there is LiteraryVibes!
With that happy thought let me leave you to enjoy the beautiful offerings of the 78th edition. Please share the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/324 with all your friends and contacts. All the previous 77 editions, including four anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe and we meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table Of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MONA LISA
THE DAUGHTER HE NEVER HAD
02) Haraprasad Das
THE ROMANTIC KADAMBA (KELI KADAMBA)
03 Dilip Mohapatra
PAY BACK TIME
THE BLIND DATE
04) Krupasagar Sahoo
THE HIDDEN STREAM (BHRANTA NIRJHARA)
05) Ishwar Pati
BECAUSE IT’S THERE
06) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
A DAY WELL SPENT
07) Sundar Rajan
MYSTIC HUES
08) Latha Prem Sakya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS - Paattie (Grandma)
09) Thryaksha A Garla
THE GAMBLER
HARDCOVER
10) Dr. Satya Narayan Mohanty
AN EYE FOR AN EYE
11) Madhumathi. H
YOU ARE MY HOME...
THE WATER'S THIRST. . .
12) Sumitra Mishra
ROMANCE IN THE CAMPUS
13) Kabiratna Manorama Mohapatra
FATHER’S HOME (BAPAGHARA)
14) Hema Ravi
BUTTERFLY LANGUAGE
15) Setaluri Padmavathi
PARADISE
16) Gokul Chandra Mishra
SANTA MONICA, THE CRUISE
17) Radhika Nair
MILK POUCONS
18) Jairam Seshadri
THOSE DAYS!
19) Sarah Neha
THE HAUNTED
20) Zia Marshall
ON SOFTNESS
THE WINE OF THE MYSTIC
21) Sheena Rath
UNCERTAINTY
22) Ravi Ranganathan
MY INNER SCAPE
MEMORIES RESONATE
23) Meera Raghavendra Rao
My FIVE STAR BIRTHDAY IN 2019!
24) Supriya Pattanayak
THE GIRL
25) Priya Bharati
GIRLS, CAREER AND MARRIAGE IN PRESENT SCENARIO
26) Gita Bharath
ROCK - STEADY
27) Dr. Dipty Pattnaik
LONESOME
28) Abani Udgata
SUMMER OF MIGRANT LABOURER
29) Ashok Kumar Roy
GHOST STORY
30) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
LITTLE ZARA
NEPALI BABA
The smiles in your sixties send
more lethal invites than in youth;
your pen, the powerhouse,
its tip, the muscular whip-cord,
a dichotomy like river Ganga.
Your pen from its patient lair
for reaping the best harvest
from sowing till raising a crop,
mesmerizes all by opium
of your words; Polestar, the witness.
I labour hard, a Partha of Kali Yug
pulling a spineless bow to shoot arrows
avenging Panchali’s un-coifed hair,
flag atop his chariot doesn’t flutter,
battle ground bereft of warriors, bugles.
I, the great Partha, go spiritual,
a fatalist fighting battles, the garland
of victory wilts in my wife’s hands.
All pretences may end with death,
stars and Karma can be blamed.
Digging the enigma of your smile
to find the cipher to my fate,
I find an infertile seed at its
fathomless core, after dives
into your body’s humus.
(‘Mona Lisa’, the poem in Odia, published in Sept-Octo 1998 issue of GOKARNIKA is transformed into its English version for Literary Vibes.)
I had the first whiff of It during the visit of Ashwin, my brother-in-law, to our small flat in Mumbai. Though, he was visiting the mega city to attend an all India conference of the Lions (members of the Lion Clubs) as his city’s representative and was booked to stay by his association in a five-star hotel by the Powai Lake, he preferred staying at his younger sister’s place, I mean at my little flat.
The day before his departure, he took me along to buy gifts for near and dear ones at Cuttack where he lived with his family. He bought something for everyone: a pen, a folding umbrella, a few dozens of napkins, a few video games, a few t-shirts, two saris (one for his wife Nirupama, and the other for wife’s unmarried elder sister Paromita who lived with them), and some tidbits for me, and my wife Bharati. My two daughters were studying outside Mumbai and stayed in hostels, so he couldn’t meet them during that visit.
We did our marketing in a mall, also, from a few footpath vendors. We visited quite a number of shoe shops on Ashwin’s request. He would go to the ladies’ section, examine the ladies’ shoes arranged on racks of a shop carefully, shake his head, and urge me to take him to another shoe shop.
After visiting around four shoe stores, my curiosity got the better of me. I could not resist asking, “Who would wear the special pair you are looking for so painstakingly, Ashwin?” Then, putting mischief into my words, “Your search tells me that the prince charming is searching the most beautiful pair of shoes for the feet of his Cinderella. Are you having a girlfriend? Tell me, I promise, I won’t whisper a word to your sister.”
He replied, “Sort of, you are half right but half wrong, you idiot Ekant dear. I don’t have a girlfriend, not so far at least. It has been pretty difficult to manage my first girlfriend, your sister, and my present wife. But, can’t a father search for the loveliest pair of shoes for his little Cinderella, the shoes she may wear to her prince charming’s glitzy ball?” Ashwini was growing mysterious with a twinkle in his eyes.
Ashwin had a son, I knew for sure, his only child, who was studying IT Engineering at Bangalore, staying in the hostel. Had he adopted a grown-up girl, of which I had no news? My wife never told me, not even a whisper. Of course, wives had their weird ways of censoring news from husbands whom they universally considered dullards, that, of course, again a mutual sentiment between most husband and wife pairs.
“Have you recently adopted a girl, Ashwin?” to which, Ashwin smiled a diluted smile, “Na re bhai na (no brother, no). My wife and her sister, during a village tour for relief work on behalf of their association, brought home an orphan girl to help in domestic chores, all of thirteen years, a cute little child. Her name is Nima (bitter Neem), and I see my daughter, I never had, in her. The amazing thing is that the little one has, besides her pretty face, the cutest pair of feet in the world.”
I felt a surge of pleasure to see Ashwin, usually a man of serious disposition, gushing on the loveliness of an orphan girl working perhaps as a housemaid in his house, and especially, looking for a pair of shoes of matchless beauty for her beautiful feet. It brought to my mind the famous one-line love letter of the Hindi block buster movie Pakiza.
In the movie, the hero Rajkumar enters a train compartment at a wayside station, and finds heroine Meena Kumari in deep sleep. He is captivated by the unknown woman’s exquisite beauty, especially impressed by the beauty of her exposed feet. He leaves a one-liner message on a piece of paper stuck between two toes of her feet before getting down at his destination, another wayside station. When the heroine finds the love letter written by a stranger, it reads, “Aapke paaon bahut haseen haain, inhen zameen par mat utaarnaa, maile ho jaayenge" (your feet are very pretty, don’t put them on the bare ground, they may lose their pristine beauty by getting soiled.)
His affection for the girl overwhelmed me. I couldn’t resist asking, “If you desired a daughter so much, why didn’t you go for it after your son?” Ashwin made a sour face, “We tried, rather tried day and night, my wife was more keen in those days, we also took doctors, and once, even a certain Baba into our confidence to help us, but nothing succeeded. We gave up and resumed our sedate life, accepting Siddharth as our first and last child.
My next question was tricky for me to ask, and I knew it would be difficult for Ashwin to reply, “Have you expressed your sentiments about Nima to your wife, more so, to your wife’s big sister? I know your wife’s big sister Paromita calls the shots in your household. She acts as your family dowager.” Ashwin stopped me in our walk, paused a while, then took me to a café, and made me sit across him. He ordered tea and snacks.
After taking his time over a lot of hemming and hawing, he opened up, “You know Ekant, it is not easy. I know them, Niru and Paro. Their minds are narrow. They do relief work, but simultaneously, in certain matters, their cruelty has no match. It borders on selfish meanness. Even the shoes, that I would buy for the little kid so lovingly, may stay hidden in my travel bag forever, never adorning the lovely feet of my Nima.” I looked away not to see the tears welling up in his eyes. I wanted to avoid him being further embarrassed. I feared he might bawl like a baby.
That day, of course, Ashwin bought a very beautiful pair of size-five lady-footwear before we called it a day. He showed his purchases to his sister Bharti with pride, but not the pair of Nima’s shoes. Next day he left Mumbai by flight. He had requested me not to whisper a word to my wife about Nima’s pair of shoes. He informed me that my wife was aware of Nima’s presence in his house, because his wife had spoken to my wife on the first day over phone within his earshot.
Ashwin had been surprised that, I had no knowledge of little Nima. He was not ready to believe that my wife had not shared the information with me. Not to lose face before good old friend Ashwin, and to maintain my husbandly ego that my wife had nothing to hide from me ever, I coaxed him to believe, “It must have skipped Bharati’s mind. Otherwise, it was not a state secret to be kept away from me.” I could not make out if my explanation scored any brownie points for me with Ashwin.
After Ashwin’s departure, I asked my wife, “You never spoke to me about Nima?” She made a face, “What Nima? Who Nima? Oh, you mean Nima? What do you want to know about Nima by the way, and what for? Why the extra curiosity?”
I stopped her before she went on asking her one hundred and one inane questions, “Just stop the nonsense, Bharti. You know that I am only curious to know why you kept Nima’s existence in your brother’s family out of my knowledge. For this intentional or absentminded lapse of yours, I had to cut a sorry face before your brother. I had to tell him cock and bull stories to save the situation. I didn’t want him to know that you censor information before sharing with me. Why didn’t you share information about Nima that Niru transmitted to you in Ashwin’s presence? Do you, ladies of our family, think we the males are vestigial accessories?” I had unknowingly raised my voice, and she was taken aback.
Then I gave her a cool piece of my mind, “You knew from your brother Ashwin’s wife that they have employed Nima in their house, a little orphan girl, to help them in household work. You should have shared the information with me. But you either didn’t find time, or you thought me unfit for sharing such a news. But your brother thinks, we husband-wife team have no common platform, or I was just playing a game with him expressing ignorance about Nima. Don’t do a thing like that in future. It hurts.”
Bharti suddenly had turned into milk and honey towards me but bitter against Nima, whom she had not met, seen, or heard so far, “Sorry Ekant, Nima episode in their drama simply slipped out of my mind. How could I keep you away from any piece of news, might it be about Nima, or Tima? No, never, you know your Bharati very well. Don’t you?”
She kept quiet for a while and her next sentence proved she had just lied to me seconds ago, Nima had not left her mind even for a second, and her mind was already thoroughly poisoned against the little girl, either by Niru or Paro. She puked venomous words, “Nima is not a little girl, as my brother Ashwin describes to you. She is a full-grown young woman, rather on a voluptuous side. She is a cunning, ripe female with roving eyes for males. Paro told me yesterday, she caught Nima red-handed at balcony looking at a neighbour’s college-going son. Her eyes, all hours of the day, follows Ashwin when he is at home.”
She noticed my anger rising and abruptly stopped. After a while, she guiltily added, “I happened to hear those things from Ashwin’s wife Niru, and his sister-in-law Paromita and just sharing with you. These are not my opinion.” I was surprised how ladies turned so hostile even against little girls assuming they would steal their husbands. How insecure our wives were, not an iota of respect for husbands’ character. They just don’t trust them. I had a doubt, “Do they see us in their own image? Are they themselves so unstable in their minds?”
I forgot Nima as time passed. Sometimes I exchanged certain news over telephone with Ashwin, and the same was his position with me. Neither did he share with me any news on Nima, nor he broached her name ever. Once or twice I recalled the shoes he had bought for his litle Cinderella to wear to her prince charming’s ball. But I thought it inappropriate to peek into Ashwin’s weak spot, Nima. I somehow visualized in Nima, the daughter he never had. I was also afraid to know if any outlandish action by the two sisters in charge of Aswin’s house might have taken to dump Nima back in her village or an orphan home. Those two were capable of any mischief under the sun.
I just wondered on the narrowminded sentiments that the three women of our extended family - my wife Bharti, Ashwin’s wife Niru, and Niru’s older sister Paromita who was camping in Ashwin’s family permanently – were capable of against a little girl working for them. It was beyond me, how they could see a little girl as a ripe woman interested in males in neighbourhood, and find it a crime if she looked at a boy or at fatherly figure Ashwin!’ And all those dirty attributions to a pubescent girl of thirteen. As if these ladies before and after their marriages were saints and they never stared at males. But I knew Nima’s real crime - she was a poor orphan.
Next year we visited Odisha, me and my wife, the daughters could not join us as they had semester examinations ahead in a few days’ time. As usual I camped in a room in our usual hotel on Janpath at Bhubaneswar for a week. I had to meet friends in that city and nearby towns, and visit mother in my village and Bharati’s parents and Ashwin. I used to finish my visits and meetings during the daytime and return to my hotel to spend nights. Wife Bharati mostly spent her time with her parents’ family at Cuttack who lived in their old bungalow around five kilometers from their son Ashwin’s house.
One day, when Bharati was at Cuttack with her parents, I asked Ashwin to come and spend the day with me. He agreed as if he was just waiting for my invitation. He was there with me, in my room, in two hours, covering the twenty kilometers between the two cities, Cuttack and Bhubaneshwar. He looked devastated, his face like an overcast sky ready for a cloudburst. I ignored his poor appearance, for such things happened to all weak-kneed persons. Rather, I tried to pep him up and his mood with tea and jokes.
But when my efforts failed to cheer him up, suddenly Nima came to mind. Had any untoward incident happened to Nima? I asked, “Tell me about Nima. Did she like her gift, the shoes?” Suddenly Ashwin avoided my eyes, looked down, and kept the cup of tea on the tea-table for his hands had started shaking. I went totally silent for minutes, drank my tea while looking down only at the teacup on my lap, to give him time to collect his emotions.
I felt a hand on my shoulders. I turned and I saw, Ashwin had left his chair, come around the tea-table, and was standing behind me. His eyes were brimming with tears and face looked like dark clouds pregnant with rain. I could feel his pain. I put my free hand on his hand that lay on my shoulders, and whispered, “Don’t tell me if it hurts. I can hear it later if you want. You may prefer writing it to me in a detailed letter on mail if it unburdens you. Otherwise, just forget about it.”
He was beside himself with emotions for a while, I thought he would outright cry on my shoulders. But he controlled his emotions, cleared his throat, went to the washroom, I presumed, to wash his face of tears, and clear his blocked nostrils. When he returned to his chair, he was reasonably in control. I was waiting, and thinking, “If he talks, I would listen, if he doesn’t, I would not insist. Because we have hundred other things to talk about.”
But Ashwin talked, his voice was steady, “Those shoes, as beautiful as Cinderella’s, no, I couldn’t give them to Nima. My courage failed. As soon as I returned from Mumbai, Niru’s older sister opened her Pandora’s box, her blame game. Her target was Nima, and only Nima. That time, Nima brought my tea and snacks, and stood by my side to ask if I needed anything else like ketchup or a few more pakoras. She ignored Paromita’s withering look and caustic words. My wife sat to my left and her sister to my right like disciplining me, an imbecile child. They shouted at Nima to leave us alone.
“Nima left, giving me a look of understanding. She knew I looked upon her like a daughter. She knew I loved her, loved her presence around me. Our eyes met with a perfect understanding and before leaving she indicated with her eyes that she would be just behind the corner, at my beck and call. our mutual little silent exchange had not escaped the two pairs of hawk eyes, Niru’s and Paro’s. Now they exchanged meaningful glances that didn’t escape me. I thought I and Nima had to be more careful, otherwise these two women may harm my little girl. Let her at least stay as a happy housemaid in my presence in my house.
“Nima became Paro’s punching bag. She was blamed for everything and anything. Niru added fuel to Paro’s fire. If a fire occurred at Kanyakumari, kind of Nima would have to take the blame for it. No logic, no basis was necessary for these sisters to harass Nima. Their loudness won hands down in every occasion. I was defensive in a limited way, not to stretch it to a breaking point and give the ladies opportunity to dump Nima back in her village.
“One day it happened in spite of me and Nima taking full care. A mean dirty game without rhyme or reason was played by Paromita, I think, not even taking Niru into confidence. A necklace was reported missing from wife’s cupboard. The duplicate key was with her sister. It was blamed on Nima. She was declared a thief outright. It was decided to dump her back in her village, or hand her over to the police as the main suspect for stealing it.
“I protested. I declared that I knew Nima was not guilty. The ladies had the keys to the cupboard, and they were responsible for the loss. How Nima could open Niru’s cupboard without having a key to it. They insisted to search Nima’s bag containing her personal belongings. But the necklace was not found there. But they had a novel theory. Nima, after stealing it, might have hidden it in my empty travel bag lying unlocked. So, Paro, without my permission, snatched it from inside my wardrobe and emptied it of the contents.
“The necklace was not there alright, but Paro found the pair of shoes I had bought from Mumbai from my bag. It appeared to me, Paro had searched my bags earlier and had discovered Nima’s gift. But she wanted to reveal her great discovery in a dramatic way. So, she had removed the necklace from Niru’s almirah, and had staged the drama.
“Paro made a shrill noise like finding a dead rat in my bag, and lifted the pair of beautiful shoes in air like exhibiting an evidence in a crime scene. She rasped, ‘What is going on under my nose? This is neither of my size, and Niru, surely not your size.’ At this point like a hyena she grinned at me, ‘Surely, you won’t wear these Ashwin, or lately you have adopted transgender fascinations and wearing ladies shoes behind our backs!’
“She appeared to enjoy every moment of it, her words dripping with sarcasm, ‘The cat is out of the bag at last, Ashwin? Now I know what’s going under this roof behind Niru’s and my back.’ I saw, Niru standing there, giving Paro a nasty look that seemed to say, ‘This is too much big-sis, I don’t like it. My husband may be a little less gifted than you in his trait of meanness, but he is not of a loose character.’
“I roared back at Paro, ‘You shut up. Why were you searching my bag for the necklace?’ Paro simply ginned, and uttered, “Sixth sense, my dear brother-in-law. I must protect my little sister’s interest at all cost from intruders, may it be Nima trying to butt into her space, or any other woman. OK, the neckless was not found, but your game was exposed. You now know, how intuitive women are.’ She laughed a crooked guffaw unabashedly, just like a legendary Ravan.
“The story of the shoes spread like wildfire among our relatives at Cuttack. I could not make out how it escaped our four walls. Niru vouched for her and her sister’s innocence. Paro as usual blamed Nima for it. She might be talking to servants from our relatives. It appeared to be the best gossip of the year. Every other person, every other day, asked me about the mystery of the shoes and with a knowing smile, ‘Who are you gifting those exquisite ladies’ shoes? Or would you put them on yourself, new style? Ha ha.’
“My dear Ekant, all these happened just two weeks ago. But, three days back, a family friend as old as a grandpa visited our house. While sitting in our drawing room and sipping tea and champing samosas made by my little Nima, he asked Paromita in his constipated style, ‘What Paro, I believe, this is the maidservant, about whom you talked to me, who stole your gold necklace? You told me, our Ashwin is defending her, instead of handing her to police? I find her still around here. What, Ashwin, instead of throwing out the thief out of your house, you are buying costly shoes from Bombay for her? What’s going on in your house, Niru?’ Nima looked at me with teary eyes.
“The old man innocently had given away the unknown entity who was spreading the scandal. It was none other than our great well-wisher Paro who had been the culprit behind the dirty game. It was too much for me. I looked at Niru accusingly to have adopted a poisonous snake in the house. In turn, she looked accusingly at her sister. But Paromita stood shamelessly resolute like an iceberg ready to sink Titanic. I walked out of the house in a huff. I had no idea where was I going or for how long.
My mind was numb in anger. Before I reached the gate, Nirupama came running and held my hand in a grip, she was shaking, ‘You look unwell, Ashwin, you may have a stroke, you have a medical history of heart ailments. Where are you going? Don’t go. Rather, let’s ask Paromita to leave our house.’ I replied, ‘Do whatever you want. I am leaving, just leaving. Go to hell, you and your bloody bitch of a sister, I don’t care. But anyone touches Nima, I will kill the offender, just kill the culprit personally.’
“Where could a spineless man like me go, my dear Ekant, who had no spine to publicly accept Nima as daughter? I walked around Cuttack without food or water, sweating, mumbling to myself, and looking for my old hunts to sit and collect my thoughts. By nine in the evening I was apprehensive about Nima, how could I leave a helpless minnow in the company of a shark? I hurried back home, but it was too late.
“I found my home in a deafening silence. Wife sat on a chair like a sphinx, expressionless. No sign of our old male servant-cum-gardener Nandu kaka (uncle Nandu), the family retainer from my father’s time, ever busy either in the house or outdoor garden in front of the bungalow. Also, there was no sign of Nima or Paromita. I looked at my wife.
“She broke down, and what little I gathered from her broken words wrapped with tear and sobs was that Paromita had thrown out our good old Nandu kaka and Nima, after I had left the house. Why Nandu kaka? Because the old house-help loved Nima, and protested when she was thrown out with her belongings.
“I asked, ‘Where is Paromita?’ Niru choked, ‘I threw Paromita out with her bag and baggage, the root of all our sorrow. I am sorry Ashwin to have allowed a mean and arrogant woman like Paromita to live with us for so long. She might have gone to the house of our late parents at Puri, lying locked under the care of a caretaker.’
“I was heartbroken for Nima. Nandu kaka might have returned to his village. But where could Nima go? I ran to the local Police Station, and filed a missing person complaint. The good inspector promised to start the search immediately. He asked me to go home and wait for information from him. He informed me that by the next morning, if Nima was not traced, he would question Niru and Paromita in details what really had transpired while throwing the child out of the house. Some missing links might be helpful in tracing the lost person.”
After his long tragic story, he added, “All these happened just yesterday, my dear Ekant, when you were here. I didn’t bother you, thinking, you should be left alone during your holidays. Your presence, now I realize, could have been of great help. I was also afraid of my sister Bharti. She would come with you and be a spoiler. I know her narrow mentality like most Indian women about servants, especially if the servant is of the female sex.” Finishing his long complaint, Ashwin sat looking down and brooding.
I got up as it was time for action. I yanked Ashwin by hand to a standing position to bring him out of his stupor, and asked him to follow me down. On our way to Cuttack in his car, l told him, Our best bet was to go to Nandu kaka’s house in his native village and check, the old man might have taken Nima with him. Nandu was from Ashwin’s parental village around seventy kilometers from Cuttack. We reached the village in three hours flat, in spite of the difficult rural roads.
To our honking of the car horn, Nandu kaka came out of the house smiling. With welcoming words, he ushered us inside, talking all the while, “Aashu (he called Ashwin with his childhood name with a fatherly right), don’t tell me anything, your dark visage is eloquent enough. Yes, Nima is here. She is playing with my two grandchildren of her age on the backside of the house. She can stay with me like a granddaughter if you say so. I will call her now to meet you.”
Nandu kaka made us sit on his inner veranda on a mat and went in to call Nima. A girl of thirteen, she must be Nima, who had the look of a healthy girl of thirteen, neither the little one of fatherly Ashwin, nor the vuluptuous ripe and full woman of Paromita’s description. When her eyes fell on Ashwin, she literally jumped into his lap. It was a scene to record in heart’s labyrinths, a union of two souls as if lost to each other for an eon.
After a good lunch, we drove back with Nandu kaka and Nima. Nandu kaka sat by my side when I drove the car to Cuttack, and Nima and Ashwin sat in the back seat glued together, whispering to each other that I couldn’t catch over the purring noise of the car. I wondered how these two had managed so much closeness under the two pairs of hawk eyes, Niru’s and Paro’s in their house! We drove to the police station to close the missing person FIR file.
The nice inspector, after Ashwin informed that he wanted to adopt Nima and take her home, spoke in his brusque police style, “No, not now, Ashwin babu, as per law as a lost and found person, Nima would stay in the women welfare home until you complete adoption formalities. It may take a full week. You can take the child home after showing me the documents. Tell your wife and sister-in-law, if they indulge in any more hanky-panky with the orphan child in future, they may land in jail. The mercy that I showed them this time, would not be repeated.”
Then he thought it over and said, “No, don’t tell them anything. I am visiting your house tomorrow afternoon, and Paromita’s house at Puri also, and I will warn them personally. I will also take their signatures in the case-closing file with their commitment recorded by them in their handwriting. That would make them learn their lessons.”
We left Nima at the women welfare centre under police supervison. I dropped Nandu kaka and a relieved Ashwin to his house, went to my father-in-law’s place, gave the full news bulletin to my wife Bharati, had dinner with my in-laws, and drove back with her to our hotel room for a peaceful night.
After a month, I in my flat at Mumbai, received a video call on my laptop from Ashwin. All three of them, Nima, Nirupama, and Ashwin, looked rapturous, and gushed their pleasure over their new togetherness. I called Bharati, my wife, to join me, and by the conferencing app, Ashwin’s son, and our two daughters, all from their respective hostels joined us for the talk-jamboree. The eight participants’ talkathon went on and on for almost an hour. The focus was Nima, the new addition to Ashwin’s family, Niru and Ashwin’s adopted daughter.
A wave of cheers resounded when she suddenly called out ‘papa’ to Ashwin, and Ashwin collected all of her thirteen years in his arms like she was a little cuddly doll. But the loudest claps came when, with a mischievous smile, Ashwin lifted Nima in his arms and showed us her feet. She wore the pair of her lovely Cinderella shoes, that had started the storm in the teacup. By then, I assumed from clapping by one and all that the saga of Nima’s Cinderella shoes had already become kind of international. Bharati, by my side appeared to have turned into a saint, as she sighed audibly with a smile, and exclaimed, “Ah, finally, Aswin bhai gets the daughter he never had.”
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
THE ROMANTIC KADAMBA (KELI KADAMBA)
Translated by Prahanjan K. Mishra
The lore of Dvapara
may be fading into sepia of time,
the folk-memory
getting blurry,
years sail by
waving ‘bye’ to new arrivals,
but a Kadamba tree by Yamuna
hopes against hope
to celebrate her spring-blossom days
in company of Krishna,
who would fulfil her longings
for his loving fingers, moving them
through her tousled foliage,
reaching her bare flesh.
gone gnarled drinking the stone’s sap.
The time would hold breath.
The Kadamba by Yamuna may be
getting bald, her foliage no more
lush as of youth, the virgin sap
weighing her down, she getting old.
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)”
Have you paid back
the blood debt
that you owe
to the oozing stigmata
that refuse to dry up
and for the unconditional
blessings and
heavenly grace
that are bestowed
on you from the day
you were born?
Have you paid back
the blood debt
that you owe
to the seed that
implanted you in
the womb
and to the placenta
that fed your foetus
and pumped blood
in your veins
till you saw
the light of the day?
Have you paid back
your blood debt
that you owe to
your guru
like Eklavya
did in severing
off his thumb
and vowed
not to lift up the bow
ever again
or like Arjuna
fighting the evil
and drawing blood
in the battle?
Have you paid back
your blood debt
that you owe to
those who
laid their lives for you
and killed for you
those who
drew their daggers
to stab and skewer
and had blood
on their hands for you?
Have you paid back
your blood debt
that you owe
to the elements
that you massacred
ruthlessly
relentlessly
over the years
and to an
asphyxiated
and denuded world
that weeps blood
day in
and day out?
It was about 8 AM on the 1st of April. Lieutenant Dinesh Murmu popularly known as Danny was getting ready for the day. He was to receive the Admiral at the airport. Just as he finished tying up his shoe laces, his mobile rang.
' Hello, may I speak to Lieutenant Danny?,' a female voice sweetly cooed.
' This is Danny, may I know who's speaking please ?,' Danny almost came to 'attention', his hair slightly standing up in anticipation.
' I am Sanjana. I don't know if you had noticed me in Captain Punia's party last week. I was the girl in a black and white zebra print dress,' the girl on the line introduced herself.
' Oh, yes, now I remember. Tell me what can I do for you?,' Danny was being gallant, though in fact he had no idea who this girl could be.
' I am glad you remember me. Although I didn't get a chance to talk to you, the only person whom I remember most from the party is you, ' gushed the girl.
' Why is it so?,' Danny asked excitedly.
' You were so stylish. The body hugging black shirt with black sequins on its cuff and collar was simply out of the world. And to match that your black bow tie with the white dots! When you lit your pipe near the bar in that corner, under the diffused light, it was just magical. I really got swayed off my feet and hoped like hell that someone will introduce you to me. But that was not to be so,' the girl paused a while and continued, ' I just didn't know what was happening to me.'
' Oh My God, I don't believe you. You could have just come and introduced yourself,' Danny interjected.
' I was feeling shy. But see now I picked up the courage to call you. Didn't I?,' said the girl.
' OK, that's fine. Why not you and I plan to meet one of these days ?,' proposed Danny.
' That's why I called. What are you doing this evening?,' asked the girl.
' I am free. Where would you like us to meet?,' asked Danny.
' Let's meet in the roof garden of Baker's Inn at 5 in the evening if it's ok with you,' suggested the girl.
' Done. That's a good choice. They make one of the best cappuccinos in the city. And the pastries, just heavenly,' said Danny almost salivating.
' See you in the evening then. I am really excited to meet you,' the girl deliberately showed her eagerness.
' Me too. But tell me how do I recognise you?' Asked Danny in a childish voice.
' C'mn, I do recognise you. So where's the problem? But anyway, I will be in a black trouser and a red top. That would help I suppose,' the girl said amusingly.
At the same time in the officers' mess lounge Samir and Sagar were in splits and laughing uncontrollably. They were profusely thanking Surekha, a lady officer for pulling such a marvellous act of impersonation to perfection. Samir, Sagar and Danny were batch-mates from their Academy days. They always derived vicarious pleasure in pulling Danny's legs, whenever there was any opportunity. And this was the April Fools' Day.
Dinesh Murmu was born in a remote village in Bihar, now in Jharkhand. His father Arjun Murmu was a Havildar in the army. His dream was to see his son as a commissioned officer in the Armed forces. His joys knew no bounds when Dinesh cleared the entrance examinations to secure a seat in Sainik School, Tilaiya. Arjun knew that the physical, mental and academic grooming that is necessary to get through the Services Selection Boards can best be given in such a school. Dinesh remembers fondly the day when his father distributed sweets in the family quarters of Jodhpur cantonment, where he was employed then. It was a red letter day for Arjun for his son had cracked the Services Selection Board to be inducted into the National Defence Academy. Dinesh was taken in as a naval cadet and after successful training, joined the Navy training school at Cochin.
This is where his real transformation began. He soon learnt that to keep pace with the elite officers' class he has to do much more beyond his professional competence. On the social scene he still bore the stigma of his humble beginnings and the image of a village boy and the son of a non-commissioned officer. And he took it upon himself to do a complete image make over. He made a quick checklist based on what he thought to be parameters of being hep and cool. First he wanted to adapt an anglicised name. Navy was full of such examples: Jayakrishna becoming Jacks, Chakravarthy becomes Chaks, Krishnan to Kris, Samar as Sam and the like. On a friend's advice Dinesh chose for himself Danny. Next was to own a motor bike. During those days between the two brands Jawa and Rajdoot, the first was considered more macho. He managed to buy a second hand bike from a senior naval aviator, who had just graduated to a Standard Herald car. The next in line was a music system and a collection of jazz, hard rock, rhythm and blues and pop music LP's. He was lucky to strike a bargain with a foreign trainee officer from Nigeria who was returning to his country after completing his training at Cochin. His wardrobe also went through drastic change, with colourful printed shirts for the weekends, couple of bright coloured jackets, Jantzen brand swimwear and a selection of footwear. He raided one of the ship's canteens and through couple of his friends collected few bottles of body sprays and colognes. Soon he was seen carrying packets of Dunhill cigarettes, though he really didn't like smoking and rarely smoked. But he felt nice to display the packets deliberately while sipping a chilled beer with friends, and offering them from his packs. The transformation from Dinesh to Danny was almost complete.
Almost complete, because the other most crucial item on the checklist still unticked, was finding a smart and willing girlfriend, which Cochin had plenty to offer. This is where he got really stuck. In this matter almost all his friends had been luckier. In case of Danny, somehow things never worked out. He was smart and can easily qualify to be called tall, dark and somewhat handsome. He was even handpicked by the Commander in Chief as his flag lieutenant, a coveted post for the young officers. Such an appointment had always been the pre-cursor of a glorious career. But when it came to girls, Danny was always found high and dry. His love life never took off as if it was somehow jinxed. He was very affable, suave and always forthcoming to help anyone who needed his help. But God only knew what really was missing. He always tried to convince some girl in parties and club get-togethers for a date or a dance but never could succeed. He visited some senior officers' houses, of those carefully selected who had young college going daughters, with the hope to find a match, but almost all of them found in him more of a brother than a boy friend. His reputation among the girls was more fraternal than romantic. As for his friends, they always drank his beer, smoked his cigarettes but behind his back secretly sniggered and even called him a loser, a sucker and sometimes a lame duck.
After the unexpected call in the morning Danny received his boss at the airport and the day passed uneventfully, though it appeared to go really slow as compared to other days. He was lost in the thought of the possibilities after the evening's date. He could visualise a beautiful belle, a nubile nymph making a grand entry in to his otherwise barren life and could feel goosebumps at the prospect of seeing his checklist finally complete. He sought permission of the Admiral to secure early in the pretext of feeling unwell and came back to his cabin to get ready for the evening.
He picked up from the wardrobe a smart high neck full sleeved cream coloured T shirt, a black trouser with razor sharp creases and a maroon coloured summer jacket. He then polished his black Oxford shoes till the toes shone like a mirror. He then picked up the scissor to give a fine trim to his Clark Gable pencil moustache, which he had recently grown after the Navy regulations permitted men to keep a moustache. He gave himself a close shave using his new Gillette razor. After dressing up he gave a final touch by a copious splash of Brut cologne about his cheeks and neck. He then picked up his helmet and rode off on his well maintained old Jawa to reach Bakers Inn exactly at 5 minutes to 5 PM.
He climbed the stairs to the roof top garden, which was bare with no customers around. He chose a corner table under the canopy and waited for his date to arrive with baited breath. The clock ticked by and he heard the clock strike 5 in the nearby clock tower. With every strike of the bell, his heart pounded in sync and he kept looking at the entrance to the garden for the fairy of his fantasy to appear. But there was no sign of anyone. Danny fidgeted on his chair and asked the waiter to get him a cup of cappuccino. When the coffee arrived, he took out a cigarette from his sleek Dunhill pack and just toyed with it without lighting it. He slowly started sipping the coffee, his gaze fixed to the entrance. In between he would bring the cigarette near his nose, sniff it and then tap its filter end on the cigarette pack. This continued till the coffee got exhausted. Suddenly he heard some shuffling noise and found a young lady entering the garden. She slowly entered, scanned the area and walked to another corner to choose another table. She met his eyes for a fraction of a second but there was no sign of recognition. Then Danny checked what she was wearing. She was in a red trouser and a black top. He tried to rack his memory to remember what Sanjana had said that she would be wearing . He was sure it was supposed to be a black trouser and a red top. But was it ?
Danny was in a dilemma. He called the waiter and ordered for another cup of coffee. Meanwhile the girl who sat on the other table, kept checking her watch again and again while looking at the entrance expectantly. Danny quietly observed her getting impatient by the minute. Suddenly she called the waiter and ordered for an espresso. During the next ten minutes or so, she finished three espressos and Danny had finally lit up his cigarette. After a little while the waiter brought a nicely decorated cake to the girl's table, with one candle on top. The girl looked at the cake kept in front and suddenly broke into a sob, tears welling up in her eyes. Danny involuntarily got up and faced her. He introduced himself and politely asked if he may join the table. She forced a melancholic smile and nodded her head. Danny glanced over the writing on the cake, 'Happy Birthday Neeta'.
' Happy Birthday,' Danny wished the girl , and continued,' its a special day for you to celebrate. May I ask why are you looking so sad?'
' Thank you for asking. Frankly speaking I had a date with my boy friend. Things were not going too well between us lately. We thought that my birthday would be good occasion to meet and sort things out. But it seems he had stood me up. And I am left alone here, hoping that he will come,' sobbed Neeta.
' Oh, that makes two of us, though my case is a little different. My date also has ditched me. Though I never met the girl, I agreed to meet her here only on her request. I was looking forward to the beginning of a good relationship. But it seems she decided to stay away,' confided Danny.
' Any way I have decided to call it off between us. There's no point forcing anyone to continue,' said Neeta with a finality in her tone.
' Why cry over the past? The future is ours, the way we want it to be. Let's celebrate your birthday first. Cheer up. Please cut the cake and let's enjoy,' encouraged Danny.
Neeta cut the cake with Danny singing in tune 'Happy Birthday to You'. Then they fed each other pieces of cake , and exchanged notes about their lives, their families and their likes as well as dislikes. Neeta revealed that she was a final year student at St Teressa and her father was a manager in the Coir Board. Danny shared about his childhood and his days in the Navy. Soon it appeared as if they knew each other from ages and they were laughing at each other's jokes and enjoying each other's company.
' Hey, I have never seen a ship from inside. Can you take me to one of your ships and show me around?,' requested Neeta.
' Why not? It would be my pleasure . How about having lunch on board a cruiser this Sunday?,' offered Danny.
' Sure, I would love to,' acknowledged Neeta.
' In fact I will also invite two of my buddies Samir and Sagar with their girl friends to the lunch. We all would have a party, ' said Danny.
' My friend Julie knows a naval officer, who has invited her to the May Queen Ball. I was wondering if I will ever get a chance to go to the ball ! ,' exclaimed Neeta.
' Of course, keep your dancing shoes ready. You would be my guest of honour at the ball,' offered Danny.
' Oh, thanks Danny. I couldn't have celebrated my birthday any better,' Neeta declared.
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.
THE HIDDEN STREAM (BHRANTA NIRJHARA)
Translated from Odia by Priya Bharati
An elderly couple being senior citizens were allotted lower berth in AC two tiers. They had occupied their berth well before the train was to leave the station. Being an off season time, there was not much crowd.
They were going to their daughter’s place in Mumbai. Both were looking grave and sat in silence like two grave yard statues placed close to the fence of a rice field.
The reason for the discord between them was this: back home the elderly lady had said, “Our daughter likes mushroom, good mushroom is available here, bring it from the market”. Son in law likes prawn. “Procure it from the market in Paradip”. “I have prepared kakra pitha and rasi ladoo at home."
The moment the husband heard this proposal of his wife, he flared up and replied, “We already have two pieces of luggage. On top of that the long list of things you plan to carry as if these things are not available there. Who will carry so many luggages?"
The wife shot back, “As if you are going to carry all these. We can hire a coolie for this”.
“Do you have any idea how much we will have to pay for carrying so many luggages? I have always told you to carry fewer luggages while travelling. You are not a person to listen”.
“Shut up”, the wife replied back. "You are a stingy man. You cannot even tolerate giving things to children”.
Such a reply was sufficient to put him off and shut his mouth.
The train left the station. The coolies, relatives who had come to see the passengers off, got down. A boy and a girl after saying good bye to their dear ones came and sat down in the side berth. They looked like just married. The girl’s face was glowing with the smile of completeness and from the glow of ornaments she was wearing. They kept their luggage in the upper berth, spread their bed roll in the lower berth and sat on it. Some luggage was also placed under the lower berth.
The girl as per custom had come to her father’s house with her husband. The son in law had been welcomed as per custom with due ceremony. Now the boy was going with his bride to Nagpur, his work place.
Seeing the elderly couple grim and sitting silently, the girl in a hushed tone told her husband in his ears, “Why is the chin of the elderly couple elongated like that of a chameleon?”
They both burst out laughing loudly.
The train producing its own musical strain had picked up speed by then.
The young couple pulled the curtain of the side seat and became immersed in their romantic talk. They were in complete oblivion regarding the passengers and hawkers passing by. The elderly couple could gauge their romance very well. In between sound of giggling was heard.
The old lady was disturbed with their activities. She murmured a scathing remark, got up to go to the bathroom. After that, she spread her bed roll and reclined to sleep.
The old man could not sleep. They were carrying so many luggages and anybody could steal anything if he fell asleep.
He kept an eye on the things and strained his ears to hear what the young couple was saying. Though there were signs of aging in his physical appearance, his ears were still sharp. Probably hearing the news in TV, election analysis and friend’s gossip was making his ears sharper than before.
What the old man was over hearing through the curtain was as follows:
“How did you find our house?”
“Nice”.
“Only nice, tell something more”.
"Your father, mother and brother, all are nice. The ceremony of welcoming me will be remembered for all times. Like icing on a cake, I am fortunate to get a beautiful younger sister in law (saali)."
“You are really naughty”, she chided him playfully. Then she continued,
“You were our special guest. My mother prepared fish on the first day. Do you know from where they procured fish? It was brought from Mahanadi River at Athagarh”.
“No wonder”, replied the boy. “I would have swooned seeing the size of the fish head served on my plate”.
Their suppressed laughter could be heard through the curtain.
"On day two, mother had procured special mutton from Balianta in your honor.
On day three, she had prepared vegetarian item so that you do not have stomach upset eating non vegetarian items. My mother cooks curry with mustard very well."
“I totally agree that she is a great cook”.
"The way you licked your fingers after eating made my mother very happy and she related this with much satisfaction to others."
"Ok. I shall be happy if they give such special treatment to an insignificant person like me for all times to come."
They both laughed.
The girl again said, “Did you mark a girl standing when you entered our house. Her face had a protruding chin”.
"Well, there were so many girls standing, so I do not know about whom you are talking”.
The tall girl called Nirmala. She is my uncle’s daughter. They too had sent proposal to your parents for your hands.
“I have no idea about it”.
My uncle’s family just could not tolerate that my marriage has been fixed with you. They tried to break our marriage.
“OK. Tell me how many other proposals did you get besides mine?”
“No, your proposal was first and last for me. The moment I saw you, I lost my senses.”
“No, you are a liar"; she said mischievously and pinched him. She continued, “If you tell lies, the crow will peck you”.
“Yes, right now a crow is pecking me", the boy replied mischievously.
The girl gathering courage next asked him softly, “Did you love anyone before?”
“No, you are my first and last love” said the boy.
“You are lying?”
“No I am telling the truth”, replied the boy.
"Ok, let’s have some snacks. My mother has packed kakra, ladu and labangi for us."
“No, I am not hungry. Let’s only have tea when the hawker comes”.
“Now tell me, you are so beautiful, many proposals for marriage must have come for you?"
“Yes", replied the girl. "One of them who had come to see me was a short fellow wearing high heeled shoes. The ladies of our house were giving knowing smile seeing him. I was made to sit in front of him. I could not laugh then, but the moment I returned to my room, I laughed to my heart’s content”. She laughed and rolled down from her berth saying this.
Her laughter was so contagious that the old man too laughed out loud before controlling his urge.
“Did you receive any other proposal for marriage?
"Wait, I will tell you. One ugly person had come to see me. He looked like Mahisasura. I felt like putting my feet on him or injuring his neck". (The statue of Goddess Durga with Mahisasura under her feet and her lion killing the buffalo of Mahisasura).
She rippled with laughter.
The old man hearing this became grave. His wife too had compared him with Ravan (the demon king) during the early years of marriage.
"Finally, you came."
"Did you like me?"
"Of course, or else I would have remained a spinster".
Just then the tea hawker was heard calling, "tea, hot tea”.
The girl opened the curtain and asked for two cups of tea and enquired what was the cost?
Twenty rupees, answered the hawker.
“What, it was just seven rupees per cup a short while back. When did it become twenty rupees for two cups?”
She paid and they both drank tea.
After a while the boy asked, “Did you love anyone?”
The girl replied “no” immediately.
“Liar”.
“Believe me”.
“Don’t you know anyone loving you?”
“If someone would love me silently, how do I know?’
“What about your Sarat Bhai?”
“Which Sarat Bhai?”
“You don’t know him?”
“No, I do not know anyone by that name”.
She kept the cup down and waited for her husband’s next question. Her ears had turned red by then.
"For that person for whom you were ready to leave home and board a bus early one morning. Your brother brought you back from Duburi Square on his bike".
The girl became mum. She looked at her husband and then looked down.
The old man realized that the rippling laughter and free flow of words ceased suddenly. He felt as if a singing and dancing stream flowing in its path suddenly fell into a deep ditch and lost its track.
The girl suddenly became restless. Tears poured down her cheeks. The boy holding her hands was heard saying, “Sorry, sorry, please don’t cry”.
She somehow controlled herself, hid her face in her hand and went to the toilet.
The boy followed her.
The old man sat up. Lest some misfortune might take place, he too followed them. Saw the boy sitting in the attendant seat.
The sound of crying was heard from the bathroom. The girl came out after sometime and sat in another seat. The boy went and sat near her.
The old man seeing all this felt upset and returned to his berth. The old lady woke up and went towards the bathroom. She observed that both the boy and girl were sitting silent with their heads down,
She returned and asked her husband, "These two were laughing and enjoying themselves, what happened to them? Their chins are protruded like a crane now."
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
When the question was put to George Mallory, “Why did you want to climb Mount Everest?”, the legendary mountaineer is reported to have retorted: "Because it's there!" These were the three most famous words in mountaineering folklore that enthused three of us friends to test our taste for climbing. Not for us the mighty Everest; our modest target was to ‘conquer’ the neighbourhood hill of Gandhamardan. Full of lush vegetation, it’s widely revered for its medicinal plants and herbs. Legend has it that when Lakshman was severely wounded in the battle with Ravana, Hanuman was sent post-haste to Gandhamardan to bring the Bisalyakarani herb for his treatment. Failing to recognise the plant with his ‘limited’ medical knowledge, Hanuman promptly uprooted the entire hill and carried it on his broad shoulders to Lanka!
Gandhamardan is also a pilgrimage for devotees of both Saivites and Vaishnavites. While the Harishankar temple dedicated to Lord Shiva stands at the foothills on its southern side, Lord Vishnu resides in the Nrusinghanath temple at the bottom of the perennial stream on the northern end. Locals insist that the two powerful deities protect the hill’s diverse flora and mineral wealth from exploitation by outsiders.
Our plan was to climb the hill on its southern face and then descend to Nrusinghanath on the other side. We reached Harishankar by the evening bus and found accommodation in the sole government guest house available. Swarming mosquitoes gave us a resounding welcome! Not only that, their ‘music’ drove us to get up early too! I had a refreshing dip in the cascading stream that flowed alongside the temple. I was reluctant to come out of the crystal-clear pool. But we had miles to go and a promise to keep. So, after a darshan of Shiva and a frugal breakfast of puri and aloo at a thatched canteen, we set out on our first steps up the hill. We were guided by the zigzag path made by pilgrims from the neighbouring state of Chhattisgarh, who could stride effortlessly from Harishankar to Nrusinghanath and back. We city-bred trio were left panting by even their womenfolk who carried their babies in the folds of their saris! But spirit, once aroused, refuses to be daunted. So, huffing and puffing, I pushed on behind my companions.
By the time we reached the plateau at the top, I felt like a born mountaineer! Dense vegetation spread all over the broad expanse. Amidst the undergrowth, I spotted a tall mildewed milepost, still reading the distance to the four corners of India—Delhi, Calcutta, Madras and Bombay. After the stiff climb, the descent to Nrusinghanath alongside a rivulet was brisk. A ‘cleansing’ dip in the Nrusinghanath pool and we headed home.
There could be no escape from collateral damage though. Our stiffened thigh muscles refused to bend to our needs! Cousins giggled and mocked our ‘misadventure’. But I silenced them with a single question: “Have you ever heard of George Mallory?”
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
I lived another day,
Looked around to see
How can it be spend
In the best way.
I could have gone out
For an outing,
But was not sure
If I would be back in time
For the evening tea .
I thought for a moment.
May be it is better
To stay back
And spend the day
Talking to her
On the river bed.
There was no agenda.
Nothing specific,
I was more keen to listen.
Than burdening her
With my chattering.
She had her story to tell,
I was more eager
To listen to her
The entire day.
The sun was about to set,
The birds were returning
To their nest,
While I kept looking at her
With love and interest
She smiled
As the golden rays
Kissed the river
Glowing her face.
I saw the magic of love
Reflecting after ages,
I was happy and contented
That the day was well spent.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
Zia Marshall
Gita Bharat
Padmini Janardhanan
Anju Kishore and
Sundar Rajan.
The Blue Hour - Mystic Power
(Picture clicked by Sundar Rajan)
Mystic hues of Blue Hour cascade the sky
Ah! The twilight zone, soft cerulean
I choose companions, my life train rolls by
Cherished travelers; who goes, who remains?
Ah! The twilight zone, soft cerulean
Blue the hue of the throat chakra, our voice
Cherished travellers; who goes, who remains?
Our soul mates stay on not by chance but choice.
Blue the hue of the throat chakra, our voice
Radiant sky hues, to our chakras wed
Our soul mates stay on not by chance but choice.
With the green of the heart, a blue green blend
Radiant sky hues, to our chakras wed
A true-blue stretch of deep consciousness
With the green of the heart, a blue green blend
It embraces all with graciousness.
A true-blue stretch of deep consciousness,
Fantasy of firmament, so precious.
It embraces all with graciousness,
Knowing very well these are fugacious.
Fantasy of firmament, so precious,
I choose companions, my life train rolls by.
Knowing very well these are fugacious,
Mystic hues of Blue Hour cascade the sky.
STRUCTURE OF A PANTOUM
This fixed form poem comprises of a series of quatrains interwoven with the rhyme scheme abab.
A fixed syllable count (8 to 12 syllables) is maintained in each line of the poem (we have used a 10 syllable count).
The pantoum has a repetitive quality giving it an echoing effect because the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next stanza.
This pattern continues until the final stanza which is a collation of fixed lines from the penultimate and first quatrain of the poem.
The first two lines of each quatrain of the Pantoum allude to the image. The third and fourth lines of each quatrain highlight the theme of the poem.
In this Pantoum, Mystic Hues, we have used the image of the blue skies at twilight and the theme is relationships we develop in our life journey.
(Zia Marshall is a Learning Designer focusing on personal and professional growth, a poet and writer.
Gita Bharath is a retired banker, a published poet and writer.
Padmini Janardhanan is a psychologist focusing on personal effectiveness, a poet and writer.
Anju Kishore is a poet and editor whose work has been featured in many anthologies and journals.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer.)
KANAKA'S MUSINGS
Paattie (Grandma)
Lathaprem Sakhya
The other day while going for an evening walk she happened to come across a grey haired man and two little boys hanging on his either hands. She was far behind but she could hear the shrill voices of the little boys. Kanaka loved children so she dècided to walk fast and catch up with them and lag behind them just to listen to their prattle. She was missing her little ones. Their parents took them home and then Covid locked down everybody. It was nearly two months and seeing the two little ones with their grandpa made her yearn for them.
Henry and Dennis, her grandchildren were like twins. Six and five years old respectively! Kanaka was envious of their thatha (grandpa), a blessed person who was their world for them. From fishing, to playing, to repairing knicknacks, he was their hero. It amused her tremendously at the same time, made her green with jealousy, the way they clung to him. Compared to him, Paattie (grandma) knew nothing, not even cooking, that was their conclusion. While eating fried fish one day Henry asked who fried the fish and thatha replied paattie. Pat came the reply, "It doesn't taste good like the way you fry, thatha. Again you fry it for us".
In one way, when the boys were around Kanaka had a lot of free time once she finished her cooking. But Niranjan was on his feet, running around them catering to their needs, bathing them, feeding them, washing them after toilet and playing games with them. If Kanaka offered help they would start screaming in unison, "we want thatha, paattie, go".
She remembered how one day when they were younger, the two went to two toilets simultaneously.
They were in two different rooms and started screaming for Niranjan, Kanaka went to Dennis, the younger one, the door to the toilet was open. Immediately he asked her,
"Where is Thatha?"
"With Henry."
Then he said,
"Close the door paattie, and go and sit on the bed, when I finish I shall call you."
Kanaka was scared to leave him alone, he was so small, so she left the door ajar and stood behind it, waiting for him to call her. He never called, instead he waited for thatha!
She was always on the edge, on the boundary of their circle watching and enjoying their camaraderie. Sometimes she thought she was doubly marginalised, being paattie and then being a woman. Young men as she called them were not children, they were male chauvinists, she concluded lovingly, smiling to herself.
They had utter contempt for everything female. They tolerated the mother cat Sweety but the female kitten was treated with disdain.
They called her "pennu poocha" ( female cat). The male kittens were addressed respectfully as Tony and Tiger. Once Kanaka caught them calling the kitten "pennu poocha" and she told them that it had a name, Tessa, and that they should call her Tessa and not "Pennu".
They never allowed her or their paternal grandma to enter their male world, made up of thatha, their pappa and all those boys, their cousins. They would build a playhouse or a tent using Kanaka's sarees but they invited only thatha or their mamma inside it. Pattie was never invited to crawl into it even though they took her aid to set it up. The only lady who had a right to be there was their mamma. They adored her. But what made Kanaka smile to herself with hope was the hold she had upon them. She was the only one they obeyed. She was the authority, their Pappa, grandpa, uncles and cousins could never make them do anything against their will. But if mamma said something they would obey, to the letter. That gave her hope! That was enough, Kanaka consoled herself.
There were nights kanaka had lain awake worrying about the boys and her daughter Juny. Being a Doctor and doing her PG she hardly had time to be with them.Though, a residential programme she came home almost every night driving about 20 kms in the night to be with her little ones as her husband was also away. Most of the nights they would wait for their mamma, driving their paternal grandma crazy. And when she arrived they would wait patiently for her to have her bath and supper, to snuggle down with her. Thus she slowly steadily got a grip over them that she was very careful not to loosen and it became a powerful bonding between them.
They came to Kanaka's house on week-ends with their pappa if he was on leave or their thatha picked them up. Then their world revolved around their thatha. Kanaka would sit at the edge of their territory unnoticed, immersed in her book or needlework to listen to their prattle with their grandpa. One day it was Henry who took up the subject when thatha mentioned about going to his homeland where he had his fruit tree grove. Immediately Dennis chimed, in
" When you go, we will also come".
" Not now",
"Why not?" Dennis' round eyes grew larger and cheeks turned red.
"Your mamma and pappa too must become free, only then we can take you ".
Suddenly Henry broke out from his world of thoughts. He was sweet and calm always. He was a silent thinker. Like his grandpa he was very reserved. He spoke only if there was a need to. He adored his thatha and would not share him even with Dennis. He would sit on thatha's lap, which was his place and Dennis had no right to sit there. So Dennis would snuggle close to thatha who would put his arm around Dennis and fold him close to his body so that he wouldn't feel left out.
"Thatha, mamma says she wouldn't give her land or houses to Dennis or me. She says all the land and the three houses you have belong to her." Kanaka suppressed her giggle.
"Why did she say that?" Thatha enquired suppressing his chuckle.
Dennis piped in "We told her that you had promised to give the new small house to me and the old one to Henry".
"Yes I had said that".
Then Henry took up. "She says we have to study hard and get good Jobs then make money and buy our own land and houses. AII that belongs to thatha belongs to her and she won't give us anything." Kanaka burst out laughing. Niranjan turned around to look at her, he was struggling to suppress his grin.
He hugged the two and told them, "Yes, what your mamma says is right. When you grow up, get a job and make money of your own, then she would give them to you. But now let us concentrate on our studies." Kanaka shook her head. The children these days are so precocious.
"Appappa( grandpa) stop". Kanaka awoke from her reverie to see the little ones and their grandpa stopping by a puddle on the side of the dirt road and looking seriously into it. She went up to them and out of curiosity she too stopped to look and her heart leaped in joy to see tadpoles which she had seen only in her childhood.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Only a penny in his pocket,
Penny he gambled too,
Consideration and risk,
But not the prize, no.
Wagering, his gaze wandering,
Head tilting as he mused,
Possibilities and probabilities,
What should he move.
Looking at his cards,
Peeping with his mind,
Is his smile volitional,
Or unpremeditated.
His trust on his instinct,
Leaving logic in the past,
He climbed the steps of dollars,
Ditched T-shirts for ties.
The penny in his pocket,
He never let go,
Briefcases in his hand-hold,
Growing in size and shine.
The top of the ladder,
He could've stopped groping,
For more and more, greed,
Pushed him, lo and behold.
Falling through the dollars,
Regretted skipping rungs,
The penny in his pocket, slipping,
As he cascaded to the ground.
A book bound,
The cover a chintzy pink,
Betrayed not, it's contents,
A dark black.
The hardcover held from spilling,
The heaviest of secrets,
The writer's blues,
Masquerading as a novel.
Fire away,
He let his thoughts loose,
Fire away,
Skating across paper, turning blue.
Emotions to words,
Not everything is as it seems,
The pretty pink on the outside,
Doing no justice to the depth within.
A minimalistic drawing,
A sigil of the most complex,
White on black,
No, black on white.
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/.
‘We were thick as thieves’ he thought. Not a bad or inaccurate term for two people who shared almost everything. Occasional drunken soirees where the choicest scotch used to be served. Great food and snacks. But the piece de resistance was the women he used to procure and were available for entertainment. An evening with Kanhai Lal Choubey was always something to look forward to, particularly for letting one’s hair down. The result was rest and recuperation. Radheshyam Tiwari was thinking.
Both had different trajectories in life. Kanhai in a way had the advantage of inheritance. His father was a contractor for irrigation department’s flood control works. Gorakhpur was particularly vulnerable to floods. The rates used to be high , but the old man delivered quality works. Then Kanhai came in and changed the rules of the game. The tenders always had plenty of cushion, but Kanhai made sure that no one competed and the tender inevitably went to him. Thereafter, he skimped on the quality of work. What is the point in constructing sturdy bunds if the floods were coming again soon. After shoddy completion, there was plenty of money to go around. Bribe money to the engineers and peace money for the politicians. If any engineer showed some spine to ask questions they used to be thrashed. Radheyshyam generally agreed to this principle. Why so many questions? On his part Kanhaiya was happy with his strategy. A goose which lays golden eggs should be kept alive at all costs. A one time completion of work went against this principle. From flood work Kanhaiya’s entrepreneurship took him to other PWD works. The template was ready in any case. No competition , some bogus tenders by himself and clinching the work. If per chance someone wanted to compete then Kanhaiya let loose his reign of terror. Next stop on this path was excise auction. Last 15 years he had taken the excise auction, not insignificantly aided by Radheshyam covertly during the last 3 years. Compared to Kanhaiya, Radheshyam was not so lucky and every platform he had to build it himself,brick by brick. He sighed now thinking about unfairness in some things.
It all started with a little bit of misunderstanding and a lot of competition. . Kanhai had got Munni Bai from Faizabad. A stunner with memorable aadayen. Uncharacteristic of him he had declared “Munni Bai is mine. She is for keeps sake.” That was news for Radheshyam. They have shared everything -evenings, women and plunder of war. What was this new obsession? “” In our line, such lines cannot be drawn randomly. One for all and all for one was the credo.” He was musing. Radheshyam had also taken a liking for Munni Bai himself and declaration of her as exclusive economic zone by Kanhai did not humour him one bit. That is when the schism started.
“Kanhai should have respected our past association, and all that I have done for him.” He thought to himself.
Both of them were pandits. They could smoke from the same hookah. They had Hanuman Chalisa by heart, several mantras of Puranas were known to both and they liked quoting snippets to each other. But this Munni Bai business made the water murky. ‘If Kanhai could have his own territorial waters, he could have his too. Did not he share Salma, his favourite with him? Why this artificial distinction. It was almost a year back.”. He continued thinking.
Both Kanhai and Radheshyam had joined operation and it was becoming very profitable. They were thinking alike, never liked the minority community’s upmanship spearheaded by their goons. Both had strengths and when joined they became unbeatable. The politicians wanted hoodlums of minority community to be put in place, They were to be terrorized and lynched and there was Kanhaiya ready for the hatchet job. It was not only a job, but a job well liked by him. This was where conviction and core strength met each other. Both friends leveraged each other in terms of each one’s gang, information, network and extortion money or sheer plunder.
‘His strength only made me stronger. It felt like brothers separated at birth”. He carried out dirty jobs so well that often Radheshyam’s finger print was not openly visible and deniability was so important in many occasions. The partnership was very handy. In the end , Radheshyam became ever more close to the ruling politicians. After all, he was chasing their agenda and their writ ran eventually.
It was not that Kanhai Lal Choubey was completely cut off. Members of the Parliament and MLAs used to meet him. The best part was they were not limited to his own clan. With unspoken policy at the back of unfailing implementation enlarged his charmed circle. They were of all hues ie. Banias, Pandits and other castes and not limited to Gorakhpur area even. But Radheshyam’s survival instinct told him to cut Kanhai off from the really important people in the ruling party like the Party President, Chief Minister and Dy. CMs whom he in turn knew quite well.
Kanhaiya’s partnership meant sometimes it would be open partnership and sometimes covert. If it is a case of lynching for eating beef, it could be safely outsourced to him. Sometimes, tactically he would move off the scene but his resources were available to Radheshyam. Sometimes, his people would not be visible at all and only Radheshyam’s gang would have to carry out the job.
But it was not unknown to anyone in the trade that both of them were together. Thick as thieves as they say. The friendship ran so deep that even their men started exchanging information and opinion on different matters. They would take food together when Radheshyam would go for one of those famed evening soirees. The soirees were not necessarily in Kanhaiya’s house always. Sometimes it would be in a farm-house outside the town. But the level of hospitality never flagged and were never compromised. Radheshyam never threw a party, but always made sure that every second soiree was well provided with imported scotch in adequate quantity.
Kanhai was very resourceful in procuring, providing, transporting and delivering be they desirable women for nights of pleasure for the extended network of powerful people of use to Radheshyam or anything under the sun . It was an end-to-end service.
Radheshyam recalled their joint operation in which they brought down Yunus mian, the notorious goon from Deoria with his empire of sin. Radheyshyam got much appreciation and essentially was rewarded beyond his expectation. Of course the political regime’s abhayhastam was their shield of protection.
Now Radheshyam turned his head sideways to face his seven men with AK-47 in the back rows. “How far is barricade now?”, he enquired
“Another 10 kms. now. We should be there in 15 minutes,” Somnath Yadav replied
He would be meeting him after fifteen days, he mused.
Then he remembered Munni Bai once again. Memory is what he thought he had forgotten.
“The slut had the guts to refuse me.”
Radheshyam had tried to visit Munni Bai one evening knowing fully well that Kanhai would be away to Varanasi. He reached there and sent word to Munni Bai as bahubalis at the entrance didn’t allow him in. He had gone alone in a taxi as a matter of abundant precaution.
“Tell Radheshyam saheb, that let him not try to steal what belongs to Kanhai Babu,” was the message she sent back.
‘That’s all?’
“Yes, Huzur. That is what bibi said” one bahubali replied.
He tried to force his way in, but both Bahubalis promptly pulled their revolvers. They were also street smart as is the wont in the trade. Radheshyam beat a hasty retreat. But he was smarting under humiliation. Next day he sent seven of his gang men to Kanhai.
“Tell him, I have told you to pick up the pimp of Munni Bai. Tell him a whore is a whore. She need not be stacked away like a priceless jewel.”
Kanhai heard it.
“”He said that! Sale ko mein dekhata hun” was his terse and quick reply
“No we have come to pick you up and you may not be able to show anything. Not even Munni Bai. Another gang has gone to pick her up for boss.” The gang leader said clearly adding up his own spice.
Now Kanhai could not take it any longer. He clapped his hands. In spilt seconds, Radheshyam’s men felt the muzzle of the guns at their neck. They had their AK-47 out, but surely they have been out foxed. They had collected the information that except for two guards no one was around. One youngster from Radheshyam’s gang took his chance by shooting at Kanhai. A shoot out ensued and all eight of Radheshyam’s men were lain dead. They were dispatched back in the same jeep. Now it was all war. No holds barred.
Kanhai organized his people and told them to flee and remain in the hide outs and incommunicado until they heard from him. The house was locked and everyone dispersed in different direction in the thick of the night.
Eight men dead. This could not have been allowed to go scot free. Radheshyam sent out his men to look for Kanhaiya’s men. Their coordinates were available in bits and pieces. No one knew who all were present in Kanhaiya’s house when shoot out took place. They got eight people. All of them pleaded innocence. But the score was to squared up. They were killed in a cold blooded murder. The score would be settled once Kanhaiya was caught and now it was close.
Radheshyam wanted some ‘kartuz’ before the moment of reckoning. He took some ‘Khaini’ and kept on tapping with his thumb after crushing it well. It made a rhythmic staccato sound like cocking of a gun.
“Barricade has come”, Yadav announced. All of them got out of the jeep. Another SUV load of gang warriors had followed them. They crossed the barricade and each SUV load of people went to one side of the road each. Radheshyam went to the left side into darkness and waited.
From the opposite direction one SUV came with Kanhai. His hands were tied and 4 of Radheshyam’s men were there with AK-47. The man next to him opened his hand cuff.
“You run for your life. We would start combing operation in 10 minutes. We would not shoot for ten minutes. If you escape it is your good luck.” The man said.
Kanhai started running in the direction where Radheshyam had planted himself under a tree with his revolver out.
“Sankat Kate mitte sab pira
Jo sumire Hanumanth Balbira.”
He recited to himself. He could see Kanhai at a distance of 20 ft. He was running for life. Darkness didn’t help him. Radheshyam had cocked his revolver already and took aim.
Next moment Kanhai fell on the ground like tree cut shouting “Hei Ma. Mere ko mar dala.”
Radheshyam instinctively flicked his stars and ribbon on his left shoulder because he thought some residue of gunshot fell on his epaulet. After all he was the Officer In Charge of Kotwali police station.
“”Jai Jai ho Hanuman Goswain,
Kripa kare ho gurudev ki nayi.”” He muttered under the clenched teeth.
Kanhai had surrendered at Varanasi and he was being brought to Gorakhpur in handcuff when this encounter happened.
The next days newspaper’s headline read;
“Noted criminal Kanhailal Choubey’was killed in encounter.”
The news read “Kanhailal had surrendered to police at Varanasi . When he was being brought to Gorakhpur, he wanted to ease himself. But tried to snatch the weapon from one of the accompanying policemen.
“”The police shot him in self-defence.”
There was celebration in the police. Tit-for-tat. An eye for an eye. Now police supremacy would not be questioned and policing will go on with the same impunity.
Radheshyam got CM’s medal for bravery. Now he may get promotion as Inspector in the next couple of years, much ahead of his time.
He anointed Nandagopal Tripathi as the ganghead of the depleted Kanhai gang. Munni Bai was totally his now as Nandgopal with the rosary of tulsi had no interest in a tawaif.”Huzur, what would happen to encounter case in the court?” Nandgopal ventured to ask.
Radheshyam thought for a second and said ‘Na rahi baans, na bajegi bansuri’. Nandgopal understood. Only Radheshyam knew about the Dy. CM’s interest in silencing Kanhaiya. He knew too much and could sing like a canary.
Life went on as before.
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.
You are my solitude-wafting sun-kissed street
Canopy of luminous emerald branches
Peace in the golden dusk painting shadow art...
You are the Thozhi, the Saheli
I love to walk with, holding hands, forgetting time
Giggling, and sometimes
Allowing the gurgling tears in my heart
To be heard by you
You are the soul, I can apologise to
For all my insensible insensitive acts
Disarmed, raw, with blemishes and stains
Yet
Be hugged by in forgiveness, after facing
The necessary cudgel and tight slaps, that chisel me
You are all my seasons
My words, screams, and silences
You trick fears, and teach them to be elusive
You
Are my anchor, never letting me down...
You breathe permanence into transient hope
You are my nest cradle and shoulder
A healing lullaby, when chaos abound
You are my home...
You are the one
I at times take for granted
Let me now reassure, you are deeply loved...
And
Once in a while
We need to say all the above
To the person we see in the mirror, and smile.
~Madhumathi. H
Her eyes penetrated into every wave the ocean could produce
To discover the notes, created by the hidden pearls
Breathing the rhythm of churned melodies of the past
That could still be one of her lullabies
For all her insomniac dreams.
She clutched a handful of sky, but the fragile blue pages fluttered vigorously
wanting to fly away, like cotton bursting from the seed
Letting go, it was an excruciating pain to watch her precious poem
Dismantle itself and jumbled up, each word becoming an orphan now
Her tears submerged in the desert of eternity
While the present gifts her sea of smiles
That could never land on her parched lips
Numbed by the several cups of mirages sipped
She walked along the shore, counting the unborn desires
The sand tickled her often, hoping to see her laugh
Unaware of the invisible wooden socks she sported
And every grain stared in disbelief, at her flat footsteps
Oceans are Nature's Magnum opus, brimming with fathomless truths
There is only a single white froth, for all the plural colors of the waves
Diving into the depths, one can find pearls, or salt dunes
She chose to first lie down, and submit herself to the wind
The turbulent waves might pull her into a pearl oyster's womb
Or, the compassionate crimson rays, might return her slice of sky
Either way, she knows her love for the ocean
And barrenness can never blot her flood.
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
Sudha reached the corridor of Mathematics department of Utkal University, Vani Vihar, where she had completed her Masters! She came one hour ahead of the fixed time, she wanted to revisit the memories associated with this department before she goes to attend the meeting of Old Boys Association at the Guest House.
It was a Sunday in May. The sun was burning like a fire ball on the deep blue sky. There was an eerie silence in the campus. Sudha was a bit flabbergasted by this unusual bareness. The sprawling campus, as she had seen was always vibrant, students and teachers going and coming, cars, bikes, cycles, auto rickshaws honking or flying past a pedestrian student was common. But why is the University so silent today?
Oh, it’s the summer vacation time! The University remains closed for summer vacation for two months after the final examinations, which are completed each year by 5th May as per the University rules. The classes and hostels will reopen on 1stJuly for admission. However, even during the vacation the University never used to remain dull or vacant. All departments organized All India Seminars, Refresher Courses, research viva, entrance tests, evaluation of examination papers, Board of studies meetings to brush up on the co-curricular activities, which cannot be held during the busy academic sessions, when students are the center of action and attraction. The summer vacation provides time and space to do the administration for preplanning and training before a new academic session ensues.
Sudha climbed the empty stairs to reach the classrooms, where once she sat with her friends, rapt in attention, looking at the blackboard, yet conscious of the fixed gaze of a young man, her classmate; Sukumar on her! But the rooms and halls were all closed with big iron locks hanging on the bolts. She decided to take a peek at that particular place, the grilled veranda in front of the Ladies toilet, where Sukumar had held her hand in his and asked her,
“Tell me seriously, Sudha, do you love me?”
Sudha had averted his fixed steady gaze and answered,
“What if I do or do not! Can you marry me? No, na? Because my parents won’t ever agree! You are not our caste! You know very well how prejudiced Brahmins are about caste! And you are a Bong! My father hates Bongs! Leave my hands! Someone is coming!”
Sukumar was audacious. “I am not asking for marriage! I am asking for love!”
“Don’t be silly! It’s not a film and you are not a hero of a film! Let me go!”
Sudha had unshackled her hands from Sukumar’s grasp and walked quickly into the Girl’s Common Room. Sukumar was singing a popular song from the film “Julie”,“Dil kya kare jab kisise kisiko pyar ho jaye”.
Sudha had lost her heart to Sukumar’s haunting voice but managed to keep her dignity and safely passed out of the university before the world could scandalize them for their affair.
Sudha looked into the grilled veranda indifferently. It is as it was! Not much of a change during these twenty four years! Only glazed tiles have replaced the cement floor. Inside, may be… commodes might have replaced the Indian style toilets! Who knows! But the place where Sukumar, her first lover had held her hands in supplication, asking for love is precious to her heart! She smiled at her own romanticism!
“Hey, who’s there?”, came a voice from behind her. She turned and saw a fat lady in a rich silk advancing towards her. Who is she?
“Arrey, Soma! Aren’t you Soma?” Sudha said bringing some cheer to her voice.
"Oh, ya! Me, Soma. And you? I see, Sudha! Oh my God! Sudha, the prettiest and slimmest girl of our batch! Now, you are also fat!”
“Of course, we all are getting fat! No? Soma, you look gorgeous! Baapre, what a heavy silk for this summer!”
“Ya, ya, I know, you will all say that! But I am always inside ac, 24 degrees maximum! I don’t feel the heat! I don’t wear cotton yaar! But here… orey baba… ki garam!”
Other footsteps were heard from the downstairs and the staircase. “It seems others are coming also!” said Sudha. “Let’s wait here or shall we go down?”
“No, no, wait here! I want to see who can recognize me and who can’t!”
“Will Radhika also come?”, asked Sudha.
“But I don’t know who all are coming. I just got a message on my phone from Mukul, our class representative, the Dramatic Secretary of our batch! Do you remember him or not?”
“Of course I remember the hero! Who can ever forget him? The hero of the drama Hamlet!”
Sudha saw three men coming towards them. They were all middle-aged, faded, fat. They must be her classmates! But it was not easy to recollect their names! They all have come to attend the party being hosted by the Old Boys Association of Utkal University for the P.G. pass out batch 1980. She had also received a mail from Mukul. Now she is sure he is the organizer of this get together party, the brain behind this proposal.
“Soma, can you recognize them? Anyone?”
“Ya, I think the dwarf one is Praveen, the joker. I remember his funny gait!”
“Oh, yes! That’s he, Praveen!”
Sudha almost shouted. She remembered this boy as Sukumar’s ally. He used to deliver the love letters and love poems written by Sukumar to her in the Girls’ Hostel.
Sudha had burnt all of those love letters before her marriage to Pravat, tears flowing from her eyes like rivulets. But there was no other way! Her Dad did not care to hear about a boy from the lower caste hankering to be wedded to his beautiful daughter. Her Mom just put the proposal in front of him and remained silent. Sudha threatened that she will remain unmarried throughout her life, but her father was a very strict man. He paid no attention to her threats, tears or pleadings! Finally when she got news that Sukumar had been arrested for associating himself with the Marxist terrorists, she succumbed to her parent’s will and got married.
Life had been blessed for her with Pravat till that accident. But…..
“Hey, you, Sudha! Where are you? Can’t even hear us?”, one of the men said.
Soma nudged Sudha lightly and shook her hands with the three friends! Sudha looked at them puzzled. She was unable to make up her mind about who’s who.
She said, “See, all rooms in the department are closed. Let’s go to the Guest House. That must be open.”
“Yes, yes, the get together is at the Guest House! Why are we here? Our friends must have reached the Guest House!”
“I know, why Sudha came here!” said Praveen and laughed out loud!
Sudha felt a bit scandalized and embarrassed! This man remembers!
“You wanted to visit the spot where Sukumar proposed to you, no?”
The entire gang laughed! Sudha had nothing to say in defense. Soma said, “You know Sudha, I came to see the Teacher’s Common Room where Dr. Kamal Kumar sat smoking his cheroot! Waw! How handsome he looked!”
“Oh! That madman who had returned from U.S.? I remember his long hippy locks flowing on his neck like a girl’s!” said one of the boys.
They were walking towards the Guest House, chatting about the past, laughing, nudging each other! They could no more feel the heat of summer sun. The campus was greener than before. The small eucalyptus plants which were one or two feet height during their times, were now tall, bushy and green. Light wind blowing from the lawn fanned their sweaty bodies.
Sudha looked around the campus to reminiscence the past. All the structures were there. The Department buildings, the hostels, the canteen, the stores, the office building, the auditorium, thestructures she knew well. But their exterior was looking freshly painted. The barren, polythene-scattered fields inside the boundaries were no more the same. In front of each building there was a green space with flower bushes and decorative plants properly pruned. The net boundaries were replaced by green fences created by that bright lemon green bush called Durante, the bush that is now the king of fencing plants. She longingly looked at the University canteen, closed that day, and recollected those fun-filled moments with friends inside that closed cramped place. Radhika used to drag Sudha to the canteen almost every day at 2.30 p.m.during the leisure period before the last two special paper periods. Radhika, being a day scholar, who commuted from Cuttack by bus, felt hungry during the afternoon. She usually started from home after her breakfast at around 9.30 a.m. to attend the first class at 11.30 a.m. They would have a dosa and vadas with coconut chutney and tomato ketchup. Where is Radhika now? Oh, if she would come today!! Will Sukumar also come?
“By the way, where is Sukumar now?”, asked Sudha looking at Praveen, unable to control her curiosity.
Praveen said, “Don’t you know? He is now the famous Swmi Sukhananda Baba! He has his ashram and followers in Uttar Pradesh!”
Sudha looked at Praveen as if she did not believe him.
“Believe me! I have met him in his ashram. Me and Sukanta had gone to see his new avatar! How different he looked! He is preaching to thousands of disciples and singing soulful bhajans! Haven't you seen him on TV?”
Sudha could no more contain her surprise. She said “I had met him once in the No 1 market! He was sporting a big tilak on his forehead and wearing saffron clothes, a saffron turban also! But I did not know he had become a Baba!”
“Did he talk to you?” asked Soma.
Sudha was no more hearing any one. She was hearing the words of Sukumar,
“Life is beautiful, Sudha! Live it each moment! You may not get this life again. Sing and dance! Place your heart on your tongue! God will listen to you! You can feel God’s presence in everything you see!”
She could now connect these words to what Praveen said about Sukumar.
As she read the message about the ‘Get Together’ party of 1980 batch, Sudha was unsure if she should come and join the party or not. She had lost touch with all the old friends of Vani Vihar, after the death of her daughter! She did not chat with even her closest friend Radhika or her confidante Bandana. She felt like blotting herself out of society, out of the world! She was in shock for almost three months. Pravat, her husband, forcefully took her to be treated by a psychiatrist. Gradually her grief unfolded layer by layer and she came out of her shell! She adopted a poor girl as her own daughter and carried on with life like a living corpse. Until….
Until one day she met Sukumar in the market! Sukumar, her college time boyfriend, her favorite singer, her ideal man, who had followed her for five years seeking her love, was standing in front of her in a saffron robe preaching about life! The person who had been arrested as a Marxist was transformed to a Baba! He was preaching to disciples about life! When Sudha requested him to visit her house, he politely refused saying that he no more takes food offered by common people
because they eat non-veg food. He cooks his own food and when he is away from the ashram he lives on fruits and juice. Then why should he come to a party like this?
The friends walked anxiously. The sun was almost on their head when they reached the Guest House! They saw many vehicles, bikes and cars standing in front of the Guest House! A lot of commotion was being heard from the inside! A mike was blaring the names of guests who had already arrived there.
Sudha again looked around the Guest House to recollect her past memories. Here she had given a party to her friends and teachers when she was honored with a Gold Medal by the Chancellor for securing the First Class first position in her batch. The Guest House was a small hall flanked by a narrow corridor and an entrance room decorated with a sofa set. A small kitchen and an office room were attached to it in the West side. Now what a change! The Guest House now stands like a majestic ship in the middle of small boats floating on an ocean of greenery. It’s a grand ten storied building with glazed glass fitted windows. The structure is fabulous. The compound is almost two acres, having a playground with cricket pitch, hockey and football grounds, and badminton and basketball courts. What a lovely garden with statuettes and flowing streams on artificial rocks! Development in the University made her happy!
Soma said, “Look, what a change! The Guest House of our time and this one! Must be due to UGC norms and NAAC accreditation!”
“What’s that?” Sudha asked, a bit overtaken.
“Sudha, I am working in the State Secretariat. I know UGC has sanctioned huge amounts of money to all colleges and universities for developing infrastructure. This is an effect of that!”
As they entered the Guest House, Sudha’s eyes were directed towards a high chair where sat Swami Sukhananda clad in crisp saffron dress. His face half hidden by his flowing beard and a huge lock of matted hair. His eyes dazzled like two lamps in a cave. Sudha was flabbergasted! Is this the same man who had loved her, proposed to her?
Sudha tried to avoid his gaze which directly fell on her face. She looked at the other friends gathered there. Forcing an artificial smile on her lips she addressed the gathering generally and said,
“Good morning, friends!”
The person holding the mike came to them and handed a register for them to note down their names, address and phone numbers.
The Baba alias Sukumar started to sing the song which he did so often at college, looking at her,
“Dil kya kare jab kisise kisiko pyaar ho jaye.”
His voice was no more as melodious as it was during college times. But the tremor and emotion came out clearly. Sudha stood motionless like a statue while her friends clapped wildly!
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
(from the book: SAMAYA PURUSHA, Translated by Sumitra Mishra)
Oh Father!
I know you well,
I have felt your affection, your emotions,
Your scorching rage, your blessings and care,
I have felt them all,
Like the sweetest notes of a threnody
Or the beams of your guileless love and care.
I know
Your mind is calm, stable, compassionate
It inspires me
To surrender to the forces of time
To the divine
I know
AT the right time
You will reach me
May be in disguise but
While I’m drowning, you will grasp me.
Oh my dearest Father!
I know
I will grope and grasp your hand
Only when I’m neck-deep in water
And my heart is breaking in desperation!
I know
No more then will I go astray
Flooded by mundane desire
O Boatman! How can I pay off your grace?
When I will sit on your boat confidently
And surrender finally, completely,
My famished body
Will tolerate all the storm and rain!
I am exhausted fighting with the pranks of time!
I acted, as you directed,
Now I am anxious to return home
Open the door, the gate,
O’ Father!
My mortal frame I want to discard!
Kabiratna Smt. Manorama Mohapatra is a renowned poet of Odisha who is revered as the ex-editor of the oldest Odia daily newspaper “Samaj”. She is a columnist, poet, playwright who has also contributed a lot to children’s literature in Odia. She has received several awards including the National Academy Award, Sarala Award and many more. Her works have been translated into English, Sanskrit and many Indian languages. Her works are replete with sparks of rebellion against dead rituals and blind beliefs against women. She is a highly respected social activist and philanthropist.
Who’s more attractive- I fly, you stand still!
Eyes that perceive enjoy most your presence.
Woody ornamental landscapes invite
to 'nectary,' for pollen to carry.
As friends of the environment, our roles
We play, while we educate young children
that we represent freedom, love, and peace.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
I will arise and go now, and go to an island small,
And build a small dwelling there, of bricks and roof
I shall have a garden of blooming flowers and sweet fruits
And reside with my family there, and flora and fauna!
I will arise and go there where I can find love, laughter and serenity
And listen to the roaring sea and soothing bird’s song
I shall be a workaholic there, with people who’re rich at heart
as I firmly believe struggle is a bliss and bliss is a struggle!
I will arise and go now, and go to enjoyable children
Whose warmth in their hug makes me smile, and them too
I shall enter the island with peace at my heart
and long for not a luxurious life, but for a comfortable life!
I will arise and go now, and go to my lovely workstation
And develop an integrity among friends, of love and harmony
I shall live in paradise with peace and prosperity
And have challenges in life as they come to me, ahead!
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
SANTA MONICA, THE CRUISE
Gokul Chandra Mishra
The vivacious Mandovi river, the lifeline of Goan people, was looking awesome on that Christmas day. For David and Ila, it was their second visit to Goa during the festive season. The Goa Tourism Development Corporation Hotel, situated on the bank of Mandovi River was their favorite place of stay at the tiny idyllic coastal capital, Panaji.
Ila was elated seeing the beautiful golden sunset, visible from the bank of Mandovi , stretching up to the Mormugao harbour and expressed her desire to David to go for a cruise ride.
“Let us have a cruise ride in the river and enjoy the point where it meets the sea,’’she said.
“Ok, I would also like to see the end point of the river ,”
Both walked down from the river beach to the Jetty point which was located nearby. Numerous decorated cruises were anchored on both sides of the deck. David checked the availability of tickets. The counters were too much crowded, it being a Christmas Day. But his eyes were fixed on the counter of Santa Monica, the name of which attracted him most and he rushed to get two tickets. The cruise had been, probably, named after Santa Monica, the world famous beach town of Los Angeles, where the sun used to set every day gifting golden band of ripples to the Pacific waters.
The cruise was to leave the beach at 8.30PM. David and Ila reached Santa Monica at the appointed time and took their seats. For both of them, it was their maiden cruise ride in Goa. After some times,the cruise sailed through the back waters before making an U turn to move towards the sea. The entertainment program started with reverberating DJ sounds and dance. Visitors took active part in the dance and were seemingly swimming in an ecstatic cloud. Complimentary cold drinks, Feni, light beverages and snacks were served to all the passengers as a part of good will gift from the owners because of Xmas. The Cruise reached the meeting point of the river and the sea and began swinging at the confluence reminding the occupants about the end point of the river. Ila was bit frightened and held the hand of her husband, David tightly.
The journey ended after two hours. David and Ila, having thoroughly enjoyed the trip, began dedecking the cruise, when Ila paused for few minutes seeing a beautifully golden bound photograph on the deck. It was the photograph of a young girl, may be 3 to 4 years of age. She instantly pointed out to David urging him to look at the cute girl in the photo. Out of curiosity, David asked the sailor about the significance of that photo.
“ Babu, you both are talking in Odia, are you from Odisha?” asked the sailor suppressing his anxiety.
“ Yes, Ila, my wife is from Odisha, I am from Ranchi . We both speak Odia, but how could you know?” questioned David.
‘’I have heard you both speaking in Odia. Babu I am also from Odisha, Puri. My name is Jagan. I was driving trawlers for catching marine fish at Penthakata, Puri. This is the photo of my daughter babu, I am a cursed man,” he started weeping inconsolably. Both David and Ila felt saddened at the turn of the event.
Since they were getting late, David and Ila bade farewell from Jagan and proceeded to their hotel. Next day, they returned to Mumbai to carry out their mechanical routine lives. David was a banker in a private bank and Ila was working as an HR consultant in an MNC. Both of them had got married about 3 years back, but were friends since their Xaviers days, where they were studying MBA.
The Mumbai metro life kept them too busy and they were closeted only on Sundays. The two bed room flat built by Hir Nandanis provided them the best possible comforts in Malad, but for reasons not known , Ila was feeling somewhat restless after returning from Panaji, recounting their conversation with Jagan, the sailor of Santa Monica. She tried to forget the chapter, but it haunted her often flashing the weeping face of Jagan.
David was awfully busy after coming from Goa . He was entrusted with plethora of targets to reach before the financial year end and he had practically no time available to sit with Ila and discus personal matters. The financial year was over on 31st March . The closing works prolonged for another week and after that David got time to breathe with ease.
“Now you are free, can we go to Odisha for a short summer trip, David?” asked Ila finding him in a carefree mood.
“Alright, we can go to your Mom’s place at Bhubaneswar and spend some time at Puri. You know, I am fond of beach resorts”, consented David. “We can avail Home town LTC “.
Ila had lost her father just before her marriage. Her Mom was the sole living relative. She had retired from a Convent school at Bhubaneswar and was staying alone, teaching poor students who could not afford spending money on coaching classes. She was a devotee of Lord Jagannath and never missed any chance to get a Darshan of the lord on Rath yatra day till her husband was alive. As her husband was an Anglo Indian, she never ventured to enter the temple after her marriage.
David got his leave sanctioned under LTC and arrived at Bhubaneswar in mid June after auditing of the financial statements of his bank was over. Ila’s Mom, Sefali Ma'm, fondly called as Didi by neighbours, was very happy to receive them. She had made all arrangements for their comfortable stay with her, chalking out itinerary and menus for breakfast, lunch and dinner. David enjoyed his role as the son of the house. For Ila, it was her destressing and tension free moment away from the official engagements and cut and paste smile of her fastidious boss. She arranged some story books and family photo Albums for David and roamed in the neighborhood, meeting her friends.
David was seriously going through the family photos of Ila with lots of amusement when he suddenly focused on a photo and looked at it with utmost concentration.
“What is this, how this photo has come here?”, he asked himself. Immediately calling Ila he showed that photo to her .
“Is it not the photo of the same tiny girl which we saw in Santa Monica ?” exclaimed Ila. “ I do not know how this photo came here to this album which I never saw in my life”, she revealed. David confirmed the same and took out the photo from the album out of anxiety, wondering about the strange coincidence .
Ila immediately asked her mom, “ Mom, how this photo came to our family album?”
“What is that to you ? It is was found out from the suitcase of your father and I had pasted in the album during some leisure time.” She lightly replied.
Ila thought there might have been a mistaken identity and calmed down the prevailing stormy feelings. As David was interested to spend few days in a Puri resort, a room was booked in Holiday Resort. The duration of stay was planned by Ila and her Mom synchronizing to Devasnan Purnima, so that they could avail the Darshan of lord Jagannath from Badadanda.
“Devasnan Purnima is a special day in the calendar of Lord Jagannath and all the Three Deities and Sudarshan, the Power of Lord Jagannath, come out of the sanctum sactorium, to take bath in a special Mandap called ‘Snan mandap’. The devotees can have darshan of the deities from the wide main road, called ‘Badadanda’. After taking bath the deities will suffer from fever and be quarantined for 14 days. The devoties will not get darshan of the deities during this time,” explained Mom to David , who was new to such occasion. They all had the Darshan of Lords and she returned back to Bhubaneswar after dropping David and Ila at the Hotel.
The Hotel was situated on the beach. David enjoyed the stay making the optimum use of the facility available there, including the regular morning jogging on the beach. He saw the fisher men riding their dingy boats, venturing into the sea before the sun rises on the distant horizon sprinkling golden waves on the waters and he never missed their smiling faces when they returned in the evening with boat load of fishes.He curiously asked a fisherman about the address of his home. When he heard the name of ‘Penthakata’, his curiosity inflated to enquire about Jagan, whom he had met at Panaji. One evening he decided to know more about Jagan and met some old fishermen of the locality, gathered after the boats returned with the catches. Most of the young sailors said they had no idea about Jagan, but an elderly man informed that one Jagan used to stay there with family and was a sailor of a fishing trawler. He had left that place about 20 years back after the death of her wife and separation from his girl child.
On further request from David he revealed that he had taken her child to Rath yantra to have a glance of the deitie on the Chariots but he was rudely separated from her after he became unconscious in the crowd. He remained here for few more months but could not get any information about his daughter even after making frantic searches. He used to come every year after that hoping to get some information about his child, but returned back dejected. For last ten years. he has not been seen.
“Babu, why are you asking such questions? How do you know him?” asked the old man.
David was shocked to know the plight of Jaggan and replied, “I met one Jaggan in Goa recently”. He described the physical looks of Jaggan .
The old man said, ‘’Probably you might have met him Babu, because he used to travel by Puri-Vascoda Gama train always.”
That day, David returned to the hotel with a heavy heart on listening to the sorrowful incidents of Jaggan’s life. He disclosed the same to Ila and both felt pity for Jaggan.
Having spent their time at the beach hotel of Puri, David and Ila returned back to her Mom’s place at Bhubaneswar. Staying there for couple of days, they packed up their luggage for returning to Mumbai to resume their duties. The day before their departure, Ila described the events that happened in Jagan’s life to Mom, who initially did not give much weight to the incident. But she was stunned with stoic silence on listening to the full narration. Something was haunting her, although she did not exhibit any feeling outwardly.
The day David and Ila were to board the flight to Mumbai, Mom expressed her desire to accompany them to Mumbai and spend a few days there with them. They were too happy to book a ticket for her and left for Mumbai together.
“Mom, will you not feel bored staying alone in the flat during week days? We will make some visits during the weekends after we settle down in our duties,” Ila consoled her Mom.
“No, you carry on my baby, I shall not get bored at all, rather I will get an opportunity to prepare your choicest dishes at home and of course, watch TV”, she asserted.
The family made a visit to Goa at the request of Mom after a month during a weekend and stayed in the same Goa tourism Hotel, situated on the bank of Mandovi. Since the monsoon had become active, the number of visitors was much less. The next day afternoon, Ila wanted to take Mom in cruise and visited the Jetty. They went to the counter of Santa Monica but it was closed since the cruise was banned by the administration due to the forecast of heavy rain and storm in the sea. Dissapointed, they began to return but David enquired about Jaggan. A staff of the cruise informed that Jaggan was staying near the adjacent Church. Mom desired to visit the church since cruise ride was not available. David asked for the address of Jaggan since Ila’s Mom wanted to meet him as he was an Odia.
Jagan was running a small coffee shop at his small hut in the vicinity of the church. Finding David, Ila and her Mom at his dwelling talking in Odia he was elated and offered them snacks and Coffee. He had not seen Sefali Mom earlier. He wanted to make her more comfortable.
“Jagan, are you an Odia? Where were you staying? What made you to come over to Goa” ? Sefali asked him in her usual tutorial tone.
“Madam, I belong to Puri. I lost my wife who succumbed to high fever more than twenty years ago. I had a daughter, but due to my utter negligence, I was separated from her on a Rath yatra day” he replied in an extremely choked voice, and started weeping.
“I could not withstand the cruel tragedy inflicted on me and finally left in a train which landed me in Goa. I came over to this church and narrated my cursed life before Father. He assured me that Jesus would find out my daughter one day and gave me a part time job in the church”. Jagan was crying uncontrollably remembering the dark life of his past and went inside his hut.
“Madam, although I work in Church and pray before Jesus, I have been worshipping Lord Jagannath in my hut every day and have kept my daughter’s photo below his lotus feet.” He showed the photo which was affixed to “Santa Monica”.
David and Ila were surprised to see the photo again which was of the same girl whose photo was pasted in the album at Mom's home. David had taken out that photo surreptitiously from the family album and brought out from his purse. Every body was stunned at the strange coincidence.
“That day in the Rath Yatra, you fell down unconscious and the devotees were pouncing upon you. Your daughter held up my hand and clung to my saree. My husband and I tried to locate you, but could not. As we were childless we thought probably Lord Jagannath has blessed us with the child to bring her up, we brought her with us that day.” Sefali narrated the incidence extempore and the earth beneath her feet was slipping.
Then gaining her composure she said, “Ila is your daughter”. The world around Ila was trembling and she clung to the body of her Mom saying “you are my mother, you are my mother, I can not live without you", she started sobbing inconsolably.”
“Don’t wory my baby, I will be always with you. This was the task your father had given me to complete in his dying bed. I am today feeling relaxed on finding Jagan. The mountainous weight kept inside my heart is now vanished. Do not feel bad, I shall not leave you at all.”
The copious tears of Jagan began drenching the ground below.
Suddenly, the church bell started ringing.
Jagan started looking at the Church with reverence at the unbelievable turn of events and murmured, “Jesus ! You are Great”.
Sefali Mom prayed “Jagannath Swami nayana pathagami bhabatumey…”
David, stunned at the new development, said, ”Thank you Santa Monica”.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
I was born into a joint family – my father, his two siblings, their wives and my grand mother lived in our ancestral home in Thiruvananthapuram. My grandmother, an ardent devotee, kept imploring to various Gods of various temples to bless the family with peace, prosperity, happiness and healthy children. At some point of time, God either took the “children” part in the literal sense, was overwhelmed with the offerings or muddled the various requests registered at his various abodes and blessed my eldest aunt with TWINS!
With the babies leaving many in the house bleary, red eyed and zombied for days and nights together, my grandmother struck truce with her deities. With God’s grace and some immaculate planning from the elders, the stork’s visit to our family became an annual feature for the next eight years. I arrived as the tenth in the house and with my arrival, He put an end to the family’s quota.
Somewhere in my second year, I went up to my mother, tugged at her saree and “asked” for a pair of earrings. Indulging me with sweet nothings, she ignored my repeated pleas. I persisted by holding onto my earlobes and wailing for a pair of earrings. True to my gender, the dangling earrings on my sisters’ ears had caught my fancy and I too wanted to flaunt a pair on my tiny earlobes. The woman who claimed to be my mother and who was supposed to most understand my needs, took me to an ENT specialist instead. I was outraged to be put through various ear tests which I, naturally, cleared and I continued to wail for earrings, now, with certified ears.
My persistence was rewarded with my mother’s attention yet again because she started to exchange worried glances with my father. To my despair, I realized that I had her attention for the wrong reasons when I started noticing my mother drop metal vessels far too often when I was around her. The unexpected and loud clang when metal met cement would startle me and that would make my mother look smug. I had successfully cleared her primitive test to ensure that I was not hearing-impaired!! When I became convinced that all I could achieve with my persistence were stress on my eardrums and dented vessels, I finally gave up.
A few days after I renounced my desire for earrings, I was gazing lazily out of the low window of our drawing room when I saw our milk man approaching from a distance on his cycle. At the gate, he was waiting patiently for my grandmother to hand him the two milk coupons for the two bottles of milk which he would then pour into the vessel my grandmother would hold out to him. I knew that my grandmother was out visiting temples(surely not for more children!) and I started to yell “POUCON, POUCON”. Hearing the commotion, my mother came out of the kitchen to see me pointing at the milkman and seeking POUCONS from her. Wisdom dawned on her and she realized that I had Spoonerism, which is not a very rare phenomenon in children of that age, though the condition prevailed in me for a good many years that were to come. My plea for earrings(“kammal”) went unregistered all those days since the “spoonerised” version of the Malayalam word stands for a totally different word that means children(“makkal”)!
The elders did not seem to notice my spoonerism, but to the rest of the juvenile delinquents in my home, I was the first freak in the family as I spoonered onto life - ticking bookets, making pachathis in the chicken, eblastishing kingdoms and civilizations in History lessons - to name a few.
I became conscious of my spoonerism and even had the dictionary meaning ready to explain to anyone who raised a quizzical brow. However, my brother maintained that I was speaking jumbled not just due to a speech disorder, but due to a mental disorder.
As the years passed, my spoonerism became so sporadic and controlled though there are still a few twisters that challenge me when am caught off guard.
God sure has a wonderful sense of humor. My brother got married and was blessed with a sweet boy. A couple of years down, while at his birthday party, I watched in glee as my darling nephew, pointed his tiny fingers at the decorative lamps strung on the thin electric wire and exclaimed - BLUB BLUB!!.
My brother now believes that spoonerism is, indeed a speech disorder.
Note(courtesy Internet):
Spoonerism - The transposition of usually initial sounds in a pair of words or interchanging parts of two different words in a phrase is named after the Reverend William Archibald Spooner (1844-1930), Dean and Warden of New College, Oxford. All the below examples were committed by (or attributed to) Dr.Spooner.
- The Lord is a shoving leopard ["loving shepherd"]
- It is kisstomary to cuss ["customary to kiss"] the bride.
- Is the bean dizzy ["dean busy"]?
- When the boys come back from France, we'll have the hags flung out ["flags hung out"]!
- Kinquering congs ["conquering kings "]
- You have deliberately tasted two worms and you can leave Oxford by the town drain. ["wasted two terms” and “down train”]
- a well boiled icicle["oiled bicycle "]
- a blushing crow["crushing blow"]
- our queer old Dean["dear old Queen "]
- We all know what it is to have a half-warmed fish ["half-formed wish"] inside us.
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.
When and with whom did I shake hands last?
When and whom did I last hug?
(If I shook hands I must have given him or her a hug as well!
As is my wont! But who?)
Whose shoulder did I last touch in support?
Who was it last who suggested a movie in a theater miles out?
Whose glint of teeth did I last see, in a smile?
With whom did I last share a convivial meal?
And laugh reminiscing over soggy noodles and a half-cooked paratha?
When did I last kick a person lightly on the toes, under the table, to stop them from dwelling on a particular topic, for it was embarrassing another?
Or accidentally play tootsies and get mistaken for making a pass?
Who was the last person who told me I was talking too loud?
Or that I needed to go comb my hair, look presentable, before the rest of the group comes and we drive away, crowding each other in the car, breathing each other in, for a day-long?
When was the last time I heard a poem read live and even as the words come soothing despite the crackling speakers
I wished I had written those lines for they, so close to my heart
They so of me
Why, why did not those lines come from my pen?
In that one occurrence when I saw the orange moon
Looming and large, larger than ever and so close!
Close enough to kiss leaving an orange hue on my lips
I wondered in awe if I would ever live long enough to see mirabilia like that again
Anywhere, anytime!
Or that time when I lay down on the red earth miles away
Miles away from any glare of city lights
So far out that I could hear the stars buzzing
The myriad stars throbbing
Close, beating unison with my heart beats – dub-dub
And with each beat the stars descended closer in the still dark, quiet night
And fie! - not wholly in the moment was I
For I wondered, even then, if I would live to experience the stars like that again
But in these times of masks and distancing
Even a handshake
A close brush
The aroma wafting in waves from jasmine pinned on someone’s hair
(so much better than those cancer-inducing perfumes!)
Even a heated debate
Are moments I long for!
What day?
When again?
Will I live long enough to….?
Some day!
Some say!
Then again….
We may have crossed a threshold
Where we say
“In those days, friends used to sit with arms locked,
Even hug!”
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.
Have you ever looked into living eyes
And felt the finger of death
Creep up your spine?
Have you ever smelt breath so foul
That it makes you wonder
Whether it’s a human or a ghoul?
Have you ever felt a freezing touch
From a living soul
That’s made your innards clutch?
A soul can have no warmth left
When it’s been through hell
And still, has no answers found
To questions that constantly corrupt
The peace and calmness within
The questions that haunt one and all.
I’ve looked into a pair of lifeless eyes
And encountered a dried up being inside
The emptiness and desolation
Emanating from the pores
Made me cringe and feel sore
Left the meeting
Feeling so dead
And realised
That there are living beings
Haunted by constant dread!!
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
Softness is the most wonderful quality in the world, isn't it?
One only has to look at nature to understand this beauty of softness
The soft caress of the wind
The soft petals of a flower
The soft whisper of the gentle rain
The soft first rays of sunlight
How they delight!
And what of the soft-spoken?
Nature's children, shall we hold them close?
There's the wine we sip in taverns
That makes us sing, dance and reach a false heaven
And there is the wine of love's ecstasy
That drifts into the harmony of camaraderie
Some intoxicated by the wine of nature's beauty
A heady wine spurring pure creativity
Intoxicating is the wine of sleep
Stilling the uneasy mind into restive peace
But the purest wine is the wine of the mystic
Sipping it steeps one into meditative bliss
As we walk down life's different seasons
We choose different wines for different reasons
Each intoxicating, which will you choose?
I'll settle for the wine of the mystic
It's heady intoxication; life holistic
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/.
We shall shine again
For all the time we lost in bargain
Lockdown would be over soon
Don't be weary and gloom
Parlours will reopen
And we will be out of our cocoon
Surrounded by family and friends
That has always been the trend
Time has slowed down
Wonder why we always had a frown
Chasing our endless dreams
Followed by sudden screams
The ultimate sophistication, simplicity
Have we left behind our integrity
Been busy counting money not happiness
Animals and birds sparkling in their brightness
Reminding us of our co-existence
How could we leave them at a distance
Lockdown gave us time
To pursue our creativities fine
Learning to go within oneself and meditate
As the planets above oscillate
Everyone's favorite holiday destination 'Home'
Where every member of the family shone
We have a long way to go
While the streams and the rivers flow
We have a long way to go.
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)
This black and white picture of my grand mother
Mounted on 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
Where I am the little King and she at my beck and call...
We don’t have to always distrust our inner scapes
Not if we are inured to emotions. Not if we are willing
To lie our head on Love’s lap and draw its inner strength
Like I did with her when she was alive
And still do, though she is no more, more as I grow older
Familiar if we give ourselves in more often
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 ...
I revisit my village after many years
Muted memories resonate
Spark the latent camera of reminiscences
Can see me as a Boy running around River bank
like one possessed but extremely carefree
Or to cover myself, rapidly climbing that tree;
Try as he might, my brother could not find me
For he was the one chasing his sibling...
Perhaps this is that same wall over there
At the corner of the grass laden little 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 perforce to exist we had to save our wicket.
An there where now I see a row of lined prototype houses
Was once our unsearchable hiding place
Where we played with such unalloyed fun
Sharing innocence of love with our kith and kin...
--- --- ---
Now that brother is distantly abroad,
Cushioned in greener pastures
Kith and Kin are there and not there
Scattered like nowhere everywhere
Leaving me desolate to resonate
Vividly in thick dust of their memories...
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.
My FIVE STAR BIRTHDAY IN 2019!
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
What are your plans for your Birthday? Asked my friend even as she greeted me.
Thanks a ton, planning to dine at my husband’s favourite hotel ,I said .
What is that? she said surprised.
We generally eat out ,invariably the choice of the restaurant is left to my husband and he patronizes only one near our place, I said.
Perhaps the way I sounded was a give away because what she said next was expected.
Since it is Your birthday why don’t you choose to dine at Your favourite restaurant, she suggested stressing on ‘your.’
Thanks a ton for your idea, I shall suggest to him right away, I enthused.
Are you sure you want to dine at this place? Asked my husband a little hesitatingly.
Why not? Remember we used to have lunch at a Five Star hotel on important occasions? I said.
But that was quite some time ago when we were young to binge on the rich spread ,not to speak of the wide variety of the dessert . he observed.
Oh, come on, even now we can do that ,ofcourse with a little discretion, I said trying to convince him.
O.K. have your way, he said agreeing without much persuasion.
Vegetarian or non-vegetarian maam, asked the smartly looking lady who appeared to be incharge of the Buffet .
Vegetarian, I stressed.
She walked almost three quarter way to the spread and stopping there turning to me said, ‘Maam, vegetarian fare begins from here.’
Can I have a look at the spread? I asked.
Most certainly, she replied with a smile .
Finding the vegetarian section consisting of typically south Indian menu similar to one we normally have at home , I grimaced and the lady apparently noticed it, for she said,’Maam, we also have a la carte, would you prefer that?
Let me have a look, I said and she gave the menu card to me most courteously.
I quickly ran through it taking extra care to see the vegetarian items on the menu ,which I noticed were very few , at the same time slyly seeing the price against them.
Returning the menu card to her most courteously coupled with my best smile I motioned to my husband (who appeared to delight at my plight ) to beat a hasty retreat!
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.
A lone voice,
in a whole chorus,
I sing from sheets,
Dictated by grownups.
Bound by traditions,
expectations, repercussions,
I try to find happiness,
Within my dominion.
I nourish like the earth,
Seek patience from God,
Yet the pain you give,
tests all my thresholds.
If I do manage to be born,
I face a dire situation,
Denied equal food, education,
I end up working for home.
Sometimes you hurt,
Even mutilate parts,
Do you not realise,
I am human, have a heart?
Others marry me off young,
Like I am just a burden.
Can I at least have a say,
In my own procreative day?
If I help support, or make,
A living on my own,
You make me work double,
Yet pay less and then quibble.
The world depends on me,
To survive and grow,
Is my happiness something,
Not important anymore?
It’s time to change,
Your ideas and view,
my freedom and choices,
are human rights too.
Note, I am soft
But, I am so not weak,
I can break barriers,
if I so wish.
Pushed to my limits,
I will erupt, break free,
Even a single discord tone,
Can break the harmony.
A single voice is,
All it takes,
Any Malala or Greta,
can bring disruptive change.
Me can become we,
One, weak, voice,
Can lead a transformation,
Of the whole society.
Note for the reader: In our society a girl child can still face issues like female foeticide and female infanticide, inequality of opportunity, FGM, early marriage and many more, across the world. Yet they survive and fight back for their rights. I recently watched a video of the Girl up Summit for 2020. It was motivating to see examples of how one girl’s voice made a huge difference to the society around her and how much the girls, collectively, managed to achieve. The poem is a reflection of this thought.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
GIRLS, CAREER AND MARRIAGE IN PRESENT SCENARIO
Today’s urban educated parents bring up their daughters to be independent career women. They do not have any hitch in spending for their education in the same way they would do for their son. We all parents being typical Indians in our upbringing, also wish our daughters to be married at the right age, and if for some reason that gets delayed, a nagging feeling may creep in our mind. Of course, gone are the days when daughters were allowed to study until they got a choice groom. Parents were relieved that it was up to her spouse or in-laws whether she continued her career or chose to remain a housewife, and maybe circumstances compelled her to become one.
Today’s scene is very different. Here are some oft-repeated instances which we experience regarding how daughters & parents behave when it comes to marriage. Though most parents spend a large chunk of their savings or take loans for their daughter’s education for a good career but also in a subtle way prepare them to give up their professional career if they found a suitable groom for them. Many of them go abroad with their spouse become housewives and may take up some courses to study for a new career or start studying again a career course which they had already completed at home. I find some of them quite happy but once in a while sighing about their missed career at home. Others may grumble as to how they have compromised their professional career.
Those marrying after entering into a profession mostly continue working even if they have to remain separate. Well, that equation is agreeable to both from the beginning, so not much grumbling. These couples may decide to have no offspring or delayed issues depending on their career prospects. The parent’s responsibility comes when they have their offspring. Both maternal & paternal parents as caretakers are quite a regular scene. Here the grandparents are needed to handle a child’s upbringing, family values, and education if they are available and willing or the child grows up in a daycare center in its early years.
The 3rd categories of girls are the ones whom we refer to as hardcore career girls who either refuse to marry to continue their career. Marriage becomes a load for them, and they don’t want this responsibility in between their profession and independent lifestyle. Some of them who are wedded may find this life too difficult to adjust and may opt to separate. Later if they find a partner who respects and willingly adapts to their style of living, they get married or may decide to go for a live-in relationship. A new trend of having house husbands is in demand. The film Ki & Ka has made this option quite lucrative.
On a lighter note, it won’t be very unrealistic to say that in this rat race in career, package, promotion, etc. some boys may willingly opt to become prized catches as a house husband.
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
"How long do you think
A beleaguered rock like you can resist
The endless rolling waters
The crests that persist
In breaking over you? "
Asked the sand
"I am immovable!"laughed the rock,
As the water broke into foam and spray,
" I can withstand the shock
Of a hundred thousand waves! "
"But the sea is relentless, "
Said the sand,
"It keeps pounding the land,
And nothing can withstand
It's force.
I should know, for once, I too,
Was a proud outcrop of rock like you! "
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
“Kya woh apka marad tha? Sujata was caught off-guard hearing such an absurd question while arranging her luggage under the seat after boarding a semi-dark compartment. The train had reached later than eleven PM, its stipulated time at Chennai station. Her nephew had come to see her off. He had just time to throw the luggage into the compartment and had to get down fast without even getting time to say a word of farewell. Sujata somehow balancing herself dragged the luggage from the door and was arranging them when such a question from her co passenger-filled her with disgust. Her right hand was weak after recuperating from bone dislocation and her doctor had advised her against lifting anything heavy. She had made lots of purchases not being able to restrain herself. All her family members would be coming during the Puja vacation. She had purchased clothes for them, toys for her youngest grandchild, and new clothes to be for the cook and other staff working at her place. Procuring things from another place had an added attraction. This was why she had spent considerable time in marketing at Chennai with her nephew Aditya and his wife. Now she was angry at herself with the large number of luggage which she had to somehow drag inside. At this time such an outlandish question!
Sujata was thinking that her male co-passenger, instead of assisting her in a train picking up speed was lying on his seat comfortably and asking such an absurd question. The gentleman put on the light and stood up. Sujata turned around and looked at him. He was a foreigner, almost six feet, and stood upright like a young person. It was difficult to tell his age. His face, in contrast, had lots of creases and his skin was coarse like the sloth skin. She assessed his age would be around eighty to eighty-five years.
Sujata was impressed with the way this foreigner was speaking rustic Hindi spoken in the hilly areas of Utter Pradesh. She glanced at him once and then became busy spreading her bedding to retire.
Her co-passenger wore his slippers and went towards the loo. He returned after fifteen minutes and again asked in typical tribal Hindi. “You are wearing bangles and vermilion like a married woman. Was that person who came to see you off not your marad?”
Hearing his way of speaking which sounded so uncouth, Sujata started despising him. She could not imagine a foreigner barging such personal questions at an unknown lady passenger. This time she replied curtly in English that he had no business knowing personal affairs and she would appreciate if she is left alone.
Her nephew Aditya was a hale and hearty boy. He was a foodie and had little control over it and special weakness for sweets. Added to this he had a desk job as a software engineer. He got a fat paycheque at the end of each month and his wife was also working. They had no children and his pastime was to dine in various eateries. He was obese for his age of thirty. In contrast, Sujata led a regulated life. She was careful as to what she ate, did regular yoga & pranayama, and was slender. The foreigner had seen her nephew in dark and therefore such an assumption. She thought these foreigners have no culture of their own. They know of only one relationship between man and woman and nothing more. Why could he not think that Aditya could be her brother, brother in law, or any relative or a friend? The word “Your man” sounded so uncouth. The moving train and such outlandish words disturbed her mind and she could not sleep well that night. As it is, she had difficulty sleeping in the train berth, added to this there were only 2 occupants and both were in the lower berth. If the curtains would be drawn, they would be cut off from other passengers. That was also not very comfortable for her. She got up several times, drank water, and finally fell asleep very late. She woke up hearing the tea hawker and realized that it was morning eight o clock. Her co-passenger was drinking tea in a plastic glass as if long habituated to have it this way. Sujata was a bit surprised seeing a foreigner who seemed to be so well acquainted traveling in Indian Railways.
Sujata got up, washed her face, and returned to her berth. The foreigner handed her a cup of tea. Sujata softened seeing his creased face and shriveled skin. She could not refuse the tea and thanked him.
The elderly foreigner said, “You may be late so I kept the tea for you as, after this station, no more tea will be available. It is eight-thirty now". Sujata felt ashamed of herself for her previous night’s behaviour. She should not have been so irritated with an elderly person who reminded her of her grandfather. Her grandfather was throughout his life a principled person had also turned senile with age.
Remembering her grandfather, she became emotional and absentminded. She sipped her tea looking out of the window. The old man again asked, “Where are you going? Your eyes and thick hair tells me that you are from an eastern state. They are fish eaters. This is why they have long artistic eyes resembling a fish. The pure air makes their hair thick. They tie long plaits.”
Sujata was impressed again. From his accent, one could know that he was an Englishman. The old man did not talk with her in Hindi anymore. But hearing an elderly foreigner appreciating her eyes and hair made her a bit uncomfortable. But this time she could not suppress her curiosity anymore and asked, “How did you know so much about Indians?” “Where did you learn to speak Hindi so fluently?” “Do you reside in India?” “Where are you traveling to now?”
Hearing this his creased face unfolded into a radiant smile. He said, “I am not as fortunate as you people to stay in such a great country. But I was fortunate to spend some early years of my life in this country. My father had served British India for long. He was a doctor in the army. After his retirement, he had practiced for a few more years in Meerut. He had a flourishing practice and I was his only child. The sudden death of my mother had a deep impact on him. He left everything and we shifted to our house at Dehradun. This house was a huge bungalow surrounded by a garden and vast land which were all ours. When my mother was alive we had lots of family get-togethers there. Our house party was very popular in the British social circle. Today when I think of those events it seems as if all this had happened in another lifetime. My father Ronald Mackerthi led a kinglike lifestyle all along. After my mother’s death, there was a sudden transformation in him. He dedicated his life to the service of the poor and downtrodden. He gave away all his wealth for this cause. I was fifteen years then. These years of my youth were spent in the beautiful surrounding of mountains, forests, and rivers of Dehradun. I had my education here. What not have I enjoyed in this beautiful country of yours! I had servants at my beck and call. I had costly cars, went hunting mounted on elephants and horses, but all this was short-lived. My father who was a spendthrift lost all his remaining wealth in no time. This was the time when India got its independence. We sold all our properties at a throwaway price and left for our native home Scotland. I was so used to an easy life that I could not excel in any job there. Finally, after my father’s death, I moved to Australia and have been staying there since then. Now I am getting an old-age pension from the Australian Govt. which is equivalent to twenty thousand rupees in Indian currency. Somehow I could not forget India. It has remained close to my heart. Every two to three years, I come to visit India with whatever I can save. Some old employees of my family are still living in Meerut and Dehradun. They welcome me and take care of me. I spend some time with them. My father loved traveling. Despite his busy schedule, he used to travel to different parts of India. I have accompanied him several times in these trips through the length and breadth of India. I still remember those visits clearly. Now on every trip to India, I take this opportunity to visit different places. This time I am going to Kolkata and from there I will go to Darjeeling.”
Saying all this, he extended his hand towards her and said, “ “I am Harry. Can I know your name?”
Sujata reluctantly told her name and folded her hands in namaskar in reciprocation. The old man was critical seeing her measured gesture. He laughed and said, “ This is the only problem with you Indians. You are very conservative in your behaviour. You do not know what life is and how to enjoy it. You are deprived of many beautiful experiences because of your excessive shyness. The Britishers could not teach you their real culture and mannerism despite ruling your country for so long." Sujata was spellbound. The love for India by a foreigner impressed her whatsoever the reason might be in this case, mostly the foreigners look down upon Indians. This assumption was very much confirmed on one of her visits to America. Sujata’s approach towards the old foreigner had softened after hearing his story.
Sujata just smiled hearing the old man’s comment on Indian conservatism. She knew she would not be able to explain to him the Indian values and mannerisms and what they missed out by their overt approach to certain things.
Sujata asked, “You are traveling to so many places all alone? Your wife and family are not accompanying you?”
The old man laughed and said, “It is true that I had married in Australia but it lasted for only ten years. I also have a son. Now my ex-wife is married to a painter in Paris and is living there. My son lives with his family in Canada. Though very rare, I get letters from him. “
Sujata was taken aback. Just a few moments ago, this old man was boasting about the overt nature of their culture and civilization. Her heart moved with pity for this lonely old man and she was again reminded of her loving grandfather.
In a flashback, Sujata remembered her grandfather. He was a famous Sanskrit Pandit who was a teacher in a school. He had a very good income writing books, conducting Havan, etc. People happily showered gifts on him. He had two sons and a daughter. Sujata’s father was a famous eye specialist, her uncle was an Engineer who lived in Delhi, and his son in law was a Professor at Utkal University. He had a complete family where every member was self-sufficient. Every member was careful so that their father should not face any sort of inconvenience. He lived fifteen more years after the death of their grandmother. During the last few years before his death, he spent most of his time in prayers and had somehow become a recluse from day to day life. He was tall, fair, and wore the traditional silk dhoti. When he came out of the puja room for breakfast, the fragrance of sandalwood paste and scent of agaru (fragrance) lingered around him. All his grandchildren greedily wanted a share of what he had for breakfast which included flattened rice, country cheese, ripe banana, and nabata ( broken sugar cubes used as prasad) with tulsi leaf. He would mash them and put a little in each of their eager mouths. To them, it tasted like nectar. Even now she could smell that mingled fragrance. She became emotional thinking about this beloved person. He had passed away after the birth of her first child.
At the last stage of his life, he had become mentally imbalanced and threw tantrums like throwing away the food given to him or showing childlike stubbornness and suffered from throat cancer. The whole family took care of each of his needs without any hesitation as if their sole aim was to save this precious life and eliminate his pain.
When his last hour drew near the whole family was gripped with a terrible sadness. Sujata could even now visualize that scene when this lovable person breathed his last.
Sujata looked at the old man's kindness. “Oh! How sad and lonely this old man was. He belongs to a civilization where family values and attachment are hard to find. Leaving or moving away from your family member was a very common thing where regards for elders was a dearth. This was the time when old disabled people should be spending their time with their grandchildren without any worries happily chanting the name of God. But this old man has come from far off Australia to India in search of his childhood memories which he cherished. Oh! how hollow does it sound when he says, “You all do not know the meaning of life!”
Sujata asked him softly, “You live all alone, who takes care of you at the time of need? Who helps you with household chores? Who takes care of you when you fall sick?”
The old man laughed aloud and said, “Typical Indian attitude. Why do I need care and assistance? I am still strong enough to take care of myself. But yes, sometimes it becomes difficult to do some tasks all on my own. This is because my childhood had been spent in India where I was dependent on servants. This was the reason why I am not self-sufficient even today. Most Australians make bricks, burn them, join them with cement to build houses, do the woodwork, make the roof, and thus build their own house. Where will one get helping hand in such a country? Besides, I live all alone and I hardly have any savings. The old-age pension that I get maybe a good amount for your country but not much is left after meeting my necessities in Australia. This is the reason that I am traveling by train and not by plane."
The day somehow passed talking to this old man and reading magazine. Finally, at eight pm, food was served to the old man by the pantry attendant. Sujata opened her tiffin box and had the food and fruit which she had brought. She then spread her bedroll to sleep. She could not even doze properly throughout the day feeling conscious of the introspecting look of the old man. So now she covered herself and thinking of this lonely old man fell asleep.
She woke up early the next morning at five am. After a while, the train was to reach her destination Cuttack. She immediately started pulling out her luggage from under the seat. The old man quipped, “The train is late by an hour. Please don’t worry. I will help you to get down from the train with your luggage. “ Sujata thanked him. She asked the cabin attendant and came to know that the train will reach Bhubaneswar station after fifteen minutes. Mr. Mackerthy too got up to assist her. Sujata felt a bit uncomfortable that he had got up so early to help her.
Just then the old man said, “Sujata, I have heard that there have been instances when Indian women marry elderly people and take care of them throughout their lives. Do you know of any woman who is able-bodied, middle-aged, and will be willing to stay and take care of me? I am even ready to marry her. It would be better if she is educated. She should be willing to live with me in Australia. I am tired of living alone. My closest neighbor in Australia lives about a mile away from where I stay. If I die there, no one will even come to know of it.”
Looking at Sujata’s surprised face, he continued, “I am not as old as I may be looking. I am capable of giving every pleasure to women of your age. To tell you the truth, I want to spend the rest of my life with a caring Indian woman. I have no interest to go back to an empty house.“
Sujata was surprised at what she heard. The person who was criticizing the Indian conservative attitude a little while ago was so much afraid of loneliness! People belonging to such an advanced civilization are unable to get mental security. Sujata replied, “Mr. Mackarthy, why don’t you choose some woman in your own country to be your partner? Why do you think an educated woman from India can go and manage to stay with you throughout her life?”
She felt like asking, “What will she do in such a far-off country after your demise?” But she somehow restrained from speaking about such a harsh reality thinking that the old man does not seem to be thinking of his death in the near future.
Mr. Mackerthy said, “I have seen Indian women who have selflessly served till the end in return for little obligation. If I am fortunate to have the company of such a woman, I will keep her happy and she too will not hesitate to be my partner. I know the women of Australia. No woman would be ready to stay with an old man living on his old age pension. They are too materialistic. I feel that you are a large-hearted person. Please keep my address. If you can arrange for me such a partner, I will be grateful to you for lifelong.” He handed his card to her. The train reached Cuttack station.
The old man with the agility of youth helped de-board all her luggage. The train moved and this tall figure waving his hand disappeared. Sujata was left standing on the platform with folded hands. Just then her son came to receive her. He picked up her luggage and made way to move out of the platform. Walking behind him she was thinking, “I thank God that he has given me birth in that part of the world where one does not have to find a companion at a late age. Till now, most of the children have respect and concern for old family members. Of course, there has been a fast deterioration of the moral values of our society. But Indian culture and civilization are more than a thousand years old. It is difficult to believe that our moral values will disappear completely. Even now we worship rivers for giving us water, wind for giving us air to breathe, and the sun for giving us light. How can one discard one's parents who have given them birth or discard one's spouse? Of course, now such stray incidents are happening here too due to western influence.”
Sujata again thanked God for giving her birth in a country where she will never have to face such loneliness and frustration. Whatever values they have imbibed from their forefathers have also been transmitted down to their children. She has led a secure childhood, youth, and adulthood, and she also knew that her old age will be secured too. When death finally comes knocking at her door, she should have the strength to go with it, away in peace, surrounded by her loving children and other relatives.
She again prayed to God to be born each time in such a country which gave her such emotional security, culture, and tradition. She never hankered for the comfort and luxurious life of a developed nation.
She remembered the lonely old man and felt sorry for him.
Dr. Dipty Pattnaik is an ex reader in Chemistry but her passion is literature and she emerged as a writer of short stories, novels, translations, children’s stories and popular science books late in life. She has been enormously prolific, publishing more than ten collections of stories.
Priyadarshana Bharati has picked some of Dipti Pattnaik’s stories from different collections, and has compiled them under the heading “A Handful of Dreams”. These are mostly women centric stories. These women characters belong to the middle class Odia families. It is their problems and concerns, their aspirations and expectations, their struggle for selfhood, and their psychological state of suffering as homemakers that are reflected. Her writings are rooted in the culture she herself lives.
SUMMER OF MIGRANT LABOURER
Abani Udgata
His summer stretched thousand miles,
the seething tongue of my country.
Glazed eyes of a silent city sighed
into the sea-breeze, scattered
fragments of broken dreams. He waved
as he left to the windows shut tight.
A cloth bag hanging from a peg of lost dreams,
tattered slippers bound with a dirty lace
trudged on the rubbery expanse
of the arterial city streets, sprawled
like the back of a dead reptile.
His steps sallied on the seething tongue
of my country.
His mother’s bones waited
at the end of the road where
the river disappeared one evening,
stunted trees, leafless, sat haunched,
gaunt hills with dust-painted faces
like sadhus meditate as the wind circled
in a vortex of vacuous dreams.
And once again hot wind returns
in to its inner core, across time and space.
A drop of tear rolls down summer’s terrain,
the seething tongue of my country.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English.
I don't believe in ghosts. But I cannot disbelieve in ghosts after what happened to me during one of my visits to Bangkok. This is not a fiction. It's a fact......
As I came out of Subarnabhumi Airport, Bangkok, Thailand, a smiling Thai girl welcomed me saying - 'A white innova car waiting for you nearby. Please have nice journey to Pattaya'. I got into the car and reached the hotel at Pattaya. I handed over my passport for check-in. But the girls burst into laughter saying - 'Our driver is still waiting for you at the airport as per his telephonic message.' Being aggrieved I said - 'Physically you are checking me, my passport and on-arrival visa.' They asked -'Very funny ! Then how did you come? By air or through a ghost?' I told - 'That strange Russian driver-girl dropped me here and went away.' After much dispute, their Chief Manager resolved the issue, alloted a room for me in the hotel and said - 'Tourism is our profession. Hospitality is our motto. We are very much professional. Something strange has happened to you. It should not be repeated. We will take special care of you. Nothing strange will happen again.'
The next three days passed by in sightseeing & enjoying the natural beauties. On the fourth day of my arrival, it was a full-moon-night. At about 1.00 AM I saw a weeping cascading girl on my window behind the transparent glass. In fear I began to tremble. A sweet smile with a sorrowful song crept into my room. Before thinking anything that girl came to me through the glass window. I was dying in fear. She held me before I collapsed and went on saying - 'Please don't fear me. Nothing wrong to happen. I am your Russian-driver-girl-friend who brought you from the airport in that white innova car. Don't you recognise me? Five years ago we were working together in Honey Massage Parlour. Have you forgotten your promise to take me to your sweet home? But alas! From that tragic car accident we were separated from each other. I cannot recollect anything more. But I am searching for you in that car and also in Thai air. After separation, I cannot live with you. But I cannot live without you.'
Before dawn she had vanished into thin air. On hearing the tragic fact, the hotel manager told- 'Actually a car accident had happened 5 years back & one soul/spirit has been roaming around since then.' In the morning I returned in the car of the hotel to the airport. She was flying beside the car. At the departure time I saw her, tears coming down her eyes like a waterfall & her weeping lips were saying - 'Won't you take me to your sweet home?'
And my flight took off.
Sri Ashok Kumar Roy a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
She looked at me
Her innocent eyes pleading,
Her silent looks piercing my heart
How did you forget me in your prayers today?
Sad, I hung my head
And remembered my prayer
Yes how did I forget
Little Zara today.
My mind was elsewhere
Sometimes it happens
Mind is a restless beast
Roaming around in careless abandon.
Even in prayer we often
Forget to say things
We ought to say
In silent supplication.
I picked her up
And hugged her tight
My heart filled with
An utter remorse.
She squirmed,
Breathless by my smothering love
I put her down,
She was happy to be free.
To show her happiness
She stood on her hind legs, wagging her tail
Her eyes melted with tender love
Our hearts joined in perfect understanding.
(Little Zara is our daughter's pet in U.S.)
He looked at me, his piercing eyes boring a hole in my forehead. In a calm voice he said, you are trying to escape from life, don't do that, learn to live with it.
I felt a little disoriented. I wondered how Baba knew I was trying to escape from life. But then I thought this would be a standard line for a Baba to say to all who come to him. Everyone is tired of the struggles of life and finds an escape, some with bottles of liquor and others with visits to temples and Babas.
Somehow I am always uncomfortable to the idea of Babas. Not that I don't have faith in them, I neither believe in them, nor disbelieve. I am just indifferent to them. It's like being neither an atheist nor a believer. Just letting Gods be alone. So long as they also do the same.
But there must be something in me that lets out the ominous signals. People who meet me can sense that I am a restless person. I am one of those fastidious persons who is not easily pleased. Looking for perfection everywhere, for me best is the enemy of good.
Yet, the Baba was right. I am an escapist. I want to run away from everyone, everything. Happy to curl up with a book, I often skip lunch reading the book, when I am alone at home, on the rare days that my wife chooses to go away to her parents' place to spend a day with the kids. I know she needs that break. With the entire burden of running the family, shopping for everything, taking care of the children, looking into their studies and entertaining the odd visitors with polite conversation, she is a piece of wonder. Her only regret in life, she has confided to me, is that no one had warned her I was a nut case. Given a choice she would have looked for saner pastures.
And yet behind a calm, lazy exterior I am all turbulence inside. Little things worry me, slight aberrations irritate me no end. And those who have experienced it, say that my anger is unbelievably combustive. It's like a heap of dry leaves catching fire. There would be nothing at one moment, just an innocent heap and the next moment it will be in flames, threatening to spread and burn the earth down. There is something simmering within me always and that something is an all pervading ember.
The Baba must have sensed it. And there is no surprise in that. Every day he meets at least a hundred devotees, seekers of blessings and curious candidates to know how much he can look into their future and foretell the events of life. I was not very keen to meet him. But having been stuck for a weekend in a small town like Gorakhpur with nothing to do, my restlessness got the better of me. I had gone for inspection of works for an ongoing project on a Saturday and suddenly there was a death in the contractor's family. He had to go away to Varanasi promising to return on Sunday night. The local staff waxed eloquent on the Nepali Baba, just across the border inside the deep forests of Nepal. He was known to be a Trikaldarshi, someone who can look at you and see your past, present and future.
I was tempted to go mainly because the ninety kilometres drive was a big attraction. I knew the thick forests, the cooling air, and the chirping of birds would soothe my mind. By the time we reached the Baba's ashram it was past noon and the crowd had thinned. Only half a dozen villagers waited. My group of officers wanted to bully them to wait when 'Sahab' would go and have a darshan of Baba, but I forbade them to do that. I knew I would return by car, but they would have to walk a long way to reach their homes. Anyway, my visit was just out of an idle curiosity, they came with a lot of faith, someone needing a cure from an illness and somebody for the promise of a liveable future.
I was the last to enter the Baba's den. His attendants had probably informed him of that. Having seen the likes of Asharam Bapu and sundry opulent Babas in television I was expecting to see a tall, imposing figure, fat and bulky. I was surprised to see a dark, emaciated man sitting on a simple mat, his body smeared with ashes, his forehead covered with bibhuti and sindoor. With a thick foliage of beard there was hardly any part of the face left exposed to the world. Yet his eyes were bright and piercing. I also found he was neither old nor young, a middle aged person like me. Yet somehow there was a mild aura of mystic power, even discernible to an indifferent visitor like me.
I greeted the Baba with folded hands and sat before him on the ground. Baba looked at the piece of chit with my name written on it by one of the officers accompanying me. Baba stared at me for a few moments and closed his eyes. He went into a meditation, leaving me to survey the room and look at the huge statue iof Nilakantha, Lord Shiva in splendorous grandeur, in a corner. A mild aroma of chandan was hanging in the air, probably from an incense stick burning at the feet of the deity.
Baba finished his meditation and opened his eyes,
"What is your problem, why have you come?"
"I have no problem, Baba, I had come to Gorakhpur on inspection and my office staff spoke very high of you. So I came to have your darshan."
"Where have you come from? Delhi?"
"Yes Baba, I live there with my wife and two children."
Baba again stared at me, his piercing eyes drilling a hole in my forehead,
"Why are you trying to escape from life? Stop doing that. You must learn to live with it."
I felt shocked, how could the Baba know I was trying to escape from life? But then I tried to convince myself, it must be normal for a seasoned Baba like him to read people's minds.
After a brief pause Baba asked me,
"Did you have the dream again last night?"
"What dream?"
"The usual."
I looked at him closely.
"What usual?"
Baba closed his eyes, meditating for a minute. Being a Trikaldarshi he was probably trying to look into my past. And with his eyes closed he muttered,
"The usual, you and your friend swimming with your twelve year old sister in the river near the village."
I hung my head, the memory coming back with frightening clarity. Dreams are hazy, but memory is always clear, crystal clear. Tears came to my eyes. Baba was continuing, eyes closed, words flowing as if he was in a trance,
"The current dragging her down, she screaming, you and your friend trying to pull her back, but the current too strong for you. As her elder brother you should have known about the current and so also your friend, who was a better swimmer than you. Both of you tried but could not save her. The body was found two days later near the sea, half eaten away by crocodiles, somehow the red plastic bangles on her left wrist had remained intact".
I looked up, a stunned silence pervaded the room, the fragrance of sandalwood added an eerie reality to the sad memory. The Baba had not opened his eyes, he spoke in a calm subdued voice,
"Unable to get over the guilt your friend left home, never to return. But you have a family, a wife and kids. You owe it to them to live and take care of them. Stop trying to escape from life. What happened to your sister was ordained by God. She had come to the world to spread joy and smile for twelve years and a few months, not a day more, nor a day less. You have a long life ahead of you. You must learn to live with life. You must forget your little sister."
I looked closely at the Trikaldarshi Baba again. His eyes were still closed. I asked him,
"How about you? Have you forgotten her?"
The image of the sad, broken face of Baba will remain with me as long as I live, tears were rolling down from his eyes,
"No, but I was in love, hopelessly in love".
Asutosh, my childhood friend, crumpled to the floor, sobbing.
I left him, hiding a flood of tears in my aching heart.
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.
Viewers Comments