Literary Vibes - Edition LXXX
(Title : My Yard - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 80th edition of LiteraryVibes, filled with wonderful poems and fantastic short stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
This week we have two new poets who have contributed to LV. Ms. Sujatha Sairam from Chennai is an accomplished poet, a regular in the poetic circles. Shri Mihir Kumar Mishra, based in Bhubaneswar, has published widely in Odia magazines and has been an Associate Editor of an acclaimed journal 'Sparsha'. Both the poets write from the depth of their heart and their poems in today's LV will certainly evoke feelings of beauteous wonder. We welcome them to the family of LiteraryVibes and do hope that they will be regular contributors to our eMagazine in future.
Two days back I was discussing about the emerging trends in poetry with a friend of mine. We eventually fell into a discussion about some of the best poems we have read and he asked me to name the best two among them. It is difficult to make a choice when English literarure is a veritable treasure house of "full many a gem" of the rarest splendour. From my memory I mentioned the following two:
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Now the question arises why I chose these two, among hundreds of brilliant poems adorning English literature. Just to give a short explanation, the Daffodils poem by Wordsworth presents nature at its glorious best, evoking images which are etched in our subconscious mind indelibly. And at another level it speaks of the powerful theme of memory which brings the beauty of nature alive. What more does one expect from the priceless presence of poetry!
The poem by Frost is about choices. It speaks of the challenges posed by life's crossroads and the numerous trips one makes in the path of choices, weighing the visible and invisible offerings. And the choice makes all the difference. Life is not a straight path and the forks are its biggest conundrums. Whether life will eventually end up in melancholic sighs or rapturous joys are decided at some point in the past, the precise moment when choices were made.
I am sure there are many other interpretations, weightier and more scholarly. For me lucidity and readability are the primary criteria to enjoy literature.
I will be very happy if readers come forward to present their own choice of the two poems they consider best and offer some reasons why they choose them. Please post your choice in the comments section in the LV page or write to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com for uploading them in the next editions of LiteraryVibes.
Please share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/330 with all your friends and contacts. All the previous seventy nine editions of LV, including four anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Please take care, stay safe, keep smiling.
Bye, till we meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
BEYOND MANY A SKY
KANT’S CONFUSION: BHAGAVAD GITA
02) Haraprasad Das
JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKHRISTA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
ABSENCES
THE CURSE OF KULDHARA
04) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
SON IN LAW
05) Dr. Pradip K. Swain
A DEAR FRIEND DEPARTS
06) Ishwar Pati
TRUE SMILE
07) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
THE NEW REALM OF LOVE
08) Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
ADAM AND LUCA
09) Thryaksha A Garla
10 YEARS OF ONE DIRECTION
CARING
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 3 : PARROT
11) Madhumathi. H
ALONE, NOT LONELY...
YOU AND I...
12) Vidya Shankar
PURUSHOTTAMA OR THE TRUTH ABOUT LIFE — ME
13) Sheena Rath
FRIENDSHIP
14) Setaluri Padmavathi
DELICACY
15) Padmapriya Karthik
HEART DECORS
16) Sunil K. Biswal
COME CORONA, COME
17) Umasree Raghunath
AS MARRIAGE MATURES INTO LIFE....
18) N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
AUSTRALIA
19) Gita Bharath
KANGAROO
20) Neha Sarah
INTO THE WOODS
21) Abani Udgata
SONG OF THE RIVER
22) P K Routray
LOVE AND LOGIC
23) Ashok Kumar Ray
WILD LOVE
24) Sujatha Sairam
GRATITUDE
25) Mihir Kumar Mishra
MORBID JULY MOURNS
LOVING AUGUST LURES
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MY FRETFUL CONCUBINE
BOOK REVIEW
01) Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan
“Shored Fragments” by Geetha G. Nair – the Poet and the Poetry
Suddenly there comes an urge
to walk into the looming dusk
with you hand-in-hand.
I recall with a wry smile
the humpback Kubja*
desiring Krishna’s company.
My wishes are horses,
like high-flying birds, far-flying
cut-free kites, rivers in spate.
I imagine, writing you letters
with pink ink, mixing smoke caught
on cobwebs with my blood;
celebrate your blue lily-eyes,
lips, a pair of maroon moon slices,
your bosom, a swollen sea;
I imagine to swim in that swell,
walking into the dark from my night-tent
to meet you Draupadi before archery.
Another window opening across time,
with a vista of clouds flocking across,
the birds doze on their perches.
Lightening-flashes
gashing through the dark clouds
like a sharp knife hacking away;
my hot tears are consoled
by the refreshing cool drizzle,
let me carry you across the moat.
Suddenly there is an urge
to fly away beyond many a sky,
a swan looking for a mate;
to meet you at the same crossroad
where we had separated long ago,
and walk to you with open arms;
again, rising from the stasis,
I would play-act Ram, and win you
after breaking the great bow of lies.
Kubja*, a humpback woman, delights in anointing her secret crush, the handsome Krishna, with her choicest aromatic substances. The blue lord is overwhelmed by her pure love and in a flash, transforms the ugly humpback into a desirable young woman (an episode from Bhagavat).
(The Odia poem ‘Anek Aakash Pare’ published in 1999 Dussehra issue of GOKARNIKA, is in its English version by the poet.)
KANT’S CONFUSION: BHAGAVAD GITA
Kant on his twelfth birthday got an abridged version of Bhagavad Gita as gift from his father. The book fascinated him. He finished reading it in two days flat, as it was written in flowing simple prose, and posed no difficulty in understanding the text. But he had a doubt in its context.
He was confused while reading the section, where Lord Krishna, manifesting himself in his cosmic form, had told Arjun, “Parth, don’t hesitate to shoot from your powerful Gandiva at your cousins, guru, elders, or friends in the battle field who have turned hostile to you for selfish reasons, and it is against the goodness of the world. Also, it is not you who would kill or wound these evil persons, it is me, lord of the universe, who is asking you to do it. In fact, in this world, I am the cause and I am the effect. Nothing happens without my bidding. Everything, how vast or how little it may seem, is done as per my wishes. Not even a leaf moves without my command. So, Parth, go ahead and shoot without hesitation.”
He read this portion to his father, and asked, “Father, Gita is our guide and its words are said to be the essence of our faith. It is said that the words of Gita were from God’s own mouth, every bit of it is therefore true and perfect. But the paragraph I read to you sounds illogical to me. If it is followed by letters, which is expected, then criminals, cheats, and charlatans would take shelter under its umbrella telling, “Ask Krishna, why he made me commit the murder, or things of that sort.”
Even Kant’s father had to take the entire day to gather his thoughts, and when Kant was feeling hopeless, his father came up with a simple explanation. He said, “I will use pieces of fruits and vegetables from my curry and salad, arrange them according to the characters they will play in a little drama I am going to stage on my dinner plate to bring home the logic in Bhagavad Gita, and dispel your doubts. For example, pieces of potato, cucumber, eggplant, cauliflower, carrot etc. will represent, say, the criminal, police officer, judge, jailor etc.”
Finally, he asked his wife, Kant’s mother, to give him a piece of lemon, and said, “Kant, you know, in earlier drama tradition in our country, there used to be a Sutradhar, or convenor, who started and ended the drama, introduced the characters, and also joined the loose ends of various incidents that might have been missed by the audience. This piece of lemon would be our Sutradhar for the drama. They would say their dialogues through my mouth like in a puppet show, besides they would act like puppets and I would act as their puppeteer. You and your mama would be the audience.”
Kant’s father took a pause and added, “You may be thinking, why a drama. I hope this drama would solve your doubts and justify itself as the easy way to understand Gita’s deep-seated message that confused you. So, watch with attention. Here goes up the curtain and the drama starts":
The Drama
Sutradhar – My august audience, I bow before you and welcome you to watch this play I am going to present before you. Let me introduce the characters and open the play that dramatizes a slice of real life. A woman was murdered in cold blood by a man who was besotted by her, but despite the best of his persuasion, she rejected his advances. Out of frustration and anger, he stabbed her to death. He was arrested by the police. But he would not give his statement or cooperate with the police in their investigation. The police threatened him to beat him black and blue, so that he tells them his role in the crime that would be recorded and submitted before the the judge and the jury to decide his case.
Criminal – Don’t torture me, please. I am not guilty of any wrong doing. It appears you haven’t read Bhagavad Gita. According to God’s words, none, not even me could do anything on my own. He got the murder committed through me. I, in fact, did it at Krishna’s behest. I can place my hand on Bhagavad Gita, and say this thing under oath if you insist.
Sutradhar – The criminal put the police station in-charge in a dilemma. He went into a huddle with his juniors. After a discussion, they decided their course of action. He went back to the criminal taking a copy of Gita with him.
Police Station-in-charge – Ah, my dear man, all of us have now consulted Bhagavad Gita again though we had read it earlier. We trust your words that it was at God’s command you murdered the woman. But like you, we are not responsible for what we are going to do with you to know your role in the murder. We want the details from the beginning to the end. Otherwise, Krishna wants us to beat you into a pulp, so you cooperate.
Sutradhar – With an eye signal from their chief, the constables came forward for pounding the man, till the accused gave up resistance and told them why, how, when, and where he had killed the lady. But the beating was not needed. The man, like a good boy, recorded the details in the presence of a magistrate to create a legally sustainable evidence. The man was allowed to add in the preamble of his statement, that he had been innocent. He did everything as God dictated him. As evidence he referred the message in Bhagavat Gita. The case and the criminal’s extensive knowledge of Gita got a lot of media attention, and became a hot topic in social media. He was held in jail under judicial custody. After two days the criminal went to the jailor.
Criminal – Sir, my cell is very dirty, and stinky. My blanket is unwashed and threadbare, does not keep me warm. The food here is substandard. Please do something about it.
Jailor – (Looked at his deputy and both exchanged a meaningful smile) See man, nothing is in my hands. You must have read Gita, if not, take my copy and read it. Everything is done as Lord Krishna gets it done through me, my staff, my authority. We are only the conveyors of his grand plan, and don’t decide anything on our own. Please place your complaint before Lord Krishna. If he advises us do in any other way, we are sport to attend to his bidding.
Sutradhar – Words of the jailor resounded in jail-corridors bringing an outbreak of guffaws among the jail staff. There was quite a humorous break from the bleak and dry jail mood. The murder trial of the accused went on for months. All along the criminal had his argument holding God responsible for the crime. He claimed to be innocent. Finally, the day of reckoning came. The judge passed his order, “…..sentenced to rigorous life-imprisonment.”
Criminal – (With folded hands) Judge sir, your punishment is too harsh. I did the murder, as you know, as per Lord Krishna’s cosmic design. I had no personal control over the crime. I beg at least some relief may be extended.
Judge – Dear man, every bit of my statement was preordained. Who would know better than you who has read Bhagavad Gita so well? My advice to you is, appeal in a higher court, and in the mean time pray to the Lord to rewrite your fate, so God willing, your life-sentence may be mitigated to a lesser number of years. I have passed the order as dictated by God. I have adjudged your case as per law that has also been created by God. I have nothing against you personally.
Sutradhar – The criminal read Gita to the jail inmates while serving his jail term that had been reduced from life-term to fourteen years. He interpreted the scripture’s sprit by giving his own example. He told them how he had loved the girl, had been spurned by her; how he then murdered her out of frustration, was arrested, tried, and was awarded his life-term which subsequently was reduced to fourteen years. He told that he had accepted all, from the starting to the finish, as God’s will. Thus, he found the meaning of his life, and also his peace. He told his audience, the inmates of the jail, that the true spirit of Gita was to embrace the ‘karma’ or what all had happened in its entirety as God’s wish, and be in peace with it. The understanding would give them strength to bear their cross with peace of mind. As it had applied to him it should apply to all.
So, my august audience, the play is over, and let me call curtain to fall.”
Father, ended his spoken drama. He, and Kant had finished dinner. Even the pieces of various vegetables who acted as characters in his drama had gone into Father’s mouth one by one as their roles were over. The piece representing Sutradhar, the piece of lemon, was squeezed last into father’s drinking water and its rind was put into dust bin.
Father got up, washed his hands, and looked at Kant, a question dancing in his eyes, “So, my boy…” Kant’s mother also looked at her child with an amused smile. Kant smiled back, “Yes father, I enjoyed your drama. It thoroughly removed my doubts. I feel all my friends deserve to enjoy this drama and know the true spirit of Bhagavad Gita. I will record it from my memory on a page of my notebook, and show it to our class teacher. I will request her to allow me and my classmates to stage this little drama during the annual day of our school that is hardly a month away. We, the students, and not pieces of vegetables would play the characters. The credit would of course be given to you, papa, to have conceived this excellent humourous plot, that simplifies a complicated philosophy of Gita through an easy interpretation. I would insist to play the role of Sutradhar myself.”
In the annual day entertainment programme, Kant’s drama was staged. He played the Sutradhar. The headmaster with persistent request, roped in Kant’s father to direct the play. The judges awarded the drama as the best item of the evening. Kant was adjudged as the best actor for his role as Sutradhar.
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
Where are you, little one?
I sense your footfall
when the wind rustles
across our bereft verandah.
Be happy, my child,
wherever you are.
Let my conscience,
that moved heaven and earth
to recover from you cost
of the few drops of blood,
bear the burden of its cross
a while more; rue its blunder.
I dream of the day
I may pass the litmus test
to stand neck to neck
with your moral benchmark.
You would be the chosen one
for the Lord’s holy Shroud,
even if the history lays Him
differently in His immortal coffin.
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)”
In a bleeding twilight
under an woeful sky
they left their homes
and hearths
and vanished into
nothingness
never to be seen again.
But their eerie trail
still indelible
over two centuries
leads you to
the dusty and
serpentine lanes of
Kuldhara
desolate and dilapidated
yet which throbs
with the silent sobs
that echo around
and rebound
on the broken walls
of yellow sandstones
that reverberated once
with joy and laughter.
The lecherous flames
that threatened to devour
the damsel in distress
got doused in no time
by the void
that was left behind
and that resonates with the
absences
still palpable.
Note: Dedicated to Kuldhara, the haunted and abandoned village 15 Km from Jaisalmer
'Hey Pari, where are you? Still playing langdi?' hollered Lakshmi while cleaning the utensils near the village well.
' Coming Ma, give me few more minutes. Let me complete my turn,' replied Pari, who was playing hopscotch with her friend Kamli on the dirt road opposite her house.
' You are no longer a child. When will you really grow up? Come on, clean the pitcher and go fetch some drinking water from the river,' chided Lakshmi.
Pari was the sixteen year old daughter of Rishidutt Paliwal, the village chief of Kuldhara. Kuldhara was a prosperous settlement of Paliwal Brahmins who had migrated from village Pali near Jodhpur during the early 12th century. Kuldhara was one of the 84 villages on the outskirts of Jaisalmer and which were established by these migrants. They were a close knit community and due to their industriousness and by their business and agricultural acumen they made their fortunes. The local ruler depended on them for most of their tax revenues.
Pari and Kamli picked up the pitchers and playfully trotted down to the Kakni river nearby. While Kamli was rather scrawny and gawky, Pari was like Kakni in spate. She was considered the most beautiful girl in the village. Lively and bubbly, and with a voluptuous disposition, she exuded an earthy charm and sensuality. But it seemed she was oblivious about it. Her mature exterior was a mismatch to her thinking and behaviour. She was a little child incarcerated within a grown up body.The village youth were attracted to her like bees to honey and vied with one another to please her and draw her attention. Pari and Kamli kept the pitchers on the river bank and entered the waters. Soon they were splashing water at each other like two legendary river nymphs in play and giggling loudly. They swam a little and then filled up their pitchers. As Pari climbed up the slope with the pitcher held in the crook of her right arm, the wet lehenga and choli accentuating her curves, she looked straight out of the canvas of a masterpiece. The pitchers held tightly under their arms, they started for their homes. All this while they were unaware of a pair of prying eyes behind the bushes on the river bank. It was perhaps their sixth sense that warned them that someone was following them. They turned around to see a turbaned man on a horse trotting behind at a distance. In panic they threw off their pitchers and took to flight like two gazelles on the run, escaping from a cheetah . They could hear the hooves of the horse drawing closer by the minute. Both the girls were shouting for help and running for their lives, the predator in hot pursuit. They suddenly realised that they were nearing the village temple. It was the temple of goddess Durga, the destroyer of all evils. The girls dashed through the gates of the temple and hid behind the massive pillars of the porch. Their pursuer pulled the reins to halt the horse just outside the gate but did not enter the premises. He knew that calamity would befall him and his family if he dared to enter the temple, since he was of a lower caste for whom the entry to the temple was forbidden. He waited for a while and then rode into the village, visibly enraged and furious.
He was Zalim Singh, the minister and tax collector of the Jaisalmer court. Zalim Singh was not a Rajput, neither was he a Singh. He rose from the lower strata of the society to become one of the most powerful persons in the king’s court and adopted the title Singh to cover up his ancestry. Zalim Singh was known for his tyranny and heartlessness. The villagers around Jaisalmer dreaded an encounter with him. Apart from being a ruthless tax collector his lecherous pursuits made him more dreadful. If any village damsel caught his fancy he would forcefully abduct her and after satisfying his lust he would either throw her in prison for good or her body would be found in a garbage dump or hanging from the branch of a tree. All his victims however were always from high caste communities. An irate Zalim Singh dismounted from the horse in front of the home of the village chief and hollered for Rishidutt to come out. Rishidutt came out timidly and invited him to take his seat on the veranda and have some refreshments. Zalim Singh refused his hospitality and ordered Rishidutt to escort his daughter Pari to Jaisalmer forthwith or else he promised that the taxes from the village would be doubled from the next day. Rishidutt requested him for some time to be able to convince his daughter and make the necessary arrangements. Zalim Singh graciously granted him twenty four hours and reminded him of the consequences in case he fails to comply with his orders.
Rishidutt felt as if the ground under his feet had disappeared. In desperation he looked at his wife Lakshmi helplessly. She comforted him while tears streamed from her eyes and advised him to speak to the village elders and find a solution. Rishidutt called his neighbour Brahmdutt to accompany him to the temple and both went to meet the chief priest Vishnudutt.
Vishnudutt, the chief priest of the village deity Durga was seen as the ultimate source of divine power in the village. He devoted his entire time in the service and worship of the mother goddess and was considered the spiritual guru and protector of the entire village community. He had just witnessed the plight of the two frightened village girls and had given them shelter in the temple premises. He welcomed Rishidutt and Brahmdutt, offered them water to drink and three of them sat down for a confabulation. They all came to a consensus to ask for an urgent meeting of the villagers and find a collective solution to the problem looming large. The temple bell was rung in a specific manner to convey to the village that an urgent meeting needs to be convened immediately in the temple pavilion. Soon the pavilion was full with the members from each household. Rishidutt requested Vishnudutt to preside over the meeting.
' What the hell! How can that scoundrel come here in broad day light and threaten us? We are peace loving Brahmins and mind our own business. We pay our taxes regularly. Pari is just not your daughter. She is the daughter of the village. She is our collective honour. We will protect her at any cost. If we can leave our temple duties to pick up the plough to earn our livelihood and prosperity, we can surely lift the weapons too and fight Zalim Singh out,' proposed Bhimdutt, a village youth, the wrestling champion of the village, while breathing fire and fury.
' We would be no match for Zalim Singh's force. They are trained warriors and marauders. They would wipe out our entire village, all thirty seven of us in no time. We won't last even one hour,' offered Brahmdutt.
' That's the point. Let's not take any hasty decisions. We must weigh all consequences well before we decide what to do,' added Rishidutt.
' I have a different point of view. Why put the entire village to peril just to save one life? In fact we can persuade Pari to sacrifice herself to save the community from certain disaster. This way there will be no harm to any one else. And Pari will attain immortality. We may even build a temple in her memory,' suggested the village barber Bajrang, who was not a Paliwal like the rest.
' That's being very selfish. How can we just send her to sure humiliation and death? Suppose she was your daughter. Would you suggest the same Bajrang?,' asked Vishnudutt.
The whole village burst into an uproar and almost pounced on Bajrang to have come up with such a suggestion.
' Let's ask Pari, if she has to say anything,' suggested Rishidutt.
' I have been listening to you all. I think Bajrang has a point. I cannot put the entire village to jeopardy. I am willing to fulfil Zalim Singh's wishes and request him to spare the village. I only need your blessings to get the courage to do so,' offered Pari demurely.
' No way. That's not the solution. If we succumb to his desire now, what is the guarantee that his evil eyes would spare the other daughters of the village? Once he succeeds, he would be like a man eating tiger. He would bay for more blood. We must find another solution,' said Vishmadutt, the village school teacher.
Vishnudutt sat for sometime in the lotus pose, eyes half closed, while there was pin drop silence all around, except for a lone dog wailing somewhere in the outskirts of the village. One could hear the burning of the cotton wicks on the brass lamps of the temple. The entire village waited with bated breath for the priest to come up with some final solution. Time stood still and the pregnant pause appeared to be oppressive. After a while Vishnudutt, opened his eyes and cleared his throat.
' Alright, here is what I think, would be the best course of action for us. But you all must appreciate that what I am going to suggest is pure prudence and not an act of cowardice. And I would expect that all of you would accept my advice unquestionably, rather blindly,' implored the priest.
' Please tell us. We all are with you,' chorused the gathering.
' It's the mother goddess's wish that we all pack up our belongings, lock, stock and barrel and quietly leave the village immediately during the night itself, to migrate into some distant land, where we would settle down once again. That way we would frustrate Zalim Singh and also save our community. We are a group of industrious people and it won't take long before we flourish once again,' pronounced Vishnudutt.
There was a wave of murmur in the crowd, which died down soon. Then the entire village shouted 'Jai Ma Durge' in praise of the deity and accepted the decision unanimously.
' But Panditji, the devil goes unpunished. Can't we do anything about it?,' asked Bhimdutt.
' No son, he will not be spared the wrath of mother goddess,' the priest assured.
Then the priest asked everyone to stand up and face the deity and offer her their silent prayers. Everyone stood up and with folded hands offered their prayers amidst the flickering lamps and the aroma of incense sticks. After the prayers the priest stood on a platform and solemnly pronounced,' Let this be known to all living and dead, this village, so dear to our heart that survived and thrived through seven centuries will be deserted and barren from tomorrow. For ever and till eternity. No one will ever be able to reoccupy it, repopulate it or rebuild it. Disaster would befall to anyone who may even think of reoccupying it. This is ordained from the heavens.'
Then the villagers quietly dispersed. The early rays of the rising sun bathed a completely dilapidated and deserted village to a dull golden hue, with not a single soul in sight. An eerie silence enveloped the streets and lanes. No rooster crowed to herald the day. It seemed even the crows had flown away to some distant place. As the sun climbed further, thundering hooves of horses drew nearer to the village. Zalim Singh with his troop stormed through the entrance gate to find the village bare and abandoned. He rode through the lanes and alleys in search of any sign of life but was disappointed. His men dismounted and did a house to house search but drew a naught. Totally frustrated Zalim Singh rallied his men on a field near the temple and told,' Looks like the cowards are hiding inside the temple premises. They feel that we can't enter and they are safe. Let's march inside and drag them out. I will put them in prison for life and settle another community here. Let it be the end of old Kuldhara. I condemn it to its death.'
As an infuriated Zalim Singh tried to break the huge doors of the temple to gain access, there was an ear shattering noise and the arch of the entrance gate came crashing down. Zalim Singh was knocked down by a huge block of stone and fell off his horse bleeding profusely. His bodyguards rushed and picked him up and the whole contingent made a U turn, to ride back to Jaisalmer.
Kuldhara, still stands there quiet and steadfast bearing testimony of its past but derelict and uninhabited through the centuries, spelling doom to anyone who dares to settle there.
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.
Translated from Odia by Priya Bharati
Two R.P.F Constables wielding their stick shouting “move, move”, were seen leading a group. As a result the coolies, Hamaals and passengers with luggage and children were seen moving out of their way and in this process getting scattered. The group they were leading comprised of persons from Railways like General Manager’s Secretary, Protocol Inspector, Station Manager, Assistant station master and two peons carrying the luggage. They were all escorting a young man to his bogey. He was the would be son in law of General Manager and was on way to meet his daughter for the first time.
The empty rake of Geetanjali Express had halted in the twenty first platform of Howrah Station. The young man on his way to the AC two tier bogey was giving an apologetic smile being escorted this way and had become the center of attraction of the nearby passengers. He was tall, dusky looking and had joined Income Tax Department as Probationary officer. He was going to Nagpur where he was on training.
The G.M had specifically instructed his Secretary that he was to ensure that there should be no shortfall to the special attention that was being provided to his son in law during his stay. The Secretary was an efficient person in handling such protocol of VIPs and because of this was occupying his present posting since last five years. So he needed no tips for arranging this event. He was supervising this whole program in minute to minute basis.
After the young man occupied his berth, the Secretary giving a beaming smile said, “After reaching Nagpur, please tell G.M Sahib and don’t feel shy to ask for anything you want.
The youth replied, “Thank you Sir” and bade him farewell. The escort team was waiting in the platform till the train departed. The AC coach Conductor and Pantry car manager were alerted to take special care of the would be son in law of G.M Sahib occupying number fifteen berth. They assured the Secretary not to worry in this matter.
The train left the platform. Being off season time, many berths were empty.
The Conductor came and wished the youth “Good Afternoon”. And asked whether he wanted tea or coffee?
“No, thanks”, the youth replied and started reading a magazine.
“Shall I bring some more magazines for you?”
“No, I have enough of them”.
“Shall I ask the attendant to spread the bed roll?”
“No, not now”.
After the Conductor left, the Pantry car Manager wearing maroon coat and tie came and asked whether he would serve tea or coffee.
“No I just had lunch a short while ago. Thanks”.
He ordered the bearer to give water bottle, smiled and took farewell.
The Conductor had taken special care to keep all berths in the compartment as well as the 17th and 18th side seats vacant so that his privacy would not be trespassed.
The youth was engrossed looking at the view from the window. After crossing smaller down town stations came Ulberia station. From here the sky looked clear. The dark clouds were replaced by white furry clouds devoid of moisture floating aimlessly. Miles of rice fields were visible as far as eyes could reach.
“Oh! Beautiful”, the youth exclaimed. He got up from his seat and occupied the side seat since the view was better from there. There were miles of rice fields along the track and the large tracks of land were covered with snow white Kasatandi flowers swaying in the breeze giving the image of waves breaking into white surf near the shore. The youth was from Western India and such sight was rare. He had first time visualized these flowers in Satyajeet Rai’s film "Pather Panchali”
On way he crossed the Khirai River. On either side of this snake like river were miles of marigold fields. Such lasting image he had seen in the film “Silsila” where hero Amitabh Bachan and heroine Rekha had pictured a song scene in a tulip garden.
The young officer was so much impressed that he wanted to pen down his thoughts into a poem.
When the train reached Kharagpur station, he was in the wash room and some passengers got up in that bogey and one of them sat in his seat.
In a little while, hot tea and hot snacks were sent to number 15 berth from Commercial Department. The bearer along with Commercial Inspector came with vegetable chop, biscuit, mineral water and tea. They showed their salutation to the passenger sitting in this berth and kept the tea and snacks on the folding table.
“I have not ordered these," protested the passenger sitting there.
Since the halting time was barely two minutes, the Inspector told that this was an order from higher up and got down the train in a hurry.
The Inspector after getting down informed in the V.H.F that tea and snacks have been served to son in law of G.M Sahib.
The youth sitting on another seat, observed through the curtain that someone else was sitting in his berth and giving an uncertain look here and there.
The news that the son in law of G.M Sahib was going in number fifteen berth of AC two tier coach had spread. The electrical and Mechanical Staff going that way were peeping in to see G.M’s son in law. The person sitting there was feeling uncomfortable seeing all this.
Meanwhile the person could not control himself. The aroma of vegetable chop was too alluring to resist. He started eating them still giving that uncertain look.
The youth seeing all this started chuckling to himself and eagerly waited to see what would happen next.
He had previous experience how father of a daughter behaves when the son in law arrives. When his sister’s husband arrives, his father becomes extra busy. He himself would ride his cycle to fetch country chicken and fish from market. Here too special care was taken by a father who held one of the highest ranks in railways for his would be son in law.
At Rourkela station, the train halted for fifteen minutes for cleaning purpose. The pantry car bearer brought dinner in a tray covered with a cloth. After showing salutation, he said, “Sir there is rice, chapatti, chicken, dal and salad. Do you need anything else?”
‘I have brought food along with me” said the person.
“No Sir, we have prepared everything fresh for you”.
“What do I have to pay for this?”
“Sir, don’t make us feel ashamed by offering to pay”, said the bearer and left.
Seeing all this, the youth laughed and went to the platform. Hot puri was fried in Shukla stall. He brought puri and sabji in leaf containers. He never liked the tasteless cooking of railway catering. Most of the time, he prefers carrying puri and sabji from home. When his mother prepares them on special days, it tastes even better. Meanwhile the expression of the person sitting in berth fifteen and devouring dinner served to him was similar to a cheetah eating its kill hiding inside a bush.
The youth put the reading light and tried to read a book, his mind flash backed the recent experience at Kolkata.
At Kolkata, arrangement for his stay was at V.I.P guest house. There was a spacious balcony from where one could stand and observe the ships floating lazily. The passengers going in motor boats were waving their hands. The song sung by the majhi steering the boat was transported there by the cool breeze blowing. In the evening, birds from the other side of river would fly to take shelter in the trees near the guest house creating a lot of noise.
The youth enjoyed the pristine beauty of this place from afternoon till evening.
At night special dinner arrangement was made for him at the white marble palace of G.M. The front lawn had variety of flowers. The palatial house and lawn were decorated with lichi bulbs. G.M Sahib had not left any stone unturned to impress his would be son in law. He wanted to advertise his selection of an eligible husband for his daughter. So he had invited a few friends and senior officers. One could see him shaking his head, smiling with satisfaction when they were congratulating him for choosing such a partner for his daughter. He was busy supervising their food and drinks.
His chulbuli daughter took the young officer to a deserted table. She was holding a glass of drinks. The secretary of G.M offered him a glass too. He shook his head saying, “I am a teetotaler”.
The girl replied, “I am also holding a glass of rum. Please take some. It will look smart."
The shy officer signaled the bearer to come near him. He picked up a glass of soft drinks. The daughter of the G.M was talking continuously. The young officer was listening to her with a little smile. “My father’s jurisdiction on main line extends from Howrah to Nagpur and in the east coast from Howrah to Vishakhapatnam. The jurisdiction in branch line extends up to Ranchi in one side and Katni on the other side. So vast is the extent that it takes two days to cross this much area". The way she was chatting it seemed as if her father was an emperor of a vast empire from river Ganga to river Godavari.
She continued, “Have you ever seen a saloon? We travel to various places in a saloon. Do you know what a saloon comprises of? It has a master bedroom for the officer, separate bed rooms for children and separate cubicles for attendants. It also has provision of drawing room, dining room and kitchen. It is like a moving palace. We will also go in a saloon on our honey moon to visit some tourist places."
She continued, “Do you love travelling as I do?" Saying this she leaned towards the youth.
Excuse me, the youth said with due respect, trying not to hurt, got up from his seat with the excuse of getting a glass of water from another table.
When dinner was ready, the girl brought two plateful of food for him and herself. She said, “Have you heard the name of B.N.R hotel? The cooks of this hotel are known for cooking delicious food. They have prepared today’s dinner. Please don’t feel shy, and taste all items. She too ate whole heartedly giving justice to all items. The drinks cum dinner party extended to late night.
The young officer did not enjoy such type of party. He felt tired and yawned. He requested the secretary to leave him at the guest house, took farewell from G.M and his daughter and went to the guest house. He had consumed such a heavy meal that he felt restless like a python and could not sleep for a long time.
The youth was from a middle class family. He had qualified in All India Service job due to his sincerity and hard work. His parents had given green signal to G.M regarding this marriage but he was having doubt how to adjust in such a hi fi society. He felt that two diverse cultures were about to meet one from east and the other from west.
The G.M had a deep satisfying sleep that night. This was partly because of the drinks and partly, because of dreaming about a happy married life for his daughter with an eligible person. He further thought railways and income tax, what a deadly combination of money and power.
The Geetanjali express was going to its destination moving in its rhythmic motion through the darkness of the night. The youth kept the book he was reading on the shelf and closed his eyes. He could visualize his future course of action quite clearly.
It was morning. He was to reach his destination Nagpur shortly. He arranged his luggage. At Nagpur, one more group of Rail employees comprising of P.A to D.R.M, Commercial Inspector and Station manager were there to receive him. Two parcel hamals were also there with a trolley. They went with the Conductor to number fifteen berth. The passenger in this berth had completed fifteen pushups after the sumptuous dinner the previous night and was sitting in Bajrasana.
“Sir, please come, we have reached Nagpur", said the Station Master.
The Commercial inspector ordered the Hamals to carry his luggage.
"AARE…AARE…, where are you taking my luggage", said the passenger. He wore his shoes and ran after them.
The youth was standing near the other door carrying his own luggage and chuckling to himself.
The passenger desperately asked them, ‘Where are we going?"
“To the guest house”.
“You will freshen up and after having breakfast will go to your training college. This is the order from Secretary to G.M."
"Which G.M? Coal India?" The passenger was asking desperately. “No, South Eastern Railways G.M. You are his son in law is it not?
“I do not know any Railway G.M. I am a coal merchant. I had been to Kolkata to meet the coal India G.M. now I am going to Mumbai. Please leave me”.
He folded his hands and pleaded in front of the group.
Gradually, crowd was gathering around. They were curious to know what would happen to the ticket less traveler.
The passenger was on the verge of tears. The dumb founded rail employees did not know what to do next. Meanwhile the youth after getting down sat in a taxi. He was witnessing the drama and had to admit to himself that the passenger's plight was because of him.
Meanwhile, the Secretary was not getting any feedback from Nagpur. So he called the D.R.M.
"Sir, did the son in law of G.M have his breakfast? If he is ready, you will drop him in training college."
The D.R.M replied, “The person in the train was not G.M’s son in law".
The Secretary was shell shocked. ‘What are you saying?
“I am very sorry, I had forgotten to inform you. Our staff had gone to receive the person whom the conductor identified as G.M’s son in law. He turned out to be a coal merchant."
“O shit’, he said and put his phone down.
When G.M received this news, he seemed to lose his mental balance and talked incoherently. His behavior was that of a bird catcher from whom a rare bird had escaped.
From enquiry it was found that whatever protocol was done, it was for a wrong person. For negligence of duty, the G.M suspended the Conductors from Howrah to Rourkela and from Rourkela to Nagpur. Chandrahas Bannerjee and Santosh Rao Samkule are still under suspension.
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
To Dr. Pollack:
I’m sorry. I came as fast I could. It took only 15 minutes, but to the emergency room staff it must have seemed an eternity.
As I entered the trauma room and saw your face, I could not keep my emotions in check. They were not my emotions. They were the accumulated emotions of many years which have slowly and steadily been storing up in my heart, day by day, year by year, all my life. Now, they burst out in a flood and overwhelmed me. I’m sorry we cut your expensive leather jacket. We shocked you: you were in ventricular fibrillation. Even so, it was hard to see you jolted off the gurney with your arms jerking up as If striking out at us. It must have seemed as if we were hurting you, unfeeling toward your defenselessness. I wonder if you felt it, if you were hanging on, hoping for the chance? Or did you want us to stop and leave you in peace—with dignity?
Today, fragments of the action fly by my eyes and ears. “Lines! Suction!” Intravenous fluids are being pumped in. Vials of adrenaline are being passed to the person closest to the injection port. “Open the thoracotomy tray! We need a 20 blade! Blood! We need blood!” We pump it directly into the subclavian. “Charge the paddles again!” The heart jumps a bit but does nothing on its own. Our hope wanes. A different feeling fills the air. Adrenaline is injected directly into the heart. Despite prolonged CPR, countless rounds of drugs, endless fluids and blood, the young heart remains silent.
We stood transfixed at your bedside, hoping for a miracle. Maybe, just maybe, the reminders from a remote past would register in the fractured and tangled nerves of your brain and you would awaken. But there was no response, only a vacant stare and the ticking of the wall clock.
Destroyed in the tragedy of a motorcycle accident was a brilliant mind that had cared for two generations of patients. The accident destroyed everything that was Dr. David Pollack, a caring father and a loving husband; a dependable friend; a brilliant, skilled surgeon; a compassionate, accomplished physician, and a simple, decent human being.
As we stood at your bedside, quietly, we did not tell the others outside what had just happened. I felt sick and thought I will at this moment walk out the door, discard my stethoscope, rip my white coat to shreds and never ever remotely intimate to practice the art of medicine again.
We closed your eyes for you. We cried silently, recognizing the mortality of a surgeon and a friend we’d never planned to lose.
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
The first thing that struck me about Uday was his smile. As wide as Niagara Falls, as white as ivory and as radiant as first love. In short, I fell in love with his smile at first sight.
We met as people often do, on a train journey. “I’m going to New Delhi. And you?” his first words, no sooner had the train rolled out of Kolkata’s Sealdah station, discomfited me.
I normally avoid conversing with a stranger on a train because of paper reports about gullible passengers being conned by robbers. But I could not ignore his magical smile. “I am also bound for Delhi,” I replied.
“That’s great!” he exclaimed and extended his hand. “I’m Uday. You know, like the rising sun. Uday Das.”
“I am Anil Chopra,” I was obliged to reciprocate his handshake. There could be nothing wrong, I hoped, in exchanging a few pleasantries.
He went around shaking his hand with everyone in the compartment, or at least those of them who cared to return his handshake, before he settled down in his berth opposite mine. In no time at all Uday had worked his way through my wall of defence, and by the time the train passed Dhanbad we were joking like old school chums. He began regaling me with stories of his ‘adventures’ as a travelling salesman. I had never thought the job of a salesman was so much fun as he made it out to be.
When the tea vendor came around, Uday ordered tea for all and rebuffed my attempts to pay. Next, the hawker selling peanuts was asked to unload his ware in our cubicle. The unending merry-go-round went on, with Uday at the controls. He had generated so much bon homie by dinnertime that many fellow passengers offered him home-cooked food, much to our benefit. Late that night I lay on my berth, looking out the window at the pitch darkness. It was punctured here and there by blinking lights of isolated villages, which were not merely miles away, but light years away, from us. But how charming were those little lights, like Uday’s ready smile!
Early next morning I saw a ‘gentleman’ in our compartment having a cup of tea all by himself. He had enjoyed Uday’s hospitality the previous day but never bothered to return the compliment. So when Uday offered another round of tea for everyone, I whispered to him, “Why are you paying for that miser who cares two hoots for you?”
“So what?” Uday retorted. “Am I going to become a beggar by giving, or for that matter is he going to become a crorepati?” Then he laughed out aloud with that openness of his that I had come to admire.
When we reached New Delhi, I did what I had never done before with a travelling companion. I asked Uday for his address and telephone number. I also offered my contact number, and we agreed to meet whenever he was in town.
It was a friendship that grew from smile to smile. We went to films together, we dropped in at bars, we arranged picnics, or we simply sat on a park bench and talked and laughed. He was the conjuror and I was his willing decoy. He showed me that life should be one great unending smile.
I could have never thought that the brightness of Uday’s smile could ever wane. But it did; for he too was human. One day, his manager had a go at him for no apparent reason. Uday was baffled. His sales figures had never been below par. After all, he was a born salesman! Uday would have taken his boss’ annoyance in his stride, but for the fact that he came to know the reason for the latter’s ire. He learnt that a colleague had poisoned the manager’s ear by twisting innocuous words that Uday had uttered in jest. And what was the reason for this colleague’s treachery? Simple. With promotions round the corner, the ‘poisoner’ wanted to eliminate a serious rival in Uday. More than his non-promotion, what hurt Uday the most was the stab in his back.
Time, they say, is the best healer. Perhaps in course of time his hurt would have healed; but a fresh jolt dealt him a sharper and deeper wound. Inexplicably his relationship with Usha, a wisp of a girl from his native Bengal and with whom he had been going steady, floundered. Instead of wedding bells ringing, Uday had to listen to the painful strains of a lonely violin. He never told me what happened, who ditched whom. But from his morose expression I surmised that it was Usha who had left him. I wondered, how was it possible for anyone not to love Uday. But so it was; his love Usha had fallen out of love with him.
Life had suddenly seemed to have drained all the energy out of Uday. His once 100-watt smile waned to a dimly 15-watt. I tried my best to distract him by taking him to pubs, films and exhibitions, praying to God to rekindle his great smile. But one thing I assiduously avoided was the bench in the park where Uday had spent many an afternoon and evening with the treacherous Usha.
One day Uday gave me a call, saying that he was in town. Could we meet at our pub in the afternoon? I landed at the pub, to be greeted by Uday’s patented 100-watt smile! It was back in place! I hugged him with joy. “What’s new, buddy?” I shouted amidst the din.
“Nothing really,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Life’s too short to be squandered away because of a disappointment here and there. Why let a few mugs of dirty water sully an ocean sparkling with huge waves?”
“Why, Uday,” I exclaimed, “you’ve grown up! And become philosophical too.”
“Have I?” he asked, with a glint in his eye. “Well then, why don’t we go to our old bench in the park and chat, for old times’ sake?”
“Of course! But what about a pint of beer first?”
“No, no, let’s go now,” he entreated me. “We’ll have a beer when we come back.”
Did he have something weighty in his mind to unburden? I tagged along with him to find out. As soon as I entered the park, a profusion of colourful flowers bombarded my eyes and made me smile with an inner joy. I hurried to our old bench, impatient to listen to Uday. But there was a young lady sitting on ‘our’ bench. Obviously our ‘occupational rights’ had been forfeited after we stopped coming there.
I looked around for a vacant bench. But Uday kept on moving towards our old bench. His wide grin became even wider as he approached the lady. The latter got up on seeing him—and smiled! I looked on foolishly as they converged and produced a smile whose combined strength must not have been less than 500 watts!
“Anil, meet Priti,” Uday said. “Priti, this is my old friend Anil.”
It took me a while to recover from my shock and respond to her ‘namaskar’. “By the way, let me explain,” I told Uday. “I’m not old. Neither can you call me your friend if you have kept this dear lady a secret from me.” All of us broke into a hearty laugh.
We sat down on our bench, or rather ‘their’ bench, while Uday narrated to me his activities after Usha had dumped him. He used to come to the park alone, he said, to brood on his morose feelings and ask himself where had he gone wrong. He had found no true answer to that. But what he did find was Priti. After that he stopped asking himself stupid questions. On that same bench, he smiled and talked with Priti and ultimately discovered his true love in her. A new love blossomed, like the flowers in the trees above.
Who says first love is paramount? Second love could be more brilliant than the first.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
Since Birth ,
I am in dream,
Never know
What is reality.
I am sad at times
Also,very happy
The way my dream
Gets unfolded
As per its wish.
Though,I feel,
I am in control,
Every episode follows
As already written.
I cry and laugh
As I experience
Exact pain,
And real happiness
While in sleep,
Unaware,
It is just a dream.
I give best to family,
Feel proud of friends
Without the knowledge
That a dream
Can eventually break.
One day,
I see I am dead
Which I am not
Ready to accept.
The dream has been good
In spite of monotony
And frequent bout of pain.
Praying God
Is the only way
Coming out of distress
As He surely will intervene.
He is been kind
Coming in the sleep
To remind and say,
It is time to get up
Abandoning dream
And face a deathless life,
Real and bright,
Undisturbed by pain,
Unaffected by pleasure,
One can get
Opening the eyes
In bright sunrise,
Ending the age old dream
Entering the new realm,
Full of love only.
"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.
The old man sat there on the green bench in the park with beautiful flowers of different hues standing on both sides of it. His mind was at peace though his body was not. He thought of the times when he as a child ran around in this same park a century ago. None of those who played around with him were there now. He coughed a few times as he watched the drones fly over the park manipulated through the remote control by the youngsters. They just sat on the grass and played with it in the sky watching through their monitors. The old man couldn’t fathom what enjoyment they derived out of this. When he thought of his childhood days he used to run with his kite, chasing the kites flown by his friends. The evening sun created an aura as he kept his eyes focused on the flying objects. He had a tingling feeling under his feet and he felt as if his chest was being compressed. He was getting little light headed. He had this image from his childhood days forming up in him. The image of a kite that got detached from its string making it soar up into the sky and behind the clouds. It was a kind of liberation.
On the opposite side of the park two men sat talking. One was partly bald with long sideburns while the other had a stout physical stature with a short grey bearded face. They were observing the centurion who was sitting alone opposite to them.
“Do you think he will topple?” Darwin, the man with long side burns asked his
neighbour.
“Yes.” Replied Adam and then he asked inquisitively. “I never realised you had an interest in him. In fact I am surprised to see you here”. Then adjusting his hip a little he continued. “So what makes you have an interest in him?”.
“He was a professor who had studied a lot on the science of evolution and my theories. I came here to witness his last moments”, said Darwin in a plaintive tone.
“Maybe he studied a lot on the subject of evolution but he was a very biblical person and
he is my offspring”, replied Adam very passionately.
Darwin, the man who proposed the theory of evolution was observing the old man who had celebrated more than hundred years of life on this earth. This centurion was one of the fittest of the species as proven by the fact that he could adapt himself to survive a century of sorrows, calamities, diseases and excitement in life. But in the park there was also the first human being God had created with his own hands. This was the person from whom all of the human species is religiously said to have arisen. Adam had come to the park to welcome his descendant who had piously lived on this earth for more than a century.
“The centurion here is a natural selection of my theory of evolution. He is a product of evolution and transmutation of species which had started two and a half billion years ago. He is the descendant of LUCA and he is part of my research material”. Darwin exclaimed.
“LUCA ! Who is that?” Adam had an exasperated look on his face as he asked that
question.
“The tiny single cell from which all of the life is said to have originated from, also known as the last universal common ancestor”, replied Darwin very scholarly.
“Are you claiming that there is another ancestor for mankind?” Adam asked, puzzled.
“The process of evolution has gone through infinite transmutations from a cell to an animal” explained Darwin. It had to adapt itself to the often changing and challenging environment for its survival. Thus many species were born. One set of species progressed to reach the top of organisms because they developed their ability to think and act. Thus we as Homo sapiens rule the world. Now this man here is the last person of this generation. He is a prime example for survival of the fittest. He alone has survived a hundred years in his generation and his survival mechanisms will surely have a genomic influence on his descendants.
“So how does your research go from here, now onwards?”Adam asked with concern.
“My research will still go on”, said Darwin. Look at the youngsters in the park. Watch what they do and how they do it when compared to the oldest generation that you can think of. The transmutation happens in the thoughts, behaviour, actions and ultimately in the body as they adapt to survive against the changing situations and environment. From all these youngsters playing in the park hardly one will make to the ripe old age to see another hundred years. This centurion here, his forefathers and the young one that you see on the swing are my selective study material. He is the great grandson of the old man there. There are some characteristic changes that have happened in the features of their lineage in this millennium. It maybe miniscule as of now but it will be clearly evident in the physical nature, maybe by the next millennium”.
“I understand” said Adam in a comprehensive manner. “But this person was a very Biblical person. He studied the bible carefully and followed all its instructions. So he must have believed in my ancestorship. The belief that Adam is the fore father of every human being that was ever born. I was created for the propagation of mankind. He is part of me. He rose from my semen. Generations have passed and he is the last one of this generation in whom I could witness the righteousness as desired by the Almighty. When he is gone I expect his great grandchild whom you pointed out earlier to carry his good works in piety. In the last millennium it is only this lineage that had the outmost reverence for God and I expect it to see in that young boy too in his life. Indeed, gradual changes will happen in mankind as they invent and discover more things, pleasant or unpleasant, for their survival to which they will adapt. His approach and attitude to life too will diversify but yet retain his spiritualty, his belief in me as the ancestor will make him go forward in humanity”.
Darwin had a deceptive smile when he answered after giving an attentive ear to Adam.“Once he goes into the soil, organisms will develop in his lifeless body to do the scavenging and they in turn will form a microbial flora which in another billion years might form a new species depending on their will to survive against the odds. The evolution will continue”.
Adam was calm with his reply. “Once he dies, his soul will move to the heaven he believed in and there a new life awaits him which will be a never ending one. No transmutation takes place there, rather a transformation. Humans have been made as a species in the image of God”.
Darwin looked at Adam's face and they both smiled at each other. They had no grudge between them. The man who turned hundred and six years last week fell down from the bench. Some of the people in the park gathered around him. One man checked the centurion’s pulse and he looked up in silence when he couldn’t find any. The drones were still flying around as some took aerial shots of the incident. Maybe it will take another billion years to turn back and tell if it was transformation or transmutation that actually took place.
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.
The angelic voice of the boys played loud,
her moving herself to the tune
swaying to the sides
like a snake charmer with his flute.
Taking her back to halcyon days,
when mornings were brighter,
nights she slept through,
and sunrises she got to see.
When time ran alongside the clock,
and happiness wasn't just a pill.
When her books were her tickets
and her boys her window to the world.
She missed the days of living,
when everyone around wanted to smile,
when the biggest problems weren't really problems,
and things were given without anything expected.
She missed singing with her friend
the tunes of her soul loud and clear
as they laughed about the nothings of life
when existing was so much simpler.
So when she cries her heart out today,
remembering all the old times,
their voices bringing so much happiness it hurt,
know she's so much more than just a fan...
I cared too much,
That's probably it,
Caring too much,
Never thought t'was a sin.
You promised,
That's probably it,
I believe in promises,
And you promised you'd stay.
You told me things,
You stowed trust,
I thought you were perfect,
But you're just like all of them.
You made me feel,
Like I meant something,
Like I mattered,
Not just a nobody.
You brought me memories,
You were charm,
You claimed my heart,
I completely gave in.
You were everything I wished for,
You were unique,
Stood out for me,
I loved you.
But then one day,
It all changed,
I was camouflaged,
You saw through me.
Everyone got your attention,
Everyone but me,
As I stood waiting for you,
You stowed me away.
I tarried around,
Hoping you'd come,
Hoping you'd talk,
Or at least say goodbye.
Reasons reasons,
You gave a lot of them,
I faded away for you,
For me you're just like them...
Thryaksha Ashok Garla, an eighteen-year-old, has been writing since she was a little kid. She has a blog and an Instagram account with about 200 poems posted till date. She touches upon themes such as feminism, self-reliance, love and mostly writes blues. Her poems have been published in two issues of the 'Sparks' magazine, and in poetry anthologies such as ‘Efflorescence' of Chennai Poets’ Circle , 'The current', 'The Metverse Muse', 'Our Poetry Archive', 'Destine Literare', 'Untamed Thrills and Shrills', 'Float Poetry', and in the 'Setu e-magazine.' She won the first place in the poetry competition held by India Poetry Circle (2018) held in Odyssey. She's pursuing psychology. She's a voracious reader, a violinist, and dabbles in art. She can be reached at: thryaksha@gmail.com by e-mail, Instagram: @thryaksha_wordsmith and on her blog https://thryaksha.wordpress.com/.
" Chechi (sister) … if I have a reincarnation I wish to be a parrot and that too a parrot in a cage," and she giggled, Kanaka couldn’t help laughing. "Oh Janu, what crazy statements you make!"
Kanaka was busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Janu was washing the utensils. She poked her head out of the half door and asked, " Why, Janu, a sudden thought like that?"
"I always think about my next birth chechi, my ammumma (grandma) always talks about it. So I too started thinking and I felt a parrot in a cage is so much happier and content than any other living being."
Kanaka shook her head and went back to continue her work. It was already late and both Niranjan and Juny would clamour for breakfast. So she shelved Janu' s sudden revelation and concentrated on her task.
Reincarnation was a fascinating subject for Kanaka.
The belief that the non-physical essence of a living being starts a new life in a different physical form or body after biological death was a mystery to her. She herself had never ever wished for it, she had heard many others desiring it. She always took it lightly. Whenever the word parrot or reincarnation crossed her thought a face would come illuminating her mind, a fifteen year old dark beauty with her shy yet beaming smile. Apart from that she gave very little thought to it and her multitasking took her concentration away from all these inanities.
Janu had come unexpectedly into her life. When Juny was two years old, their maid left to look after her ailing mother. Kanaka and Niranjan's smooth flowing life suddenly became chaotic.Three weeks they waded through their lives sitting at home alternatively, then they found an Anganwadi which was willing to look after the two year old.
It was an era of sprouting nuclear families and women empowerment through jobs outside homes. So most of the youngsters who had a government or private job migrated and settled down near their place of work. Kanaka and Niranjan were not different as both of them were employed, Niranjan in the Government service and Kanaka in the private sector. As she would never get a transfer they decided to settle down near the college where she taught. Thus they were almost two hundred and fifty kms away from their beloved homeland and had to fend for themselves. From taking a house for rent to buying everything from scratch and setting up a home was a challenge for them. But they swam through all that happily without any regrets.
When Kanaka came back to work after her delivery with her fifty six days old baby, she was accompanied by a maid her Amma (mother) had found, to look after the baby and do the household chores. She was with them for two years. She was a sweet woman, a great help to young Kanaka and devoted to the baby. Thus two years flew by, all of a sudden the shocking news of the illness of the maid's mother came. They had to let her go to look after her mother. Kanaka found their structured world toppling around her. Both Niranjan's mother and Kanaka's mother couldn’t leave their homes to come to their aid. So they told them that they had to fend for themselves until one of them found a good maid from their homeland. Thus they were forced to send Juny to the nearby Anganwadi. After the initial screams and tears which wrung Kanaka's heart she slowly adjusted. On those days Kanaka would hang outside to find out how long Juny took to stop her screams and settle down. But fortunately after the third day she was distracted by the other kids who got hooked to the baby in their midst and pampered her and diverted her attention. And Ms Chinnamma would put her head out and wave her hand at her assuring her that everything was fine and that Kanaka could leave. Soon Juny was comfortable in her new surroundings and life once more became smooth for them.
That Christmas vacation Niranjan too availed leave for ten days and they went home. Just as they were planning to return after eight days of joyful family reunions and get togethers, Amma called Kanaka. She said she had a surprise waiting for her. So in the evening after packing up everything they bid Niranjan's mother goodbye and went to Kanaka's house. They decided to stay there for the night and start their return journey, the next morning.
After the initial excitement of arrival at the farm house, Amma pulled her to the kitchen. There she saw a slim, tall girl who smiled at her shyly.
"Do you know her?" Amma probed. Kanaka shook her head. "You have taught her in the tutorial. Kanaka racked her mind. She had taught many children in her Appa's tutorial but couldn’t remember seeing this one."
"She is Paramu's eldest daughter", Amma broke in.
Kanaka' s mind raced back to the day their village was shocked by Paramu' s suicide. No one knew what led to it. They were all sad about the three children, two girls and a boy, just a toddler. He was a labourer in their farm. A good handyman devoted to them, even Appa ( father) was shocked. But he was a drunkard. After twilight Paramu was like a "paambu" (snake) the locals who worked with him teased him. So everyone thought he must have hung himself in a drunken depression. Apart from that nobody had anything to say about him. He was a silent, good natured, hard working man.
"Oh my, is it Janu? she has become a big girl, taller than me."
Kanaka pulled Janu towards her.
"What is she doing here Amma?" Kanaka asked
"Her mother brought her here yesterday. She wants me to keep her as a help in the farm but I already have Girija and Padma and then I remembered that you needed a maid."
"I told her mother about your need and she readily agreed. It seems she is afraid to leave Janu alone in their home when she goes out to work, now that Paramu is no more. If Janu had continued school it would not have been a problem but after attending school for one month Janu has refused to go."
Kanaka raised her eyebrows at Janu. "I failed in the 9th standard Chechi. I don't want to attend classes with girls younger than me".
"The only snag is she doesn't know any cooking but will be a good companion for you", Amma continued.
Kanaka decided quickly, in the flat where they stayed Janu would be safe and she would have a little sister to talk to and Juny would have an elder sister to play with.
A farm hand was sent to fetch Janu's mother. She was only too happy. Thus Janu came to her. Kanaka took it as a blessing and they returned joyfully to their workplace.
Janu adjusted quickly. Theirs' was a cosy family. The burden of household chores became lesser and lesser for Kanaka as Janu picked up everything fast. Like sisters they shared all the household chores Kanaka did the cooking, the rest of the household chores Janu did leisurely after they left the house.
Janu was very happy with them, she hardly mentioned her home or expressed any desire to go home. She loved Kanaka whom she sometimes called amma, sometimes Chechi. Kanaka too was fond of her and loved her like her own sister. After the arrival of Janu they went home for all the long holidays so Janu could visit her family. Thus five years slipped by very fast. Kanaka and Niranjan built a new house. They were planning to shift to the new one when Janu's mother sent a letter saying she had found a boy for Janu, a tailor by profession, her horoscope matched with the boy's and that they were arranging everything for her marriage, so she should be sent home. Kanaka, though upset, was happy for Janu, as soon as the housewarming was done they sent her home with Kanaka' s parents. Janu too was very sad but she knew she had to go. Kanaka promised to attend her wedding. After the wedding they lost touch with each other.
Years rolled by but whenever Kanaka thought of Janu it was the caged parrot that came to her mind. She would shelve the image with a tender smile and a blessing. After their retirement Niranjan and Kanaka decided to create a fruit tree grove in the land they inherited in their homeland. While they were there Kanaka enquired about Janu. An yen to see her got hold of her. She soon learned that Janu's husband had died and she lived with her children in some remote village near her husband’s place and hardly visited her home. Like Ruth the moabite, thought Kanaka. She had totally cut herself off from her own family.
Kanaka decided to trace Janu's house and visit her. Thus one day they drove in search of her dwelling. Finally they found the one room house in which Janu stayed with her children. Janu came out with her three sisters-in-law, Kanaka looked at the first, thin, person looking like a skeleton and asked for Janu. She pointed her finger to herself saying,
"I am Janu."
Kanaka stood rooted to the ground, her dark beauty, the girl with the beaming smile was standing before her gaunt and haggard, like a skeleton, with skin stretched over the bones. Kanaka took a step towards her and Janu fell into her outstretched arms sobbing "Chechi..."
Kanaka too cried her heart out. Oh my, the girl who was as sprightly as a lamb, happy and cheerful, who only yearned for love, had become a homemaker and look, what life had done to her, Kanaka grieved.
Kanaka consoled her and she garnered from Janu's incoherent mumblings that she had started working as a sweeper in a church unit when her husband fell ill, in order to make both ends meet. After he passed away the church had taken the whole family under its wing and was looking after her and her children. They received everything from the church and life had become easier for her. Kanaka and Niranjan bid her farewell after giving Janu's children a good amount of money.
As Kanaka entered the car, she saw the ghost of Janu's old smile lighting up her eyes as she promised, "Chechi next time you come, please inform me, I shall come and visit you". Sitting in the car silently, memories like birds flocked her mind and she remembered how out of curiosity she had asked Janu one day,
"Why do you want to be a parrot in a cage, you won't have any freedom, child". Janu had replied, "I will be safe, Chechi, l will be loved and cared for, I need not worry about anything..."
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
Savouring
The songs
Of silence, and
Sweet solitude
Counting the rhythm
Of the ripples
Eyes
Collecting the colors
Of the art
The sun creates
On the tank
Glistening
On the emerald waters
A pebble thrown
Doesn't scare my wings anymore
The raindrops
Gently caress my head
The tiny fishes
Are busy practising
To be always busy
Keeping the water awake
All the time
Prayers whispered
Submerge...
Summer dries up the tank
Fragments of prayers
Moaning
On Karma's lap
Waiting
For healing
And liberation
God's tears
Are not in drops
His compassion
Rains
His love floods
Our drought-hit souls
To know
To feel
To experience
Truths that transform
Inhaling the moment
In silence
Alone, perched
Not lonely...
A heart of glass, you possess
I pour my love
And see the way it fills
Fizzy fountains, and cascades...
For every drop, with every level
I see myself flowing inside
Brimming
Yet more and more love
Churned by the soul
Let me not spill
Let me not stop
Fragile is glass
But handled with love
Together, we crystallise...
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
PURUSHOTTAMA OR THE TRUTH ABOUT LIFE — ME
(Picture courtesy: Shankar Ramakrishnan)
Far away from what I knew as home,
From the womb of my mother into a dark, mirthless world,
Devakinandana Vasudev Krishna!
Being carried away into the wilderness,
Ravaged by lashing rain,
A serpent-hood canopy, an umbrella against the onslaught,
To be finally left behind in the lap of flowery softness,
Pining away for the ones I knew so well,
Cared for, oh so deeply,
And loved my life with —
What's in store for me here? I wonder!
The morning after, I gradually see the relationships build...
I see a mother in one, a brother in another;
Here comes along a father, friends, pets, a lover...
Nandakumara, Navneetachora, Gopala, Madana, Manamohana!
And I wonder yet again —
What is life? What is the truth that is life?
Born I am but just a day ago,
And already have seen change like no one ever has.
Is this my life or is that one mine?
This one that is so fanciful and impermanent,
or that one, where my roots lie —
the one I had to leave behind to choose this
So I may be safe to get back when the time came
To liberate my people who awaited me?
And when the time would come for my return
Then what happens to this Life,
My mother, brother, father, friends, pets, Lover?
To the flowery softness, the fun and the mirth?
To the songs of love and youthful exuberance?
To the fanciful dancing and swirling skirts?
Is all this that I have lived, played, touched, loved
False because of its impermanence?
And that of which I would know nothing about
True because of the beginnings?
And then I realize...
Life is all encompassing —
The changes and the partings,
The get-togethers and the fun,
The imperfections and the unpredictability —
And through it all is the one permanent factor,
The soul that is reality —
Me.
Paramatma! Parabrahma!!!
Footnotes:
Purushottama: Highest or superior being. One who surpasses or transcends all that mere mortals hold as valuable.
Devakinandana Vasudev Krishna: son of Devaki and Vasudeva
Nandakumara: son of Nanda, head of the cowheards. Nanda also means joy, indicating that Krishna is an offspring of Joy.
Navneetachora: thief (chora) of fresh butter (navneet)
Gopala: Protector (pala) of cows and cowherds (go)
Madhana: One who enchants all with Love
Manamohana: One who charms (mohana) the heart/mind (mana)
Paramatma: The Supreme, incomparable, ultimate (Param) soul (atma)
Parabrahma: The Supreme source of all creation from whence everything originates and to which everything eventually returns
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.
Shankar Ramakrishnan, popularly known for his tag ‘Vishnumayam’, created sensation with his mobile phone cameras for several years till he acquired his DSLR. Shankar showcases his pictures through his two Facebook Pages, Vishnumayam and Out of (my) Focus. His photographs have found repute with photographers of international repute on Gurushots.com, have been displayed at the 7th Annual Photo Exhibition of the Jaipur Photographer’s Club, and been on the cover pages of books and magazines.
(Photo clicked from the poet's garden)
Lavender flowerets greet me each morning
Alluring and hugging me with their mystic fragrance
Making home for every bee
To soak and bathe in, in their nectar free
To quench our thirst
As each bud bursts
A beautiful bond we share of friendship
As the nectar i collect drips
I dance, as I kiss every bloom
Humming a new song as the petals sway to the tune
The light breeze fondly caresses me away
I smile and say.. "I'm here to stay"!!
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 homeless kids on the footpath
struggle for filling their small stomach;
Kids from several well-to-do families
waste delicious food with no struggle!
Cuisine surely plays an important role
in a wedding ceremony on the whole;
Guests may either have or dispose
but the owners aim at their service!
The head of the family strive hard
to satisfy all in the house so well;
Everyone waits for his or her turn
to enjoy delicacy at every meal!
Eat not more when you don't need
Surplus food can be used to feed
Waste not, the minds, do you read?
Help and tell all, valuable every seed!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
Often,they take the role of a Home Decor,
Design walls with beautiful scribblings that adore.
Tiny fingers morph as hue quills,
When dipped in array of shades.
Smugdy fingers sways in glee,
Sketch pictures of fairies and frosty ice creams,
Of fishes and flowers on wall,
Standing on chair,as they are not tall.
Dainty fingers with glue hovers around,
Pasting pictures of cartoon characters abound.
Enthusiastic eyes falls on the floor carpet,
Delicate hands work to meet the target.
Colourful crayons are broken and scattered,
Fur toys are evenly distributed.
Eyes wander as to what next,
Cue from water tap comes as great relief.
Energetic toes sprints to the wash room with fur toy,
Scoops,pours,splashes everywhere,
Bubbles of joy flutters,
Liquid celebration flows...
Up to next task without delay,
Little rosy wheels keep spinning
All thro' the day.
In Multitude ways,by multiple tasks,
Miniature hands decorate not just home,
Create infinite indelible sweet impression on hearts too….
Are they not Heart Decors?
Padmapriya Karthik is an enthusiastic story writer for children and a poet.She has secured eighth place in Rabindranath Tagore international poetry Contest 2020.Her works have featured in various anthologies published by 'The Impish Lass Publishing House’.She contributes poems to Efflorescence anthology(2018,2019),Muse India an online journal.Her short stories for children have found place in The PCM,Children's Magazine.She has won 5th place in the National story writing contest 2019 conducted by The PCM,Children's Magazine.
Padlam looked up at the sky and tried to guess the time left before it became dark. He had to reach his destination while it still was day. The sun was shining brightly above the blue mountain in the horizon. Padlam tried to walk a little faster in the serpentine narrow path up the steep hill. He had been walking since mid day from his village in a remote valley surrounded with high mountains with no road, no electricity, no school, no post office and nothing except few thatched huts each at a different level on slopy Koraput foothills. He had crossed many such hills and had to score few more before he could see the tall towers and temple top of the town he was headed to. He felt hunger gripping him and drank the last drop of water from his gourd. He had not eaten a morsel of food worth the name and just before he set out on this ardous journey his wife had served him a dish made of bamboo shoot. That much food made him crave for more instead of satiating his hunger. But he could do little. Looking at his wife and three children who were equally hungry or probably hungrier than him, he banished any idea of asking for more food. They were all looking at him intently as he had promised them to come back from the town with food.
His village was one of many such remote villages in highlands of Koraput where people lived in primitive conditions. They never compared their life with anyone else’s life elsewhere beyond the Blue Mountains. They rather lived a peaceful life as their needs were few. Every Sunday few of their folks visited the local market with loads of charcoal to sell and buy provisions for coming week. For the whole week they cut trees from the forest and burned them in pits watching over not to burn the woods till nothing of it was left. And on the weekly market day, they woke up early in the morning while it still was dark and stars blinked in the sky, put the staff on their shoulder with two sacks of charcoal dangling at either end. It was not very heavy but not light either. If you ever carried a not so heavy object for about 3 hours on your shoulder, you would know that it felt very heavy. But things were changing. It was not easy to find trees in the forest to cut and make charcoal. The demand for charcoal was dwindling. Now there were forest guards on the prowl everywhere and if caught, they took away more than he could earn. Padlam’s earning from charcoal was erratic and often he had to go hungry.
Padlam had in past tried his hand at doing few other things such as working for a construction project for making a road to their village. His parents had given him a different name that few of his village folk could actually make the proper pronunciation. It sounded PRADYUMNA. The day he joined in the construction work, the supervisor of the contractor went around asking everybody their names so that he can keep a record of days worked by each worker. Pradyumna had tried his best to declare his name. The supervisor found it difficult to repeat and after two or three attempts wrote something on paper and proceeded to next man. The Saturday came and it was day of payment of wages. The contractor sent his munshi to hand out the payments. All workers sat under shade of a tree and the munshi called names one by one. Pradyumna looked in amazement as each of the workers walked to the munshi, put their thumb print on a piece of paper and came back with a wad of currency notes. Few of his villagers could not handle the task of putting the thumb print easily and the munshi got irritated venting his displeasure by lashing out at them in filthy language. He braced him up to do it properly when his turn came. At one point he called out PADLAM, PADLAM. No one responded as none of them carried the name Padlam. As everybody except him received their wages, he approached the munshi and asked for his wages telling his name as PRADYUMNA. The munshi rechecked his scroll and said the wages for all have been paid except one name that is P-A-D-L-A-M. It must be your name. Here, take your wages and put your thumb impression here, the munshi nudged him. The joy of holding the currency notes on his bare hands was overpowering him so much that the names or lack of names was insignificant for him. Pradyumna became Padlam that day as he thought his name becomes PADLAM on paper. Hence forth whereever any one asked his name, pat came the reply P-A-D-L-A-M. It was even easy for him to remember. When the Sarakari Babu came visiting his village, he got him on voter’s list as PADLAM.
Lost in his thought, he had crossed few hills and jungle streams and now could see the city lights as it was about to be dark. The sun was about to set. He calculated his timings and became confident that he would reach in time to get entry to the camp of laborers’ well in time. He casually looked at the setting sun. There was a vast stretch of water from the catchment of a dam and the sun was setting on other side of the dam behind a line of mountains. The water was dazzling with golden rays of the setting sun. He remembered how a few groups of babus visited his village with bags dangling from their back. They saw Padlam burning woods at a pit. They were elated at seeing something and started clicking pictures of him in act of making charcoal. He initially thought of running away from the place as he feared those people to be from forest department, but they stopped him and assured him not to fear them. They asked him many things about his village. They said that his village was beautiful beyond words. They sat down near him and opened their bags, took out food they were carrying to eat. They offered him some food. Padlam tasted town food for the first time in his life. It was different from the raggi porridge he was accustomed to. But the food was delicious.
Padlam hastened in his path as he was eager to cover the last mile quickly. Picture of his starving family flashed in his mind. They had not eaten proper food since the day Padlam lost his job as a construction worker as the work of laying a road to his village had stopped due to some foreign disease. Few of his village men had long back migrated to the town and were staying in a camp. One of them had visited his village last week and sat in the village center discussing life in the town. All villagers gathered around him and listened intently to what he said. Padlam too joined the crowd. From him he came to know that a new disease had come from other side of the sea and was troubling the townsfolk taking their lives. But it probably cannot do any harm to men who toiled under the sun. The Govt had set up hospitals to keep anyone who caught the disease and fed them with all sorts of exotic foods many times a day. Some names of the food he spelled out were all new for most of his villagers and his hungry stomach craved at mention of those names. And after fifteen days of keeping in hospital they gave two thousand ruppes to each along with plastic bucket, mug, tooth brush, soap and more goodies. It was such a lovely proposition for all village folks. Padlam asked if he could be put into that hospital. The fellow from town told him a plan how to get into a sarkari hospital. The offer seemed too good to Padlam and he instantly agreed. As per the plan Padlam would visit the labourer camp at evening and stay for the night in the camp mixing with everyone. As the Camp was a hotspot of that foreign disease he was likely to carry the disease and when the sarkari babu will come for checking, he will get his passport to 15 days of blissful living. The fifteen days will pass soon and he would go back to his village with two thousand rupees and other goodies in hand. It was a lovely idea and he cursed himself of not doing the same thing earlier.
Padlam found himself at gates of the laborers camp with bamboo sticks bound in entrance that prevented anyone from entering into the camp. He could see his friend on the other side of the camp and called out his name. His friend saw him and signed him to go to backside of the camp. Finally as the day gave way to evening, Padlam found himself surrounded with his kins from his village. Everyone was full of questions, of how their families were doing in the village. Padlam went around the camp hugging each man and wishing the foreign disease to seep into his body to take out his poverty temporarily. As night came, Padlam retired to bed with hopes for a new day.
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput.
AS MARRIAGE MATURES INTO LIFE....
(Written on the eve of 10 years of meeting my husband on 2 May 1997)
Long and long many years back
I met a person with all his smiles
He came into my life silently with love
to travel with me, my life's every mile
meeting him for the first time in life
young, charming, smiling and shy
He was my fear, my happiness, my ego!
Chasing away all tears far to go
With every passing day,
he is better person to know
showing the passion,
love every then and now
slowly building the marriage of our lives
with the manures of passion and loves
with bricks of trust and cementing care
having the best gift of a couple today
Cherishing each other's happiness
we look up on God with many thanks
Looking back and taking lessons of past
we decided to look upon our tomorrows
to cast a divine spell on us to be together
As we mature in this marriage altogether!
[Together we fought a life-sinking mental illness, won over anxieties of life and today we stand as a testimony that perseverance and love can convert any adversity into opportunity and hence this poem is special to me as we complete 23 years of marriage this August ]
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.
(THREE SISTERS :BLUE MOUNTAINS --SYDNEY)
Australia is a prime tourist attraction, after the US and Europe, the first with man made wonders ,the other due to its historical importance, but Paradise Down Under fascinates nature lovers with its pristine rainforests, magnificent coral reefs, expansive national parks besides its unique flora and fauna. This was evident from the number of hands that went up when the driver of our coach heading to the Great Ocean Road in Melbourne asked us to which part of the world we belonged. Out of the 41 of us, the majority seemed to come from Singapore and the others were from Japan, the UK, other parts of Australia, Europe, the USA, India and Africa respectively.
We were part of a package tour of Eastern Australia that comprised Cairns, Gold Coast, Melbourne and Sydney. Our tour began from Cairns where we landed after a seven-hour flight from Singapore by Qantas. We skipped both dinner and breakfast on the flight as the first was served too late (almost midnight) and the second too early in the morning. At Cairns we were received by the local representative who put us up at the Holiday Inn in Florence Street. The same afternoon we set off to the Caravonica Terminal for one of the world’s most exciting skyrail experience.
Breath taking views
We were carried over 7.5 km of pristine rainforest in a gondola cabin just a few metres above the forest canopy. We alighted at the two mid-stations for board walks at the Red Peak Station located in the middle of the rainforest and the Barron Falls station, before reaching Kuranda Terminal.
At the Barron falls Station we witnessed breathtaking views of the quietly flowing Barron River, Gorge and Falls from three lookouts. Kuranda Scenic Railway is adjacent to skyrail’s Kuranda Terminal. This small station, set in sylvan surroundings reminds you of hill railways in India, with narrow gauges and bright coloured trains.
An interesting feature of the rainforest (where around 300 species in every hectare are found) is, because of the dense nature of the forest, very little sunlight reaches the forest floor ,most of it is intercepted by the canopy foliage. You feel you are in a different world altogether !
Great Barrier Reef—nature’s piece de resistance
The following day began early with a cruise to the outer Barrier Reef in an airconditioned two-tier catamaran from Port Douglas. The Great Barrier Reef is nature’s piece de resistance, the only living structure belived to be visible from outer space. Considered the eighth wonder of the world, this world’s largest marine park stretches nearly 3,220 km through the tropical waters of Far North Queensland.
The 90-minute cruise on Quick Silver’s wave-piercing catamaran was a thrilling experience indeed. Ten minutes after leaving Port Douglas we travelled across a large bay on the way to the reef. We were informed that the Mossman and Daintree rivers emptied into this bay. Here again we were presented with a distant view of a spectacular rainforest, which fringed both the rivers. As we proceeded we came across a rainforest-covered National Park, called the Snapper Island. Captain James Cook was believed to have sailed these waters in the vessel Endeavour on 11th June 1770. On that evening the vessel struck a reef just 30 nautical miles north of Snapper Island.
Cabin crew comes to our rescue
Past this we spotted a sandy cay called the Undine Cay, a good example of a coral cay in its early development which signposts the inner edge of the Great Barrier Reef. Even as we were reaching the outer Barrier Reef, suddenly we found ourselves jerking in our seats as the catamaran was encountering rough weather. Some of us developed sea sickness due to the profuse rocking of the catamaran but the crew was quick to act.
The Great Barrier Reef is actually made up of millions of tiny living creatures called polyps which feed on marine organisms in the ocean. There are two different types of coral; hard coral are limestone fortresses which shelter the delicate coral polyps that create reefs. Soft corals, often dazzling with colour, extend their nets to sieve food and sway gently in the ocean currents. Once the catamaran docked at the Agincourt Reef, one of the several reefs in the Great Barrier Reef, some passengers opted to scuba dive or snorkel but we preferred the semi-submersible vessel which glided through the rich coral gardens and we could view the marine life in all its splendour through glass without actually getting wet!
Gold Coast in company of Kangaroos and Lorikeets
Gold Coast was our next destination. How did the name Gold Coast come about? A journalist, it is said, who had first come to this city was stunned at the price of the land and remarked: “The price of land here seems to be like gold.” The name stuck.
The day-long visit to the Currumbin Wild Life Sanctuary and the Sea World (a marine theme park) was exciting. We could feed the colourful lorikeets (they look like parrots) with milk and the friendly kangaroos with nuts given by the park’s attendants. The kangaroos hopped towards us again and again to be fed. We could have a close look at the cute but lazy koalas perched on trees. It was amusing to watch the majestic looking pelicans rushing with open mouths to catch fish thrown by the sanctuary officer during feeding time. The tireless officer (a young uniformed lady), unmindful of the pouring rain, diligently gave a detailed account of the lifestyle of different birds and animals. “ If you found koalas scratching their back, it is not because of itching but more to keep themselves clean,” the young lady told us. She then fed the eels which responded to her call with kangaroo meat and one greedy pelican which had its fill of fish lunged forward to have a share in the meat but was driven away by the officer.
SEEN IN THE PHOTO BELOW
LAZY KOALA
The dolphin show and the helicopter ride, not to speak of the dazzling and dare devil stunts by the Fun Park’s international team, are a special attraction in the 25-acre Sea World Theme park in Gold Coast. A helicopter ride over the sea world gave us a panoramic view of the tall buildings and the sandy beaches.
Melbourne----where nature is at its best
A drive through spectacular views and lush rainforest settings of the Sherwood forest in Melbourne (capital of Victoria, also known as the Garden City) offers the visitor nature’s best, with the rising eucalyptus trees, crimson rosellas, cockatoos and the lyre bird. Stop the coach and offer some feed to the birds and you find them clustering around you in no time.
The Great Ocean Road in Melbourne is one of the greatest coastal drives in the world. Its severity and striking contrasts will remain etched in our memory forever with the azure waters of the ocean on one side and the Otway mountain ranges on the other. Added to this picture perfect scenery are the twelve Apostles, the icon of Australian Coastline—the world’s largest limestone towers rising from the ocean waters( only ten of them could be seen) , the Loch Ard Gorge and the London Bridge. At Princetown, the Great Ocean Road returns to hug the coastline along the entire length of the Port Campbell National park.
Sydney---a man made marvel
Sydney, which is the largest and oldest city in Australia and the capital of New South Wales is picturesquely situated on Port Jackson, a magnificent expanse of water, which forms a land locked harbour extending 20 miles inland. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, which was designed by Dr John Bradfield, is an architectural marvel. Sydney is also famous for its magnificent Opera House , its unique design appearing like a large flower from a distance. We were taken on a three hour dinner harbour cruise ,the highlight of which was dancing by beautiful damsels clad in colourful costumes besides the seven course vegetarian fare that was served.
Blue Mountains and legend of three sisters
Less than a two-hour drive from Sydney are the Blue Mountains. You climb up the mountains amidst breathtaking views and witness the blue haze,a phenomenon caused by the rays of light striking dust particles and small droplets of moisture in the atmosphere. Then you reach Echo point which is described as Australia’s Grand Canyon, but once we reached this much-publicised tourist attraction we were rather disappointed ,probably because it was not as expansive as I expected. However we were happy that we could have a full view of the legendry Three Sisters ,a regular rock formation in three sizes appearing at descending levels . According to the aboriginal legend , the three Sisters–Manhi, Wimlah and Gunnedoo were turned into stone due to a curse and are still waiting to be brought back to life by the magic bone of their father which he lost.
Feather dale Wild life Park—home to native animals
On our return we stopped at the Feather dale Wildlife Park at Doonside which is home to world’s largest collection of native animals .I was happy to see little penguins (missed seeing them earlier as our scheduled visit to view penguin parade was cancelled) hopping around and the long billed pelicans walking towards visitors ,perhaps expecting a treat . I noticed one coming very close to me as though to pose for a photograph and I felt I should not disappoint the bird!
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao, a postgraduate in English literature, with a diploma in Journalism and Public Relations is a prolific writer having published more than 2000 contributions in various genres: interviews, humorous essays, travelogues, children’s stories, book reviews and letters to the editor in mainstream newspapers and magazines like The Hindu, Indian Express, Femina, Eve’s Weekly, Woman’s Era, Alive, Ability Foundation etc. Her poems have appeared in Anthologies. She particularly enjoys writing features revolving around life’s experiences and writing in a lighter vein, looking at the lighter side of life which makes us laugh at our own little foibles.
Interviews: Meera has interviewed several leading personalities over AIR and Television and was interviewed by a television channel and various mainstream newspapers and magazines. A write up about her appeared in Tiger Tales, an in house magazine of Tiger Airways ( jan -feb. issue 2012).
Travel: Meera travelled widely both in India and abroad.
Publication of Books: Meera has published ten books, both fiction and non-fiction so far which received a good press. She addressed students of Semester on Sea on a few occasions.
Meera’s husband, Dr. N. Raghavendra Rao writes for I GI GLOBAL , U.S.A.
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
Into the woods I wandered
Chasing after a mischievous sunbeam
So intent on catching this prankster
I didn’t see the gurgling stream!
As the chilly water kissed my aching knees
To reality I was brought back
I stood transfixed and watched
As nature played me it’s track!
Beyond all civilisation I stood enraptured alone
While the bees and the creatures played
With the fairies and the gnomes!
The light was bid adieu
And like a lasting goodbye
The colours played out their multiple hues!
No fear of the dark
Or the many beasts that stalk and stare
I watched with awe
The woods changing, to my city eyes
This beautiful sight so rare!
From that day forth I promised
To get lost in the woods more often
Coz within those shadowy depths
I lost my mind and found my soul
There was such an enchanting feeling of being WHOLE!!
Into the woods I wandered.....
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
Love and logic
traits in the human fabric
do not see eye to eye
Each other, they defy.
Love forced on logic
is fragile and tragic.
A judgment can be just
when the logic is not lost
but love binds the creation
as attraction and repulsion
logic to suit it is redone
or left to the Lord as His own.
“Man’s logic can be erroneous
he cannot see path curvaceous.”
Mr. Prasant kumar Routray is a retired Director (Production) from NALCO, a Central Public Sector Undertaking. An Electrical Engineer by training, his hobby is to write English poems and read a lot of literature. He is from Bhubaneswar and can be contacted at pkroutray2009@gmail.com
While going to Kathamandu, our vehicle slipped into a river on one dark, rainy, dreadly midnight three decades ago. I brought out Deki, my Bhutanese co-passenger. To save herself from strong current and whirlpool she caught hold of me. I just kept myself afloat with Deki on my back. We could not know where the wild river took us and where we reached. Our life was saved. But nothing was left with us except our bare body. Deki was unconscious. I pressed her tummy and brought out water she had taken in. Her body temperature was running high. The icy cold wind of the Himalayas was collapsing us. Nothing was visible in the darkness of forest. In the wee hours I kept her unconscious body on my shoulder and reached a tree-top-hut. One Maa (Mother) gave us hot medicinal drinks, put hot water on our cold body. We slept peacefully. In the afternoon Deki's consciousness returned. She beat me shouting, 'You beast! Why have you kept me bare? Have you brought me to jungle to eat my body? Where is my luggage and my dress? I will kill you now. No one can save you.' I could not know how to convince Deki. Maa shouted, 'Why are you beating my son who saved you from drowning and dying. The river has taken away everything.' Her anger came down. But she whispered, 'That man can't be your son. He has come from India'. Maa told, 'See the black mole on his tummy from his birth as proof. I had lost him twenty years ago'. Her blind love obliged us to accept her as Maa. She gave fruits, roots to fill our starving belly. We three strangers lived in the lap of Nature. From next day we went to river for drinking, bathing and to the forest for food, fruits, roots, wood. We became familiar with jungli janwars. Life in jungle became peaceful. Nothing to worry there. One sunny morning our bathing, loving, hugging, biting (each other) was seen by Maa. She smiled to say, 'Deki ! Beast is beautiful now. Why waiting?' In the river that put us together, Maa and I put some vermilion on Deki's forehead which is dazzling even now. One day we told, 'Maa ! Your heavenly love has kept us here. By your blessings we are grown up and well placed also. Won't you leave us to our profession?' She gave us her lifelong savings for our journey, hugged us and wept saying -'For you I am living. Where ever you wish, you may go. But promise to see your Maa every six months'. Since then we have never failed to see our Maa in that tree-top-hut till her death in 1999. Nothing can wash away her rarest of rare wild love without any selfishness.
Sri Ashok Kumar Roy a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
The river below the bridge
flows with the evening one side,
the day at the other end.
The traffic crosses watery stairs of ripples
as it hurtles all day in the busy city.
Trees and birds swim in shadows
in its simmering body but the river
does not remember them.
In dark nights it becomes a chessboard,
stars as pawns float all night.
A guest arrives each season.
A crow drenched in the hard rain,
a camel in summer; its humps
like sand dunes and
the deceitful lover in spring.
The river does not remember.
We sit facing each other, me and the river.
After a while, only the river remains.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English.
Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life,
It turns what minimum we have to enough and more,
It has the power to turn denial into acceptance,
Chaos into order,
Confusion to clarity,
It turns an ordinary meal into a feast,
A house into a home,
A stranger into a friend.
In this journey of life we come across end number of people,
Some stay with us and some part,
A heartfelt thanks to each one of them
And even to those who are yet to be a part of our lives,
With each one of them life has got a value addition,
We've learned to live in togetherness,
Much greater sense of gratitude I owe to the Lord who has connected us all,
Hoping for better days to come in the future to strengthen this bond even more.
Sujatha Sairam is a free lance writer and blogger. She has great flair for writing and aspires to be a published author very soon. She's a winner of many online contests. Her short stories and poems are a part of more than a dozen anthologies. She's the Co-founder of an online counseling site titled sthreejeevan.com which works towards the empowerment of women. Her family and friends have been a great support in this pursuit of hers.
MORBID JULY MOURNS
Mihir Kumar Mishra
July rained … hurried havoc
not in long lofty showers
But in faith, toil and tears.
As the green veil on earth lowers,
Darker becomes the crowded busy doors
Of smart commercial towers
And comforts of journey in jet flyers.
Some say - a lab product
Some argue no; by default
A deadly virus conspired
With fate of humanity in revenge
Or in periodical wanton distrust
Nothing mattered, nothing hindered
Unleashing of misery in pandemic terms
Sans sympathy for age, poverty or gender
Subjected all to different norms
Of living, thinking, even socializing
And hosts of other neglected syntax
Of quarantine centers, face masks
Gloves, sanitizers, Janata Curfew
Lockdowns, sublime solidarity against hoax.
Finally content in containment zones
Under parental surveillance of caring drones
With restless mind busy equating immunity
Amidst panic patrolling shutdown syndrome.
But lo behold! March to July
A war all over, assiduously fought
With waves of fear enigmatically wrought
Woven uncertain patterns of death
Infectious delusion, hypoxia of expectation
Oxymeters, ventilators haunted, scary seclusion
Masquerading your dithering, derailed
Mortal bliss; pampered palpitation.
The reality show, last act laid
In ICU, auditory marvel, craftily coined
Door to Nirvana, assured, clean void
Confer on you the title of a victim
Of versatile COVID-19 Apartheid.
Even after your death certified
Morbid July 2020, signed, sealed
Date and time unrecorded.
LOVING AUGUST LURES
Mihir Kumar Mishra
August augurs an arum
Ascent of aroma; psychic mutation
From the avalanche of the revolutionary saga
To the dream come true, awesome fever
Laying of the foundation for Ram Mandir.
From the birth of a free nation
In the silent midnight hour
To sedulous shutdown in COVID war
Awaited New Education Policy
Like one nation one Aadhar.
We bow to August for august offer
The list may be endless from 1947
From a smooth transition of power
To termination of tension with China
Surfacing with a pandemic at the border.
I remember my old mother
Struggling with COPD at 80 plus
Who keeps this month dear to her chest
As it had bestowed a boon and jest
An all-time funny favor, a crest
Of motherhood on her frail breasts
Crowned as eldest of Mishra household
After my grandmother left the heavenly abode
In August ‘90 on Janmashtami fervor.
The day following the birth of Lord Krishna
As celebrated in the ’60s and after
Has something to share with my story
Each year with a new register
Some filigree work in the mental sphere
With each soft string aligning the other.
Some shine like diamond buttons
In the sartorial outfits of a regal power
In the repulsive rheumy eyes
Of an innocent ripening adult
A bemused, bespectacled actor.
Others like tenterhooks sure
remind missed opportunities galore
Ignore responsibilities left ashore
Rekindling remorse; lost essence
Like a defunct church bell
Hanging on a wall painting of Sisyphus
In all its aesthetic and practical sense.
The lurid last act lurk
With cascades of memory in August
Like a giant Mediterranean shark.
Waiting to devour everything before dusk.
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many.
MY FRETFUL CONCUBINE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
My fretful concubine
laughs at the many colours;
she thinks none can be
more colourful than her.
She has tasted the waters
of the golden rivers,
the drops from the seven seas
I swam across to get for her.
The jewels from the deep caverns,
I brought to her,
she sneered at the jewels, the diamonds,
and the stones many would die for.
She kept fretting,
wanting more
of all that I gave her
and all that I could not give.
She drove me to the unknown depths,
and pushed me to the limitless sky
She made me climb the wild mountains
and breathe the thin, lifeless air.
She made me kill,
she made me steal
she drove me wild
with raw passion and zeal.
When I fell back tired, exhausted,
she mocked at me,
she made me whine,
Life, my fretful concubine!
(This poem carries a small, midnight story. Like all ha'penny poets and writers I also have a couple of notebooks where I jot down ideas and outlines for poems and short stories. If I find some memorable lines in some other writing they also find their way into the notebook. The past week has been awfully hectic for me and I couldn't write anything for LV80. Late last night I was desperately looking for some outline for a poem and came across a few lines of 'My Fretful Concubine' jotted down by me. I didn't remember when I had written it. To be doubly sure that the poem is not some one else's I did a search in Google and found no such poem. Then I remembered I probably thought of the title when I read Marquez's 'Memories of My Melancholic Whores'. I developed the poem and now present it to the readers with the fond hope that I wrote the original lines and they are not the jotting down from some other work. My Google search shows there is no other poem under this title.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
Book Review
Geetha G. Nair's “Shored Fragments” is a different experience for any lover of poetry with its alluring elegance of evasive and at the same time enchanting poetic charm.
At times we just sit breathless and astonished feeling the wonder, the suspense within, leaving a desire to make one more visit to these strange vistas. Though attired in simplicity, many of the poems in “Shored Fragments” are like piercing rapiers capable of spilling red drops from the heart. Another peculiarity is that the sweet innermost core is wrapped with rough, bitter outer layers so that the poetic elegance gets chewed only after we finish reading the poem or even after a second or third reading. “A Crazed Night Sky” and “A Fable for our Times” make us spell bound for a few minutes.
The poem “Rose Apples” abounds in imageries that aptly suit the mood of the poem.
“Did their icy roseapple trees
Stretching arms to heaven
With promise of fruit to come
Ever bloom ?”
In “The Old Girls Meet” we get a lively picture of the scene :
“Heads turn
Lovers freeze
Laptops stare blankly.
We walk out, move along,
Laughter still echoing
Returning to pain .”
The truths of life painfully interwoven, do truly and candidly stand out within the closely knit structure of the poems. “Wreaths” is a poem where the poignancy of grief is turned to compulsive acceptance of the truths of life.
Each poem is remarkable with its own kind of genuineness, originated from a soul that has been in continual communion, meditating the bygone great minds from Chaucer to Spenser, from Shakespeare to Milton, from Keats and Gray to Eliot and Emerson. Sometimes they remind us of Kannaki, the fierce feminine Goddess, too. At times, like hide and seek, she
makes us illusioned. Thus, there is some charismatic kind of content beyond the tough appearance of almost all poems.
The poem “Beneath it all...” sighs with
“Silence folding in fog
That melts as tears
Tears rising as mist
To thicken silence.”
and concludes with an aversion to life itself, breaking the glass menagerie of emotions deep, thus:
“Break the egg;
Paint the deep pan white and yellow-
Bull's eye!”
Some poems just make you think different with a different aesthetic sense , marking a slit with its sharpness upon your well-built wall of aesthetic ideology . Yes, think different, feel different and sense different, with a different sharpness. These “sharp” poems strike like hurricane upon your poetic sensibility, stamp your aesthetic composure and compulsively press for an innovation. Her “Kitchen” is almost an average kitchen, full of the usual stuff, including cobwebs, dust etc. But with the last line,
“let's share a blood-red chilly
Standing in the kitchen of my mind”
the mundane turns extra ordinary and the reader gets disturbed by the enchanting question mark of the blood-red chilly. “The Schoolboy”
with its cathartic last line bewilders the reader and leaves him/her with a grief-stricken mind all on a sudden. “The Doppelganger” begins with:
“If I turn the mirror
To serpent town
And show you your face
..............
..............
..............
Clear sight
Is the poet's might
Didn't you know?”
“Piggy Bank” and “Organ Transplant” pulsate with the life-breathing picturesque movements and we would love to read them again and again. For example, the darling boy in the “Piggy Bank” is depicted so vividly that we like his vivacious appearance and thus the image remains in
our memory, may be, forever.
“My darling boy,
So you smile your baby smile
And toss your baby curls
And sweep it up all
To run to buy
Your newest toy .”
and the following lines in “The Organ Transplant” picturesquely get stored in our brain:
“Why then did you tear your gift?
Squeeze it, sear it, shred it
Till I could bearly breathe
And ran out for a puff of air
Under the cold, starred sky.”
“Kalapani” echoes the emotions with the imageries and symbols aptly taking the reader to “sights that bleed”:
“Octopus with seven arms outstretched;
The eighth, palpable pain,
Encircling to squeeze out the blood and sweat
Of hundreds in its grasp..... ”
Beyond the apparent delicacy, the poems are strong and elusive to a certain extent either to a mute revolt against the existing set up or a hidden sensuality, just very lightly sprinkled though, or even to the prevailing questions of existentialism that haunts every soul at one time or other in one's lifetime.
“The Waste Land – An Introduction” where the teacher is all set to teach about the eternal lines, a challenge though, the theme- the prime emotion of Sex to ride in and ruin a fertile land to a waste land – ends with the shanti mantra “Shanti, shanti, shanti” spirals inside it the “datta, dayatvam, damyatha” message, too. It is also a testimonial of a teacher’s love and affection towards her students. The window opened from the West to welcome the beams of Vedic light from the East by Eliot is all comprehensive and secure in this short poem.
To conclude Geetha.G. Nair’s “Shored Fragments” reminds us of the famous words of Thomas Gray that poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan writes poems and reviews of poetry. Many of her poems have been published in reputed magazines, journals and anthologies. She is Joint Secretary to the Government of Kerala.
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