Literary Vibes - Edition LXXIX
(Title : Pegasus - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
We are back again, with the 79th edition of LiteraryVibes this week.
We are happy to welcome two new poets and a seasoned writer into the family of LiteraryVibes. Dr. S. Padmapriya from Chennai is an accomplished and well published poet. She writes with deep feelings and etches her poems with haunting images. Ms. Snigdha Kacham from Hyderabad, a young IT professional is a rare find, someone who wanders around to discover the beauty of life. Her poem in today's edition is a reflection of her passion for life and and its finer nuances. We wish the two newcomers abundant success in their literary career. The seasoned writer is Mrs. Minakshi Rath, who has numerous stories to her credit, published in all leading magazines in Odia. Her short story in today's edition is a piece of pure joy, exploring an amazing world of simplicity and symbolism. We look forward to her continued participation in LiteraryVibes.
It is but rare when we find a travelogue that can make us sit up and wish if we are given the choice by God to do just one more thing in life, we would like to traverse the path taken by the writer. Please read Ujan Ghosh's wonderful travelogue in PositiveVibes (it could not be accommodated in LiteraryVibes due to its huge size) to know the beauty of a trip to Scandinavia. I have not been there and after reading Ujan's article, I know I will carry that regret to my grave. The travelogue is a must read and can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/325
Debi Padhi, the indefatiguable naval aviator has been writing scholarly articles for the last few weeks and earning accolades from the readers. He is back again with a superb exposition on spiritual education (http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/326). He has been joined by his wife Dr. Rajalaxmi Padhi, an experienced professor and educational expert who has advocated the need for Career Guidance and Counselling as a part of academic curriculum (http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/327).
Three weeks back, in the 76th edition of LiteraryVibes, I had wondered what triggers a creative work. I had suggested that sorrow and separation are powerful triggers and quoted two poems by Prof. Geetha Nair and Ms. Supriya Patanayak, to demonstrate the powerful emotion of sorrow and loss. Yesterday I found another answer to the riddle in the most unexpected way. I was trying to impress my wife at the lunch table with some profound statement (poor, jobless husbands no longer earning a salary and with literary pretensions, have to often do that to stay relevant!). So I said, if everyday is like anyday then some day will be special. She knew I was shamming, so she laughed it away, but the words stayed in my mind, repeating themselves and gathering twigs. Finally I built a poem by the evening. It's not a great poem, not even by a mile, but it's a "spontaneous overflow" of "emotions recollected in tranquilty" of the afternoon, when the world eases itself into a peaceful siesta. To ease my doubting mind I sent the poem to Prof. Geetha Nair, asking her if she thinks it can pass off as a poem. She said she liked it. Here it is:
WAITING
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
If everyday is like anyday
then someday will be special,
a day that would shine
through the gathering clouds.
If the past knew
what the present would be like
then future will be an insipid hyphen,
there will be no wait for the unknown.
If yesterday held in a palmful of love
a demure today and tossed it at us,
we would pick it up
for the sake of tomorrow.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
If I was everything to you once,
and today your eyes never smile
looking at me, something tells me
I am nothing to you anymore.
If no one knocks at my door
Although everyone passes this way,
I keep looking out, a castaway,
waiting for someone to come someday,
That someday will be special
Smiling through the clouds,
The sky, overcast for long, will open up
and drench me in blissful rains
.
I will be happy to host more poems like this in LV, with a story behind them. After all we are all itinerant travellers trudging with our decorated caravans in time's eternal path. We may be just small dots in the imposing canvas of the universe, but we are not nothing. We are something, aren't we, the breathing, laughing, dreaming small dots? If we don't tell our stories to each other who will?
Hope you will enjoy this 79th edition of LiteraryVibes. Keep reading the nice poems and nicer stories till we meet again next week. Please share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/328 with all your friends and contacts with a reminder that hundreds of poems and stories are waiting for their attention at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care. Stay safe.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table Of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
GREY SORROW: SALTY TEARS
02) Haraprasad Das
GOD’S GRACE (VIGRAHA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
PARALLEL PERSPECTIVES
THE SCORPION'S STING
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE DOOR*
05) Dr. Pradip K. Swain, M.D.
REFLECTIONS OUT OF INDIA
06) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
THE MAVERICK
07) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
LINES
08) Sharanya Bee
THE QUEEN
09) Madhumathi. H
WINGS' STORY...
CANVAS...
10) Latha Prem Sakya
KANAKA'S MUSING : 2
11) Molly Joseph
WHERE WATER SINGS OVER THE STONES..
12) Supriya Pattanayak
GRANDPA'S STORIES
13) Hema Ravi
SPOT THE WINGED WONDER
14) Vidya Shankar
SNAKE MAN
15) Lt Gen NP Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd)
GREEN RUN IN THE RANN
16) Umasree Raghunath
NEVER TRULY YOURS
17) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO (OUR PET)
18) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE ORDEAL
19) Malabika Patel
A NIGHT IN THE COURTYARD
20) Mini K Antony
THE BIRTH OF A SAINT
21) Meera Raghavendra Rao
THIEVES GALORE
22) Ravi Ranganathan
GUHA OR GUHAN IN RAMAYAN.
23) Prof. B. C. Das
CHOOSING BETWEEN TWO OPTIONS
24) Minakshi Rath
A WINTER NIGHT
25) Dr. S. Padmapriya
TINY
26) Snigdha Kacham
LITTLE GIRL
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE MONKEY DANCE
Ganpati, sitting at my gate, shoots troubles.
Jesus welcomes all
with open arms at my door.
Lakshmi and Sarasvati balance indoors,
learning and lucre on tight rope-walks.
I count Lord’s holy name on rosary,
carry a Quran under my arm,
spin yarns on Bapu’s Charkha.
But I have no control on my blood.
A spark spurs it to turn volatile,
defile and break temples, mosques,
churches; spill blood. My impotent lava
flowing amok, I rape, lynch. I have
moved from my jungle lair to live
among civilized people, but my head
still houses beasts from the jungle.
Am I a predator locked in a cage?
Is my humility, a façade for humanity?
Why do hunger and anger make me insane,
a whiff of blood whets my madness?
I break a mosque if said to usurp
a temple’s space, I demolish a temple
if said, built on the site of a mosque.
I set Ram against Rahim,
make them fight, intolerant, bloody.
I go to find a dove called peace
amid the hush of flowers, sandal scent;
among quiet joss sticks, or candles.
I sell tinted glasses to gullible public
to see red or green as I wish;
lead them, the lambs, to the butcher,
bleating away happily to salvation.
A grey sorrow blinds me.
Tired of waiting for a clear vision.
my teary eyes congeal,
leading to cataract. Salt burns sight.
I, an eyeless, ask people to keep
eyes shut, bask in vainglory-illusion,
replace grey sorrow with white salvation,
drink salty tears as divine Amrit!
People endlessly wait
for the fights to end.
Parents wait for children
to learn, earn, and return.
My wife waits to cuddle
her tiny tots to bosom.
Her breasts droop,
waiting for my return.
(The Odia poem, “Maatiaa Dukhah, Luniaa Luha” appeared in Samayara Shankhanada in its Dussehra issue, 1999. Here is the English version by the poet.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Pray, let all good things
return to your life, as all things
washed off return in ebb tides -
your lost glory, unblemished;
your dream-lover, unselfish,
a resplendent prince from stars;
a shower of honey from
wagging tongues mouthing curses.
Pray, let it be your day
as every dog has his –
but a day of ridicule
for the hands that touched
and poked you to buy you
like a succulent chicken
before putting you to the slab;
for the people
who appropriated you
for their joyrides,
then discarding you
like a torn ragdoll
after playing with it.
That day, be thankful
to none, but the Lord,
who manifests to be
the most compassionate,
working wonders
for His peoples.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
You look ahead
till your gaze may reach
where the road narrows in the distance
and both its edges converge
to a point
and the people
black and yellow
white and brown
walking on the road toward it
or away from it
dressed in green
white and saffron
tend to merge there only in
shades of grey.
The illusory locus
serves both as the source and the sink
where definite becomes indefinite
and vice versa
and there are many such roads
that are parallel to each other
and which tend to seem
to finally meet
at the ultimate
vanishing point
the cosmic confluence
where all differences
appear to disappear.
It was an early morning on a wet day. Rajesh was half asleep when someone rang the door bell. Ritu, his wife was in the kitchen, making tea. His ten year old daughter Tanushree was curled up in bed, deep in slumber. Rajesh dragged his feet to the door and opened it to find his younger brother Brijesh standing there with a small bundle in hand. A taxi was standing at the gate of his bungalow. He called Brijesh in and realised that he was carrying a little baby in his arms, who was blissfully asleep. Brijesh was sobbing and informed his elder brother that Rani, his wife was no more, and has finally given in to leukaemia. Meanwhile Ritu came and joined them and Rajesh handed over the baby to her saying,' Bhabi, now this little fellow is yours. I can't take care of him. He's just nine months old. He lost his mother to cruel destiny. Now you are his mother.'
Ritu held the baby close to her heart and said soothingly, ' Don't worry about the kid. Now he is our responsibility. You hold on to yourself. Everything will be alright.'
Rajesh asked,' But why didn't you keep us informed about Rani? We could have helped.'
'Her case was hopeless. Nobody could have helped her.' Replied Brijesh.
Rajesh, in his late forties, was a successful professional and was fairly well to do. He was the marketing head of an FMCG company, based out of Mumbai. He had his own bungalow on the sea front of Carter Road. Brijesh however was a college drop out. He devoted more time to cricket and outdoor sports. With Rajesh's help, he established himself as a petty contractor in the mining areas of Dhanbad. He had also a darker side. He was known as a local 'dada' and intimidated the local populace with arm-twisting once a while. In fact he professed himself as the local godfather. He had somehow managed to keep his police records clean. He was married to Rani, the daughter of a local lawyer. Rani didn't enjoy good health. They were blessed with a son nine months ago. The little baby had a habit of flicking his tongue like a snake does. They had named him lightheartedly Takshak, the mythical serpent .
Tanushree was the happiest one to see the baby at home. She looked forward to come home after school to play with him in the lawn. It was a sight to enjoy, Tanu pushing the baby in a pram and their spitz Fanta running after the ball. Tanu affectionately called him Beedu, an endearing Bombayia tapori nickname. The name stuck to him. With love and care, the baby grew up and started going to school. Beedu blended well with the family, calling Rajesh as Big Papa and Ritu as Big Mama. Meanwhile Tanu finished her studies and got a job in the country's premier IT company. She was sent on an overseas project to Atlanta, in the USA. Beedu made some friends in the nearby slum area and preferred to spend his spare time with them playing marbles and flying kites. Rajesh was not in favour of the street boys as his companions but Ritu managed to convince him to allow the boy his freedom. Beedu was an average student. Rajesh had employed a tuition teacher to help him in his studies, but he continued to show mediocre results.
One day Rajesh discovered a scorpion kept inside a glass jar on Beedu's study table. He called Beedu and advised him to get rid of it. Beedu wanted to know why can't he keep it as a pet?
' Let me tell you the story about the sage and the scorpion,' continued Rajesh,' A sage meditated everyday on the banks of river Ganga. One morning he saw a scorpion floating on the water. He was worried that it may drown, and he bent down to rescue it. As he reached out to pick it up, it stung him. His hand swelled up and throbbed with pain. He again tried and picked it up and left it on the ground. The scorpion stung him again. A passerby asked the sage why was he so stupid to save such an evil and ungrateful creature? The sage calmly replied that just as it's in the nature of the scorpion to sting, it was in his nature to save lives and show compassion.'
' So what's wrong if I take care of the scorpion? I am only showing compassion,' asked Beedu.
' He was a sage. It's good learning to show compassion to all creatures, but one has to be careful with the ungrateful ones. However kind you may be to the scorpion, it will sting you and cause you pain. So it is better to avoid such creatures,' advised Rajesh.
Years rolled by. Meanwhile Tanu found her life partner, a colleague in her company and both decided to settle down in the USA. Beedu graduated in Computer Applications but could not succeed in campus selection. When Rajesh advised him to try in off campus recruitments, he argued about the necessity for him to do any job. He asked, ' Big Papa, why should I look for any job?' and continued, 'You are a successful and rich man. Tanu didi and her husband are both green card holders. They are not coming back. You have saved enough for three of us. In any case everything will come to me after both of you leave the world.'
Rajesh couldn't believe his ears and admonished him,' Look my dear, don't see such dreams. You have to earn your own livelihood. Nothing comes easy or for free. I had struggled my whole life to be where I am. You will have your self respect only when you stand on your own feet. May be I will help you to find a job. But don't be under the illusion that you would be handed everything on a platter!'
Rajesh after a fruitful corporate career of about forty years, finally hung his boots.
He requested one of his former colleagues who had started his own IT company SoftSys, to absorb Beedu at least as a Data Entry Operator. As a friendly gesture, and for old time's sake, he offered Beedu that job. Beedu unwillingly joined the company. Brijesh came to Mumbai in regular intervals to meet his son. One day he landed up with a lady, whom he introduced as his newly wedded wife Manjari. Manjari was a widow, teaching in a school at Dhanbad. She had a son Suraj, from her earlier marriage. Beedu was happy to see his extended family and bonded well with Suraj, who was couple of years older. Suraj was freelancing as a DJ and shared with Beedu many of his escapades.
Even though Beedu joined the software company and made new friends, he continued to keep his friendship with Bantia who lived in the slums nearby. Bantia used to be a regular visitor to their household and both the fiends used to lock themselves for hours in his study room. After retirement Rajesh spent most of his time at home. He found these visits unusual and checked with Ritu how long this has been going on. Ritu told that they were very close buddies and have been meeting quite regularly at home since ten years. Rajesh grew suspicious and the next day decided to search the study room, when Beedu was away in office. To his horror he discovered in the drawers rolled joints of marijuana as well as white Coke powder and brown sugar in sachets. In the cupboard he was startled to see a row of jars each with different species of scorpions. He was stunned for a moment and was wondering what did he do wrong in the upbringing of the boy. He was determined to bring this affair to a close.
When Beedu returned from office, he gave him a thorough dressing down. Beedu met his eyes defiantly and kept mum. Rajesh gave Beedu the ultimatum that if he doesn't mend his ways, he would disown him and he would not be allowed to continue in Mumbai. He was free to go back to Dhanbad and stay with his father. Beedu didn't utter a word and went to his bedroom, Ritu in tow. Ritu hugged him and appealed to him to get rid of these bad habits. Beedu continued to sulk.
Beedu didn't join them for dinner. Ritu tried her best to ease out the matter, but he didn't yield. He locked himself in his bedroom. Later at the dead of the night when everyone was asleep, Beedu tiptoed into Rajesh's bedroom. Rajesh and Ritu were fast asleep. Beedu was carrying a jar with him. In the dim ambient light that made the scene look sinister, Beedu released the scorpion under the sheet that Rajesh was covered with. It was a Yellow Fattail Scorpion, one of the most venomous species known as 'Androctonus' meaning man-killer in Greek. The next day morning Rajesh did not get up from his sleep. The doctors declared him dead due to respiratory failure. Ritu's world was shattered to pieces overnight. Tanu and Amar, her husband rushed from the USA. Brijesh also landed from Dhanbad. The last rites were performed by Beedu. Tanu insisted that Ritu must accompany them to the USA and stay with them. But Ritu convinced them to stay back so that she can take care of Beedu. How else the poor boy would survive here alone?
Ritu, over the next few months started showing signs of Alzheimer's disease. One day Beedu got a sheaf of stamped papers and asked Ritu to sign.
' Big Mama, I have been transferred to Bangalore. My company is giving me accommodation. I have decided that we should move there and give this bungalow on rent. This house would make you miss Big Papa more. I have found a good tenant. Please sign these rent registration papers. In a month's time we will move to Bangalore,' explained Beedu.
' Whatever you say, my son,' said Ritu and signed the papers mechanically.
' Papa, step one of our plan A is done,' spoke Beedu to his father on his cellphone.
' Well done, my boy, I am proud of you,' complimented Brijesh.
Ritu's condition started deteriorating rapidly. With signs of severe memory impairment, she stopped recognising people and lost her sense of direction. She forgot her own identity and when asked who she was, she simply gave a vacant look. Only one name she spoke repeatedly in response to almost all the questions asked to her: Tanu. Sometimes she lost control of her bladder movement too. Meanwhile Beedu was preparing for step two of their plan.
The papers on which Beedu took Ritu's signatures were not rent agreement papers but actually the documents for power of attorney for selling the house. Beedu sold the house and transferred the proceeds to his father. After handing over the house to the new owner he and Ritu took a cab to the airport for their travel to Bangalore. On reaching the check in counter, Beedu told Ritu to wait in the waiting lounge, while he went to get the boarding passes. Ritu kept waiting there but Beedu didn't return. After few hours one airport staff asked her whom was she waiting for so long. Ritu was incoherent and only muttered the name of Tanu. The airport police then came to check, but couldn't get any coherent answer. Then they contacted an NGO, running a Home for the Aged and handed her over to them. The staff there tried to find out about her identity and whereabouts but she only repeatedly answered in monosyllables: Tanu. On searching her bag they found her cellphone and from the contacts, the found the name Tanu. They called up the number and Tanu confirmed that she was her mother from her description. She requested them to take care of her and took the first available flight to Mumbai.
The next morning, the news papers carried an inconspicuous small news item. It was about a car accident near Bangalore airport on the earlier day. The driver had miraculously escaped with minor injuries, but the passenger, an unknown young man in his twenties had succumbed to severe concussion.
The only clue about his identity that the police had found was the T shirt he was wearing. It had the company logo of SoftSys.
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.
This one has never opened,
even when no one is around except
the ignorant, temple-haunting birds.
But sounds can be heard
from behind the door, words
half-spoken, half-remembered.
I know the goddess is wide awake.
Her large round eyes as hard
as some precious stone,
her look about to bestow
a long-forgotten gift.
I’ve stood here for a long time,
my hopes renewing themselves
under the sun’s clear light
and the moon’s benevolence.
The waiting hours do not seem to matter
any more and cannot even secure
the sound of footsteps behind the door.
How else does one wait?
Which other prayer might separate
the sins of exile from the sacred hour?
*The poem was included in my book, ‘A Wound Elsewhere’.
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
REFLECTIONS OUT OF INDIA
Pradip K. Swain, M.D.
Not too long ago, I took a volunteer medical missionary trip to India. Instead of a getaway vacation, I “got away” to India for several reasons: to seek adventure, to “find myself” and of course, to serve those less fortunate than me. A seemingly short 10 days later, I returned a humbled man, feeling refreshed and renewed, with a different perspective on life. The benefits of this mission trip far outweighed those of any luxury getaways I have experienced.
To varying degrees, each of us chose this work out of a desire for a good job and career, to make a contribution, to enjoy a good life. However, the daily grind exacts a heavy toll on us, both at the hospital and within the family. Being frustrated, we can become distracted, fatigued and self-absorbed, relationships suffer. Personally, I found myself easily angered by frustrations in the clinical area and at home, and even by critical life issues like poor quality of coffee in the emergency room! Obviously, my comfort zone was growing increasingly narrow.
In India, I found a different perspective on my life. The thrush of this trip was that it took my comfort zone and blew the top and bottom out of it! My trip to serve the needy in India gave me much more than I felt I gave or ever could give over there. I no longer take for granted the safe and comfortable life at home!
One morning I was taking a stroll along the sandy beach of the Indian Ocean after a storm surge. I saw a ten year old boy walking along the beach picking up stranded starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. As he flung one little starfish back, I asked him, "what are you doing?”
The boy replied, “throwing starfish back into the ocean, because they will die if they dry out.”
I said, “but there are hundreds on this beach, you’ll never get to them all, so what difference do you think you are making?”
The boy replied as he stooped down to pick up another starfish and toss it back into the ocean. “It made a difference for that one.”
Our day-to-day lives frequently are frustrating or successful but we really do make a difference in the lives we touch. I came to learn that there are “starfish” all around us.
A mission trip, which often entails stretching beyond our comfort zones, can be incredibly regenerating. The opportunity to gain a fresh perspective on life, both in and out of the hospital, recharges us. “Getting way” to serve others renews a sense of self. A deeper appreciation for who you are and all that you have provides lasting benefits. Not only did I come back appreciating my job, my family, my home, and the simple things in life, but my time away caused me to reflect on what is of real value and worth in my life.
Opportunities exist all around us for these activities. You can find homeless or needy people in your neighborhood and your town. Serving others does not require an expensive trip overseas or even a great deal of time. Wielding a hammer at your neighborhood school for construction or repair or visiting an old age home or orphanage are some of the many opportunities where you might find your own India.
A time of service reaped great rewards in my life. Perhaps it could for you.
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Professor, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
I am free.
Neither any obligations
Nor any specific goals.
No targets, no baggage.
Like a lone bird
Flying in the flock.
I walk in the crowd
Unaware of any destination
Enjoying the flight
In the cool west wind,
Resting my fickle mind.
I am happy floating,
Without trying to change
The flow of current
With the weightless body,
Drifting away without fear,
Unperturbed of the future
Or the depth of the water.
My journey is lonesome,
Though it is weird,
I am happier than ever
Without any comparison.
It has taken years to fathom
The depth of the ocean.
Let me enjoy the treasure,
Having everything
But owning nothing;
Gives me an unique feeling
Of being in a theatre
Like an avid spectator
Enjoying the episodes
One after another.
"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.
There is a margin on the page
That we are not to invade.
Lines drawn horizontally
Beyond which alphabets
Should not trespass.
Then came the blank page
To check if we could follow
The rules in a ruled page,
Tidy and in order.
Success to those who could
Toe the line,
They spoke with fine letters.
Victory to those who
Violated the ruling lines,
And got out of the grid.
They felt liberated
And spoke in sketches.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
Oh, how she walks with grace!
Her two arms wide open
Towards the grey mist
As I wonder 'What could be her fate?'
Fearless with every gentle step she moves
As though she has already been here from long before
Is that magic or some kind of magnetism
Emanating from her body
Spilling out from her fingers...?
The deep river, the wild forest,
The thick grey mist and the very nature ahead beholds still
As though welcoming their long lost queen...
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
Gently dear
Let your wings be not torn
Let the thorns be blunt or melt
Who named you 'Dragon'fly?
May I call you, Silversky?!
Tender you, holding on to what?
Is hope, a branch of thorn...
Ah!
How did I forget
The thorns of the Jackfruit
And the deliciousness of patience
For anything to ripe, and sweeten life...
Reminders of hope, with kind wings
Gently fly from heart to heart
Planting smiles, and more seeds of joy...
The half-awake colors of dawn
Like honey dripping from the comb
Slowly, softly
Flow through the half-open window...
A Canvas from the Sky
To make her day
"Where shall I hang the art?!"...
While wondering
The birds
Pulled all the curtains of the Sky
Revealing
Hundred more canvases
Each ray of the Sun
Holding an art movement's splendour...
Light
Painted doors and windows
Upon darkness
And
The Canvas became
The roof of her heart...
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
Lathaprem Sakhya
Mamma was full of stories. Juny often did not like the stories mamma cherished. One such story was that of Echo in the Greek Mythology. Echo pined away to a mere voice because she could not express herself but only echo or repeat what others said. So she lost her love, Narcissus who was besotted with his own reflection. Mamma always wished "If only Echo was able to speak of her love to him, he would have accepted her. Poor Echo"
Mamma was sorry for Echo who was used by Zeus to keep the 100 eyed Argus engaged, by flirting and talking to him while he could go gallivanting with other nymphs and lesser Goddesses. She blamed Juno the consort of Zeus for appointing the giant to keep an eye on Zeus, Juno was sure that Argus being all eyes would be able to keep watch over Zeus' movements. But Zeus overcame that by engaging the happy go lucky mountain nymph Echo to engage the giant with her flirtatious talk so he could continue his wanton acts. They never expected Juno to find it out. But she found out and cursed Echo to be a mere voice and to repeat only what others said and banished her from mount Olympus.Thus Echo could only repeat the last words of Narcissus' questions and he becoming greatly annoyed drove her away from sight. Echo wandered over hills and dales and pined away to a mere voice. What a tragedy! Even Zeus who had used her had not gone to her rescue. For mamma it was an injustice that could not be easily forgiven and this story of Echo remained one of her favourites.
She thought her daughter Juny would also enjoy that story. But she learned in a hard way that children have a mind of their own and that they need not think like their father or mother. It was a summer vacation. Juny was scarcely ten then. It was part of the vacation routine to read a story and write a short summary with a comment. Mamma's aim was to inculcate the habit of reading in her child with a critical acumen. But Juny hated it because it would take up some of her morning play time. Besides, the neighbourhood girls and boys were getting ready to play cricket and they were calling for her. As Juny had finished reading the Malayalam version of Panchatantra for children, mamma chose Enid Blyton's "Tales of Long Ago" and suggested she should read the story of Echo first. and make a comment on it. Juny grabbed the book from Mamma and marched out of the room. Mamma knew her daughter would finish reading it before she returned from work.
Yes, it was the teacher at the Anganwadi Miss Chinnamma who taught her that, when Juny was just two years old. The maid who had looked after her left to take care of her own ailing mother. Mamma and Pappa took turns in babysitting. When their leaves were almost exhausted, they decided to send Juny to the nearby Anganwadi. The teacher at first refused because Juny was only two but when she realised the young couple's difficulties she relented. Mamma said it would be only until they found a suitable maid from their homeland, who could be trusted with the toddler. Juny was the youngest there, all the other children were above three years old. So the teacher and the Ayah looked after her like their own. After the first week of tears and screams she slowly settled down. She adored Miss Chinnamma. And she loved going there. Soon she started grabbing the slates of her seniors and the teacher told mamma to buy a slate and pencil for her. Mamma picked her up on her way back from College. As soon as they reached home Juny would take out her slate and diligently copy down the standing lines and sleeping lines on her slate and then only go to play with her dolls. When mamma got a maid, Juny was so unhappy staying home that she was allowed to go Anganwadi. Mingling with other children and learning fruitful things there would give her a better childhood, mamma too thought. She remained there for 2 years. When she was 4 years old She was admitted in LKG.
Whatever Chinnama teacher had taught Juny stuck like burr. Mamma thanked God and prayed for Ms Chinnamma. The training she got from Chinnamma helped her to be meticulous in her studies besides inculcating many disciplines a stay at home mother would have taught her. So Mamma knew however much she played, Juny would finish her work without fail before the sunset, that was the condition laid during vacation.
Despite all her work - travelling long distances to the evaluation camp for paper valuation and attending a thousand other chores which needed her attention, mamma would sit down to go through Juny's homework every night and give her the marks accordingly and write down the next day's assignments. That day as she went through the assignments she came upon the summary written very neatly. At the bottom was the paragraph of comment.. When Mamma read the comment she was perplexed at first but after a second she hooted with laughter. Yes the younger generation knew what they wanted. Juny had written, "This is the most stupid story I have ever read. If I had been in Echo's place, I would have written the words, 'I love you' on the sand with my toe for Narcissus or expressed it through sign language and thus get him and not pine away to become a mere voice".
Mamma, an incurable romantic at heart, had never thought in those lines. When she had come across the story in one of her poetry classes while doing her PG in English she had taken it to heart. It also led her to hunt out books on Greek and Roman mythology and devour them with avid interest. Now this interpretation did make sense, all the romance behind it was shattered. This reader's response had made it a stupid one. Mamma felt like a fool but she didn't want that to happen again. Yes, her stories, the ones she read and enjoyed and cherished should remain intact because like Coleridge she too believed in "the willing suspension of disbelief," and enjoyed the fairy tales, myths and fantasies revelling in the pristine world of fancy or imagination never questioning them. From that day onwards Mamma never pointed out her favourite fairy tales or all those fabulous stories she loved to any one to shatter the aura of fancy on which it was built. As for Juny She was allowed to browse over her collection of books and choose whatever she liked to read.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
WHERE WATER SINGS OVER THE STONES..
the quick sands
of Covid
sweep across,
shrouding
man's
survival game...
Where are we
heading to..?
You can hear
the sand
drifting from
the tops
and valleys
throwing back
their despair...
it echoes,
pervades
the near,.
the far,
while pale
horizons
watch...
No, out there
a plain
awaits...
your abode
of solace...
where water
sings over
the stones
the wind
cools you,
the cattle
stand in wait
under the trees
to step down
to the riverside
to quench
their thirst..
wait, wait
we too must
for
the sandstorm
to subside
and the sky
to clear up....
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
**Photo by Jose Pompe from unsplash.
The sun had settled in
for the day,
through the shroud of darkness,
a crescent moon lights the way,
with twinkling stars,
for company.
Summer vacations were the best
warm days at Grandpa’s,
so well spent,
exploring with mischief,
me, my brother and cousins,
raising such a riot.
As we lay on the terrace,
searching,
for the seven sisters,
he comes in,
with his tea and biscuits,
excited, we settle around him.
The air fills with mystery,
as he takes us on a journey,
through,
his words of imagery,
weaves tales of bravery,
for a spellbound audience.
With bated breath,
we hear till the end,
ask a few questions,
then request for one more,
with a wrinkled smile,
he complies.
A few stories down,
the smell of food,
wafts around,
he wraps up for the day,
promises us more,
sends us on our way.
Disappointment and grumbles,
pervades the atmosphere,
as we make our way,
downstairs,
hope clings to our heart,
for a repeat later.
Today, it's a warm summer evening,
I am up again on the terrace,
searching,
for the seven sisters and him,
alone with my nostalgia,
and a memory, fading.
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/ .
(Photo Courtesy: N.Ravi )
The Oeiental Mottled Emigrant aka 'Catopsilia pyranthe'
native of South East Asia and parts of Australia
sighted on the banks of the Adyar river
near the Fortis Malar hospital
The river is much cleaner
than what it used to be
The lockdown has proved a blessing!
Elusive, camouflaged in the green environs
Isn't this winged wonder a visual treat?
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.
(Picture courtesy: Shankar Ramakrishnan)
(In 2019, a critically endangered female Cuban crocodile died inside Madras Crocodile Bank Trust allegedly due to high-decibel noise coming from a nearby five-star hotel. This crocodile was part of a critical breeding group of one male and four (now three) females.)
It was the thirtieth night of the month of March ’19…
All was quiet at the eight and a half acres CrocBank.
The inhabitant reptiles and amphibians
Having been fed for the night,
Romulus, the “Snake Man”, and his staff
Were composedly retiring themselves
To the silences of the night, to the restful confines
Of their rooms or a tranquil night watch,
When, quite unannounced, a heavy sound-quake
Rocked them.
A high profile party in the adjacent resort, a luxury hangout,
All of stars five for hospitality and personalised service,
Had called for bass music, an accompaniment to hard liquor—
The more the revelry in the spirited jamboree,
The higher the decibels, toxicity having dampened
Eardrums.
All the while when rock flowed on rock,
And the rocking spree built its momentum,
In the neighbouring quietude, there began a rolling…
The crocodiles and the snakes pounded and slithered,
The aggravated aggression and terrifying tantrums
Distressed the frightened caretakers to concerned confusion!
Pathetic pleas and repeated requests for volume reduction
Fell on busted ears; CrocBank was not a worthy recipient
Of the five-starred resort’s excellence in service… after all,
It was not the CrocBank that gave them their salaries;
The moneyed clientele could not be upset.
And so, their fidelity to their guests
Kept the hi-fidelity speakers blaring through the night.
The morning that followed dawned upon a wasted scene ?
While an alcoholic delirium hung over the five-starred resort,
In CrocBank, it was a state of mourning!
It was a devastated Romulus and group
That the sun encountered that morning—
A healthy Cuban crocodile, its species having prime position
On the World Conservation Union Critically Endangered species list
Had died: a female of a critical breeding group
Of one male and four females… now three.
When news of the tragedy reached the ears
Of the night’s revellers, all that was said
Devoid of any remorse was:
‘It was only one that died, there’s three anyway
That’s left.’
Footnotes:
Romulus, the “Snake Man”: Romulus Whitaker, the “Snake Man” of India and a Padma Shri awardee is the founder of CrocBank, or The Madras Crocodile Bank Trust/Centre for Herpetology.
Disclaimer: The comment of the “night’s revellers” at the end of the poem is fictitious, but purposefully included to show the callous and apathetic attitude of most people towards animals, especially towards those animals that are not part of one’s domestic environment.
Vidya Shankar is a widely published Indian poet, writer, editor, yoga practitioner, mindful mandala artist, a “book” with the Human Library, and English teacher. She is the author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam, in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan, and The Rise of Yogamaya. A recipient of literary awards and recognitions, Vidya is the chief admin of the Facebook group Kavya-Adisakrit and one of the editors of Kavya-Adisakrit, an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House. She is also a member of the poetry group India Poetry Circle, or IPC.
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd)
A Traveler with His Camel in the Rann
The decade beginning 1990 saw the India Army transform into an environment friendly organization. Chopping of wood, which was essential to sustain the cook house in remote areas, was strictly taboo. Hunting of wild life, once considered a sport was prohibited. Commanders at all level fixed targets for tree plantation and included preservation of ecology as one of their Key Result Areas (KRAs). Brochures prepared prior to the annual inspections of various units and formations had a separate section to include the details of initiative taken in tree plantation. Every Commander was also expected to flash a few slides at the end of his briefing to his superior.
In 1991, I was posted as the Officer Commanding of an Independent Field Company at Bhuj. “Sarvatra” being the motto of Sappers (Army Corps of Engineers who carry out operational tasks like demolition, mine warfare, bridge construction, water supply etc), it fell on my shoulders to head the Environment and Ecology Cell of the Brigade. Despite the shortage of water in Bhuj, major plantation drive was carried out in the military station and their survivability was checked periodically. The highlight of our ecological activities was the conduct of an Environment Preservation week to educate our troops on the need for preservation and sustenance of the environment. With the help of the local administration, mainly forest officials, a seminar on “Sustainable Environment” was also conducted with the participation of high level officials of the Ministry of Environment, the World Wild Life Fund, the state administration, prominent locals and the troops. The event was great success.
Little did we know that a bomb shell was landing at our doorstep shortly. It was the visit of the Army Commander to the headquarters. As usual, the visiting dignitary was briefed on operational and administrative matters. At the end of his briefing, the Commander highlighted the achievement of the Brigade about environment preservation. His statement that 5000 trees had been planted in the station did not go down well with the General. He laid down a target of planting of five lakh trees in the Rann of Kutch over five years. Considering the geography, harshness of climate and the salinity of the soil, it was an insurmountable task. “Ours is not to reason why” being the Army ethos, we got cracking to fulfill the mission.
The Rann of Kutch is a large area of salt marshes that span the border between Pakistan and India. It is located mostly in Gujarat (primarily the Kutch district), India and in some parts of Sindh, Pakistan. The word Rann means "salt marsh", which alternates with "Bets", elevated pieces of land where vegetation grows. Kori Creek and Sir Creek are located in the area, which form parts of the Indus River Delta. The region is seasonally marshy. Many rivers located in Rajasthan and Gujarat flow into the Rann of Kutch. These are: Luni, Bhuki, Bharud, Nara, Kharod, Banas, Saraswati, Rupen, Bambhan and Machchhu. The area has very harsh climate. Summers last from April to June and are very hot with average temperatures around 44°C with maximum temperatures going up to 50 °C during day. During the rainy season from July to September the area experiences very scanty rainfall. The winter season lasts from October to March. Winters are very cold especially during late December and January with minimum temperatures approaching or even dropping below freezing. Woolens in sufficient numbers are required during the winter months.
It is the only large flooded grasslands zone in the Indo-Malayan region. The area with desert on one side and the sea on the other enables various ecosystems, including mangroves and desert vegetation. Its grassland and deserts are home to forms of wildlife that have adapted to its often harsh conditions. These include endemic and endangered animal and plant species. Lakhs of Flamingos migrate to the Rann of Kutch for breeding and present a wonderful sight.
Nilgai group at the Rann of Kutch
(Notice a Bet or Island in the Background)
Flamingos in the Rann of Kutch
The India Bridge connects the Rann of Kutch to Khavda, a village 80 km by high way from Bhuj. After crossing the bridge, there are various tracks in the Rann, leading to BSF posts 20 to 40 km away. When the salt bed is dry, one can drive over 80 km on the Rann but has to be careful not to take a sharp turn for fear of toppling. When the salt beds are wet, vehicles sink in the soil. During this period, camels are the only means of transport. As in the deserts, one can see mirages in the Rann too. In fact, a truck would be visible as a double decker bus from a good distance. The border surveillance is carried out along the International boundary by the BSF. Their posts are constructed on Bets or Islands which are few feet higher than the surrounding area of the Rann and do not get flooded in the rainy season. The posts have a few permanent structures by way of water tanks, watch towers. Most of the accommodation then was in mud huts. Water for troops was transported all the way from Khavda for drinking, bathing and washing. Electricity was available for short time in the evening through generators. Under such circumstance, it is to the credit of the BSF personnel that they had planted Neem and Kikar trees, the only hardy varieties that could survive the parched, hot and sultry environment of the Rann. These were the only vegetation on the bets, which provided some relief in the heat and where one could park a jeep and munch breakfast or lunch during an operational reconnaissance.
There were many other uninhabited bets in the Rann between the IB and Khavda and those were identified as suitable place s for planting the trees. Each major Unit was given a target of planting 5000 trees and that for the smaller Units was 2500 each. I liaised with the forest department to obtain the saplings, which they too found to be a tall order. The young DFO was however skeptical whether there would be any survivors, unless the saplings were regularly tended and watered for three seasons at least. However, seeing our earnest endeavour, he agreed to provide all assistance in the matter. Having received the saplings, instructions were passed to plant them immediately after the first showers. The dimension of the pit and other technical specifications pertaining to the plantation drive were also conveyed. I chose two sites on either side of the home bank abutment of the India Bridge at Khavda. Each pit was dug, three meters away in rows and three meters between rows. After plantation, the trees were covered with a conical guard made of bamboo, to prevent chinkaras and black bucks from eating the saplings. When completed, there were neat rows of tree guards seen from a distance.
The major Units were however having a hard time in their plantation drive. After the showers, the Rann had a standing water of about nine to twelve inches, preventing movement of vehicles. It was a great challenge for scores of soldiers wading ten to fifteen kilometers through the water with twenty saplings, digging tools, tree guards and packed lunch with a water bottle, from Khavda top the bets. They would return by the evening, after completing their task. This continued for a month.
In the mean time, we received directions from our headquarters at Jodhpur to collect grass seeds from Central Arid Zone Research Institute (CAZRI), Jodhpur and carryout aerial seeding in the Rann. CAZRI has the distinction of being one of the first institutes in the world, exclusively devoted to arid zone research and development. Over the years it has provided several need based, cost effective solutions in sand dune stabilization, grassland improvement, rehabilitation of waste land etc. On our request, they provided us with several gunny bags full of treated grass seeds which could possibly grow in the harshest environment. I selected some bets in the Rann from the map and having hovered over the area, opened the sacks and dropped the seeds. While flying, I was totally disoriented and had no clue exactly where the drop had taken place.
In due course of time, intimation was received from our Command headquarters at Pune to submit a report on our achievements towards enrichment of the environment. Considering it to be a routine paper work, I typed a one page report and enclosed an album full of annotated coloured photographs with it. My assessment that the report will be buried under the immense paper works of a junior staff officer proved to be wrong. After a month or so, I was summoned to the Commander’s office. He was at his desk, with the album lying in front. I was prepared for a good show down. Instead, he was grinning from side to side and slid the report across to me. There, in red ink was the remark of the Army Commander “Excellent work. Why can’t other formations do likewise.” The Commander’s next sentence shook me. The Army Commander wants to see our tree plantation drive in his next visit. He would specially like to see the grass plantation.
On the auspicious day, the Army Commander landed at Khavda. I received him at the helipad and took him near the India Bridge where I had planted the saplings. The tree guards in their rows were indeed impressive. He got down from the vehicle and walked to the nearest tree guard and lifted it. There, in the midst of the pit was a small neem sapling. He lifted two more at random and lucky for me, there were survivors. He turned back and we headed for the helipad to take up aerial view of the plantation. The pilot took off and flew us over the bet I had told him. As we flew low over the bet, I saw some patches of green and indicated them to the General. We could also see some tree guards giving the impression of fresh plantation. Satisfied, he asked to return to the base. Till date, I am not sure whether the grass seen from the helicopter were really
Result of our effort or were natural sprouts in the rainy season. I was also not sure whether the tree guard actually contained any pit or even a sapling. My doubts remained with me since I was posted out soon after this visit and could not ascertain facts on ground. I am not sure how many plants survived the rigors of nature but even if a single one did, it was worth the effort. “After all, every drop maketh a mighty ocean.”
Indian Defence Forces are very environment friendly at both individual and organizational levels. Today, the cantonments and military stations are beautiful sites with well laid out roads, neat and clean, with tree lined avenues, gardens and parks. These are the only source of oxygen in highly polluted cities and have come up with the sweat of our soldiers through years of effort. Unfortunately, these have become cause of envy and certain elements who are leaving no effort to campaign for shifting the barracks outside the cities and hand over these to builders and real estate developers. Governments over the decades have been opposing such moves and I sincerely hope that these oxygen parks will be allowed to thrive amongst the smoke and pollution of the cities.
An alumnus of Sainik School Bhubaneswar, National Defence Academy, IIT Delhi and Osmania University, Lt Gen N P Padhi was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in June 1976. During his career spanning 39 years, he held many challenging technical and administrative appointments, namely; Chief Engineer of a Corps, Works Adviser to the Air Headquarters, Chief of Staff of Tri-service Andaman & Nicobar Command, Chief Engineer of Southern Army Command, Director General Works in Ministry of Defence, Chief of Staff of Eastern Army Command. As Director General Weapons and Equipment in the Ministry of Defence, he was responsible for Capital procurement of weapon systems for the Army. Apart from winning the Silver Grenade as the best Young Officer, best officer in Mountain Adventure Course, he won the Gold Medal in BE and a CGPA of 10.0 in M Tech from IIT, Delhi. He was awarded the Harkirat Singh Gold Medal for Excellence in field of Engineering in 2000, Commendations of CISC ( 2005), Chief of Army Staff (2008 and 2010) and Chief of Air Staff( 2009). The officer is recipient of the Vishist Seva Medal from the President of India in 2014 for Distinguished Service of a High Order and the Param Vishist Seva Medal in 2015 from the President of India for Distinguished Service of the Most Exceptional Order. On superannuation in May 2015, he worked as President and Unit Head in a 1980 MW Super Critical Thermal Power Plant at Allahabad.
Hi Dear,
I kept looking at the road, where your car took its sharp turn. After spending long hours on the lovely ride and couple of hours in dining, still feeling like wanting you around as you dropped me home. Sorry. Dropped me at the street end. Wish you could have walked along with me, helped me open the locked door and sat in the living room watching your favorite cricket as I made you hot chai. Deep inside me I know it can just be a dream. For I am somebody’s wife. I only wish you came in my life earlier, long before we got caught in the strings of marriage to the spouses to whom we are a definite misfit.
I enjoy being with you, but not without having a guilt of being in another marriage. Cheating on my husband who believes that I am all for him. Though we both smile together for pictures, go together for dance, attend all our duties with utmost care, something somewhere deep inside me knows that it is all not true. For the truth of my heart is being with you. Wish I could have walked out of the man who entangled my life with the thread of marriage. Wish I could do what my heart craves for doing as true.
You may ask, why this letter now? When you had the chance to lay on my chest and whisper your anxieties to me. I am scared. I am scared if you would tell me to end the marriage and walk with you. I fear the society, my orthodox parents, my husband who trusts me too much, and my children whose life will get shattered with the turn of events, with my surname changed in the records, in the family and in the social network. Yes, I am scared to death about the changes that would come with being a divorced woman. And lot more with a re-marriage.
It doesn’t end there. I can imagine, your wife pulling me aside on the road and hitting me hard on the face. I can imagine the never-ending arguments and battles for custody of children in the courts of law. Should we still dare to do to live together? All this for one and only reason of being in love. I ponder.
Though the path is not going to be smooth, and I am sure that with you lies my happiness, why am I not having the courage to do what is right. Is it not insane to be acting as someone’s wife being in that marriage whereas all my feelings for you are no less than being a true wife? You may answer this easily. Like you always do. Let us keep this only between us. Enjoy your life as it throws things at you. Count every moment we get to sneak out from the mundane routine of being amidst the tangles. Rejoice the small titbits of happiness that we could explore together.
I see a strong trill and excitement in you every time, you get to pick me up from office, and spend a silent evening in the Café Coffee Day. You behave like a teenage lover, who loves to take the girl on a bike ride in a seashore. At the same time, while dropping me back at home, you behave like an adamant child refusing to let the mother go to work. What do you want me to do? Am confused, tensed and absolutely drained being in this love. But can I give it up! NO! I hear my heart crying out loud and loud!
Why did you come in my life? Late! Very Late! Wish either you came early when I started my life in marriage or just did not come on my way. Who is to be blamed? My parents for putting me through a marriage without knowing if the other person would be able to fit in my life, rather, I adjust to him with all the baggage that came along. Or should I blame my destiny, God who always did what is right to me? I don’t know. I will only blame you and me for having come this far together not knowing where to move or to just let this relationship go?
You keep reassuring me that things would be fine, as long as we know to balance our life. Many times, you indirectly insisted that I continue having sex with my husband in order to not let him doubt my relationship with him. How can I do that? Having you in mind and soul and letting my body play with the man just because he happens to be my so-called husband. It would be not cheating him, but my own self! Dare you tell this to me again, I am going to hit you hard with all my force?
There are several friends of mine, who balance their lives happily ever after. In marriage, outside marriage, not being in marriage. And all sorts. Having two of you who would die for my love is what makes me crumble to pieces when I introspect myself. If it is you, whom I want, and I go to my husband and tell him this, he would only be happy to let me go with you and restart my life all over again, for he never refused to do anything that I have asked him. He cares for me beyond what I can ask for. But that care lacks something. Probably my happiness.
If I tell you that I am getting tired being between you both, you would happily leave me and go. I cannot tell you this in person, for I am not sure that I can leave you and live in peace. You make me happy, happy beyond what I can express. How can I complain?
Now dear, I am tired. Tired being pampered with care. Tired being loved to the core. Probably it is time for me to keep away and silently let me calm and think. Keeping my tired nerves to rest for a while, till I feel how best I can come rejuvenated. I hate calling you my paramour or letting the world call me your keep. I am not your wife, but your soul mate. Not letting me forget I am his wife!
Tears run down my cheeks as I write this to you, drenched in your love. Words fail to express the thoughts that are crossing all around. Come to me dear, I need you now, more than ever. Hug me tight and let me cry till I feel better. If not anything, just be my friend on whose shoulder I can lean anytime and feel that I am cared & I am loved. Just Loved.
Sincerely loved & confused!
Yours/ (Never truly yours!)
Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional with IBM / Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT (Empowering Women in IT), Chennai, India. . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, 800+ blog posts, several short 2 stories, 2 published books – ‘Simply Being Sidds’ and ‘After the Floods’ and several articles on various subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is also having a live blog in her own name.
You embraced our lives on Autism Day
And ever since you've never dissapointed us in any way
Your unconditional love for us is above all
We love you for the way you call
Your dedication towards us
Even though we don't have the time to fuss
You joining us over high tea
With all the biscuit crumplings you get for free
Throughout the day you gambol
With that stinky muddy ball
Your joys knew no bounds
With every step positive vibes you sound
Ball your favorite game
Dribbling with your mouth takes you to fame
We love the way you initiate
And we all emulate
Teaching taking turns
As all the calories we burn
Resulting in family bonding
While the ball goes absconding
So much love you shared
Time and again you cared
Never left us alone in melancholy
Perhaps you were meant to be with us completely
Your sacrifices we value
Your curd rice is overdue
Your permed hair and Kohled eyes
Brightens up the sky
You are our hero
You take away our sorrows
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
THE ORDEAL
Gokul Chandra Mishra
(Horse shoe mountain near Zion National park)
After visiting the Zion National Park in Utah province of the United States, we retired to a hotel at Springdale to spend the night and commence the journey next day for the Grand Canyon. It was the week of Christmas in the year 2018 and the weather had already turned chill. Hundreds of Red mountains with “Shiv ling” type tops, canopied by snow and touching the sky line, surrounded the place. The road side trees of the pine forests were preparing themselves to adorn themselves with the falling snow of the winter season so as to celebrate their marriage in the spring, like the Indian brides apply turmeric paste on their bodies before their marriage.
(Hotel Grand, at Grand Canyon)
We left for the Grand Canyon in the Rover SUV, hired by our son, Dev, from Las Vegas. Dev went to US as a student for under graduation and worked there after completing MSc . He was at the wheel and I was in the front with seat belt firmly tied around my body. My wife was occupying the rear seat alone. The distance from Springdale to Grand Canyon was about 215 miles. The highway was extremely scenic and picturesque, probably the most beautiful highway in the States. On the way, we saw the Horse shoe mountain and that stop caused some delay in our journey. While we were half way through, the weather suddenly changed and a snow storm heaved upon us, virtually preventing us from moving forward. There was no traffic on the highway. After some time a vehicle clearing the snow from the road was moving towards us. The vehicle informed that there was heavy snowfall on the route and it has been closed for traffic. Our son, new to the place, used GPS trying to reach the destination on a different route which required us to travel another 170 miles. We were travelling in the south east direction but since the road was blocked we had to take a circuitous route, moving north ward to catch another inter state high way as per the direction shown by GPS. It was past evening and if no obstruction was there, we hoped to reach the destination by 11pm. Dev might have been be worried inside, but did not show any sign of anxiety on his face and continued to comfort us. He was doing the duty of “Shravan Kumar” carrying aged parents who were blind enough for the new country and new surroundings.
(Snow covered Road)
The highway was looking all white with snow deposit of around 1 to 2 ft. covered by dense darkness on both sides. Hundreds of miles of pine trees standing on both sides of the road were snow clad and looking like ghosts. No human habitat was seen in the darkness. The nearest town was at a distance of around 150 miles. The occasional falling of bunches of snow balls from the pine leaves was hunting us like awesome acts of ghosts.
(Red mountains at Zion National park)
The entire stretch of the Highway was dark and without any traffic, except our vehicle cutting through snow and passing at a low speed to avoid any possible skidding. The unending pine forest filled horror in my mind. At around 9 pm we came across a hoarding of a nearby township and the same displaced on road sides, confirmed that we were in the right direction. That instilled a lot of confidence in us. Still our destination was another 2 hours drive from that place. Another one hundred mile was to be covered. But the hoarding gave us some relief at that time.
(Red mountains at Zion National park)
Finally we reached our hotel in Grand Canyon at around 11 pm and searched for Hotel Grand in which our stay was booked. There was darkness on the streets, but the leon light of the hotel was visible from the road.
Having checked in the hotel, we went outside for dinner as the hotel restaurant was already closed. The road side restaurants were closed due to heavy snowfall and rain. We had not taken any food for the last 8 hours as no eating place was found on the way. However, through GPS, we could locate a Mexican hotel at some distance. After finishing our dinner we returned to the hotel, thinking that the day’s ordeal was over and we could relax for the night.
(Shiv Ling type red mountains at Grand Canyon)
But we were confronted with another extremely trying moment when an unknown person requested our son to drop him at his place as he could not find any taxi plying for the last two hours. It was past midnight. We were alarmed at the request of the stranger and could not think what to do. But to our dismay, Dev agreed instantly to drop him at his place which was about 2 miles from the hotel.
We were dropped from the car with instructions from Dev to go to the room. Dev drove away with the unknown trespasser in the pitch dark night. The turn of events caused so much alarming concern in our minds that we could not move beyond the parking space.
(Red mountains at Grand Canyon)
There was absolutely no question of relaxing when Dev was out in the dark accompanied by a total stranger. We sat in the lounge glueing our eyes on the entrance of the Hotel in the midst the most tense moments of our lives. So many negative thoughts haunted us inside. Our nervous mind forced us both to recite Hanuman Chalisa umpteen number of times till Dev returned. However, after about 15 to 20 minutes, Dev returned, Tears fell from our eyes on seeing him parking the car. All our anxieties of the day were over. Thanking God, we proceeded to our room to retire and prepare for our next day’s visit to Los Angeles.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
The dying embers of the chulah at the backyard of the ancestral house had been dowsed. The community dinner had gotten over. The last guest had departed. The elders of the family were now wrapping up the task; arranging stuff with satisfied chatter, usual after a successful endeavour. The older ones of the family were looking for a place to lie down their exhausted bodies. The young ones however gravitated to the courtyard. I was one of them. Each one of us managed to grab a mattress and a pillow from somewhere. After the heavy dinner, all we wanted was to lounge somewhere for a horizontal hangout. The courtyard was a perfect place for us.
That was circa 1977. No electric light illuminated the courtyard. Only a half moon sprinkled its moon dust while the stars on the clear night twinkled above. The trees beyond the cowshed stood like silhouettes and the scent of the night carried the odour of the cows and buffaloes with the whiff of grain stored in the barn. The night was young and we the kids were excited to swap stories just about anything we fancied.
The iconic English film Exorcist became a talking point. But none of us had seen it except Tushar bhai, the eldest of the cousins who was studying in Delhi. He started recounting the scenes. His descriptions were getting scarier while we, the kids hanged on to each word he spoke. Suddenly he changed track and said, “But I have seen something stranger than the film.”
“What? Like the exorcist?” one of us asked. “You must be fibbing” quipped another. The curiosity had been stoked. Now everyone clambered up to him clutching pillows to their chest for more of the rush in their adrenaline. Tushar bhai with his poker face and unruffled tone started “I will tell you. Wait. Wait...
It happened here in this courtyard where you all are sitting.” Now, that was enough for the goose bumps to erupt. “No Tushar bhai you are spinning a yarn just to scare us...” was the chorus. “Ok if you don’t believe me ask Grandfather” was his rejoinder.
Grandfather, the hard-of-hearing witness was lounging at the far end of the veranda adjoining the courtyard. He anyways had a penchant for nodding ‘Yes’ to everything anyone said.
“No point asking him. You tell us now.” We can’t wait any longer.”
Tushar bhai cleared his throat and started recounting;
“Can you see the Neem tree with its lush branches above the cowshed? It was there, standing tall even twenty years back. It was one of those summer vacation days. I had come from my boarding school and there was this family lunch. The elders had finished their meals and were holding their leaf plates to throw near the Neem tree, when two three stones came flying from somewhere. One stone barely missed Grandfather’s head. Everyone got startled and started looking hither thither trying to figure out who was throwing the stones. Everyone thought that some miscreant was pelting the stones. They started shouting “who is there?” repeatedly. There was no response. Some more stones came flying again.
Damu, the retainer was then asked to go around and check who the trouble maker was. He rushed behind the tree to see if someone was hiding, but there were none. Again more stones, bigger than the size of cricket balls came flying from nowhere and landed on the mud ground. It was as if stones were raining. Everyone ran helter skelter and some hid behind the barns. Our Mothers and Aunts fled to the kitchen while the stones kept flying incessantly till a huge heap of stones got collected in the shape of a midsized mound. It must have lasted a full half an hour. I watched the horror from the window in the kitchen clasping my mother’s waist who kept chanting mantras”.
“Then what happened?” we all asked with bated breath.
“That night we were all huddled in one room. The morning after Hari Nana, the Exorcist was called. He came with his body painted, in full attire with fire sticks. He did a lot of mumbo jumbo some wild dance and finally hammered nails on the Neem tree.”
“And what happened to the stones?” I asked
“They were later used in building the cowshed.”
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar K.)
As usual, she fully opened the eastern windows of her room upstairs and looked out. From there she could watch the busy traffic hurrying down the highway, and the church on the other side of the road, with the saint's grave close by it.
Every time she saw the idol of the saint, she remembered the saint's biography she had read. The saint had given up a lot to be a nun. She used to find pleasure in inflicting pain on herself. If only there had been a window which looked out from her cloistered life!
Though the church was close by, she had visited it only once. People in cars and tourist buses used to throng there everyday but it was absolutely quiet within the church. That kind of numb quietness which reminded her of death was what she disliked about that church.
Today he was not to be seen outside the parking area gate. Only the security person was walking up and down there.
"It is more blessed to give than to receive”"
He and his food-cart used to be stationed right in front of that biblical quote written in black on the yellow walls of the church. Eyeing the potential customers who came as pilgrims to the church, he stood there with his cart loaded with chips and a price list written in big letters. He hollered to the people about the quality of his wares, holding up packets of banana and jack fruit chips
She was alone in the house which had a six-foot high compound wall all around. Her days began and ended with the sights she could see from her room on the first floor.
She was ill at ease when she could not see him. The more the wares on his flit cart sold out, the more happy she used to be.
What could have happened to him? Was he sick? Does he have a family? Had something happened to them?
As her thoughts were going wild, he came into her sight pushing his flip-cart
She was happy to see him for no particular reason. She had no idea why she was so anxious about him.
He halted his food-cart exactly in the same place, arranged the wooden blocks to prevent it from moving either way and started his work. She could see he was hurrying through such daily routines to make good the time lost.
He displayed on his food-cart the fried items wrapped in plastic and hung the price list on the side of his cart. He also hung two stones to prevent it from flip flopping in the wind. He opened his colourful umbrella and stuck tied it on to one side of his cart. In scorching heat and drenching rain, that was all the shelter he had.
She pulled her chair and laid it close to the window. She reclined on it and looked out.
A little later a woman with a shoulder bag came close to him. After chatting with him for a while, she moved to the shade under the wall on the other side of the gate and waved a fan formation of lottery tickets at the pedestrians. She was selling a fortune for a rupee or two.
The sun was now right over their head. He got under the umbrella to guard himself from the heat. The security person was still in the hot sun signalling helping the vehicles park or pull out. Repeatedly he removed his cap to wipe his bald head. It looked like the snack vendor had more customers than usual. Most of his wares were already sold. She felt jealous of the lottery vendor who again went near him to have a chat.
As it got hotter she turned on the fan. A heat wave from the roof went past her. She grabbed from the bed a pillow with embroidered roses on it, propped it on the chair and leaning on it made herself comfortable.
Rose blossoms on a green meadow. It was her own handwork.
During her siesta, she dreamed of a demon who tortured an imprisoned princess and of a prince who flew in to save her. She woke up with a start when the princess screamed seeing the prince in the murderous hands of the demon.
She closed her window. As she hurried down from her floor, even her own footfall scared her.
It was almost dusk.
Mini K Antony runs her own boutique at Thrissur, Kerala. She is a fashion designer whose creations are in good demand. A passionate, prolific writer in Malayalam, she contributes poems and short stories regularly to on-line literary groups and e-magazines. She lives at Kattukuzhy with her husband C V Xavier and her two kids, Seethal Grace and Alen Venus.
“Please be careful with your passport and other personal belongings because there are thieves always on the prowl looking for innocent tourists”, cautioned our tour escort when we alighted from the luxury coach at a hotel in Brussels, our first stop, during our tour of the Continent. Paying heed to her warning, we literally clung to our passport, wallets and handbags, not to speak of the video cameras , as we got ready to set out to see the sights of the Belgian capital. Little did we know at the time what was in store for us.
As we waited in the hotel lobby for our escort to join us, it proved an endless wait, for she did not make an appearance. The next morning, she arrived, apologising profusely. “I am sorry for what happened last evening My bag was stolen and I had to spend the whole evening at the police station”.
Her next words were even more shocking. “When I saw the cassette replayed (the lobby had a closed circuit TV), I noticed a man entering the lobby while I was busy allotting rooms to you all. He came straight in and picked up my bag, which was on the centre table, and walked away, all in 30 seconds!” Though we had never imagined we would start losing things so early on the tour and that the first victim would be our tour escort herself, we could not help admiring the way the ‘intruder’ had gone about his job in the full view of 30-odd spectators, and in record time too!
Amsterdam was the next stop on our tour, all of us were excited at the prospect of a Canal Cruise along the Amster river. But just as the tour was about to start, we found two in our party, who were from Baluchistan, missing. They later told us that they had gone to get new shoes but after purchasing them one of them had noticed that his wallet had been picked. There was a whole bunch of American Express travellers’ cheques in it. He, however, was lucky; when they went to the America Express office, he had got full replacement for the missing travellers’ cheques as he had noted down their numbers. Needles to say this experience made our escort repeat her words of caution more emphatically and we made a point of noting down the numbers of our travellers’ cheques. we also began concentrating more on the safekeeping of our valuables than on the sights of the countries we were to visit during the rest of the tour.
Sightseeing in Germany and Austria passed off without incident, except for a few complaints of overcharged telephone calls at the hotels. We now began to feel easier and morale was at its highest when we reached Venice.
We were in St. Mark Square, once the religious and political centre of the city, and the local guide was explaining the significance of the Bell Tower when our attention was distracted by a hue and cry raised by young members of our group from Singapore. Their faces were flushed and they kept repeatedly digging into their sling bags, almost turning them inside out. But they could not find their cameras, driving licences, mementoes they had purchased, baggage keys or credit cards. One of them had even had a lovely bracelet given by her boy friend in her bag and she was, as a result, almost in tears. We forgot all about the Bell Tower and our guide, till he started explaining how the thieves in Italy were the smartest in the world. We were demoralised by his words and began counting the days when the tour would come to an end and we would be back home.
As I awoke in Paris on the last day of our tour, I heaved a sigh of relief and triumph at having been able to protect my personal belongings (which included all the expensive jewellery on my person) wherever we had gone. As we breakfasted at the Fran Tour hotel, the aroma of coffee was so tempting that I decided to have a second cup. When I returned to the table , I noticed a young man had taken the chair in front of me and was sipping a cup of coffee. After he left, I bent down to pick up my handbag (which I had placed by the leg of my chair) but to my shock found it was gone, along with all its valuable contents! I soon realised it was not the Italians but the French who were the smartest thieves in the world, being able to steal something right from under your nose without your being aware of it! How naive I was, I thought, to be under the impression that our country produced the smartest ones!
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.
Many are the fascinating characters in Ramayan. Guhan or Guha is one of them…He may be a lesser known name but his character shines for his steadfast devotion to Rama… his deeply love for the Ayodhya prince stands out and one cannot but admire such self-effacing souls… they are the ones that make it a great Epic.
Valmiki Ramayan and Tulsi Das’s Ram Charita Manas might have mentioned the good qualities of Guha only in passing but the Tamil poet Kambar known as Kavi Khakravarty has extolled the noble virtues of the great Guhan,
Our fascination today is about how the Master Tamil Poet Kambar delineated Guhan in his Kamba Ramayana.. More than a Boatman, Guhan is described as the Hunter King – the controller of the Banks of Ganges and owner of thousand boats. He helps Ram, Lakshman and SIta cross Ganges by boat when they are banished from Ayodhya. His love and devotion for Ram was immense.Once when Ram, Sita and Lakshman spent some time at the shores of Ganges, Guhan asked his troop to stay aside and met Ram. He brought with him honey and fishes as his offerings. According to Kambar, Guhan brought honey because its purity will remain for ever, like Guhan’s Bhakti for Ram… and about fishes? Fishes are available deep inside water and it clenses everything apart from remaining clean… likewise, Guhan is a man of depth and clean and pure at heart.
Kambar says It was the pure love of Guhan that made Ram say to Guhan that with him , ‘they are now five brothers’. So, instantly did Ram acknowledge Guhan’s status at par with his other brothers Lakshmanan, Bharat and Shatrughun.
There is another instance where the unique quality of Guhan is extolled by Kambar. When Bharat comes to the forest to take back Ram, Guhan initially doubts his intention, but when he confronts Bharat and seeing the severe austerity of his clothes and being , Guhan understands his true nature. Bharat says to Guhan he has come to undo the wrongs of his father Dasaratha and he has come to take back Ram and crown him as the undisputed King. In Kambar’s words, Guhan says that a thousand Rams will not be equivalent to a Bharat because he had the magnanimity to reject the crown and disregard his mother’s adharmic wishes.
Thus Kambar has projected Guhan as a man of deep devotion, stickler for dharma with an unalloyed love for Rama...
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.
CHOOSING BETWEEN TWO OPTIONS
Prof. B. C. Das
Every problem ends in a solution having two options-
(i) Hard option
(ii) Soft option
Each hard option is unavoidable,inescapable,inexcusable and creates a "Must-Be-Done" situation. Similarly every soft option is avoidable,escapable,excusable and creates a "May-Be-Done" or "May-Not-Be-Done" situation.
Now the question arises - how to choose between the two options?
It depends on the Actor's wit, wisdom, intelligence, presence of mind and the art of judgement influenced by "Situational Behavior" such as Situational Compulsion, Situational Convenience, Situational Compromise, Miracle, Divine Blessing, Tossing a Coin and the like.
Narrated below are few examples for purpose of illustration.
Example 1- It is 2 AM. At this odd hour in the night you get a telephone call from your Brother-in-law at Puri that your Father-in-law is serious and is admitted to hospital. He wants your presence as early as possible with your wife and if possible with a cash of rupees fifty thousand. You wake up your wife and inform her about the situation and ask her to get ready to leave for Puri in half-an-hour to reach there as early as possible. Now the problem you face is how to reach Puri at this odd hour in the night. You have two options - the soft option is to wait till 7 AM in the morning to get a taxi or for your driver to arrive around that time.
The hard option is - to self-drive your personal car to reach Puri at the earliest. As per situational compulsion you choose the hard option and drive your car with your wife to reach Puri within an hour's time. You reach Puri around 3:30 AM in the night.
On arrival at Puri you consult the surgeon who insists on immediate surgery of the patient as his condition is critical but gives 70% guarantee of successful operation as the hard option. He offers you the soft option of continuing Therapeutic treatment for rest of the lifeas. In view of the Situational compulsion you choose the hard option for immediate surgical operation. At the same time you pray to Lord Jagannath for His Divine Blessings for the successful surgery and recovery of the patient. After an hour-long operation the doctor declares the patient's condition as stable and operation successful. You feel convinced that it is the Lord Jagannath's Blessings that has made this operation successful. But you had exercised the hard option at the appropriate time.
Example 2- You are sailing across the river with your mother and wife in a boat rowed by a single boatman. Suddenly a storm arrives and the boat starts sinking. The boatman can save one of the two - your mother or your wife and he asks you an option to save one of the two and you fail to choose one of the two - your mother or wife - whom the boatman will rescue. Now you start praying to God to save both of them. After your total surrender to get Divine help you find a miracle. A second boatman appears with a boat and helps the first boatman to rescue both your mother and wife from sinking. For this you thank God. Here not exercising an option helped in a satisfactory conclusion. Sometimes not taking a decision is itself a wise decision.
Example 3- It relates to a situation in which the docile cow, Baula, prays for mercy of the hungry tiger, the king of the forest who allows her to go home, feed the baby calf and return to the tiger within an hour's time. The cow considers the grant of mercy as a part of the tiger's "Raja Dharma" to protect his subjects. The hungry tiger has two options before him - the hard option to show mercy to the cow and run the risk of losing his prey or the soft to kill her and satisfy his hunger instantly. The tiger, as a part of his "Raja Dharma" chooses the hard option and let's the cow go and waits for her return. His judgement that "the cows keep their words" is vindicated when the cow Baula returns within an hour's time.
After one month when the situation recurs with a second cow the tiger allows a second cow to go home and return within an hour's time. He keeps waiting but the second cow never returs. The tiger corrects his earlier judgment and concludes "All cows donot keep their words". Unwittingly he had exercised the wrong option, purely from his point of view.
Similar examples are endless and it is left to the individual to choose either the hard or the soft option as the situation warrants.
A WINTER NIGHT
Minakshi Rath
(Translated from Oriya by the author and Bibhu Padhi)
1
It was the third phase of a winter night. A thick fog had surrounded the small valley. The earth’s subconscious state had spread over things, in the absence of a pure consciousness. Under the moon of the eighth lunar night, a smiling light had spread over the earth, offering some clarity to the entire atmosphere. The desires of lonely minds were quietly floating above the earth like the points of the distant stars.
In this dream-like state, a faint shadow was walking toward the small, sleeping city. No one knew from where it came. The shadow was very short. It was undoubtedly a dwarf, with two bow-shaped legs, although there wasn’t a problem to walk. It had a hat on his head. In the fog and under the darkness below the hat its face was a blur. A grey bag was on his right shoulder, carrying mysteries, like the mystery of the outside world. The distorted figure of the dwarf had been walking and trying to gather the truth of the night and put it in his dark bag.
The strong, chilly breeze of winter had made the atmosphere more mysterious. Perhaps, if it had been an ordinary man, it would have stopped and thought about its journey or would have been reluctant to move further. But the dwarf had ignored the chill and walked, its head swinging from side to side. There were houses within which there were small lamps and some with no lamps at all; it seemed the houses were sleeping. The dwarf however had decided to knock at every door. If its work could be over at one house, there would be no need to proceed further; then it would take the familiar road again.
2
This is the first house - not too big, nor very small. The rooftop is triangular and that alone makes the house attractive. The dwarf knocked on the door. No one opened the door. Once again he knocked. No one responded. He put his bag on the veranda and sat down. His hands were covered with gloves, his feet by warm, woolen socks. He had a sweater that was old, faded.
He stood up, knocked on the door for the third time and waited. His wait was not hurried, nor irritated. His hope was stable like a steady flame. He had rid himself of anxiety, doubt and despair.
The door opened. A boy of ten or eleven stood at the half-open door. The boy was full of fear, his face spoke of unfinished sleep.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am a dwarf”.
“Wherefrom have you come?”
“I have come from a far-off place”.
“Why are you here at this hour? What do you want?”
‘I always travel by night. I need a few stories.”
“From where shall I get stories? There are oranges in the house, if you want.”
“No, I need stories.”
The dwarf saw a little girl with disheveled hair peeping from behind her brother. The dwarf told him:
“Look, there is a little girl behind you.”
He tried to hurry them up,
“Go! Go inside the house and bring me stories.”.
The dwarf’s words sounded like an order. The two children went inside. Where will they find stories? They didn’t know what a story was, the kind the dwarf was asking. Was a story like a ball? A piece of painting? Or a photo? The boy thought that it would be wise to give away the books of short stories. He went to the open door and was about to give the books when the dwarf said:
“No, I don’t want a book of stories. I need only three stories.”
The boy went back inside. The girl was looking for a story under the dining table. She also
didn’t know what story the dwarf was asking for. What is a story? What is it made of? Her mother had told her the story of a rabbit and a tortoise. And many other stories. Like the old witch, the high-flying horse, the story of a frog that burst after taking a lot of food.
She wondered why the stories were not shining like flowers and fruit on the trees! The stories of butterflies and dragonflies were not flying in the vacant air! She didn't find any story under the dining table. She discovered a small, pealed potato that was to be a part of the curry cooked last night. The potato was not a story, she told herself. No, stories were not there, not under the dining table. She stepped into her toy room and took one of her favorite toys.
The boy opened the refrigerator but couldn’t find anything quite like a story. He saw the beautiful oranges. The dwarf had told him he didn’t want oranges. Wherefrom would he get a story? Can one hold a story? Could a story be constructed out of nothing?
Wasn't the dwarf a strange creature, looking for stories!
Oh yes, there were a few eggs on the dining table. He knew the dwarf didn’t want oranges but he can take the eggs. He picked up an egg and held it delicately. The boy thought in the egg there was the story of a chick. He went back to the refrigerator; he looked at the framed photo of his grandfather hanging on the wall just above the fridge. The old man was smiling playfully.
He held the photo in his other hand..
The little girl came out of her toy-room with a toy-house. She looked at her brother and whispered in his ear:
“Maa told me that the toy house was given to her by her mother. This house shall speak all the stories of Maa, her mother and her grandmother.’
Brother and sister returned to the half-open door. The dwarf stood with his back towards them. He removed his cap, softly arranged his hair and put back the cap on his head. He looked like a clown. Slowly, fear and anxiety left the children. Each looked at the other and gave a slight smile, but they did not have the courage to move to the veranda. They stood for a long time, watching the dwarf.
The dwarf took his two hands from the front to the back and from back to the front, as if he was using a swing, then asked someone to get off the swing and asked another to sit on the swing. He did this for a long time. The children were very happy to watch the dwarf’s magic-like activity. The boy raised a finger and asked his sister what was the dwarf doing? The girl twisted her lips, raised a finger and, blinking her eyes, said
“I don’t know.”
The dwarf turned around, thinking it was the best time to leave. As the dwarf looked at the children, he saw that there was no fear on their faces, but only a thin look of trust.
Quietly the dwarf walked toward the children and opened his two palms as if he was begging. The little boy was the first to come. He placed the egg on the dwarf’s open palm and said:
“Take this. It contains the story of a chick.”
The dwarf gratefully took the egg and placed it inside his bag. Once again he raised his hands. The boy offered his grandfather’s old photo and said:
“It has my grandfather’s story, the whole story of his family.”
Now, the little girl walked up to the dwarf and said:
“Take this toy-house. It has the story of Maa”
The dwarf took the toy-house and pushed it into his grimy bag, with a smile that almost said “Thank you for this.”
It seemed all hunger, all thirst of the dwarf had left for an unknown place, although the children didn’t know what the dwarf felt. He turned and took the road by which he came, for his return journey. After a while he looked back and waved his right hand, as if to say,
“You have given me everything. I am really happy.”
The two children stood at the door, perplexed. They didn’t know what to do now.
The stories were swaying or probably had gone to sleep; the bag was a cradle now. Their half-understood, surprised meanings followed the dwarf like hopping grasshoppers.
The children went back to their bedroom. With its big, long bed sheet, sleep
wrapped them up. The eighth-day moon had been a silent spectator of everything.
Minakshi Rath has been writing stories in Oriya for the past 16 years. Her second book of short stories is scheduled to appear later this year. She taught Philosophy.
No one knew what ‘Tiny’ really meant,
Till they met someone really tiny.
‘Name’s Corona,
I have tied humanity up,
In the confines of homes and mental ramparts,
People aspire to get back to ‘normal’ routines,
No. They can’t! A mere virus has taken over the world,
Like a brute force....blitzkrieg might sound better!
‘Look at the vastness with eyes new,
You have almost forgotten how to sing or be joyful,
Forget the bitterness of the past,
Look at relationships anew,
Heal nature and your broken hearts,
I am a voluptuous opportunity not just a rotten problem,
Get out of quagmires of human greed and folly,
Use hope and wisdom to pull out,
Pick up your quivering spirits!
Become the child you once were,
Look at the vastness with eyes new!’
Dr.S. Padmapriya was born in the Salem town of Tamilnadu state in India in 1982. She holds a Doctorate (Ph.D.) degree in Economics from the University of Madras. She possesses Teaching, Research and Administrative experience in addition to over 23 years’ experience as a published writer. Dr.S.Padmapriya has written poems, short stories, essays, general articles, critical articles, research articles, book reviews and forewords and they have been published far and wide including in India, U.K., U.S.A. and South Korea. She has three collections of poetry (‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’, ‘Galaxy’) to her credit. Her Debut Novel, ‘THE FIERY WOMEN’ has been published in India in 2020. Her debut collection of English Short Stories, ‘Fragments’ has been published on Kindle as an e-book in 2020. She has been included in the landmark book, ‘A Critical Survey of Indo- English Poetry’ (2016) and is also one of the 50 women poets writing in English in India, who have been covered in the colossal work, ‘History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry’ (2019). She is also an associate editor of the poetry anthology, ‘Muse of Now Paradigm- An Entry into Poepro’, published in India in 2020.
This birthday she was promised with a bestow
Little girl kept peeping through the window
Years since she kept listening only the voice
Eyes started to forage even for a single noise
Far as she knows the features of the face
Was now going to have a glimpse of embrace
While the chamber was with colourful presents
Little girl craved for her father's essence
Snigdha Kacham has a passion for writing and puts her thoughts on the work as if those lines are confiscated from her life.She enjoys loitering to observe nature. Very imaginative with handful of dreams.
THE MONKEY DANCE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
My wife Manjari was getting increasingly incensed by the minute. The show on the stage was infuriating her.
"Isn't he crossing all limits of decency?", she whispered to me.
It was loud enough to be heard by the couple sitting behind us, glued to the proceedings on the stage. The lady tapped Manjari on the shoulder and asked her to be quiet. The show on the stage had been quite lively for the past few minutes, and was getting livelier.
"Is this thing, hanging obscenely like a sack of potatoes, your stomach? Can any decent man claim ownership to it? Particularly if it looks like an eight month old pregnancy? Aren't you a man? If yes, how did you acquire a pregnant tummy.... ?"
The doctor had asked after the man had told his his name and age, a standard procedure when someone from the audience becomes a part of the show. The tall doctor had jumped up like a startled kangaroo when the short, fat man had mentioned his weight which was more than a quintal. Now he was relentless in wielding the stick against the hapless man, who looked down, hanging his head in apparent shame.
"What do you eat every day? Chicken butter masala?"
The fat man nodded his head, it seemed the doctor had dimmed his power of speech.
"How many times?"
A soft, feeble reply,
"Twice."
"Speak loudly, let every one hear."
"Two times, in lunch and dinner."
"How many times you eat in a day?"
"Four times". The man was obviously wilting under the interrogation.
"Breakfast?"
A nodding of the head indicated that the Fatso ate breakfast.
"How many eggs in the breakfast? Two, four, six?"
Slight hesitation, then
"Four."
The doctor thundered,
"Why four? People usually take two eggs in breakfast. Why do you take four?"
A guilty, subdued response from poor Mr. Fatso, "If I eat less than four I feel hungry in one hour."
"O, this big sack needs filling up, a half sack is a devil's playground, is it?"
Silence.
"And you must be taking some tasty snacks in the evening? What do you eat for snacks?"
The eyes of Fatso lighted up, memory of the snacks brought a gleam to his eyes, "Just a few vadaas, samosas and aloo chops if I eat near my home, if I walk a little farther, I get lovely egg chops and keema cutlets."
The doctor slapped his forehead in exasperation, "O my God, are you a human being or an eating machine? How long have you been eating like this?
"Ever since I was a little boy", a bit of pride crept in Fatso's voice without his being aware of it.
The doctor mimicked him,
"Ever since I was a little boy! Were you ever a "little" boy? You must have been born as a fat pig!"
A gasp went up in the air. The audience was shocked at this strong comment. I mean, you can call a pig a pig, but not in public! A pig, even a fat one, is entitled to his sense of pigly honour! This was when my wife Manjari had wondered in a loud whisper if the doctor was not crossing his limits!
I looked around the hall. It had got filled up, there were more than five hundred people in the audience. All of us had paid two hundred rupees each to attend the lecture on "Healthy Heart and Lifestyle Changes" by Dr. Sourabh Nayak, M.D. Both Manajari and myself are great believers in attending lectures on health issues. We also believe in good eating, both of us being from families of big eaters. We eat anything that walks, although unlike the Chinese we don't fancy snakes and scorpions, but we truly don't discriminate between two legged chickens, four legged goats or the legless fish. We patronise all of them with equal show of love. We also don't discriminate between a Sunday, a Monday or a Thursday. Not for us silly theories like on certain days of the week eating nonveg should be avoided. We feel one should not show partiality to certain Gods at the expense of others. If Monday is Shiva's day, and Thursday is Laxmi's, then Tuesday is Hanuman's, Saturday is Sani's, Sunday is Suryadev's day and Friday is Santoshi Maa's. If we observe certain days as vegetarian day showing respect to a few Gods, won't the others get infuriated and put their curse on us? Out of the fear of Gods we eat non-vegetarian dishes every day in lunch and dinner.
To compensate for heavy eating we also do a lot of exercise. But only in our minds. We read books on the benefit of walking, jogging and aerobics, and our mind races like a champion, calculating how many calories we can shed by indulging in such activities. Almost every night we go off to sleep thinking of going out and jogging in the nearby park from "tomorrow", but the tomorrow never comes. So at every opportunity we attend lectures on good health and dream of a healthy life. We firmly believe that dreaming, particularly during day time, also is a big calorie spender.
But Dr. Nayak's lecture was truly unique. The doctor was not one of those who stood at a podium and lectured. He certainly believed in giving a good performance for the money spent on him. The first few minutes he cracked a few jokes, and took us into a land of learning about our body, particularly the heart. He showed us slides of the two halves of a fiery, blood soaked heart, thumping rhythmically, he explained the function of the arteries, the veins, the liver and the kidney. He told us what is a healthy diet, the role of carbohydrate, fat, protein and cholesterol.
And then the bomb dropped! He asked for a volunteer from the audience, "just to demonstrate the connection between a sound heart and a healthy life style." Since no one volunteered, Dr. Nayak got down from the stage and went round the hall looking for a volunteer. We knew the danger lurking in the shadows, we could imagine the type of shameful questions that would be asked. Manjari and I, like many others, looked down and started browsing the mobile. Some of the smart chaps got up and left for the toilet. No one wanted his secrets to be washed like dirty linen in public.
The doctor went round, his smile broadening, enjoying the discomfiture of the audience. Finally he came to the last row and stopped there. We all turned to see, our hearts fluttering, to see if a volunteer would come forward or the smart doctor would pick up a victim. The doctor stood in front of a short, fat man and kept looking at him. The man looked down in a determined sort of way, trying to slump further down on his chair, but the doctor didn't move. He tapped the fat man on his shoulder and said, "Come, my dear Sir, be my guest for the evening. You are lucky, you will get a free check up from me, come, come, let's go to the stage."
He waited till the poor victim got up and started following the doctor, his face flushed and his head hung in a mix of curiosity and embarrassment.
And now he was being wrung like a wet towel in the hands of a merciless doctor, who was giving a world class performance on the stage.
"Do you feel uncomfortable while walking?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Breathless also?"
"Yes, breathless also."
"Do you feel as if you are about to stop breathing?"
A slight hesitation, and then a nodding of head.
Doctor Nayak looked concerned,
"You probably have a prolapse of the mitral valve. Have you ever gone to a doctor for a heart check-up?"
The fat man looked at the doctor dumbly, "A doctor? Why? Why waste money on a doctor? I will live as long as God has ordained. Birth and death are all in the hands of God".
The doctor screamed, like a bomb going off, "All in the hands of God? Then for what are the doctors there? And the hospitals? There should be only temples to house the Gods. And why did I waste my time and money in becoming a doctor? I should have dropped out of school, learnt a few mantras and become a priest in a temple! Then I would have earned in lakhs from idiot devotees, eaten the Prasad at the temple and become an elephant like you!"
The Fatso was shaken at this outburst, he had no idea why the doctor had got so angry. He braced himself for further onslaught, "When you walk fast and feel breathless, do you also feel a reeling of the head?"
"Reeling of the head? Yes, yes, that too."
"And a constriction of the heart? Like someone is sitting on your chest and trying to choke you."
The fatso was excited, as if a magician was pulling out his favorite rabbits one by one from his small hat.
"Yes, yes, how do you know all this?"
"Because I am a doctor! Not a priest! Tell me, at such moments have you ever felt pain in your back? Just behind the chest?"
"Yes, it has happened a few times".
"A pain in the neck?"
"Yes, now that you mention it I remember. Having pain in the back and also in the neck."
The doctor chuckled, a clear victory in his diagnostic exploration!
"This is PAT, a clear case of PAT!"
The poor man was clueless,
"PAT? What is PAT Sir?"
The doctor had great pleasure in expanding the word, the audience was waiting with bated breath, he had the pulse of the audience in his practised, deft thumb, he knew they were becoming like putty in his hands. He rolled the words on his tongue like he was eating kesar pista ice cream from a cone, "Peripheral Atrial Trachomia! It's a clear precursor to Isthemic disorder!"
The fatso appeared mortified as if he had just wetted his pants! He had never heard of these words in his life, but he knew something big had happened to him, some big disease fit for the kings and the Amitabh Bachans of the world has somehow found a way into his life.
Dr. Nayak looked at him and continued the questioning, "Who else is there in your family?"
"There are three of us, myself, my wife and a grown up daughter."
"How much oil do you use every month?"
"Sir?"
"How much oil do you consume in your food in a month?"
"Seven liters sir."
"Seven liters for three persons? Isn't it too much?"
"No Sir, I mean Yes sir, but you should taste the mutton gravy my wife prepares, and the crab curry, just out of the world Sir!"
"Yes, I can imagine. How is your wife, is she like you?
"No no sir, she is good".
"What do you mean good, is there anyone in this hall who has the guts to say his wife is bad? What I want to know is, is she also an elephant? Like you?
"No Sir, I told you she is good. She is just normal, in fact I will say she is abnormal, she is quite slim sir, like a deer, a hiran."
And the Fatso blushed, drawing giggles from the audience.
The doctor was not amused, he was a thorough professional.
"And the daughter? Is she a mini elephant or a mini deer?"
"My baby is like her mother, slim and trim."
Again the Fatso blushed, his round face reddening like a tomato.
The doctor shot the next question looking at the red tomato, "So, it is clear that you consume bulk of the oil! You must be fond of your deep fried fish, the mutton gravy, crab curry, the Vadaas and Aloo chops?"
The mention of mouth watering dishes was like showing the picture of a virgin houri to an Islamic terrorist. A broad smile spread over the Fatso's face, "And samosas also Sir, with keema stuffing."
The doctor jumped, and assumed the pose of a tiger about to pounce upon an innocent lamb, "Aren't you ashamed to say this? When will you learn your lesson, after a cardiac arrest? Already you are harbouring some of the deadliest problems of the heart, still your mouth waters at the mention of vadaas and samosas? If I were you I would have drowned myself in the nearest well.
And you are still dreaming of mutton gravy and crab curry!"
The fatso looked down, appearing like searching for a well he could jump into.
The doctor changed gear,
"Where do you sleep in the night? With your wife?"
The poor man shook his head,
"The mother and daughter sleep in one room. I sleep in the other room."
The doctor smiled derisively,
"Yes, which decent woman would like to sleep with an ugly elephant like you?"
I was startled by a movement on my side. Manjari was trying to get up, she was in one of those combative moods which spells no good for anyone, male or female, tall or short, dark or fair, doctor or fakir.
I pulled her back,
"How dare he," she hissed, "how can he humiliate someone like this? And look at this imbecile idiot, why is he not lifting the doctor by his collar, throw him on the ground and trample him under his feet? Is he an eunuch, so powerless...." Given a chance Manjari would probably have done all that and much more, but I implored to her to keep quiet and not create a scene. After she fell silent, I whispered in her ear, "The doctor is probably giving a performance, to build a tempo among the audience before he fires his last salvo at us. And tell me why is your heart melting for the Fatso? Doesn't he deserve all this?"
I had probably touched a raw nerve, may be someone in her khaandan was like the Fatso and they had successfully hidden him from me! Anjali gave me such a severe look I almost thought I would have an Isthemic implosion. Trembling in my scared trousers, I looked at the stage.
Dr. Nayak had probably seen from the corner of his eyes a rather agitated lady trying to stand up and protest. He seemed to have squeezed all the juice out of the Fatso's fatness and he settled down to give a big lecture on heart diseases, the ways to prevent them, the life style changes, disciplined diets and a host of other pieces of advice, with emphasis on exercises, yoga and regular check ups. The Fatso stood there and the doctor used him like a demonstration mannequin, poking his finger at the protruded stomach, at the place where the heart was, and at various other points of the body. When the lecture ended, and the question answer session was over, the Fatso returned to his seat in the last row. His face had become pale and he was dragging his feet as if he had been whipped on the stage. Manjari's soft heart melted like a lump of butter and she followed the poor man with her eyes till he reached his seat.
Usually as a matter of principle we never neglect the snacks at the end of such lectures, but that evening Manjari was so upset that she didn't want to stay even for a minute in the shadow of the cruel, heartless doctor. So I had to also leave, but not before I cast a covetous glance at the gulab jamoons. Whereas Manjari's heart bled for the poor Fatso, my heart wept for the missed gulab jamoons.
But we were certainly inspired by Dr. Nayak's erudite lecture. The next few days were a voyage of rediscovering the lost art of early rising from bed, jogging in the park and lifting weights at the open air gym. The first morning we got up at six when the alarm rang, had a cup of tea and left home in half an hour. The day, however, was a pure torture for us. I slept through a couple of meetings at the office drawing the withering stare of the boss. Manjari dozed off while frying the prawns for lunch, leading to their unfortunate incineration. For both of us the body continued to ache as if we had just returned from a car wreck where our bodies had gone through a wringer. I didn't go back to office after lunch and applied for a half day leave. The next day was not much better, the only difference was, I took a full day off after returning from the park. The third day when the alarm rang at six, I rescheduled it to seven and went back to sleep. On the fourth day when the alarm rang at seven, I stopped the ringing and hid it under the bed. We skipped the exercise.
That day a miracle happened. I received a message in my mobile, which was shattering in its impact, "If walking or cycling could make someone slim and fit then all postmen would be a sprightly lot, yet have you seen a postman win a medal at an athletic meet? If swimming was good for the body then why do whales weigh a ton? And look at the rabbit, the idiot keeps jumping around the whole day, is fit like a fiddle, it dies in fifteen years. But the tortoise? A real smart cookie, doesn't move an inch for days together, it keeps sleeping all the time. It lives for three hundred fifty years! You know why? Every living being is born with a certain number of breaths bestowed by God, the rabbit hastens its end by running and taking quick breaths, the tortoise sleeps and breaths slow, that's why its breaths last longer. So don't believe the fools who ask you to walk, jog or jump around. Just chill, stay cool, eat, sleep and make merry, you will live for a hundred years." The message was from Baba Araamdev, who had obviously been created by God as an antidote to Baba Ramdev. The message shattered our illusion about the benefits of early rising and exercising. We happily went back to our relaxed life of late rising and binge eating. We found our conjugal life scaling new heights, free from body aches and the tension of early rising in the morning.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A couple of years later I had gone to a big town in Western Odisha for some official work. It involved an overnight stay. So in the evening after finishing my work I was taking a leisurely stroll. Near the Town Hall my eyes were drawn to a big colourful banner. It announced in bold letters, "HEALTHY HEART AND LIFESTYLE CHANGE - LECTURE BY DR. SOURABH NAYAK". I was tempted to go in and listen to the doctor again, may be he would talk of some new points, give some new tips, but being a staunch devotee of Baba Araamdev, I didn't want to insult my Gurudev. In stead I went to the nearby cinema hall and watched Phir Herapheri, a comedy movie. After it was over I walked to Moti Mahal restaurant which served the best Ceylon Paratha and mutton curry in the town. The meal was superb, there are some meals that fill the heart with joy, but there are some which touch the soul.
I went to the end of the dining hall for the wash basin and while returning I stopped in my track, mesmerised. In the farthest corner of the restaurant I saw Dr. Sourabh Nayak eating a meal fit for a tribal king in Congo or some such African Kingdom. About six empty beer bottles were standing as a proud testimony to a satisfying meal in progress, his beer mug was still filled to the brim. There were half a dozen dishes, I could quickly see the chicken tikkas and the kebabs. The famed mutton curry was smugly sitting on a plate like a blushing bride, waiting to be ravished by a lascivious husband.
I looked at the Doctor, who thought I was one of the victims of his recent lecture. He smiled and in a slurred voice asked me, "You still have some doubts? Ask me, I am game." 'Game' sounded to me like 'gem' and his eyes twinkled. I threw a question at him, "Doctor, you give such big lectures about fat, cholesterol, diet control and healthy life style, how come you are guzzling beer like a thirsty camel and eating all these greasy dishes"?
The doctor broke into a big laugh, induced no doubt by his drunken euphoria, and hollered, "Don't you know what Confuxos or was it Harry Stotle who had said 'Do as I say, don't do as I do'?" He laughed again like a drunk hyena, raised his hand and slapped the hand that was extended to him across the table in appreciation. It was a fat, hairy hand. I turned to see the owner of this piece of marvel and the next moment I thought the ground was sinking from under me! Leering at me with a druken grin was none other than Mr. Fatso! Both of them laughed so loudly that the walls of the old restaurant shook in helpless awe. I looked at the doctor with a question in my eyes. He thundered, "Meet my Assistant. We have been together for more than five years. We are a great pair, aren't we?" And they again broke into a boisterous laugh.
I left the place, leaving them to enjoy each other's company. Outside, the night was cool. I decided to walk to the hotel. The extraordinary comedy of the evening of the lecture two years back, struck me as hilariously funny. I laughed out loud, startling a young couple walking ahead of me, cooing to each other. They looked back in terror and stepped aside, letting me pass. I wished Manjari was with me, I would have again whispered in her ears, "Why is your heart melting for the Fatso? Don't waste your unshed tears on him. He is just a paid performer, a freaking monkey who dances to the tune of his master!"
Somehow the missed gulab jamoons of that memorable evening floated before my mind, delicious and dripping, drowning me in a drooling desire.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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