Literary Vibes Edition - LXXXI
(Title : Like A Phoenix I Rise - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Let me wish all of you a great 74th Independence Day tomorrow. It's a day of pride and hope - pride for the past glory and hope for the future. Having been confined to our homes since the last week of March 2020, one can feel the value of freedom more than the other years. Let's hope the country will return to prosperity and progress soon and smiles will be back on the face of our billion plus citizens. God knows how much we need and crave for those happy, relaxed smiles.
It's with great pleasure I present to you the 81st edition of LiteraryVibes. It has some beautiful poems and enchanting stories.
I am happy to welcome three new contributors into the family of LiteraryVibes. Wing Commander Swadhin Das is a veteran, whose passion for literature is a legend among his friends and colleagues. He has written an excellent piece on Healthy Eating, in today's edition. Shri Rudra Narayan Mohanty from Hyderabad, is an experienced and distinguished journalist who also writes excellent, gripping short stories, as can be seen from LV81. Shri Srikant Mishra, an IT professional from Pune has a sensitive heart and his poetry reflects positive human emotions as a refreshing change in these difficult times. We do hope that these talented poets and writers will continue their patronage of LV in the years to come.
Yesterday morning I was pleasantly surprised to see that LiteraryVibes had 99514 visits, only a few hundred short of the magic 100,000 mark. You readers have made it possible. I can't explain to you adequately how much the footfalls in the LV site mean to me. After retirement when the other footfalls have got increasingly silent in the evening of my life, I cherish the thought that you visit the site to enjoy the creation of the poets and writers. In my own, humble, way I have served the society by providing a forum to many established and aspiring creative souls to express themselves. And to you, my dear readers, I have given you songs, music, drama, stories, travelogues, dreams and desires week after week. I seek your continued blessings. On this occasion I will be failing in my duty if I don't acknowledge the help of our technical consultant Shiva Senthilkumaran of Mithra Consultancy, Chennai, who has worked tirelessly to upload the eMagazine every Friday evening without a break.
Yesterday, while thinking of footfalls I conjured up a poem. Hope you will share my yearning for footfalls in our increasingly lonely lives.
FOOTFALLS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
There was a time
when noise bothered me.
The kids fighting,
their mother shouting
disturbed me no end.
Yet whenever I was at home
I used to wait for their return
wherever they went,
their footfalls at the door
Brought me an unending joy.
The red phone sitting in a corner
irritated me when it rang
I used to be curt,
I had no time to waste
on calls and wanted them short.
The home was in a mess
when kids used to run around.
First their toys, then the books
the pens, pencils and the eraser
cluttered up the floor.
The box of sweets
and snacks got emptied
in the kids' afternoon forays
to the kitchen, before they could be
offered to the visitors.
And then the kids left one by one
to their colleges and their jobs.
The silence of the empty nest
in our lonely lives rang
with a deafening bang.
The books and pencils,
the toys and the old bikes
the used shoes, the worn out socks
the box of snacks, all abandoned,
stared at us with tearful eyes.
Today the red phone hardly rings,
I know I won't be curt,
nor I will be short, if it rings
but no one calls,
no one has time for us.
Waiting for footfalls of friends
to echo at our old door
we keep it ajar,
and wish the kids to come knocking
From alien shores afar.
Hope you will enjoy the 81st edition as much as Shiva and I enjoyed creating it. Please share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/332 with your friends and contacts. The previous eighty editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Your feedback is welcome in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
Last week I had invited you to write about two best poems of your choice and send to me. A few of our contributors have done so. I am happy to publish them. I will be happy to receive more responses on the subject. Please do put down your thoughts and send to me at my email address mrutyunjays@gmail.com
Take care, stay safe.
And keep smiling, we will return to you next week with more poems and stories,
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FATHER - A NOSTALGIA
02) Haraprasad Das
WALK IN A SURREAL NIGHT (YAATRAA: RAATI)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
DISCONTINUITIES
MIDNIGHT BLUES
04) SreeKumar K
THE ARTIST
05) Bibhu Padhi
TAKING CARE OF THE DEAD*
06) Dr. Pradip K. Swain
DEATH OFFERS LESSONS
07) Ishwar Pati
THE POTION OF HAPPINESS
08) Debi Padhi
A TRIBUTE TO ALL THAT IS JAZZ: MEMORIES AND A SOJOURN
09) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
KRISHNA
10) Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
THE TRADER
11) Dr. Molly Joseph M
HOW CAN YOU BE..?
12) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA's MUSINGS 4 : FEBRUARY
13) Sharanya Bee
THE SIGHT
14) Supriya Pattanayak
DEAR GOD
15) Hema Ravi
UNLEASHING THE CREATIVITY WITHIN…..
16) Sheena Rath
RAINS
17) Malabika Patel
WOMAN
18) Setaluri Padmavathi
COFFEE - THE BEVERAGE
19) N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
Friendly Australians
20) Gita Bharath
BLANK? WHITEWASHED WALLS
21) Dr.S.Padmapriya
THE BRAHMAPUTRA*- A MINOR EPIC POEM
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
STOLEN HEART
23) Abani Udgata
AN OLD COUPLE
24) Sujatha Sairam
METAMORPHOSIS
25) Mihir Kumar Mishra
SONG OF SOLITUDE
26) Rudra Narayan Mohanty
THE MERMAID, THE BOY AND THE FISH CUTLETS!
27) Swadhin Das
LIVE TO EAT OR EAT TO LIVE
28) Srikant Mishra
WESTONE
29) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE FOURTEENTH NIGHT MOON
1) Geetha Nair
a) THE THOUGHT FOX by TED HUGHES
b) LIGHT by ANNA SUJATHA MATHAI.
2) Ishwar Pati
a) CROSSING THE BAR by Lord Alfred Tennyson
3) Latha Prem Sakya
a) Mending Wall by ROBERT FROST
b) Birches by ROBERT FROST
4) Sulochana
a) A THOUGHT WENT UP MY MIND By Emily Dickinson
b) FOR ONCE, THEN, SOMETHING By Robert Frost
5) Gita Bharath
a) Fire and Ice by Robert Frost
b) Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
a) Review by Priya Bharati
"Evolution of God" by Ajay Kansal
Mother squats in sweltering heat
on our back verandah,
overlooking the river; dozing,
waiting for father to come to lunch;
her midday meal would follow his,
a habit of thirty years.
In village’s cremation land,
the patch of his last journey
bears no sign of a month-old pyre
except looking a bit ash-grey
among the weeds, mottled grass,
his pyre has shifted to her eyes.
Mother looks at the river bank
craning her scrawny neck -
has he finished his three dips?
She allows only him to judge
her cooking excellence, so, the cat
has got her exasperated tongue.
Father had gone on our shoulders,
returned a bit of ash in an urn,
for mother, an urnful of empty sky.
Coconut fronds listless, afternoon
held breath. The tick tock clock
died on the wall, the time froze.
A toy horse father had brought home
stopped neighing, stood in mid-trot.
Mother found a compatriot
in its silence, they never came alive,
joined by a hyphen, but
she would aspire for a full stop.
Last year, this time, she was
a mirror addict, fastidious about
what the reflection said about her.
Today, she flings at it, ash-grey curses.
Mumbles to his photograph, complains
of her mouth tasting of dusty cobwebs.
She mumbles, “He would
finish his work, return home early.
I hear him clearing his throat
by the river bank. May be home
any minute. Let me rush, cook rice
and ginger-dal-tadka*; mash a potato.”
“Listen.” she insists,
“He is taking a wash
by our backyard well,
singing hymns. No, not his brother
whose voice is thinner…”
Mother doesn’t believe, ghosts exist.
(Ginger-dal-tadka*: a lentil dish with ginger tempering. Odia poem ATITA appeared in Dussehra issue, 1997, of VARTIKA, conceptualized in English by the poet.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
WALK IN A SURREAL NIGHT (YAATRAA: RAATI)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Night is putting on
her last touches of makeup,
grey hair
already coloured black;
the courtyard is swept clean
of the odds and ends
from a harried hailstorm,
that passed without rain;
the clouds are getting pushed out
of the sky like hesitant ships
out of their harbor, their sails
filled with fidgety southerly wind;
but a worry, the heretics
may reach the temple,
before the devotees,
to defile the deity.
In the meantime,
a chunk of moonshine
has tumbled down
onto the riverbank;
like a white water-nymph
spreading her pretty feet
into the river’s rippling water
breaking the moon into pieces.
Anticipations crackle,
thin wafers crumbling -
what would happen next?
Nothing perhaps!
But one may take a stock
of the nightlong adventures -
night’s ending, surreal dreams
are vaporizing;
the fairy, guised
as a dragonfly
would fly away
at the first light;
one has to return
from here to reality
as always,
leaving a mark
etched with blood
on the last milestone
for someone special
one is looking for.
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)”
We delve deep into the abyss
of the depthless dovish eyes
and decipher their declarations
but ignore what is unsaid
when they are closed and shut.
We gaze at the dark canvas
of a moonless night on which
the stars glitter in their glory
but ignore the apparent nothingness
that separates them into dots.
We read the couplets and lines
and let ourselves flow with the current
absorbing every bit of what they pronounce
but ignore what they don't and that are
embedded in the spaces between.
' Abinash, the editor wants to see you,' the secretary to the Editor of The Noontime was on the intercom.
Abinash had joined the paper as a junior reporter few months back after his Masters in Mass Communication from the prestigious institute MICA at Ahmedabad. The Noontime was the newest kid on the block of compact newspapers and was launched about a year ago. During this short period it had gained good popularity and was emerging as a tough competitor to the older and established paper Mid-Day. Like Mid-Day, it had also forayed into daily news, web news and a special Sunday edition. The establishment had no political leanings and was neutral but its Entertainment section in its Sunday edition was rather spicy and gossipy attracting a fair readership from the youth brigade. Atul Nair was its editor and in the journalistic circle he was known as a flamboyant maverick, sometimes with shades of Hugh Hefner, the Playboy honcho. Before he started this paper he had worked in the men's magazine Debonair, published from Mumbai.
Abinash had just put up to Atul a draft story for approval. He had painstakingly covered the Mumbai Flood catastrophe with photographs of vehicles half submerged on the main roads and the devastated slums under the flyovers. He had honestly and meticulously covered each aspect of pain and inconvenience to the public caused due to an ineffective storm water drainage system.
He knocked the door to the corner office carrying the name of Atul on a shining well polished brass name plate and entered in anticipation of being complemented for his fine report. Atul was slowly swinging on his executive chair with a pencil held absentmindedly near his nose. Abinash saw his report lying in front him on the table. He then stilled himself and asked Abinash to take his seat. Then he looked at him with piercing eyes like a tiger would look at the eyes of the antelope he has just dragged in and said, ' Look Abinash, what is this trash you have written? The last two pieces I allowed was also similar. If I recall, one was about public defecation by the slum dwellers in front of the World Trade Centre and the other was about the plight of the migrant taxi drivers from UP and Bihar. I approved them thinking that you are new in the business and you will learn. Tell me who would read these colourless unexciting stories? These things are normal every day affair in the city. What's so extraordinary about them? You are a young guy. You should come up with something juicy, something exciting and something sensational that would titillate the reader. Go to Goa, go to Kochi, explore the social life there. These are happening places. Move your butt. Get us something steaming and hot, not something as stale and cold as this.' He picked up the file and threw it into the waste paper basket.
Abinash was visibly shaken up. He came out of the editor's office feeling dejected and headed straight to his cubicle to pull his laptop and furiously started typing on the key board. He remembered Goa as a tourists' destination, the nature's paradise with its sun, sea and sands. As he typed Nature and Goa in Google search, few pictures popped up on his screen, which showed semi clad and near nude people on the beaches. Then he realised that the search window showed Naturist and Goa. It was the autocorrect feature which had converted Nature to Naturist! Naturist was a new word for him and as he typed it again under search in Wikipedia he realised that it was the new word for Nudist.
As he delved deeper into the subject of 'Naturism' he learnt that it concerned with 'Nudism' as a social practice and which started in early twentieth century. The practitioners believed that the best way to blend oneself with the nature is in the buff, by shedding off one's clothes. He explored its ethical and philosophical dimensions. What originated as a novel cultural movement, later became a cult. Soon practices flourished in pockets, societies and communities emerged, exclusive camps, clubs and colonies came into being. The nudists celebrated their ideology in specially organised fairs, festivals and parades. At the same time controversies also surfaced. The practice was shunned and denounced by the prudish. There were numerous public debates and discussions. But the nudists held on and the practice survived. Over a period of time the word nudist no longer was a favoured term and was replaced by naturist to give it some respectability.
Abinash though stumbled over the topic by chance thanks to the autocorrect feature on his laptop, got engrossed with it and sat down to explore further. He was keen to find more about Goa and its connection with naturism. He was hopeful that he would get the desired lead for his new story. He was determined to live up to Atul's expectations and carve a niche for himself in the annals of investigative journalism. When Abinash googled for naturism in Goa, he could gather only scant information. The first settlement of the hippies from the West who practised naturism dated to the sixties. They in fact were the first squatters in Goa's then secluded beaches Anjuna and Vagator. They practically captured these beaches and the local people were not allowed to come near them. But over the years the Indian yuppies got friendly with the hippies and few were admitted to the communes. With rapid commercialisation of the Goa beaches, these beaches were no longer exclusive for them and they moved to the north, far away from the city habitat, exploring and occupying other virgin beaches like Ashwem, Ozran and Morjim. Since the press and media had been discouraged to photograph or interview them, most of their stories remained shrouded in mystery. Abinash thought that this was an opportunity for him to discover their life, customs and traditions and he perhaps could be the pioneer to bring their story to the public domain.
The next morning Abinash took a flight to Goa. He had reserved his room in Mayfair Beach Resort, a budget hotel near Calangute beach. He made friends with Tony, the receptionist of the hotel and confided in him the purpose of his visit. Then he sought his guidance how he may reach the naturist beaches and get his photographs and interviews.
' Sir, it's not that easy as you think. If you want an interview meeting with the Chief Minister, I may swing it for you. But what you are looking for is almost impossible,' informed Tony.
' Brother, I am sure, there must be a way. If I have to spend some money, it's no problem. But you must help me to accomplish my mission,' implored Abinash, and slipped a 500 rupees note on the counter towards Tony.
Tony snapped up the note, scratched his head for a while and said, ' OK, Sir. I know a Russian girl Katarina, who sets up a stall in the Friday night market on Calangute beach. Her stall is just opposite the Tito's Courtyard. She herself was a member of the nudist commune three years ago. But after she lost her boyfriend in a drowning accident in the sea, she left the commune and had moved south, to settle down here. She may be able to help you. You meet her this evening. I will call her up and she would expect you.'
' That's my boy ! You are a sweetheart,' beamed Abinash.
He watched the sunset from the balcony of his room while sipping a cup of cardamom tea. Then he changed into a black cargo pant and a red and white striped T shirt, put on his black Nike sneakers and started for the beach. The entire stretch of the beach was lined up with make shift stalls. The owners of the stalls, mostly foreigners were busy getting their fares out for display. Behind the stalls landwards was the row of bars and restaurants. The crowd was yet to build up in the night market. Abinash was scanning the row of the restaurants to locate Tito's. Once he got the coordinates right, he found under a beach umbrella a skimpily dressed young woman selling coloured bead necklaces and sunglasses.
He approached the woman and cautiously asked, ' Hi, how are you doing this evening?'
The woman looked up with a smile and replied,' Hello, I am doing good. How may I help you?'
Abinash picked up a pair of yellow sunglasses with a bright blue frame and asked, 'How much?'
The woman said,' Eight hundred rupees. That's a good choice. If you like it, I will give it to you for six.'
Abinash was getting impatient to get to the point and asked, ' By the way, are you Katarina?'
The woman answered, ' Yes I am Katarina from St Petersburg, Katy to my friends. You must be Abinash. Tony had called me.'
Abinash brightened up and extended his hand towards Katy and said,' Hi Katy nice meeting you. Tony must have told you about me. I am Abinash and I work for a publication in Mumbai. I am working on a story about the naturists of Goa. Tony told me that you can help me.'
' Yeah, Tony had briefed me about you and the purpose of your visit to Goa. I have a plan in mind. But it would cost you money,' offered Katy.
' No issue. Tell me how should we go about it,' Abinash was eager to know.
' You are really lucky. These people organise an annual festival and they always plan for something unusual every year. The surprise of the party is revealed exactly at midnight, as the clock strikes twelve. This year's party is scheduled on this Sunday. Normally they don't allow any outsiders to the celebrations but sometimes they make few exceptions for very special friends. For gaining entry they send exclusive invites in form of wristbands. In fact they have sent me a couple of them since I was a former member of their commune. I can give you these bands and you may be able to take part in the festivities. Then you may make friends with someone there and try to get your inputs for your story. How does it sound to you?, explained Katy.
Abinash couldn't believe his luck and gratefully responded,' Oh Katy, I don't know how can I thank you ?'
Katy smiled and said, ' These two bands would cost you couple of thousands. That you pay me here. You pay extra for your food and drinks there. They have a coupon system.'
Abinash, took out a crisp two thousand rupees note from his wallet and handed over, and hesitatingly asked,' But Katy, I need only one band. What will I do with two?'
Katy took the money, handed him two wristbands, one blue and one pink and told, ' See they have few rules which you have to adhere strictly. First, the entry is for couples only. The blue band is for you and the pink is for your partner. You may take with you your girl friend or your boy friend if you are gay. Second, you have to go there without clothes. A headband or a bandana may be permitted. Third, you are allowed no jewellery, watches or any accessories on you. You may carry your money in a small pouch around your neck or in a money belt. Fourth, no camera and no mobile phones. '
Abinash's face fell, and he asked helplessly, ' I can comply with most of the rules, but I am single and not gay. I don't know how I may manage a girlfriend for me here,' and continued after a pause, ' will you be my date for the evening?'
Katy laughed aloud and said,' Abinash, I am really sorry, I can't come with you. I have another prior engagement which I can't cancel,' she looked a little thoughtful and continued,' but I may be able to help. I have a friend Suzette Braganza who is a local model and whom we call 'the bold and beautiful'. Though a local Goan girl, Suzy is one of the most unconventional and daring person I have come across. You meet her tomorrow at Bora Bora on Morjim beach in the evening and give her my reference. I am sure, your problem will be taken care of.'
Abinash picked up his new sunglasses and wristbands in a paper packet and thanked Katy. He then walked over to Tito's and ordered for some chilled beer and a plate of Goa's signature dish, crab xacuti. The next day crawled rather slowly and Abinash spent most of the day relaxing in the hotel, in anticipation of meeting Suzy in the evening. With Tony's help, he hired a Honda Activa scooter for a couple of days.At around 6 PM, he started for Morjim, around 20 km north of Calangute. He reached Bora Bora bar around 7. The bar was open but had few customers. He found a tall stool near the bar and as suggested by the barman Peter, ordered for a 'Cabola', a famous Goan cocktail of coconut rum, with Coke and lime topped with crushed ice. To go by that he ordered for a plate of golden fried prawns. While sipping his drink, he struck a casual conversation with Peter and asked him about Suzy. Peter winked at him and replied, 'Oh Suzy ? She's real 'bindaas', the coolest cat of Goa. How do you know her?'
' I really don't know her. But a friend has given me her reference. I would like to meet her here today. I have some job for her. When does she normally come here?,' Abinash asked.
' You don't have to wait too long,' Peter continued,' she should be here any time now.'
After about ten minutes a shapely and curvaceous girl in her early twenties and in a dark yellow skirt and aquamarine blue top made her way to the bar and asked Peter, ' Hello big brother, how's life today? Please pour me the usual.'
Peter responded with a smile, ' Come Suzy, first let me introduce this gentleman to you, who is here waiting for you for quite sometime.'
Suzy looked at Abinash quizzically and asked, ' Excuse me, have we met earlier? May I know what business you have with me?'
Abinash introduced himself and told her about his project. He told her about her meeting with Katy and that she had advised her to meet her here.
'I hope that you will not disappoint me,' concluded Abinash.
Meanwhile Peter had served Suzy with a stiff cashew feni on the rocks. Suzy took a sip, winced and said, ' So you are a cub reporter from the Noontime. I had met your editor Atul in the New Year's party here last year. Nice guy, but yaps a lot. He had tried his best to act fresh with me but I don't like his types. Too full of themselves and rather overbearing,' she paused a while, took another sip from her glass and went on, ' alright, let's come to the point. You want me to be your date to this special annual celebrations of the nudist commune. And we have to be in our birthday suits. Hmm.. let me think,' she stopped and went into a short trance.
After a few seconds, she continued,' OK, I think I can help you. But see I am a professional just like you. I have just three conditions. One, you pay me five thousand rupees for this assignment, two thousand now and the balance after the party tomorrow .Two, you get me a contract with the Noontime for being their pin up girl in the centre spread of the Sunday issues at least three per year for the next three years. Three, nothing else, beyond attending the party together. If you are fine with this, I am game.' Abinash quickly agreed and the deal was closed with clinking of their glasses. Abinash ordered for a second round of drinks and he could feel the initial inhibitions between them slowly melting away. When they said good night to each other both were feeling quite comfortable and at ease. Suzy wanted Abinash to pick her up the next day from here after dinner together.
During the Sunday morning ours, after breakfast Abinash went on a scooter ride exploring Panaji, Vasco and old Goa. All the while he was thinking about the possibilities in the evening. A sense of thrill and adventure pervaded over him which was somewhat overwhelming. He was inching closer towards completion of his project. In the evening he was dressed very casually, knowing very well that the party is a clothes free party. He reached Bora Bora at about ten and found Suzy waiting for him at the bar. Both greeted each other and settled down for few shots of Tequila. Then they ordered for their dinner, a typical Portuguese cuisine. And rode down to the nearby Ashwem beach where the party was on. Both parked their scooter in the palm grove and walked down the beach till they reached a dimly lit cordoned off area with a narrow entrance. They could hear some rock music wafting from inside. As they reached the entrance they were accosted by a burly bare bodied bear of a guy behind a counter. He sported a Mohawk style hair cut. A large glittering ring hanged from his left ear lobe. And on his bare chest was an intricate tattoo of a large grinning skull and a pair of cross bones. He had a pair of red glassed night goggles, which gave him a sinister look. Both Abinash and Suzy with pounding hearts showed him their wristbands and he smiled to expose two rows of nicotine stained yellow teeth. He asked Abinash to pay four thousand rupees to cover their snacks and drinks. He then guided them to an enclosure in the left and told them that it was the change room and they may get ready there. Both of them entered the change enclosure and slowly removed their clothes. Abinash took some efforts to keep his face expression-less to see a mature young girl in the nude perhaps for the first time in his life. At the same time, as for himself, he was feeling shy to expose himself in front of a girl. But he managed to get over the feelings after a while. Then he gave Suzy a red and white polka dotted bandana to tie around her head. He himself put on a black and white checkered head band, which had a concealed spy camera.
Dressed or rather undressed as such, both had to pass the burly bloke again to enter the main enclosure. The guy asked them, ' Hello friends, what are you going as?' They couldn't understand his question. Before they could react the guy told, ' You know, we have a surprise item at 12 midnight, just 15 minutes away. We are going to declare the best couple who will get a surprise prize. Let me enter you as Adam and Eve. Here is your token keep it with you to claim the prize.'
As they entered the main enclosure, first they couldn't see anything. It was quite dark with a camp fire in the middle. Gradually their eyes got accustomed to the ambience and they could see human figures rather their silhouettes , moving like shadows. In one corner there was a bar and few shadows were seen with drinks in their hands. In another corner a group was sitting in a circle smoking pipes and hookah. Though they could not see much they could smell of marijuana smoke and barbecued meat. A lager group was rocking in pairs around the camp fire to Midnight Blues by Snowy and White Flames blaring loudly. Before the couple could get their bearings, an announcement came from a corner, ' Friends, now it’s the time for the surprise. We have a special couple here who will be chosen as the Couple of the Evening. Please stand close to your partners and we shall sweep our spot light on each couple for few seconds. The judges' decision will be final.'
Suddenly a spot light was focused on the first couple, 'Romeo and Juliet' dressed in Shakespearean costume and people clapped. The next couple on whom the spot light froze was pirate 'Captain Jack Sparrow and Angelica' . The next was 'Napoleon and Josephine' . As the spot light hovered around more and more couples were revealed: 'Cleopatra and Mark Antony', 'Shah Jahan and Mumtaz', 'Superman and Lois Lane', 'Kermit and Piggy', 'Robin Hood and Maid Marian' , 'Mickey and Minnie Mouse', and many more. Before it could sink into their heads that all the nudists were dressed in various costumes for this special party and it's only them who had not a stitch on them, the spot light came and focused on them. The announcer announced them as 'Adam and Eve' and the whole crowd clapped for them. Then the flood lights came and the crowd converged on them to congratulate and shake hands with them.
Needless to say that the judges had declared them the winner.
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.
Since Diya was holding onto my hand, I had to walk rather slowly. The pace was unusual for me.
She kept asking questions about whatever she saw around her. It was hard to understand her accent. Small children like her usually have a hard accent. This makes it tough to follow their English. It is far easier to understand an adult.
At times Diya repeated some Malayalam which Maya or Ravi had taught her and then it that was even more difficult to understand.
When we reached hiss home, Murali was about to go to his small farm a little walk away. I offered to join him. He was happy and so was Diya.
On the way to the farm Murali went on talking, mostly reminiscing about our childhood.
Diya kept looking left and right, soaking up every bit of rural life as if she was from another planet.
"I am not making those things anymore, those sculptures,” Murali said. “My hand shakes. I am not yet seventy, but palsy has set in."
"My hands are steady, but it is my mind. It is very hard to recall anything. I don't even know what I had for breakfast this morning."
"Are you sure you had something?" he sounded concerned.
"Oh! Yes. I woke up late today letting Maya and Ravi handle the kitchen. Both of them cook really well. He is more comfortable than her in the kitchen."
"When are they going back?"
"She has to return in a week. He wants to stay a little longer. His father is also getting old."
At the farm, two plantain trees had fallen down. I helped him prop them up with supports. The trees were really heavy, but we managed. Murali was panting a little and I too had to sit down for a while.
Diya found the brook very interesting.
“Little fishes in a brook
Brother caught them with his hook
Mother fried them in a pan
Father ate them like a man.”
Diya was singing and dancing with the fishes in the brook.
I suddenly realized that there was a little bit of feminism in it. Father ate them like a man! It might be just funny for her. But had she been brought up in India, she would have understood what it really meant.
On our way back we again entered Murali’s home. His work area where hundreds of Krishnas were born looked desolate. Still, the cold smell of sandal lingered in the air.
He used to be doing well earlier. His Krishnas carved in sandal were in great demand. People used to come looking for him from far off places.
I looked around for any left over work. He noticed it.
"It is not because of my palsy that I quit. I thought it was absurd to give Him a shape. That too, such a small small shape, small enough to fit your palm. I wanted to quit for long and then the palsy came."
Smiling, he held forth his palm and I could see his fingers shaking like banyan leaves caught in the wind.
"Then I took up farming. Poaching happens, but it is OK. Leaves behind enough for me."
He was all alone. His wife and son were no more. His son had been in the army. He had died first. Before long Murali lost his wife too.
I felt sad for him. I should have visited him more often. I decided to give it some priority.
"Actually I was planning to buy a piece from you as a gift for my son-in-law," I said.
"Oh, I am sorry. I gave away whatever was left to some college kids who came for charity funding."
Still, when we were about to leave, he wrapped up something in a sheet of newspaper and handed it to Diya.
"Madam, you take this with you when you go back to America."
He spoke in broken English. Diya nodded her head and said 'yes'. She was impressed that he addressed her as madam.
My mobile rang. It was Sandhya. She was wondering why we were late. It was time for Diya's snacks, she said. The fact was she couldn't stay away from her granddaughter even for a minute.
I looked at Diya and thought she looked tired. We said bye to Murali and headed back.
At home, Diya called everyone and unwrapped the gift from her newly found grandpa.
It was a piece of sandalwood small enough to fit in her palm.
Diya held it close to her nose, allowing the strong fragrance to fill her being. She then hugged the piece, closed her eyes and stood there in a trance.
Slowly, the cold fragrance of sandal started spreading all around us.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Entering my room this morning I found
our family cat and her child sitting
on my table, their four eyes staring
at the bundled up thing lying in a corner.
The mouse had been taken care of.
On seeing me enter, they quietly descended
to the floor, stood for a while amid books
that lay all about the carpet, walked
out of the room. I went near the thing
only recently lulled to sleep, a spot of
animal red fresh on its upper neck.
This certainly is not the best time to begin anything.
The dead lay there still, unattended and bleeding
its last drop of life. I held its still-warm tail
and while it looked towards the earth, moved
out of the room to find a place
to hide last night death in.
The cat and her child waited outside like
responsible gods, as if they knew where the dead
must go so that life could begin once more.
I threw the dead where in the backyard
other unwanted objects lay: envelopes
without their contents, rotting mango leaves,
skins of fruits we peeled months ago.
Mother and child followed me with sure steps;
they knew where the dead went.
Pushing their mouths
into the slender neck, they tore it apart as quietly
as I watched, leaving the head and the tail
in an arbitrary assembly of memories.
Minutes later they were back again,
sniffing and smelling near the dark corner
where the dead lay a while ago, licked the place
clean. The dead had left the room altogether,
reinvested now with our habit of daily tears.
*The poem first appeared in Anvil New Poets (London)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
Sunday, June 18, 1989
DEAR EDITOR: I read the article “Memories of Love” in your Altoona Mirror by Dr. John R. Walter Jr.
I was touched.
There is a purpose to every life. What purpose could there have been in “Thimbles” (the springer spaniel) life, in so much suffering? I believe she was a chosen soul, that her purpose in life was a noble one. Her courage and strength instilled in all the people who knew her an even greater conviction to the human ideal of caring. In this sense, her life was a testament to ideal.
I knew someone who had terminal cancer. His body had already been ravaged by the disease. His pain was considerable. Trying to control the pain was probably the most difficult aspect of his life. I often felt frustrated because my efforts did not work or were minimally effective. But George was wonderful at pretending he was comfortable. When I asked him why he told me he was fine, he’d just pat my hand and say, “I don’t want you to think you’d failed me.”
When I knew his illness was terminal, I talked about his final wish. His final wish was to see his dog, “Heidi.” Heidi had gone everywhere with George except in the hospital. I was not sure I could pull this one off. I went to George’s house, got Heidi, drove the car to the hospital’s back door and carried Heidi up to George in the service elevator.
Heidi seemed to know where she was going. She never barked or tried to run off. When George saw Heidi, he was ecstatic. Heidi was a model canine visitor, sitting quietly by George’s bed and wagging her tail the whole time. Here were two close friends, and one was watching the other one die.
Heidi had just left. George said to me, “Dr. Swain, stay and hold my hand.” I did. He was very peaceful. Then he just slipped away. George’s wife told me later that Heidi had just died. She quit eating and drinking after George passed away.
Looking back, I realize how I have matured -- not only personally but professionally. George and Heidi showed me how to live and see the simplicity and the goodness in life even as they waged their war with that bitter night.
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
“Eureka! I’ve got it!” The sage shouted at the top of his voice, jumping up from his meditation in the middle of the dense forest under the huge banyan tree. God knows how long he had sat there, unmoving for years on end. Though his frame was emaciated, his face reflected the glory of enlightenment, and from his eyes flew sparks of wisdom. “I have got it at last!” he repeated with muted excitement.
“What have you got?” the deer feeding nearby lifted her lazy head to ask him.
“The potion of happiness!” exclaimed the sage and held up a minute brass phial in his right hand. Nestling in his palm was a small cylindrical container, its mouth closed by a stop cork. The deer showed no interest in him. The animals of the forest had become so inured to his statue-like presence that they treated him as a stationary bit of the jungle architecture. Their curiosity, which had drawn the animals to him at first, had disappeared under the unruffled and calm presence of the sage. They took his existence for granted, along with the earth they walked on, the trees and the rocks surrounding them, and the water and the fruits that sustained them.
The deer blinked again at the brass phial in the sage’s hand before moving away with her little fawns. A fox trotting by caught sight of the phial. His curiosity aroused more by the shiny phial than by the shining eyes of the enlightened man, he sprang up to the holy man and asked him, “What’s that, my brother?”
“It’s the potion of happiness,” the sage volunteered for the second time.
“What’s it good for?” the fox questioned.
“Why, for happiness of course. Anyone who drinks the potion will attain supreme happiness for the rest of his life.”
The fox laughed. “Is it? What’s the basis on which you make such a tall claim?”
The wise man was taken aback. “How much like a lawyer you speak! No humility, no respect for words of wisdom. Well, since you ask, it’s my duty to enlighten you.
“As you might have observed,” the sage continued, “I have been meditating here for a very long time, reflecting on the suffering of the living. I concentrated my energy on a singular goal—to discover the path to eternal happiness. What agonies I have endured within my mind! What disturbing images I have seen of pain and pleasure, physical and mental, that a mortal being is heir to. A steep climb to the peak of ecstasy was followed by a plunge into the depths of despair with such intensity that I felt my head being prised off my body. I experienced a searing sensation in waves that pierced my consciousness again and again, till I felt overwhelmed and carried to a tremulous horizon of fulfilment! There was a blinding flash and I found myself back on the soft earth beneath this tree, and in my hand lay the fruit of meditation—the potion of happiness!”
“What makes you so sure it’s the potion of happiness?” the sceptical fox persisted.
The sage was nonplussed, but explained patiently, “Dear friend, that blinding flash was a divine revelation that made the phial with the potion materialise in my hand.”
At that moment an elephant came limbering up to where they stood. As his myopic eyes caught the glint of the brass phial, he squinted at it and asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s the potion of happiness he says,” said the jackal, “that will give everlasting joy to anyone who drinks it.”
“Oh, and who is he?” The elephant moved his enormous head to peer closely at the human face.
“He is the man who got the potion,” the fox answered.
“What? He dispenses happiness, is it?” barked the elephant. “Then everyone should be here to share it!” So saying, he raised his trunk and thundered the whole forest with his trademark trumpet call. Within minutes there ensued a mad rush as animals, small and big, and birds, young and old, fell over each other to gain a vantage place near the banyan tree. A loud murmur went around. “What’s going on here?” and “What’s new?” they kept asking each other. The elephant raised his trunk again and announced loudly, “Friends and jungle men, lend me your ear! We have here a man who says he will make us all of us happy. And he seems to be a honourable man. The magic potion he carries in his hand will bring happiness to all of us; so he says.” All the residents of the forest focussed their gaze on the brass phial. “A drop of the magic brew and each one of us would jump and laugh with joy forever!” The earth shook as the elephant, carried away by the sound of his own voice, jumped up in mock demonstration.
“Hold-dd-d on!” pleaded the giraffe, the shaking earth making his long neck swing wildly. “Let’s not disturb things so much-hh-h. We have to take a long-gg-g term view.” But her feeble voice was lost in the effervescent cacophony that followed the elephant’s call.
The deer frantically tugged at the bear’s fur. “It was I,” she shrilled, “who saw him first. So I’m entitled to the first go.”
“But you are so happy already with your darling fawns,” the bear pointed out. “You have no need of the magic potion.”
“Yes, but I’ve got my rights! Why should I forego them?”
“Ok, if you insist, I’ll speak up for you.” The bear loudly cleared its throat and spoke in his gruff voice, “Hear, hear, the lady here, the deer that is, claims she was the first to meet the magician. So it’s her right to drink the potion before anyone else does!”
“Yes, I found it first!” the deer joined in.
“No, no,” the fox cut in sharply, “she forfeited her chance. It was I who discovered its magic properties and informed the elephant. So the privilege of the first swig, in all fairness, should be mine!”
The murmurs grew louder, some voicing their support for the fox and others backing the deer. Soon the air was resounding with shouts and counter shouts.
‘Now, hold it!” roared the lion, standing up in the midst of the confusion. “I’m the lord of the forest. I will not tolerate such unruly behaviour here!” The uproar subsided.
“Kun!” coughed the ant.
“Yes!” yelled the lion.
“May I say something, my lord?”
“Go ahead,” the lion commanded.
“I was thinking, my lord,” the ant meekly submitted, “given that only a few drops of the magic potion are available but so many claimants for it, can we afford to waste it on the measly deer or the selfish fox? No, we have to let that creature who produces maximum happiness for entire ‘animal kind’ have the first go, then the one with the next highest potential and so on, till the potion is exhausted. Only then will the resultant net addition to the sum total of the forest’s happiness will be optimum.”
“Hum,” mused the lion, “not a bad idea.”
“Hee, hee, hee, hee!” laughed the hyena. “In that case, hee, hee, who is more eligible than, hee, hee, poor me? My bubbling laughter will overflow, hee, hee, and fill the forest, hee, hee, with non-stop gaiety! Hee, hee, hee!”
“But I found it first!” the deer shrilled again.
“Grr!” growled the leopard, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. “Has anyone thought of the world of good it’d do if my grumbling were, grr!, silenced by the happy potion? With my restless and violent nature subdued, grr!, grr!, there will be peace and joy, Grr! grr!, and all animals can go about their business without fear. Grr! grr!”
“Hun, hun,” the grumpy bear grumbled. “Does anyone here really believe that the leopard can change his spots, potion or no potion? Can he give up hunting and starve himself to death? Never! On the other hand, poor me is so miserable that my grumpiness makes others wretched too. Just imagine, what a world of good the magic brew would do by melting away my cloud of gloom!”
“Grr, grr, you’re not really interested in the welfare of others,” retorted the leopard. “All you want to do, grr! grr!, is satisfy your own selfish desire!”
The snake slithered around the bushes to the peacock. “These mammals think the whole forest belongs only to them,” he hissed angrily in the latter’s ear. “Why, I can be as dangerous as the leopard, if not more so, and yet no one talks of my claim to the potion!”
“Animals are like that,” commented the peacock, giving his splendid plumage a shake. “They easily forget the pleasure I fill them with by my breathtaking dancing. If I had a bit of the potion, how much more charming my dancing would be!”
The nightingale listening from a branch above broke into singsong, “It’s a cruel, cruel world, my friends, where the big swallow the small. Can anyone outdo me when it comes to reaching the depths of melancholy with my songs? Yet no one cares to spare a portion of the potion for this poor soul, so that I can go on singing songs of joy for all to enjoy!”
“But I found it first!” shrilled the deer from the back yet again.
The beaver moved his whiskers in the air. “If general welfare is the criterion,” he pronounced, ignoring the deer’s plea, “it is I who should be the natural choice. Happiness would motivate me to work harder and harder to bring more and more prosperity to the forest.”
“Work, progress, ha!” bellowed the hippopotamus with a wide, lazy grin. “We’re talking of happiness here, not your dreary toil.”
The squirrel ran up and down the tree trunk. “Work is happiness, happiness is work. Work is happiness, happiness is work,” he went on chirping, as if reciting a mantra. The owl blinked and hooted, “Hoo! Happiness is a relative thing.”
A fresh argument ensued on the definition of happiness, with animal after animal volunteering opinion, till their voices rose in a disjointed chorus. The lion roared once more to restore order.
The wild pig ventured to open his wise mouth. “Oink, oink, all this noise and argument will get us nowhere,” he squealed. “We’ve to go about it in a systematic and just manner. Since the supply of the potion is severely limited, I suggest a committee be appointed under the chairmanship of our august king, oink,” and he nodded his snout in the direction of the lion. “The committee will give its verdict after going into all aspects of the issue. Of course, oink,” he added with a shrug of his dragging shoulders, “I make myself available to be on the committee.”
“Your suggestion is well taken,” the lion replied thoughtfully. “But I don’t think at this stage appointing a committee will serve any purpose because of the short time available. I have come to the conclusion that, under the circumstances, there is only one course available to us. It’s I who has to drink the potion,” declared the lion. A hushed silence prevailed as the disappointed animals looked at each other.
“That would not only resolve,” the commanding voice of the lion continued, “the heated arguments we have witnessed here, but also be in the best interests of the forest. If I, the king of the forest, were happy, the whole forest would be happy. Our inhabitants would be satiated with happiness! Ho, ho!”
“But I found it first!” The shriek of the persistent deer butted in. Had the prospect of happiness driven her mad, everyone thought.
The mischievous monkey on the tree, who had been observing the proceedings with his shifty eyes, took advantage of the diversion. He wound his long tail around a branch and stretched his arm down to snatch away the precious phial from the holy man’s hand. In the twinkling of an eye he bounced back onto the branch, pulled off the cork and gulped down the contents of the phial, as all the denizens of the forest and the stunned sage watched helplessly. No sooner had he swallowed the brew than the monkey started jumping around madly and shouting, “I’m happy! I’m happy!” He turned somersaults in the air and swung wildly from branch to branch. His eyes were dilated and his teeth chattered excitedly as he went on screaming, “I’m happy! I’m happy!”
As they gazed at the monkey’s antics, those present observed something peculiar happening. The monkey was shrinking in size! Within minutes, his body had become a miniature of his normal size and his feeble voice barely came out in a squeak, “I’m happy! I’m happy!” Everyone was struck dumb by this extraordinary. The monkey jumped around and squealed, even as it continued to shrink, till there came a faint, “o, i’m so happy!’ from its throat before its voice ceased altogether. One moment there was a vague outline of a tiny monkey against the tree leaves and the next moment that apparition was gone! The monkey had been dispatched to the land of eternal happiness!
The spectators could hardly believe their eyes and went on staring foolishly at the vacant branch where the monkey had been. Was the holy man a magician who had tricked them into believing that the monkey had disappeared? They waited and waited for the magic to dissolve. But the primate remained elusive. The clever fox was the first to realise something was terribly wrong. Slowly it turned around on its haunches, took a few stealthy steps away from the scene and then ran blindly. All hell broke loose, with furs and feathers flying in every direction as fast as the animals’ legs and wings could carry them. The pace of retreat was certainly faster than the speed with which they had converged under the tree. When the dust cleared, the placid sage stood alone under the tree of his enlightenment. His shining eyes were still flashing a brilliance that was lost in the common light of the day.
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.
A TRIBUTE TO ALL THAT IS JAZZ: MEMORIES AND A SOJOURN
(Image courtesy: shutterstock)
As a young Naval Officer, with a diadem of Alexander Selkirk’s “The Monarch of All I Survey” (in reference to the poem by William Cowper, 1731-1800) gait and anticipation, I was once enamoured to venture into the enticing doorway of a much touted restaurant, famous for its live band that played to the chosen cognoscenti of ‘Amchi Mumbai’, in the up market Colaba Causeway, of the then Bombay in the early 1970s. Settled as I was, into my chair, accompanied by an equally doe-eyed partner, with all eyes on the Band, we were offered an overture to begin with, with the inviting strains of the band’s ensemble of trumpets, trombones, drums, guitars, cello and a lone piano. What followed was a solo rendering in a baritone voice of incandescent beauty, accompanied by the piano that offered paeans on an iconic name “Mona Lisa”, so fitting for the occasion that levitated my mind to a sequence of dreams. And I was in love again!
That was my first foray into the world of Jazz, it’s beautiful aftermath that opened the Jazz’s Ali Baba’s Cave of wonderment to me, and I have never stopped thanking the great doyen of Jazz, Nat King Cole, for his invigorating original “Mona Lisa”, offered to me in absentia on that unforgettable day of summer at Bombay. The love has only grown with a repertory of enticing experiences and a little library agog with a modest collection of Jazz memorabilia that I would love to share today.
If Music is an art that brings together vocal and instrumental sounds for the aesthetic and artistic expressions of emotion, sensitivity, passion, sentiment, feelings and warmth; customarily standardized to a culture and a pattern that embodies rhythm, melody and harmony; then Jazz as a form of music is an expression of animated, vivacious, spirited, swinging, syncopated and bold musical sounds.
History and Development of Jazz
Jazz, as a term, came into being in the 1913-15 chiefly practiced by black musicians, which represented a type of music that developed from an amalgamation of European and African music and came into prominence at the turn of the 19th century in New Orleans. The beginnings of Jazz was initiated by the highly syncopated ‘Ragtime’ Music, led by the inimitable Scott Joplin who has been immortalized in the gangster film ‘The Sting’, its music being set with his famous Rags. His sentimental piano solos ‘Solace’ and ‘The Entertainer’ are my all time favourites. Ragtime lasted from 1890-1917.
Then came the ‘Blues’ craze in the 1900s, tempered with a slow and moody song of lamentation that was deeply influenced by the Negro spirituals. The pioneering Blues musician was WC Handy, whose ‘Memphis Blues’ and ‘St.Louis Blues’ are Jazz classics. He was followed by renowned Blues singers like Bassie Smith and Billie Holiday.
The subsequent history of Jazz has embraced a diversity of styles: starting in 1912 with ‘Dixiland’ that burrowed from both the Ragtime and the Blues, incorporating a new concept of a ‘Band’ performing, led by the trumpet. The most prominent of these ‘Dixiland’ musicians were the trumpet leader Louis Armstrong of the “When The Saints Go Marching In” fame; and the pianist Jelly Roll Morton of the “Dead Man Blues” fame.
In the 1920s, Jazz gained eminence and became a social craze with its spread across New York, Paris and London. The Jazz emerged as an ensemble of full big Bands playing to house-full audiences, with some exceptions of smaller bands in Chicago that led to a new style called “Chicago” style with new improvisations. This exception saw the advent of Jazz composition and the first true composer in the genius of Duke Ellington, who was responsible for Big Band classics like “Mood Indigo” that is still a rage today.
The 1930s coincided with the style known as “Swing” that, as the name denotes, set the mood for a necessitated dance amongst the listeners. Amongst the virtuosos of that style were Benny Goodman and Arty Shaw on their clarinets, Glenn Miller on his trombone and Gene Krupa on his drums.
The 1940s saw more Jazz improvisations with smaller bands and individualists and the “Swing” gave way to “Be-Bop”; with great emphasis on the tempo and rhythm of music. The leader of this style was alto saxophonist Charlie Parker (famous number “ I’ve Got Rhythm”) and the trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie with his trend-setting “Salt Peanuts”. “Be-Bop” was later christened as ‘Modern Jazz’.
The phase of ‘Modern Jazz’ had its derivatives like ‘Cool Jazz’ led by Miles Davis (his impressive “So What”), followed in 1960s by “Free Jazz’.
However, as time rolled on, the golden era of Jazz was overshadowed by the emergence of ‘Pop’ and the Pop Groups of Beatles and the Rolling Stones.
There are many a stalwarts of the Jazz Era, with their own significant contributions, but the limitations of the article precludes their inclusion.
Jazz and the Indian Connection
As Naresh Fernandes writes in his book, Taj Mahal Foxtrot: The Story of Bombay’s Jazz Age, Jazz arrived in India through the Gateway of India, Mumbai and then spread to all the metropolitan cities. The local Bombayites were instantly hooked?, besides the availability of imported gramophone records in the well-known shop “Rhythm House” at today’s Kala Ghoda, Colaba, Mumbai. The Taj Hotel and the well-endowed seaside restaurants off the Marine Drive at Mumbai, became the first sought-after places where Jazz aficionados and the city’s elite could listen to the new “hot music” played by artists from the likes of Josic Menzie, Franklin Fernandes and Chic Chocolate (aka the Louis Armstrong of India). The drum rolls and the new music were infectious and by 1947, there would be more than 60 jazz bands in Mumbai. During the 1960s, the scene shifted from Mumbai to Calcutta. The city was alight with the new mood and music; with Jazz coming from every club in Park Street; names like the renowned ‘Be-Bop’ guitarist Carlton Kitto and the doyen of Indian Jazz, pianist Louis Banks performed six days a week in these places.
Sidharth Bhatia, in his book India Psychedelic: The Story Of A Rocking Generation, writes, “By the early to mid-1960s, the younger crowd was more interested in pop whose bands not only played in restaurants but also took their music to colleges. That made it more democratic than jazz. By the end of the ‘60s, as rock became popular, jazz was pretty much dead.”
However, in the past couple of years, jazz seems to have made its presence felt strongly in the country like never before, with efforts to sustain the genre through organised efforts like the week-long ‘Jazz Yatra’ from the 70s that played to packed audiences; with its ripple effect of increased education, exposure and audiences, that has paved the way for a much-awaited Jazz resurgence. As an example, The Piano Jazz Club of Delhi has its own annual festival in November; ‘Giants Of Jazz’ , that began around the same time as Delhi’s other Jazz festivals like ‘Jazz Utsav’ and ‘Delhi International Jazz Festival’.
International Jazz Day, 2020
“Now more than ever before, let’s band together and spread the ethics of Jazz Day’s global movement around the planet and use this as a golden opportunity for humankind to reconnect especially in the midst of all this isolation and uncertainty.”
"We all want to live in a jazz world where we all work together, improvise together, are not afraid of taking chances and expressing ourselves."
- Herbie Hancock, UNESCO Goodwill Ambassador
In November 2011 the UNESCO General Conference proclaimed 30 April as “International Jazz Day”. This International Day brings together communities, schools, artists, historians, academics, and jazz enthusiasts all over the world to celebrate and learn about the art of jazz, its roots, its future and its impact; raise awareness of the need for intercultural dialogue and mutual understanding; and reinforce international cooperation and communication.
This important international art form is celebrated for promoting peace, dialogue among cultures, diversity, and respect for human rights and human dignity, eradicating discrimination, promoting freedom of expression, fostering gender equality, and reinforcing the role of youth for social change.
“Jazz is a flourishing of beauty born of oppression – the music of improvisation and collective creation.”
- Audrey Azoulay
Director-General, UNESCO
For this year, Cape Town, South Africa was designated as the Global Host City for International Jazz Day 2020 falling on 30 Apr 2020, with an extensive program of education and community outreach activities planned.
However, due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, the 9th annual International Jazz Day worldwide celebration was transitioned to a virtual format for 2020, instead of taking place as previously planned in Cape Town, South Africa and other locations around the world on 30 April.
(Visit jazzday.com to watch the free streaming performances and educational content from around the world that was held all day long.)
International Jazz Day, 2020 in India
In India, the International Jazz Day was celebrated on 30 Apr in the mandated Virtual Concert format with two major Jazz Concerts:
The first being in Mumbai at the NCPA Tata Auditorium, featuring some of the finest Jazz Musicians of the country and the world, curated by the Indian legend Louis Banks that was live steamed. Check the website and Social Media Handles to follow those live performances.
The other was the Virtual Concert being coordinated from New Delhi, wherein Jazz Artists from various cities in India performed live from their respective homes, and their performance was live streamed on Facebook and other Social Media Handles.
Today, although jazz music continues to be played and enjoyed around the world, it has become, along with classical music, one of the least-popular genres the world over, according to recent sales figures. Perhaps, the rise of rock and pop music is to blame for the decline of this fine art form. However, Jazz is making its return. The most pretentious subculture in the world is back in a new form, where freedom and crossovers with other genres lead the way. And it is back in vogue now than ever. Traditional, straight-ahead, contemporary mainstream and acoustic jazz will continue to prosper. Up-and-coming young jazz musicians, inspired and influenced by blues, swing, bebop, and hard bop, will continue to push the musical envelope within the traditional acoustic jazz combo setting.
Jazz is simply some of the best music of all time and mainly because jazz musicians absolutely loved music and really cared about the music they created. You don't get that often with today's music and other genres. Most musicians in other genres only focus on putting out what's popular or following with trends.
The genre of Jazz music, to me, is like the invigorating breeze laden with the fragrance and the resplendent foliage of the Gul Mohars in full bloom, that not only satiates the mind to a quiet contemplation but also lingers like the sonorous piano notes of a solitary Scott Joplin, weaving his magical fingers at the keys for a “Solace” of a different kind that rejuvenates the soul to an ethereal beauty.
As I sign off, here are the links to some of the representational Jazz Music that I have quoted. Savour these immortal originals from the World of Jazz, in an obeisance to those great souls of Jazz, who gave so much to us:
- Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa”: https://youtu.be/NIDX18Xl16s
- Scott Joplin’s “Solace”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlPZdisSGiE&list=RDGOwachalNNw&index=4
- Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKeUurQ6sF8&list=RDhKeUurQ6sF8&start_radio=1&t=82
- WC Handy’s “Memphis Blues”: http://youtu.be/ZGqBmlZR3dc
- Louis Armstrong’s “When They Saints Go Marching In”: http://youtu.be/wyLjbMBpGDA
- Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo”: https://youtu.be/GohBkHaHap8
- Charlie Parker’s “I’ve Got Rhythm”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fgxyyrqZ-I&list=RD3fgxyyrqZ-I&start_radio=1&t=30
- Miles Davis’s “So What”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqNTltOGh5c
“Poetry, like Jazz, is one of those dazzling diamonds of creative industry that help human beings make sense out of the comedies and tragedies that contextualise our lives.”
- Aberjhani
“If Music is a Place – then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.
- Vera Nazarian
“If you have to ask what Jazz is, you’ll never know.”
- Louis Armstrong
“There are only two things: love, and all sorts of love, with pretty girls, and the music of New Orleans or Duke Ellington. Everything else ought to go, because everything is ugly.”
- Boris Vian
Debi Padhi was born in the city of Cuttack, India. A retired naval aviator, with a Masters in English Literature and a Masters in Journalism and Mass Communications; has a passion for the creative arts and is a freelance writer on varied subjects that have been published widely. He, along with his wife are running an organization that counsels and empowers the youth to exploit their full potential.
KRISHNA
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I am Krishna,
I may not appear
The way you know
He should be.
But it is easy to identify
Once you collect
Parts of me
Scattered across
Every small particle,
Invisible and the seen,
Beyond restrictions of time,
Past or future,
The very moment
As it is unfolding.
I am crying
With the street boy
For food in hunger,
Looking at the sky
With the poor in rain
For shelter .
Part of me in pain
And suffering
As thousands await
For care and nursing.
Part of me dies everyday
While I am reborn
In mother’s womb
Across whole of nature
Irrespective of cast, creed
And a preferred color.
I am happy and enjoying
With the boys in fun
Playing in muddy water
And with girls swinging
In ecstatic joy and jubilation.
I am celebrating success
With the victors
And rejuvenating the spirit
To go for another fight
With the vanquished,
In forthcoming battle.
I am both the winner
And the loser,
As part of me rejoices
The other looks for revenge
In near future.
I am incomplete
Without the rest of me.
While Krishna is everything
I am part of it,
Like a little drop of water
Having all the characteristics
That of an endless ocean.
We are one and inseparable,
Sides of the same coin,
A consciousness
Called Krishna
That encompasses
The whole of the universe
And the creator.
"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 TRADER
Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
The SENSEX was going to crash. It came down almost by ten percent. There were signals that a bull was transforming into a bear. Ali who had recently made some major investments in stocks during the bullish period of the market stood tensed. Intermittent success in life had made him over confident and he thought he was smart enough to sense the sentiment of the market. He had a constant eye on the stock market prices and he believed he knew when to get in and when to get out for a quick profit. The honey moon period of the market got overstretched. Greed made people over price the stock than what it was really worth and the expectations were at unsustainable levels. A crash was inevitable. Suddenly all the people wanted to sell. Stocks were being dumped and prices were plummeting. Many of the major companies couldn’t show good results as expected due to myriad reasons which affected the investor’s faith. A shift in some of the policies by the government too was hurting the industries.
Ali sped towards the Dalal street and had a discussion with the brokers. If things were going to go down as it looked like, then he would go bankrupt in no time. Ali realised that now only God could do something. He excused himself from the presence of his financial consultants and moved to a room to have some privacy. Once he was alone he knelt down and prayed earnestly as he would do at the times he needed his God to help him out.
“All my money invested in the market is going to vanish and I am going to turn into a pauper. Revive the market and in turn take a day off my life. Let the stocks rise back or else why I should lead my life to the full if everything what I earned is going to disappear”. Ali’s earnest prayer rose up. His financial agents were of the opinion to sell the shares for whatever price they got now.
“Wait”, said Ali. We will wait till we lose everything or get back everything.
In two days the good news came that the market index was climbing back. The government had to intervene since the elections were around the corner. The finance ministry was going to push some money into the market to revive the ailing economy and some of the policies which hurt the industries were going to be rolled back. The stalemate was over and everything was soon going to be fine. Ali thanked his god. Ali revived his stocks and his future by giving a day back to God from his successful life. Now it seemed as if he was going to earn a lot more than what he originally calculated. He had done a day trading with the Almighty.
The auction for the painting started and Ali had bid five crores for the Raja Ravi Varma’s painting. All the art lovers and connoisseurs in painting were there and Ali too was invited into it by the organisers who wanted to organize a charity fund along with the auction. Of all the paintings that were kept there for auction, it was the painting on Hamsa Damayanti which fascinated Ali the most. It was an incredible piece of work where the lady in the painting was asking the swan to take her message to her lover. Ali didn’t know the story or the details behind the painting. His interest was to impress the esteemed gathering there and to adorn the painting on the wall of his guest room. Ali calmly studied the people around him before he made his first bid at five crore rupees. Once Ali made his bid, it seemed as if all who were contemplating on buying the painting till that point were retreating. Ali had already made a name for himself in the business circles that he would acquire a thing once he had set his eyes on it. The auctioneer was about to declare that the bid is closed when suddenly another voice rose from the crowd. “Six crores”.
Everyone in the hall astonishingly looked at the man who dared to challenge Ali the trader. None in the crowd knew him and he was a complete stranger.
“It seems somebody wants to create a name for him by challenging Ali” said a man in the crowd to his friend.
“Yes. He must be yearning for some recognition” chirped his friend back.
Ali looked pointedly at the man who was posing as a rival to him. The man was dressed in ordinary plain clothes with a sweater over him. It was not the kind of attire anyone would wear for such an august gathering. He was kind of emotionless and did not allow Ali to read anything out of his face or mind. People around Ali had no doubt that this painting was going to be Ali’s and it was this expectation that was troubling Ali. He had hoped to settle this auction by five or six crores but now he had to bid above it. He was just regaining after a near debacle in the stock market and he couldn’t afford much luxury. Ali had to hold his head high in the society at any cost and he offered seven crores for the wonderful painting. Barely had he announced it and before he could settle the tongue back to the floor of his mouth, the rival’s bid rose up to eight crore rupees. Suddenly the crowd went buzzing. They were excited. A battle was on.
“This is what an auction is about” exclaimed a man, adjusting his spectacles.
“We are seeing a fight of wealth and wits here”, commented one of the organizer loudly.
Ali was pitted with a stranger and Ali had no idea to what extent this guy could go. At the same time he couldn’t lose this auction because suddenly it had turned out to be a fight for his esteem and reputation. It looked like somebody was really making an attempt to humiliate him.
“Nine crores” Ali said explicitly.
The stranger who was gaining confidence now lost no time in raising one core over Ali’s bid of nine.
“It is pure arrogance of money which is speaking” said a man wiping his forehead.
“That’s how money speaks” replied his friend
What jolted Ali was the swiftness with which the other person was making his bids. At any other time Ali would have given a good fight but not now. He didn’t want so much money to be spilled out for a painting and neither did he have it. Now he was trapped between pride and penury. He had already borrowed huge amounts from the banks and he had to repay them first before he could do any extravaganza.The auctioneer repeated the price of ten core rupees for the second time looking at Ali, urging him to carry the fight.
Everyone was expectantly waiting for Ali’sresponse. “Excuse me for a moment.” Ali excused himself out of the room showing his phone indicating that he had an important phone call to attend. He walked fast into one of the wash rooms and began his prayer, rather his bartering with God. He started pleading with God initially explaining how his pride and honour was at stake and how empty his pockets were now to obtain that painting which he loved,which was more of a prestige now. “If only you can win this auction for me. Take one day of my precious life. Let my sacrifice, for isn’t it worthless for a man to live his full life after losing all his respect and prestige? So take a day from my long life in return for a victory at the auction”.
After few moments of tireless pleading Ali felt he was heard and he walked back into the auction hall brimming with confidence. The crowd immediately made way for him and all were keen to hear Ali’s response. Ali was about to give a bid for ten and a half crore when suddenly the stranger rose up and said eleven core.
“Sorry”, the auctioneer said. “It is Ali’s chance to bid as you are on the top now”.
The people around gave a suppressed laugh seeing the man’s hurry to finish of the proceedings. Ali was confused. The stranger was ready to go even higher. Was it safe for him to bid further? He wanted to but it could hurt him badly.
“It’s ok. I will call for him too if he cannot”, said the stranger and he announced an amount of twelve core.
Everybody there stood transfixed. The man observing that everyone was perplexed said again. “If you think it’s less then I will give thirteen crore”.
There was silence in the hall as everyone was trying to assess as to what was going on. Suddenly two men dressed in white as that of a hospital staff ran in towards the podium. “Sorry sir. We were looking for this man. He has escaped from his ward two days back. He was an artist who had suffered some mental agony. When we heard about the exhibition and auction of paintings we were certain that he could be here”. Saying this they escorted the stranger out with them even as the stranger kept on repeating his bid. It went from thirteen to twenty before he stepped out of the hall. Everybody had a big cheer for Ali. Ali felt himself unsurpassable. He was a man who could buy anything.
The big trader Ali has lived all his life this way. From the slums he rose up to live in a palace like house. People who knew him from his younger days always wondered how a boy like him could grow to such unprecedented heights. They made up their own stories such as he might be smuggling gold or he could be running a counterfeit currency note trade. Only Ali knew the secret of his success and that belonged to him only. He had a way of trading with god which the Almighty himself found it difficult to refuse. He traded with God the days of his life for the riches and pleasures. Even god might have been flattered, for what could be greater than offering a day of one’s own fickle life as a sacrifice. Ali knew the art of blandishing, cajoling, coaxing, praising, and wheedling and he believed he was using it artfully and successfully with God. In desperation to escape from the clutches of poverty and the urge to become successful in life, he made a deal with the power above and it struck.
“Give me a bicycle to travel around and do my jobs, in return take a day of my wretched life as its payment”. The words of the needy man and his faith must have moved the Almighty since He is supposed to be most merciful and it happened. A neighbor of his who bought a motor cycle gifted his old bicycle to Ali and thus he started the successful ride of his life. He traded a day in his life with God for each business that he did and it became successful. To gain respect, nobility and fame he traded days. To marry the most beautiful girl he saw, to buy a car, to build a mansion and for a cheerful child he traded weeks. His policy was to lead a successful life with all its furnishings to its hilt and if not why live the full life. His gambling with life was going well and it became a habit for him to trade days in his life for every significant and insignificant thing. He absolutely had no idea about the balance days in the treasury of his life. But at present there was not a man who was more ambitious and happier than Ali. He hungered for vanity and he had it to his fill.
The roof top party was going on above the tenth floor of the building. Ali was stepping into the hospitality business and they were celebrating the inauguration of his newly constructed hotel which would carry his name. The celebrations were aplomb with a rock music band making the crowd sway their bodies and varied liquors adding to the merriment. Pride swelled in Ali as his admirers congratulated him in his success in building his own business empire. Ministers of the state, highest of government officials, big wigs of the police department, religious heads, business magnets and cine celebrities were all there. All were crooning around, waiting to please him in any way they could. But something suddenly seemed to be spoiling the fun. It was a drizzle. Some of the people started to move from the open space in the terrace towards the inside of the building. Ali realised that the zest of the party could wear out soon. His inaugural party would be remembered as one which went dud. He had to do something at the earliest for he could foresee that the drizzle would soon grow into a heavy rain. It occurred in him that in spite of being a billionaire and his ability to do anything according to his wish, nature was still beyond his control. Except for it everything else in this world was under his feet.
He slowly walked towards a quiet corner of the roof where he could be alone for some time. He was angry with the Almighty for sending a nuisance to spoil the fun which was in progress. He stood at the edge of the roof which had only a knee high parapet with a balustrade of a single handrail and he vented out his frustration to the God above. Looking towards the rumbling sky which was causing a down pour he prayed to the Almighty. This time his prayer was more of authority and he demanded a day be taken away from his life to make the sky clear so that the party could continue without any interruption. The rain still came down and he was losing his patience. He repeated his offer looking up at the heavens. He took out the cell phone from the pocket of his suit and waved it towards the heaven.
“If you have a number give it to me so that I can speak with you directly rather than pleading down from here all the time”. Saying it he punched his fist in the air and the cell phone fell out of his hand. The moment the mobile phone slipped out of his hand Ali tried to retrieve it in a reflex action. The sudden momentum threw him out of balance and Ali fell over the parapet. It was by luck that he got a hand on to the railing. Hanging down from the tenth floor of the hotel he could see the tiny glow of lights from the vehicles moving to and fro on the road below. He was soon going to fall down to the road below. His hand was losing its grip and the wet surface of the hand rail made it impossible for him to climb back. He cried aloud for help. But the sound of the heavy downpour and the din made by the rock music turned his cry into a whimper.
“Spare me god, save my life. You have provided me all the wealth and health and you have made me like a big ruler. Take a day from this precious life and give me back my life. He prayed and he pleaded. Nothing happened. He cajoled and promised many things he could offer in return for his life. He kicked his feet in the air hoping to miraculously find something under his feet. His hopes failed as the rain soaked him more. In his desperation he shouted angrily at the heaven. Few moments later a divine voice responded out of the thunder.
“Save me god, save me.” Ali pleaded.
“No”. Said the firm voice
“Save me, I pray and take a day or two in return”. Ali pleaded but the reply was still negative.“Why don’t you save me?” Ali implored. "Am offering you a precious day from my life and if that does not satisfy you, then take a week of it."
From the heaven Ali heard a glorious laughter. “One week? I am sorry to tell you my son that there is not even a single moment left as balance in your account of life”.
The words hit Ali and he felt his grip over the railing fail him slowly. “What do you mean, there is not even a day left in balance?”
“Yes”, said the voice. “You have used up all the days in your life. All the precious days of your life you wasted on your whims, fancies and greed. More than twelve years of your life you subtracted of your own will. The last day in your life you just gave away when you exchanged it for stopping the rains. Is the rain falling now?
Ali suddenly realised that it was no longer raining. His prayer has been answered but his life span was over. The party was alive again with the heavy rock music making a war cry. The merry making of the vibrant crowd was equal to the decibel created by the sound system.
“The trade is over”. The heavenly sound dwindled and Ali hung in the darkness.
He made a last feeble attempt to shout for help as his grip over the metal failed and his clutch to life gave away. He went down.
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.
How can you be,
so haughty about life
when it is so uncertain
whether you would wake up
to another morn
when you go into the night?
Your physical hurt
you can bear
but it burns the mind , the hurt from.some one you love...
talk it out you must
to clear up misunderstanding
listen you must
to see from an angle
that is not yours...
thaw down you must
from stances rigid ...
Afterall.
which one of us
is there to see
another day.. !
If you have a heart to love
no place there for fault finding
rash words uttered
can cause
rifts, so difficult to heal..
Love grows real
when you accept and love..
the love that flows free, open ended..
salt and sugar look alike
but differ in taste
same with friends, friendship,
each varied and unique ..
Love we get free in childhood
we struggle for it in youth
and beg for it in old age..
When we look above
we despair and grieve, but if we look down
you grow benign, content..
heights no longer
grow heavy on you...
even the slum can turn an abode of happiness
on earth.
forgive all when you go to sleep
let love dwell deep within
to sleep with ease and peace..
Life..hah, life !
just a matter of a slip
can break up the brittle cup
how vain to divide it and mark
in colour, caste and creed
to doimnate...
No one has time to look into a face while alive
but if he dies, we queue up
hiding hurries, to see the face..
remember,
it is best
to look at a face alive with a smile
than to line up to watch it in death..
Our life is the best school on earth,
our experience
the best teacher ever...
remember,
dust to dust
to this all must..
for the big or small
the six feet rest awaits,
just six feet !!
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
KANAKA's MUSINGS 4 : FEBRUARY
Lathaprem Sakhya
If T. S Eliot found April to be the cruellest month unlike Geoffrey Chaucer who celebrates it in his Canterbury Tales, for Kanaka it was February. The baby girl had started smiling and Kanaka was in the zenith of happiness but everything came to an end by that evening. For Kanaka that was the cruellest day in her life when God turned His face against her and did not listen to her heart wrenching appeals. But later as she understood Him better she was able to reconcile because by then she had come to the reconciliation that God does everything for good. In His masterplan for each one He creates the best for His children. He who carries you in His palms has definitely better plans for you. She believes that. He will never break His children who adore Him. But how long did it take for her to reach this reconciliation, this trust, this faith? It was a long four years' time. By then slowly like a crab she crawled out of her shell and started picking up the shattered pieces and started thanking God for the mercies and blessings He showered upon her. Yes, Kanaka consoled herself, now she has an angel in Heaven who could pray for her sister Juny, father and mother and always appeal for them to God. What else did she need?
It was by accident that she came across the picture. To see pictures of suffering was always agony for her. She came upon that particular photograph while browsing in the mobile. It was a hospital scene. A tiny baby with tubes attached to its body was on the hospital bed, the weeping mother and father were standing on one side watching it. The picture of the tearful parents and the child reminded Kanaka of the day she had stood heart broken and helpless, as her child was taken away by the nurses. Kanaka's wails made them chuck her out of the room. She stood outside the door sobbing, praying and finally the little one's life less body was handed over to her husband. "Why, why, why", she wailed, not listening to anyone. Only wild questions for which no one had any answer. Niranjan stood as if he had donned a mask over his face, inscrutable to be read by Kanaka or for that matter anyone. He was here, there and everywhere catering to everything all alone in a land where they were total strangers. It was Kanaka' s amma who decided that the baby's body should be taken home to be buried in their homeland. With the doctor's certificate and in a hired car they made the long drive home.
Looking closely at the picture she could understand the mother's agony, she was praying tearfully for her child on the hospital cot. Her husband stood near her, strong and immobile. Maybe wearing a mask to hide his agony. Kanaka prayed "Oh, my God, please give back the child intact to the parents ", then as an afterthought "if it is Your Will". Because she knew only God's will would work and total reconciliation to His Will would be a salve for the grieving heart.
What else can she pray for ? She had been there. She had survived it. She trusted in God and that was her saving grace. If she had not she would have become a mental wreck and would have been in some asylum. No, such a thing did not happen to her. But it took days for her to recover. No one could understand her grief. "Why do you grieve like this?" a colleague asked her callously. This is life, she was told repeatedly. But at that time she could see no reason. She had no answer for the insensitive questions thrown at her, so she never shared her sorrow with anyone. She was not at a stage to talk to anyone about it. None who were close to her dared to speak about it to her. They feared that it would trigger the fuming volcano to explode. So she carried the grief with her. It invaded her, in her solitude. So, as far as possible, she tried to crowd her mind with the chatter of Juny or be close to the silent Niranjan whose calmness was a cool strength for her boiling mind. If they were not there she would switch on the radio so the steady flow of music and the radio Jockeys' streaming talk would never pave way for this personal grief to creep in and pull her into a world of despair, guilt, self-condemnation and hatred.
She walked back to normal life slowly, purposely, deliberately spilling out all her agony at the feet of the unseen power who had led her so far and suddenly as she felt turned His face against her. She lashed and raved at Him and sobbed her heart out when it was too much . She knew He would understand and would never punish her. Because she could not speak about it, she wrote about it pages and pages and then tore them up. She was sure no one would understand. Even Niranjan who had asked her once "She was only 36 days old, if something had happened to her after she had grown up, how would you take it? Besides you have a lovely daughter." He was being practical but she felt he was callous.
"How could he?" she raged within herself. She didn't even have a pet to spill her sorrow like Anton Chekhov's old man who spilled his bottled up sorrow at the loss of his son to his horse as no one was interested in listening to his story of loss. But she did not want to speak about it. She was ensconced in her grief and her pent up agony and her disgust for herself for not being able to nurture a baby properly. She put all the blame on herself. There were lots of "if onlys".
If only they had taken the baby to another hospital...
If only the doctor had come rather than take it lightly and give instructions over the phone to the night duty nurses...
If only the nurses had not bungled...
If only they had gone home after the delivery where there were better hospitals. If only, if only, if only…Kanaka thought she was growing insane.
Now when she thinks of it she realizes she had been very unreasonable. Life had to go on. It was while reading Robert Frost' s "Home Burial" for the purpose of teaching, that it really struck home. The husband's words to his wife who had lost her newborn babe and her grief and reactions. "Yeah", she realised life had to go on and Niranjan too was right. Juny was only six years old, she had to be looked after and taken care of. Now twenty six years had passed she had sailed over the choppy but more often calm sea of her life. The cherub in heaven must have become a beautiful angel doing errands for God and praying for her family, Kanaka fantasized. Yes, she must be very beautiful like her elder sister.
Kanaka suddenly realised that in spite of all this when February arrives every year she would think of it as the cruellest month...
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
I look at the plastic sheet
Covering the window of the
Jeep parked beside my car
And in them I see dents, in
The form of eyes and mouth
Curved downwards as if sad...
As they reflect the light I see
them desperate, staring at me..
And I think, could they be
Imprints of ghosts,
Of helpless souls trapped behind...?
I stare at them, my mind sends
Out telepathic apologies
Sorry that I don't understand
Sorry that I just stare back
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
Dear God, Mama said,
you exist everywhere,
you can see and hear,
everything from there.
Have I been a naughty girl?
Or did I hurt anyone?
Why am I being punished so?
Where is my fault here though?
I trusted him with my confidence,
As Mama says he was a good man.
After all, Mama loves me most,
Always knows what’s best.
Everyone thinks he is a star,
an ideal man to regard,
stands up for friends and shows,
a kind, caring, dependable pro.
You and me know the ugly side,
depth of darkness he can hide,
yet you never come to help,
Nor let anyone else connect.
When he said it’s our little secret,
I thought it was fun to have,
But, he just befriends and bites,
God, you saw what he did last night.
Time has slipped away unknown,
Just fear and pain remain, sore,
Too late to stay away, warn anyone,
About the demon with angelic mask on.
I dare not complain or object,
And risk facing his wrath,
None believe my sobs and fear,
I am just a child trapped here.
What is this again I hear?
My heart beating drums of fear,
announcing his arrival at the door,
to torment me and secure.
God please help me this time,
Protect from this monster of mine,
I have no one else to turn for help,
You are my only saviour and solace.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
UNLEASHING THE CREATIVITY WITHIN…..
Some poems are immortal, beyond time and constantly keep ringing in our minds-
WHERE THE MIND IS WITHOUT FEAR (Gitanjali 35)
“…….Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection……..”
These lines are an all-time favourite……Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore’s ideologies do not seem to be in vain!
The country, rather, the world has awoken to some bitter truths that people are slowly coming to terms with, nevertheless, it has also resulted in some positive happenings, thanks to the cutting-edge technologies in the time of the pandemic.
The innumerable webinars hosted by organizations and institutions have emerged portals of knowledge and information-sharing, enabling individuals to work up on their academic, professional, and social ethics, to move on with conviction, clarity, and confidence and with a humanistic perspective to life.
Poets, subject specialists, artists, educationists, home makers, students, friends, family members and acquaintances get to meet virtually on Google Meet, Zoom or other platforms to exchange views on diverse topics, learn from one another, understand the need for creativity and critical thinking, rather than confining and restricting themselves to a specialis- functional approach
Individuals have time for creativity and self-development in this time of lockdown and social distancing; a good deal of time is saved in the work from home scenario, no socializing or dinner dates on weekends, no social functions to attend….if at all, requiring only a virtual participation.
New hobbies can be pursued to widen thoughts and positive action. Nature watch, Reading, Cooking, Painting, Writing, Photography……the list is endless. Amidst the mundane, some moments can be allotted each day or at regular intervals for such creative endeavours.
As Carol Dweck points out, “the growth mindset creates a powerful passion for learning” to excel, rather than proving how great one is. 'Moon shot' thought would possibly land us on a treetop where a beautiful Golden Oriole has built its nest with such ingenuity.....
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Blue sky painted grey like a canvas
Artist none other than nature flawless
Iridescent crystal droplets descend
Reverberating music to a crescendo
Rains splash on my window pane
Triggering memories with every stain
A sudden warmth seems to engulf me
As the droplets plummet on every tree
Green leaves shining silver
As the droplets fall on my face I quiver
Rainbow flowers adorned with pearls
As the winds blow they swirl.
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)
She fought with him
For hours
His fault: he was talking to a female colleague
For too long for her comfort
Work is an excuse she thought
They are all the same
Is the tagline she had heard it too often
In kitty parties, in whispers
How cannot she fight for her turf
To keep the promise
Of nothing to come in between them
The carefully built
Tasteful homes
Delicious cuisines
Organized in impeccable kitchens
Orchestrated parties and
Well planned holidays abroad
The maids are well trained
But one came the other day
Wanting a few days off
For her daughter’s sudden illness
How could the widow of long years
Have a small daughter
It was beyond her
She was aghast
The question stayed on her lips
These scum of the earth
Can have illicit liaisons with anyone
Without a trifle
And care two hoots about the morals
They are all the same
The tagline pricked her again
Not sparing the widows even
Xxxx
The widowed maid
With kids
Was back at work
The daughter was not hers
She said
But her late husband’s other woman
With whom she shares her humble hut
And the step children
Are now her joys and sorrows
As she couldn’t bear one
She crossed the Rubicon
Beckoned by the children
Of her man
To whom she had given her
Body and heart
And the unspoken promises.
Malabika Patel has a passion for literature, both Odia and English. Her first translation work into English was ‘Chilika -A love story’ of the Orissa Sahitya Academy award winning novel ‘Sesha Sarat’ by Shri Krupasagar Sahoo. She is presently into translating of rare old Odia documents into English. She retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016..
Numerous lovers of coffee
Always treat it as a toffee;
Take it morning and evening
It appears in every meeting.
Coffee berries are picked
Processed and dried to yield
The seeds are roasted then
Flavour is chosen by men.
Ground the seeds from the mill
People surround for its bill
When the weather is chill
It gives us aroma and thrill.
The caffeine content in the drink
Causes human health to shrink
All of us surely need to think,
Can we replace it with a fruit drink?
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
Friendly Australians
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
The first thing I noticed when we landed in Cairns after a seven hour flight from Singapore was a striking likeness between features of Indians and Australians .Another common feature was the way they spoke English which can be attributed to the British influence the two countries had. However the exception were people originally belonging to the outback , as they spoke in a colloquial fashion which was difficult to understand.
When we were about to get into the four seater cable car (where two seats were vacant) in Cairns for our Rain forest experience , the guide dissuaded us smiling cheerfully and saying, ‘honey moon , honeymoon.’ Only then we noticed a young couple seated there holding hands.
We found the lady officer at the Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary after explaning the habits and lifestyle of kangaroos and koalas, invited questions from tourists unmindful of the heavy downpour that suddenly started. Her pleasant disposition coupled with abundant enthusiasm appeared infectious ,that some of us wished to learn more about these native animals and she readily enlightened us. The same enthusiasm was displayed by our coach drivers who were well informed and acted as tourist guides as well (unlike in our country) .
We found people in general were friendly and helpful to foreign tourists. The French owner of a web browsing centre refused to charge for the e-mail we sent, saying we were his guests. When we insisted on paying him ,he said, “your smile is enough” and wished us to enjoy the rest of our stay in Cairns. The crew of Quick Silver on which we went on a cruise to the Great Barrier Reef provided immediate relief and care when some of us started feeling sick when the catamaran began rocking as the sea suddenly turned rough . What amazed us was they rendered care with a smile and kept enquiring throughout the journey as to how we felt. Again, an Australian couple went out of their way joining us in our search for a particular Indian restaurant where we were supposed to have dinner as mentioned in our itinerary. Ultimately when we managed to locate it , we found the local representative who was to hand over the dinner coupons to us did not turn up. When we explained this to the owner of the restaurant ,who was a Bombayite settled in Cairns, he readily offered us a good dinner (perhaps seeing how famished we appeared) saying he would sort it out with the travel agent later. Incidentally, we found a number of Indian restaurants in all the places we visited which were managed by Indians and Pakistanis who seemed to have migrated to Australia. Since we found food spicy in all of them we had to request for boiled vegetables and they were specially prepared for us. Most of the Indian restaurants opened only after five in the evening and I found students pursuing studies in Australia working for them part time .
We met a few Indians while dining in one of the restaurants and had an interesting experience. A gentleman at the next table introduced himself and wished to know where we came from. When I said we came from Madras, he immediately switched over to Tamil talking excitedly in such loud tones attracting the attention of people around. He said he was disappointed that Chennai remained the same through the years as people, especially women were still conservative and inquisitive showing greater interest in things happening in their neighbours’ houses than in their own, and his second comment was that Chennai people were more status conscious compared to those in other parts of the country. I told him his observations/comments were unfounded because there were more working women in Chennai these days than a decade or two ago and they hardly had time to mind others’ business. I also added in a lighter vein that considering the scarcity of water due to failure of monsoon, we spent more time waiting for the water tanker to arrive to fill up our sumps and getting our refills of drinking water. The astonished look on his face was proof enough that he hadn’t visited Chennai in the recent past. To his second comment, I replied that it was not an exclusive quality of people belonging to Chennai, as we found status conscious people all over the country and perhaps the world as well.
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.
My friends suggest pictures, collages, paintings galore
To brighten my walls
(They consider blank an eyesore!)
They don't know
That what seems
Empty is filled
With my dreams.
Sometimes I set the lighting to dim
Pretend to dive, pretend to swim
In the deep cool blue of the sea.
Sometimes it's a forest I see on the wall
With the sun dappled leaves that spin as they fall.
I open the curtains,
A desert scape unfolds,
An empty street
With mirages - waves
Gleaming in the heat.
Sometimes,
When the AC's set to max,
I can feel the terrible cold
Of the polar winter!
Why would I nail in place
An imaginary scene
From another's repertoire,
When my visualization
Is as keen
As theirs?
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.
THE BRAHMAPUTRA*- A MINOR EPIC POEM
Life is Brahmaputra!
Wide, large, infinite;
Perilous beauty!
The Brahmaputra is YOU!
The Brahmaputra is an emporium,
Of the trials and triumphs of humanity,
Encased in timelessness,
Giving its gifts for free!
The Brahmaputra is the vivid imagination,
Of childhood years,
Its fructification,
In the maturing years!
Magnificent like persons of great eminence,
The Brahmaputra is a revelation.
The Brahmaputra - a permanent image,
In the annals of enamelled time,
A light,
A song.
The Brahmaputra is a million-limbed vision,
Of multitudinous magnificence,
Like the million-petalled Sun-God
A guidance to tranquillity!
The Brahmaputra is the penetrating heavens,
Moving in and out of the human experience,
The proof of the living conscience.
The Brahmaputra is beauty,
Dipped deep in divinity,
The Mother of emotions,
The Father of thought.
The Brahmaputra is the Frail Human-being,
With all her shortcomings,
Dance of fantasy and reality,
Drowned in the dainty dance of eternity.
The Brahmaputra is birth and death,
It is the beginning and the end,
The end of the beginning and
The beginning of the end.
The Brahmaputra is Lord Ganesha,
The highest wisdom of humanity.
The Brahmaputra is a waterfall of beauty,
The grand heights of human sublimity.
The Brahmaputra is the ocean of infinite joy,
Immeasurable, full of lasting love.
The Brahmaputra is Truth,
The highest Truth conceivable in human vision.
The Brahmaputra is the Light from the Heavens,
Descended on the earth,
To free the ailing and the suffering,
From their wretchedness.
The Brahmaputra is the distilled wisdom of the sages,
From the ages.
The Brahmaputra is the shadows shattered,
Brought into reality.
The Brahmaputra is the unfailing lamp,
Guiding us to our destinations,
Through the path of tribulations,
Leading to Final and Total Triumph.
The Brahmaputra is the creator of all human experiences,
The Brahmaputra is Brahman, Himself.
The Brahmaputra is the story of India,
The epic story of Ramayana,
It is the blend of antiquity,
And modernity.
The Brahmaputra is an aspiration,
A Bodhisattva,
The dance of Lord Shiva,
Dissolving dark dimensions.
The Brahmaputra is a happy child,
Playing in the lap of Mother Nature,
The Brahmaputra is our Mother,
Who gives us warmth, food and shelter.
The Brahmaputra is the song divine,
Dissolving space and time.
The Brahmaputra is the culmination of all human aspirations,
With power to grant us final deliverance after deliberations,
It is the Living Conscience
In the canvas of the mind.
The Brahmaputra is an epic story,
The atoms of our body,
It is creation itself,
Highest light.
The Brahmaputra is thought and emotion,
Word and deed,
Expression and gesture,
In divine mighty collaboration.
The Brahmaputra is Goodness,
The crown of every success,
The most blissful, blessed and beautiful.
The Brahmaputra is the shining armoured God,
In Rainbow colours,
Bathed in the essence,
Of the fragrance of myriad flowers.
The Brahmaputra is Highest Truth,
Highest Love,
Highest Beauty,
Highest bliss.
*The Brahmaputra is a trans –boundary big river, which flows through China, India and Bangladesh.
The story behind my poem - I wrote this poem in october 2018. I was inspired by my reminiscences of the river Brahmaputra, whose beautiful magnificence I was fortunate to witness, when I lived in Bangladesh during the years 1989 and 1991. I was around 8 years old at that time.
Dr.S. Padmapriya was born in the Salem town of Tamilnadu state in India in 1982. She holds a Doctorate (Ph.D.) degree in Economics from the University of Madras. She possesses Teaching, Research and Administrative experience in addition to over 23 years’ experience as a published writer. Dr.S.Padmapriya has written poems, short stories, essays, general articles, critical articles, research articles, book reviews and forewords and they have been published far and wide including in India, U.K., U.S.A. and South Korea. She has three collections of poetry (‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’, ‘Galaxy’) to her credit. Her Debut Novel, ‘THE FIERY WOMEN’ has been published in India in 2020. Her debut collection of English Short Stories, ‘Fragments’ has been published on Kindle as an e-book in 2020. She has been included in the landmark book, ‘A Critical Survey of Indo- English Poetry’ (2016) and is also one of the 50 women poets writing in English in India, who have been covered in the colossal work, ‘History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry’ (2019). She is also an associate editor of the poetry anthology, ‘Muse of Now Paradigm- An Entry into Poepro’, published in India in 2020.
After sightseeing in Zurich, Switzerland, I brought my tired, exhausted, starving body and mind to a dinner table in a restaurant and found a young girl drinking beside me.
She introduced herself - 'I am Romi, a Romanian, on pleasure trip to Switzerland. Won't you share drinks with me, my friend? Cheers!'
I said - 'Ashok from India. Thanks for sharing. Cheers! I am searching the love of World in travelling. Thanks for your company'.
During drinking & eating our familiarity & friendship were blooming. Our senses were losing control and the drinking glass slipped, broke & cut her right hand wrist. I licked her wound & tied its both sides tightly with a torn piece from my shirt to check bleeding
She said - 'What are you doing, my friend?’
I said - 'My loving mother & pet dog taught me this treatment.'
But her bleeding did not stop since her vein was cut. Due to heavy bleeding she became unconscious. I had to take her to a hospital for treatment. Doctor stitched the vein and said- 'If you had not brought her in time, she might have died of loss of blood.'
After medical treatment, when her sense returned and she felt well, I took her to her hotel room and was about to leave.
She with tears in eyes asked - 'Would you leave your wounded friend to die alone? If you stay with me, what can I take away or steal from you? Believe me I am neither a thief nor a robber'.
Her plight urged me to stay with her. I said - 'I have nothing to wear here & also we are singles of opposite sex.'
Her sorrowful lips told - 'None to see your body except me. However, we will close our eyes not to see each other's body. Sleep will take away our consciousness. While licking my wound, you were biting my heart, now why are you feeling shy? Please come on, man.'
We went to bed. Though eyes were closed, but our noses were open. She whispered- 'I cannot see you. But I smell the man in you.'
Me - 'Is it bad?'
She - 'No, It is heavenly but taking away my sleep'.
Me - 'You are not visible. But I smell in you the beauty of forests, hills, lakes, streams, flowers for which I have come to Switzerland. The love of World is enchanting me.'
We enjoyed Switzerland, the Heaven on Earth. Our visa limitations separated us after a couple of days. While seeing me off at the airport her weeping lips asked - 'What have I taken from you in that naked night?’
My sorrowful mind told her - 'You have stolen my bare heart. I am taking my body back to India.'
Time passed by but her love and memory remained ever after.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray 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 untimely rain drizzled
on a trashcan tinkling piteously.
His pale hand held the umbrella
on her head, grubby nails gripped.
She looked at an unfledged bird
twitching in a narrow puddle,
the tremulous world, wet and dripping.
He clears his throat:
“ Shall we walk on clouds?”
Clouds are lined blue like
the veins on his knuckles.
The wind rages in the tunnels ,
a drenched train passes through.
The cat in the corner in her apartment
narrows its eyes in a feral brood.
Once again evening lies suspended
on the frail arms of the time piece.
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.
One fine day my umbilical cord nipped off,
I made an exit from my mother's womb,
I got to know I had grown up enough to enter the world.
Weaned from my mother's chest,
Fed porridge, fruits and vegetables with a bowl and spoon,
I understood I needed extra nutrition.
Learning to balance on my foot as I walked,
Finding my way to my toy room all by myself,
I could see in the mirror I had grown up.
Whinning at the school gate with a satchel of books,
Staying with a teacher away from home for a few hours,
I realized I had to acquire wisdom.
And I grew up to be an adolescent,
I could discriminate right and wrong,
Express my views and opinion on varied subject matter.
I understood the ways of the world.
As a young girl I missed a heartbeat,
I fell in love and tied a knot for a lifetime.
I grew up to understand that life goes round.
When I took my baby in hand,
I was mature enough to feel what my mother had felt
For I have undergone a complete metamorphosis.
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.
A cursed calendar 2020
With seven pages torn so far
Hangs in swinging seclusion
Flinging at each incoherent turn
A sinister sense of loss and fear.
A lizard lurking at its prey
On the wall before me, reflecting
My Hamletian world in tattered grey
Granny, her gnarled hands, tale doomsday
Of streaming downloads in the memory tray.
The tale of Kalki and his sword
Annihilation of evil at the threshold
W.B. Yeats ; his Second Coming retold
With hopes for an era of gracian gold
Days of joy and peace manifold.
The loving old lady like poetry
Clings to me in frantic idleness
To lament upon the loss of rhythm
In an interlude of 2020; a dying multitude
With me and my wasteland tying knots in solitude.
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.
THE MERMAID, THE BOY AND THE FISH CUTLETS!
It rained for three days non-stop in the small seaside town. Now the beach had turned wet and damp like a kitchen cloth. Under the grey sky, the waves were turning bigger and bigger and their continuous groan disrupted the sound of drizzle falling on the bare sands. The young boy who played beach cricket everyday with few other local lads, sat beside a big boat to save himself from the teasing rain. He was looking at the sky for some good omen. An omen that would put an end to this never ending gloominess. The beach was in fact deserted due to bad weather. The boats that constantly came into your view from a faraway point every time you stood at the shore and looked at the foamy waters, were now resting on the sands. The weatherman had warned them to stay away from deep water fishing. There was an eerie silence hanging over the vast expanse, the boy missed the usual buzz of the beach. The coconut sellers slashing away at their trade, the massage man trying to convince a couple of bikini clad European tourists and the guys who sold beads and shells, all came back to his mind. He missed them all.
Then he shifted from his position just to break the monotony. He had been waiting for the rain to stop since hours, leaning against the big wooden boat. In that semi-darkness, his eyes caught the prominence of a shape. At the other end of the boat, someone was sitting in that solitude. He took a closer look. It was Regina, the Mermaid. She was in her usual deep purple coloured long gown. Many old-timers, including the old fisherman Tony, always whispered in inaudible tones that she was a mermaid, her feet do not touch the ground, as evening sun goes down her eyes colour also changes into sea green. The boy remembered all these and shuddered. It was a strange fear that disturbed him from inside. He always had a mermaid fixation ever since he learnt how to draw. His sketchbooks were full of mermaid drawings in pencil and crayons. But an alleged mermaid in real life was a different proposition.
He remembered on one hot afternoon, he had almost spotted her in a distance; she was probably drying her hair after a swim. The boy’s view was not very clear at that point of time, and there were also too many distractions that did not allow him to focus. There were these two European sunbathers who had stretched themselves out on the burning sands to catch some tan. The boy knew both of them, they frequented the same beachside shack where he went for an occasional lemon drink. The other day he had exchanged some Indian coins and stamps with them. Other than cricket, he was crazy about stamps and coins from other countries.
They too recognized him, the taller and the slimmer one who wore glasses opened her left eye and winked at him. It was a friendly hello without any malice. But the boy was not used to nudity at this proportion, this was his first encounter with the sunbathers. This happened because he was feeling bored and the sun was still too harsh for a cricket game, he had walked along the beach for a very long time, he had gone well past the fishermen village, the cashew plants, and the place where the fishermen folks dumped the carcass and innards of their catch from the sea. He could hardly return the hello but found himself standing there gaping at the sunbathers, paralysed by an unknown fear as well as an unknown thrill. But all these while, the mermaid was strongly in his mind. He just had to cross this hurdle and discover the mermaid. Suddenly the boy heard a voice from a distance. It was the middle aged sailor turned missionary man from Britain, Johnathan. Johnathan had been staying at the locality for more than a decade now. The locals called him John Baba. John Baba was very perturbed to see the young boy, still in his school uniform, standing inches away from the two female sunbathers. “Are you alright,” he screamed. The boy realized his folly and just shook his head. ``I have nothing to do here, I am going somewhere else,” he blurted out. But as he went past the sunbathers, he saw the mermaid had long back vanished from the spot where he thought he had spotted her. There was no trace pf her.
Today she was just few feet away from him. The boy got up and went towards her. The mermaid was looking at the sea with a fixed gaze. She casually looked at him and smiled. “Why do you look at the sea so much, you like water more than land,” the boy asked her impatiently. She did not give him a look this time and instead continued to look deeper into the raging sea and said both overlap onto each other, the land and the sea, always.
“Oh you could not play cricket for last few days, it has been raining so much,” she told with some concern. The boy just nodded in reply. He too had started to look at the limitless depth of sea water stretching beyond the spectrum. The closest restaurant Purple House was looking like a miniature lighthouse in the growing darkness that had totally engulfed the beach. “They make good fish cutlets there, would you like to try some with me,” the mermaid asked the boy. The boy again nodded and started walking behind the mermaid on the wet sand. He too liked his fish cutlets, he liked them with tomato sauce and a bit of pepper. He tried to notice the feet of the mermaid but the long gown kept them covered as she glided across the wet sand.
In Purple House, he relished the fish cutlets. The rain had finally stopped and the air had captured all the flavours of the sea and earth. The boy simply loved the smell of the sea. But now he found the mermaid lost in her own thoughts before the empty, white ceramic plate. May be she was listening to the sound of waves crashing against the shore in that timeless fashion. The waiter who was just few years older than the boy came to clear the plates. He knew the boy well and gave him a sly smile. The boy suddenly recalled his mother telling him that very day that he must be home before sunset. The sun had already set and the boy started to panic, thinking about his school and homework. He looked at the mermaid and almost pleaded, ``I need to get home.” The mermaid smiled and got up. “Where do you stay,” he quizzed the mermaid. She pointed her hand at the fisherman village and said vaguely `there’. “Don’t worry, tomorrow would be a sunny day,” she assured the boy and started to walk away. The boy stood there till she disappeared into the silent
darkness of the rain drenched beach. Then he ran towards the road,
passing by the sand dunes on the way. He had to run now far and far
away from the sea and the mermaid, he had to go back to the real
world, his own world. He increased the pace and ran even faster, but
the mermaid’s golden words kept ringing like a church bell in his
head, ``the land and the sea overlap, always.”
Rudra Narayan Mohanty is a free lancing writer and independent researcher based out of Hyderabad. Mr Mohanty after his post graduation in political science in Odisha, moved to Hyderabad and pursued academics in Central University of Hyderabad . Later, he started his career as a print media journalist and worked in papers like Newsrtime, Eenadu group, Economic Times and Times of India before moving into corporate sector. Currently, he divides his time between freelancing and research
Food always formed an important part of my life. Apparently since infancy, if parents are to be believed. Of course food is important for all, but I am(was) partial to not only good food, but a lot of it.
During school and college days, mom, self and my little sis used to stay in a small room, which afforded little privacy when we were privileged to have visitors. So mom would not serve me food lest `nazar lag jaye`. Seven, eight good sized parathas were par for course, for me. Our elders always subscribed to the view that eating a lot was a sign of good health and to say that the idea rubbed off on me well, would be an understatement.
My Ravenshaw hostel mates might recall that once I took part in the annual eating competition at the hostel. The standard menu for this was chapati and mutton curry. Whoever ate the most chapatis in 20 minutes would be the winner. The entire food finished in 8 minutes and I had had 22 chapatis.
Joined the IAF in 1975 and carried on in my merry eating ways. Rarely were there leftovers to go into the fridge. Me and a couple of other diners ensured that.
A few of us (yours truly was a constant fixture) were often invited by married officers for what we used to call `leftover parties`. Parties were hosted by married officers for senior and worthy officers, where we didn’t find place, but were much sought after like scavengers for cleaning up the remnants from the`big beasts`. Didn’t mind as home food was always a welcome change.
Marriage followed. The good wife had learnt her lessons well at the cookery classes prior to the `sat phere`. Her propensity to try out different recipes gelled well with my epicurean ways and the `live to eat` outlook to life got new fillip.
In 1998 I decided to quit IAF prematurely. Medical examination was a prerequisite before being given the retired tag. And that’s when I was informed that I was well qualified to be a member of the lifestyle diseases club with diabetes and hypertension.
Inevitably efforts to control sugar followed. But I also was a victim of the commonly prevalent erroneous assumption that medicine only would do the trick and didn’t care much for food control. So small doses steadily increased until insulin made its ugly intrusion into my life in December 2016.
This prompted me to learn more about the various drugs I was having. The long and scary list of side effects of the drugs, set me thinking and look for solutions with less deleterious effects. My search led me to the revelation that type2 diabetes (T2D) is a dietary disorder and not exactly a disease and can be eminently controlled by a strict diet regime. Of the various methods in vogue, I found that intermittent fasting (IF) is the one that gave the best results. I follow the regime as below.
1. Twelve hours gap between the last bite of tonight and the first bite of the next morning.
2. And thrice a week I skip breakfast, give a gap of 16 hours between last bite and first bite.
Of course control of sugar and carb intake is an essential concomitant. The results have been good to say the least. Have been off insulin for more than a year. The HbA1C readings have declined to decent levels. More importantly I feel that I am in control of things.
So the moral is `Eat to Live` and that really is healthy both physically and mentally.
Wing Commander Swadhin Das retired from the Indian Air Force and is settled in Bhubaneswar. A voracious reader, he takes to literature like a winged bird to the sky. Indulges in occasional writing on Health and Fitness - his two life long fads and obsession.
Situated at the heart of a city,
Full of life and full of beauty,
A gigantic structure with expansive stretch,
A treasury of memories never to forget.
Spells of weekdays pass away,
With business so essential to say,
To give in to the weekend’s delight,
The meadows, malls and girls so white!
Amusing invites one after the other,
Satiate the palate with various flavours.
Hostess takes all the credit,
Alas! See the veg-cutter host’s plight.
Festivals in turn come and go,
To renew life with enlivening gusto,
Charades, cheers and friendly jibes,
Add spice to the gatherings so nice!
Time and tide wait for none,
Every change has value of its own,
Memories only remain to restore,
Priceless wonders to cherish forever.
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
I looked out of the window. Moonlight was dancing in the white sky with a cascading abandon. Ah! If only I could go out, stand in the open and get showered by the serene coolness! The next moment I got up, electrified! Yes I could go, today is the fourteenth night moon! The ban on my wandering out is only on a full moon night.
Anyway it was impossible to sleep, I had been tossing on the bed for the past half an hour. The power supply was off, in the umpteenth power cut of the day. Only the Electricity Board knew when power supply would be back. Even God had no idea about it, having washed his hands off this decrepit organisation long back.
I got down from the bed and opened the door. There was silence in the house, my wife, son, his wife and daughter - all were sleeping. Late October in Bhubaneswar is neither hot nor cold. They could sleep, tired from the day's activities. As a retired person my day was as empty as the night. And I slept alone. For the last many years my wife shared the bed with Anjali, our grand daughter. They are great pals, telling stories to each other, mostly about me and my supposedly deficient intellect.
I felt lonely, under the midnight moon. I was happy it was only the fourteenth night moon and there was no ban on me to go and chase it. The ban was only for full moon nights. It is generally known among my family and friends that I become a different man on those white nights, possessed by a sense of intense melancholy. I yearn for all that I missed in life, lost in a vacantness which pervades my being. Anjali, my darling dushman, keeps on pricking me with small needles all the time, enjoying my vagueness about what I want from the moon.
"So Jeje, moon has been up for more than two hours! How come you have not gone to the roof, raised your hand trying to touch it?"
I look at her, pitying her ignorance,
"I don't have to touch it. A full moon doesn't wait for people to touch her. She just rains her light on everyone, drenching them and filling their heart with joy and bliss."
Mischievous Anjali tries to pull my leg,
"But Jeje, my heart is not filled with joy and bliss! I feel nothing special."
I pinch her on the cute, pert nose,
"Wait, in another few years, your heart will pine for someone on a full moon night, even the thought of your prince in waiting will fill your heart with joy. Soft, white light of the moon will play a tender music and you will go crazy".
Twelve year old Anjali rolls with laughter,
"Jeje, you are the crazy one in the family, so romantic at seventy! You should go and see a doctor!"
And she runs away, as if I have caught some infection!
I can't blame her. On moonlit evenings I go out for a walk, looking at the white roads, the bright trees, the smiling sky and the twinkling stars. I greet everyone on the street, some return the greeting, many just smile and shake their head. A couple of times I had asked Anjali to accompany me. She plays tricks with me,
"But Jeje, where will we go? Suppose we go out of our gate, will we turn left or right?"
I laugh at her. What a silly question? Does one ask for directions under a moonlit night? Does it matter whether we turn left or right? We just keep going, the moon light sprinkling joy on us, cool and beautiful. I try to convince Anjali,
"We will just go on, we don't have to reach anywhere, the road will be endless and when the moon sinks in the morning sky we will return home."
She laughs like she is possessed by a wild demon,
"Chhi Jeje, you are a confirmed loon, a total nut case. I will call you the mooney loon from today, or should it be looney moon? Let me go and tell Jejemaa, she will be so proud of a looney husband like you!"
Before I can stop her, she goes and tells my wife, who would be just waiting for such an excuse to put further bans on my movement. She is convinced that a man close to seventy years of age is a grave danger to himself and to humanity in general if he is let out of the confines of home. Of course I am guilty as charged, because I have the tendency to do the most outlandish things when I go out, buying all kinds of stuff, talking to all types of people, discussing all the problems of life and prescribing solutions to all the ills of the country. Added to all these, if I wander aimlessly till the wee hours of the morning on full moon nights the circle of looniness will be complete. Hence the ban on my moving out on full moon nights, a decision meted out to me by a full bench of the family court presided over by the mighty matriarch.
But tonight was different, it was only the fourteenth night moon which was smiling down from the sky and I had the freedom to go out of home. I came out, closed the door, made sure the auto lock clicked and walked down the short garden path, pausing for a brief moment to inhale the fragrance of the Jui flower, drenched by the white lights of the moon.
The moment I approached the gate I saw him, he was standing there, a man of indeterminate age, but looked perhaps closer to my own age. He smiled at me,
"You are also sleepless in this moonlit night?"
I nodded,
"The power supply is off and this moon light seeping through the window drew me out irresistibly."
"Same here. Come, let's take a walk. Which way do you want to go?"
I laughed, remembering my talk with Anjali, my cute mischief of a grand daughter,
"Oh, one doesn't ask for directions under a moonlit night. One just walks on."
"Ok, let me take you down a path I had travelled a hundred times when I was a student, forty eight years back. If we take a left turn at the next crossing and go straight for about a hundred meters, we will reach Rupali Square. A left turn from there and we walk towards Vani Vihar, the university. That's the path I used to take everyday for two years to go to attend my classes. Want to come with me?"
"Of course, always a pleasure to walk down memory lane! That too on a moonlit night!"
We walked along, enjoying the silence of the night, sipping the liquid whiteness of the moon light. The man got quite animated at Roopali Square when it was time to take a left turn towards the university,
"See the opposite road? That's the one I used to take to get to the main road, from my house. Let's go a little bit into that road, I want to show you something."
I looked at him . There was a beautiful smile on his face, a mix of mischief and bashfulness, as if some cute memory was flooding his mind.
I was curious. He pointed out to the balcony of a house about twenty meters away,
"Can you see that balcony? It's a wonder; so many houses have come up around here, but the balcony is still there. You know, everyday around noon when I used to pass this way a girl would be standing there looking to the road, as if she was waiting for me. A beautiful girl, thin and tall, with a bright frock on her. Or was it a gown? Frankly I didn't know the difference between a frock and a gown, but the colour was mesmerising, mostly a mustard yellow or a light green. My heart used to do a quick somersault, just looking at her, music would start playing in my ears and even in hot summer a cool fragrance will touch my soul, drenching it with ethereal joy. I would slow down a bit and then move on, but the moment would remain with me for the whole day, sometimes till the next noon when I would see her again, standing at the balcony, perhaps waiting for me."
The gentleman stood there for a minute or so, trying to recollect the girl, and then turned around, walking towards the main road,
"I could never gather the courage to meet her even once and speak to her, but I spent so many moonlit evenings, walking alone along these roads, imagining great things about me and her. Somehow I thought she would be having a younger brother, a rotund ball of a boy, eager to eat ice cream. They would have come out of home to get ice cream on the moon lit evening, when I would accost them, the girl will be bubbling with joy looking at me, happy and bashful, the boy would be eyeing the ice cream cones with ravenous desire. I would get a few cones for him and let him eat, when the girl and I would sit down quietly, the ice cream cones in our hand forgotten. There would be so much to talk! I would ask her which school (or was it college? I was not sure) she went to, what were the timings, how did she manage to be at the balcony around noon every day, what was her favourite colour, which flower she liked, was she fond of sweets or achar, and a hundred other things. I would tell her what I wanted to do with my life, how I lived from noon to noon just waiting for a glimpse of her. We would look into each other's heart, trying to seek ourselves and merge our souls as if our whole lives depended on that. The moonlit sky would make us dream of a future together, but the spell would be broken by her roly-poly brother who would have finished half a dozen cones of ice cream and unable to eat anymore, would intrude, and remind her to go home. She would drag herself away from me with a promise to return the next evening."
We stopped for a few seconds. The gentleman shook his head,
"But it never happened, I never got to meet her. After finishing my M.A. I got a job in Benares and left. When I came back six months later to visit my parents I didn't see her at the balcony at noon any more. I thought of knocking at her door, but somehow the fear of rejection pulled me back. I have always been like that. Living in dreams, away from reality, and ah, these moonlit nights! They are the real culprits, aren't they, driving me crazy!"
We had kept walking, the Women's College was on our left. During the day it was a hub of noise and giggles and girlish screams, now it was sleeping like a dreaming fairy. The man stopped, looked at the silent building and chuckled to himself,
"You know, I was really shy with the girls, almost scared of them. I never used to cross the street and go to the other side till I had passed the college compound. I was scared that I might accidentally brush against a girl and all the other girls would mob me and rag me till my eyes would burst out of their sockets and I would collapse like a punctured balloon on the street. And then one day the unthinkable happened. A couple of girls, coming from the opposite side stopped me and asked what the time was. I started sweating, I looked at them without blinking and almost fainted. They were shocked as if I had wetted my pants! Suddenly they started giggling loudly and ran away. That was one of the few days when the girl in the balcony did not bother me for the day, the two girls appeared before me a hundred times, asking, what's the time please? In the night I got up from my sleep many times, clearly hearing the voice of a girl asking me, what's the time please? Ah, the sweet pangs of melancholic youth! We didn't grow up in an age where boys and girls talked to each other so freely, walked hand in hand on the streets and shared all their secrets!"
I sighed, ah so many memories!
The gentleman probably read my mind,
"Yes, so many memories, mostly good ones, a few bad ones too. Look at that spot near the bus stop, let's cross the street here. Can you see this spot, here? It's exactly at this spot that the back wheel of a bus had run over the head of a man. Oh, it was so ghastly, happened just a few feet from me. The man had probably forgotten his stop and hurriedly jumped down when the bus had started moving. He slipped and his head came under the wheel of the bus. It was smashed, there was blood pouring from his mouth, nose and ears. He must have died on the spot. I didn't stop to see. I just ran till I reached the class. Oh, such a frightful memory!"
We were silent for a couple of minutes, death has an irritating way of silencing us, its monstrous vastness sits heavy on the consciousness.
Suddenly the man burst out,
"See, see this place, near the culvert. There was an old man who used to sit here every day selling peanuts and all kinds of mixture. Once on my way back from class I bought fifty paise worth of peanuts from him and gave him a five rupees note. By mistake he returned me an extra rupee, instead of four and half rupees he retuned me five and half. When I reached home and took out the money I found it out. So I ran back to him and returned the extra rupee to him. He was so happy at my honesty, he blessed me, 'Babu, you will become a big man one day, such honesty, such goodness is rare in this Kaliyug!'"
The man let out a law moan,
"Big man! What big man! A boy who runs back in a winter evening to return a rupee to an old man, does he become a big man? He always remains a good man, but can never become a big man. Standing on a pedestal of honesty he finds lies, dishonesty, falsehood winning the game for others, he becomes a wide eyed bystander, clapping and cheering others'success. His friends, his family pat him on the back and say, ah, the honest looney! It is because of such people that even in Kaliyug the world has not come to an end!"
The man smiled at me,
"But I have no regrets, I have lived life on my own terms, never had to bend before the dishonest bullies! I left them alone, so did they. Hey, here we are at the massive gate of the university! This huge pedestal with the statue of Saraswati was not there during our time. There was only a huge arch at the main gate. You know, one day the students went on a strike due to some tiff with the crew of a bus. They beat up the driver and the conductor who ran away, leaving the bus in the campus. One of our class mates had proably driven a car earlier. He got into the driver's seat and started honking. About fifty of us got into the bus, it started rolling, lurching like a veteran drunk. We didn't care, everyone was shouting 'Student Unity Zindabad', 'Down, Down, Odisha Road Transport Corporation'."
The man stopped for a minute and muttered, 'Student Unity Zindabad', 'Down, Down, Odisha Road Transport Corporation'. As if he was living through those moments again,
"When the bus came near the Ladies Hostel, the shouting became frenzied, some of the students got down from the bus and started dancing while shouting slogans. The girls gathered near the windows and clapped, but no one came out of the hostel. After honking for a few minutes, our classmate, I think his name was Satya, took the bus outside the campus onto the highway. But he must have got nervous and to our horror, drove into a truck coming from the opposite direction. Luckily the bus was probably running at fifteen kilometres an hour and the truck driver had slowed down, seeing the meandering bus. There was a loud bang, the bus stopped and smoke started coming out of the engine. We all got scared and started running away from the bus. In half a minute the bus was empty. I ran till I reached home. For three days I didn't come out and every time there was a knock on the door I shivered, thinking the police had come to arrest me! But it was great fun when we were going round the campus in the bus shouting slogans, creating a ruckus out of nothing!"
We stopped near the gate, it was locked, we couldn't get in. The university was on the highway, a bye pass on the Calcutta-Madras NH. Trucks were moving leisurely, drivers must be enjoying our sleepy little town in the bright moonlit night. We started moving, the man let out a long sigh,
"I have a very touching memory of this stretch of the highway. You know, I almost died somewhere here on the highway? It was on the first day of our final exam. The paper was very tough. Of the five questions we had to answer I knew the answer to only one and half. I somehow wrote them, for the rest, my answers were just hot air based on guess work. When we came out of the exam hall, everyone was walking with heads down as if we had been robbed of a million rupees by a trickster. I came out of the main gate and started walking on this very road that we are walking on now. Tears had blinded my eyes, I knew that I would certainly fail in this paper. I almost decided to end my life by jumping before a passing truck."
We had reached the cross section where if we took a left turn we would reach my home after a hundred meters or so. The man continued,
"Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked back. It was my class mate Ajit. He had done slightly better than me, but was equally depressed. He assured me that the evaluation would be liberal since everyone had performed poorly. No examiner could fail the whole class! We wondered who had set such a tough question paper with all unexpected topics and doubted his parentage, almost certain that he was a product of the laboured efforts of multiple fathers. Gradually we started abusing him, using the most colourful expletives against him. I marvelled at Ajit's command over the filthy segment of the language. I learnt some new words that day with heavily loaded meanings which would make even a fish seller blush. I also learnt that abusing an invisible enemy with the choicest expletives was a great stress buster! Ajit walked with me till I reached home. And that's how my attempt at ending my life came to nought"
The man smiled, happy to have lived to tell the tale again. We had reached the gate of my home.
I shook hands with the gentleman and thanked him. Told him how happy I was walking with him, going over the past, ruminating on past memories. He smiled and said I was always welcome. I turned to walk down the short garden path. The next moment I froze. Standing at the door were my wife and son, anxious, eager to know what I had been up to. My son spoke out, loud and worried,
"Baba, who were you talking to? And it appeared you shook hands with someone. But there is no one there at the gate!"
I looked back, the gentleman was still there, standing and smiling.
I had never seen my shadow so clear on a moonlit night, that too my smiling shadow!
....................................................................................................................................
(The story behind the story is that it's not a story at all. All the incidents recollected here are real, from my university days. I am a moonlight freak and I love to take intense walks down memory lane. Yes, even after forty eight years I can still close my eyes and see the tall, lanky girl standing in the balcony. And the shadow? Well, we all carry our shadow with us, don't we? Talking to us, mocking at us, guiding us, laughing with us and laughing at us!)
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.
TWO FAVOURITE POEMS
(Last week I had presented the two poems I like the most in English literature and provided some explanation for the same. I had invited the readers to send to me their own choice of two of their favourite poems. A few contributors of LV have responded. I present them here. I am waiting for more to come. They will be published next week. Editor )
Table of Contents:
1) Geetha Nair
a) THE THOUGHT FOX by TED HUGHES
b) LIGHT by ANNA SUJATHA MATHAI.
2) Ishwar Pati
a) CROSSING THE BAR by Lord Alfred Tennyson
3) Latha Prem Sakya
a) Mending Wall by ROBERT FROST
b) Birches by ROBERT FROST
4) Sulochana
a) A THOUGHT WENT UP MY MIND By Emily Dickinson
b) FOR ONCE, THEN, SOMETHING By Robert Frost
5) Gita Bharath
a) Fire and Ice by Robert Frost
b) Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
Like all lovers of poetry, I found it very challenging to name just two of my favourite poems. But I have made an attempt. Here they are, my two choices.
The first poem is by the twentieth century British poet and former Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes. He was called the Animal Poet because he wrote numerous poems about animals and birds and also because of the energy and violence that fill much of his poetry. “The Thought Fox” is a powerful poem where he uses the fox as a symbol for poetic inspiration and creation. The approach and arrival of the fox delineate in vivid language the attempt to write a poem and success in doing so. How well he captures the tenuous and elusive poetic process using this brilliant metaphor! I am sure that all my fellow-writers in Literary Vibes will empathize with this splendid poem.
1.THE THOUGHT FOX
TED HUGHES
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
Anna Sujatha Mathai is a Malayali poet writing in English who is internationally known. She lives currently in Delhi. She has published five volumes of poetry and several short stories. Her work has been widely anthologized and translated.
The poem “LIGHT” appears to be an intensely personal poem . Yet, it expands to mirror the plight of India’s numberless, voiceless women who have been denied expression, freedom and fulfillment as individuals. The poem has rightly been called an anthem for women. I am sure this simple but powerful poem will resonate with many of us.
2. LIGHT
ANNA SUJATHA MATHAI.
'He who seeks light must learn to walk in the dark.' -
St. John of the Cross.
When I was seventeen
And dreaming of distant lands
And faraway loves,
My grandmother said
'Get her married
before the light
goes out of her face.'
The light in a woman's face
Should not be so brief.
It's meant to last a long time,
Nourished by the soul.
Well, they got me married,
and
put out that light.
But I learned to live in candle-light
When the other lights went out.
One learns by subtle contact to reach
Electricity at most mysterious levels.
Light goes from the face, but
Survival lends one light
that shines most brightly.
She who seeks light,
Must learn to walk in the darkness
On her own road.
Geetha Nair G is the author of two poetry collections. Her first book, SHORED FRAGMENTS, received good reviews, notably one in the Journal of The Poetry Society ( India). Her second collection, DRAWING FLAME, came out this year. A collection of her short stories , Wine, Woman and Wrong, is scheduled for release in September. All the thirty three stories in this book were written for and first appeared in LITERARY VIBES
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints' College, Trivandrum.
As regards my two favourite poems, Wordsworth's Daffodils is obviously a universal favourite, displaying unique buoyancy. My other favourite poem is Tennyson's Crossing the Bar with its sweeping depth of emotions and solemnity. It seems V.S. Naipaul went on reciting the poem on his deathbed, as did my own father (a retired Professor of English).
CROSSING THE BAR
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.
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.
Mending Wall
BY ROBERT FROST
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Birches
BY ROBERT FROST
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Why I like Mending Wall
Frost is one of my favourite poets and some of his poems are alarmingly truthful making one ponder his words even after we shut the book. As one critic says his poems begin with fancy and end in wisdom.
Today to fulfil the enthusiastic urgings of Mrutyunjay Sir I have chosen two poems from Robert Frost one is "The Mending Wall"and the other "Birches".
Mending Wall
I love this poem because it resonates my own dilemma to smash all the barriers that separate man from man and to live as one big family "vasudeiva kudumbakom " on the one side and the glaring truth and reality, barriers are needed for growth and sanity " Good fences make good neighbours ".
I love "Birches" because like the poet when life becomes too much for me , when I am torn and bleeding I would like to be a swinger of birches go somewhere as high as heaven and after licking my wounds and curing my self I certainly wish to come back and take up life where I left off as the poet beautifully expresses.
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
Two different poets, two similar poems. I chose these two poems because they haunt me with a sense of the unknown. Art, is in a way, an exploring of the great unknown that defines and also defies our existence. So, to me, art that seeks to search for the other realms of knowledge, inexplicable and intuitive, is supreme.
1. A THOUGHT WENT UP MY MIND
By Emily Dickinson
A thought went up my mind today
That I have had before
But I did not finish,--- some way back,
I could not fix the year,
Nor where it went,nor why it came,
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I know
I've met the thing before;
It just reminded me, ------ t'was all----
And it came my way no more.
Emily Dickinson is a poet, who, in a few lines, encompasses layers of
meanings that unfurl with each reading.
2. FOR ONCE, THEN, SOMETHING
By Robert Frost
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing,
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven god like
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths--- and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was that lay at bottom
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For Once, then, something.
Frost, known for his ambiguity and dexterity with words, uses those tools in a different mode here to encompass the ambiguity of human existence in a single flash of realisation. " To rebuke the too clear water" is an expression that stays within me, as if rebuking my own insatiable curiosity as to what the poet is actually seeing, thinking.
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
The reason I chose Fire and Ice by Frost is it's deceptive brevity which contains layers of meaning. Commercial greed, wars, genocide, any number of animal passions which could so easily upset our frail life boat, our planet.
Maya Angelou's words literally leap off the page. They are so vibrant and striking in so many ways, anti slavery, feminism, the energy (in an Indian context-Shakti-) which can exuberantly overcome despair.
My two favorite poems are:
Fire and Ice
by
Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Still I Rise
by
Maya Angelou -
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
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.
A CRITIQUE OF A BOOK
(Ms. Priya Bharati informs that this critique is only of a part of the Kansal book)
When Can God Exactly Punish Us?
This extract has been taken from the book "Evolution of God" by Ajay Kansal.
We all sin sometimes or the other in our lifetime. We also believe that God will punish us for our wrongdoing.
Mr. Kansal has imagined God using present-day technology to keep track of every sin committed by humans and the enormity of the task he has to do before punishing any individual.
The whole idea is hilarious and worth sharing.
The theory of sins and good deeds provides a strong foundation for religion. Almost all religions have propagated more or less similar convictions about sin.
When and why did the theory develop? Did God himself descend from the heavens to teach man an acute sense of ethics and morals?
Why did sins invite the scourge of Gods and why did the benevolent acts of humanity please him? What were the events that led to the establishment of this theory?
Let us go back to the beginning of social life.
It must have happened so. To maintain law and order, priests and kings made social rules themselves and declared them to be the divine word. They proclaimed that the non-observance of the rule provoked divine anger. God punished sinners through various human miseries.
Soon, the theory of sin attracted many sceptic philosophers to oppose this theory. If God would have punished a sinner then and there, then this belief would have been strengthened. But this was not so. People began complaining that many sinners lived comfortable lives without being punished. On the other hand, many saints who follow all morals suffered from diseases.
After facing such practical problems, contemporary priests began to search for an explanation. According to the new theory propagated, good people suffered due to the sins of their previous births. The present-day sinners will get punishment in their next birth. It was also believed that all human suffering like diseases, inequality, and exploitation was the result of sins committed in the previous births. This theory found great popularity and continues even today. This theory was preached by Lord Budha. He taught that following a morally fulfilling life would lead to a happy prosperous, and healthy rebirth.
Why do Gods wait for the next birth to convict his self-created puppets (men)? Ideally, their acts must be followed by divine punishments or rewards immediately. Practically this does not happen. Had God punished the sinners in their present birth, it would have been justified. Not only would it ensure justice, but it would also have eliminated all crimes on earth and removed the necessity for policemen and guns. Hindus believe that each animal suffers punishment for sins committed during its seven previous births.
The author has made an interesting calculation. Let us take an hour as a standard unit of crime ( that means it takes at least one hour to commit a crime ). Thus God would need to record each hour in an individual's lifespan.
Let's imagine how God may keep his records today. In the 21st century, his record-keeping would include videography. To record the activities of each person, one video camera would follow him regularly. Video films of 3 hours require about 1 gigabyte (GB) of computer space. The activity of one day of each person would take 8 GB space to record. Therefore, the sum of the video footage of 7 lifetimes would require 8*365(no of days in a year)*60(years of average life)*7(births) GB of space. This figure exceeds a million. Thus a million GB of space is needed to store the life of an individual.
The hard disc of the common computer stores around 500 GB. Therefore for each soul, God would maintain a huge computer with 2000 disks. God would maintain 1 office to keep one such computer. God's compound would need 1 billion such offices for Hindus only.
Now, what about the other animals. Though collecting data about them seems humanly impossible, it can be presumed that almighty God would manage. He may use group videography.
God would face another difficulty while keeping the record of unseen bacteria and viruses. Firstly they are infinite in number, secondly, he would require microscopic videography to record them.
However, God can forgive them, since these bacteria and viruses help him to punish the non- believers and sinners by causing diseases.
Just by storing the data, God cannot do justice. For injustice, the sinners must be punished, and saints must be rewarded. God would face the real challenge of law enforcement. God has to appoint many juries to watch recorded videos. One officer would take around 420 years (expected life 60 years*7 births) to watch the videos of seven births of one soul. To get the work done quickly, say in 1 year, God would require 420 such persons.
Today, if God wishes to punish someone in 1 year, he would require 420 officers for that person only. Thus to punish the whole population, God would need a huge staff (around 420 times the number of people alive. As per the Hindu religion, God has appointed one officer named Chitragupta for this job. Chitragupta seems to be an efficient guy.
God would also have to ensure the honesty of his executives. How could he create such a large number of honest just loving and truthful staff? If God made his officers from the same soil he created the 1st male and female. If they start sinning, God would have to monitor his officers as well. Imagine if people from all religions are to be monitored, the punishment of man seems to be God's punishment as well.
Again it is the physical body that commits the sins, not the soul. The soul is considered pure. The soul of a person becomes free after the death of a person and takes birth in a second body. So God punishes the second body for the sins committed by the 1st body. Is this a just act of God? Well, God can do anything he likes. It is really beyond our imagination.
Comparing God to Mr. Ford the Car maker:
Ford made millions of vehicles in the last 100 years. Similarly, God made billions of men. Furthermore, the company produced all its cars, whereas God created only the 1st man and woman. So Ford is doing a bigger job.
Imagine what would happen if Mr. Ford the creator of the cars begins to expect some worship similar to God. Imagine an image of Ford mounted above the mirror. The driver would also ignite an incense stick and sing a flattering song with folded hands invoking Mr. Ford.
Each car company rectifies the defect of the previous car in the subsequent model. Similarly, God must rectify the defects. Diseases are the major manufacturing defects in the products of God. Though mankind has discovered remedies for many diseases, it is facing new diseases and their number has increased manifold. So is God bothered by this defect of mankind?
Of course, God is supreme. He can do and undo anything with the wink of an eye.
N.B – The pictures have been taken from Google and the copyright is with the owner,
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
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