Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXIII
(Title : My Cottage - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Happy to present to you the 83rd edition of LiteraryVibes with some mesmerising poems and tantalising stories. Hope you will enjoy them as much as the poets and writers enjoyed in creating them. There is also a wonderful travelogue by Shri Debjit Rath in the enchanting Canadian Rockies. Since it has many high resolution pictures it could not be accommodated in LiteraryVibes. There are places on this earth which are breathtakingly beautiful, the stuff dreams are made of. If you want to get a feel of such astounding beauty please take a look at the travelogue at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/337
In the pages of today's LV you will find a few new footprints. Dr. Sonali Patnaik, a young Ph.D. in English Literature is a profound poet with rare sensitivity and intensity. Her two poems will convince you she is outstanding. Ms. Meena Mishra is a highly accomplished poet, writer, publisher, speaker and a well known personality in Mumbai literary circles. Her poems show an extraordinary touch of realism coupled with imaginative fancy. Mr. Sreekumar, one of our star contributors has been kind enough to translate two stories of Ms. Seema Pushpakumari and Ms. Rose George who are prolific writers in Malayalam literature. The stories are powerful and provocative, testifying to the incredible talent of the writers. We also have a poem from Mr. Sibu Kumar Das who had, in the last edition, sent in his comments on two favourite poems of his. He has followed it up with a nice poem which resonates with a mature, philosophical musing about life. We do hope we will hear more from these latest entrants to the family of LiteraryVibes. We do wish them spectacular success in their literary career.
In today's edition I have written a story about how with passage of time, inspired innocence yields to worldly ambitions resulting in personality transformation. Governance in India is a tough proposition, coloured by different perceptions and propensities. Every now and then new reforms get introduced with great fanfare as if we have suddenly found a magic cure to our problems and in no time things will look up. In our eagerness to bring in big technological innovations we push under the carpet the very basic need of improving the mindset of those who have the responsibility to deliver. NEP will not succeed unless teachers and lecturers actually take classes and impart education, health care reforms will not work unless doctors and the para medical staff live at their place of posting and look after the needs of the people, economy will not regain its health unless loans are collected back by the banks and governance will become mere statistical jugglery unless officials reach out to people and deliver at the cutting edge.
My story in today's LiteraryVibes presents a rather grim picture of the misplaced priorities of our senior echelons of bureaucracy. It also exposes the sad plight of persons who approach government officials with their grievance. So many times we hear our colleagues and seniors saying, if this could happen to me, imagine what must be the plight of the common man! Hopefully there is light at the end of the tunnel, but unfortunately it is a long tunnel, dark and forbidding.
Do enjoy the offerings in LV83 at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/338 All the previous 82 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Please share the links with all your friends and contacts. Looking forward to your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
Take care, stay healthy and smile.
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) PKM
THE SPACESHIP ZOOMS
02) HPD
MARRIAGE NIGHT (MADHUSHAJYAA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
HOMECOMING (P)
HOMECOMING (S)
04) Sreekumar K
CHRISTENING BEAUTY
05) Bibhu Padhi
JUNE RAIN
06) Ishwar Pati
THE PHOTOGRAPH FROM THE PAST
07) Swadhin Das
PROBITY
08) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
SECRETS OF LOVE
09) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
FE
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN
11) Dr.Aniamma Joseph
WHAT IS THERE TO BOAST OF?
12) Madhumathi H
PRAKRITI - MY ALL!
13) Gita Bharath
MUSE OF MUSIC
14) Padmini Janardhanan
LAW OF ATTRACTION WORKS
15) Sunil Kumar Biswal
LIFE OF AN ASSISTANT HUNTER
16) Sujatha Sairam
ATTITUDE
17) Jairam Seshadri
A TRUE STORY - IN THE LIFE OF A GENIUS NAMED RAHDNOOS!
18) N.MEERA RAGHAVENDRA RAO
MY CONCEPT OF MADRAS DAY
19) Satya Narayan Mohant
HERMETICALLY SEALED
20) Sheena Rath
GANAPATI
21) Ravi Ranganathan
HOW WE CAN ENJOY THE RAINS
22) Dr. S. Padmapriya Vinodhkumar
UNDYING
23) Ashok Kumar Ray
SAINT PETERSBURG
24) Rudra Narayan Mohanty
THE LIBERTINE
25) Abani Udgata
IDENTITY
26) Pradeep Rath
CONFESSION
27) Dipty Patnaik
THE UNFINISHED STORY
28) Sibu Kumar Das
THE CIRCLE
29) Sonali Pattnaik
FAITH
IN LOVE
30) Meena Mishra
IN SEARCH OF PEACE
LET ME GREET A NEW TOMORROW
A LONE WOLF
31) Seema Pushpakumari
CAN'T EVEN SEE
32) Rose George
A MORLIAN INSPIRATION
33) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
INDEX OF MIND
Bytes sound from the cockpit -
slow, row the craft slow
down the space, we all
sail in one boat; and lo,
it's landing on a monsoon land,
our ship, much more immense
than the Rama of 'Rendezvous
with Rama' fame of Arthur C. Clarke;
much bigger than the Noah's Ark,
that salvaged all the species
from an apocalyptic deluge,
sails in galactic space.
Zooming through sky, a dream
of sorts, meeting stars that
constellate into our questioning,
canine, hunting sentinels.
Our dear departed live there,
they say, drinking milk
from Milkyway, the celesteal river,
resting in hammocks
hung across blackholes,
time's keepers, burpless gluttons,
preying at event horizon. Life and death
a heady mix in its no-time zone.
Our craft whizzes past
space-time continuum, passing by
trillion suns, galaxies, meteors,
aliens abounding, corporeal and astral.
We move between moon's phases,
landing in its waxing and waning,
zooming to the south of the sun,
whizzing back to its northern solstice;
having our freezing Christmas
in Europe, hot X-mas in Australia,
we zoom, we whizz, we fly by....
Our ship ageless, perennial.
It has crash-landed
into corona times, ravaged by flood,
poverty, hate; but we hope -
it will repair itself, and take off.
We have lands to see, alien
and familiar, to welcome visiting aliens,
eat and drink fruits and honey
new to our taste. Our hope soars...
Footnote
Our earth is perhaps a spaceship and we its passengers, our craft zooming through space-time continuum.
For the science-minded-poets, who question how? Common knowledge is earth remains in a fixed orbit around the sun, then how it would travel as a spaceship in intergalactic space?
Yes, our earth goes around the sun, and the sun with its solar family, zooms through our home-galaxy Milky Way. Sun speeds ahead along a longitudinal spiral trajectory, and along with such billion suns (stars), our galaxy itself whizzes through the space of an ever-expanding universe from the big bang time, giving rise to phenomenon called red and blue shifts in spectroscopy. It is explained by Doppler effect too. All that explains how our spaceship earth zooms thru galactic space since billions of years non-stop.
(In fact, an explanation kills the mystique of a poem)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The auspicious fish-amulet
blazes on bridegroom’s turban
to usher in good luck
to the solemn union,
as does the motif
of golden pitchers
embossed on
bride’s sari borders.
Hem of the sari covering
the bride’s pretty head
slips down, so does her luck,
leaving her in a limbo.
She is looking for an identity.
Branded as ‘married’, having shed
baby-fur, baby-fat, she flounders
in her pubescent sea, “Who am I?”
She sprawls, weighed under
her bridal splendor,
on an opulent bed, under a net’s
translucent cover for the open-secret.
She resents the impromptu hand
groping her guarded secrets,
caressing her undone hair,
touching her softest hideouts.
She wonders, is the man
looking for a site
to hoist his flag, or a page
to put his signature of ownership?
Will the man’s hands find his wife
on the honeymoon bed -
between sheets, in undone hairs,
or her body’s secret spaces?
Possibly, before he finds
the right site for his flag
or signature, she would be gone
to an unknown address.
Nothing, neither the solemn rites,
nor sacred amulets, fish or pitcher,
could bind two impromptu strangers
to steer their ship together.
The nuptial bed would lie desolate,
feeling like made of bones and thorns
under a translucent net, guarding
the open secret of a failed bond.
The bed awaits in vain for fulfilling
its much-lauded purpose,
to give the man his ownership,
the wife, her identity!
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)”
How we all crave
to return to our
comforting couches
with a cup
of steaming coffee
flicking the channels on TV
and settling
for a soap.
How we all crave
to take off our formals,
slip into our shorts
to walk on bare feet
on the wooden floors
And to lean on the
bannisters of our balcony
and listen to the birds
on the branches
a dead moon
floating in the sky.
How we all crave
to fling ourselves
on a dishevelled bed
with an old dusty book
picked up from
the cupboard
with a broken latch.
And listen to the rains
lashing on the roof
the smell of wet
soil seducing our senses.
They say
home is where heart is,
but heart is where pain is.
I carry my heart
wherever I go
and perhaps the home
wherever I go
like a tortoise
or a snail.
Home is
where I lull myself to sleep
home is
where I wake up to freedom
and joy
and with a renewed jest
for tomorrow.
Home is
where every day
is spring
every day is a celebration.
Home.
As someone says
isn't it but a feeling?
The Uber cab stopped in front of the Oceania building on Carter Road in Mumbai. The security guard peered into the back of the cab and recognised the passenger. He opened the door and greeted Roshan Mistry, whose parents Zubin and Delnaaz Mistry owned a flat on the fifth floor. Roshan looked pensive and sorrowful as she dragged her stroller to the lift. She had just arrived from Chicago after a long and strenuous flight, with a prolonged unscheduled break at Frankfurt. International travel uncertainties due to the Covid pandemic did not permit her to attend the funeral of both her parents whom she had just lost in a road accident a couple of days ago. She picked up the key to the apartment kept under the flower pot in the corridor and entered her home. Inadvertently her eyes got transfixed to the reclining chair in front of the TV in the drawing room and which was lying there still and motionless, as if in mourning. There was an eerie silence in the flat. While she walked past the dining table to her room, she noticed two coffee mugs placed on it, one opposite the other, with stains of dried up coffee at the bottom. She paused a while in front of a framed certificate on the wall, her father's Ati Vishist SevaMedal certificate signed by the President, for his distinguished services rendered to the Army. Adjacent to it was a photo of her father in a Brigadier's uniform next to her mother decked up in a gorgeous hand embroidered gara sari, smiling with pride. Controlling a silent sob that rose from her heart and with moist eyes, she threw herself on her bed. But her tears could not be tamed any further and the wet patch on her pillow became wider by the minute. After about an hour, she composed herself and called uncle Percy.
' Hi uncle Percy, this is Roshan. Just arrived about an hour ago. The connecting flight at Frankfurt was cancelled for some technical reason. After a day's wait, they finally put us in another flight to Mumbai. I never imagined that my holidaying would end like this! '
' Oh Roshan, welcome home. Don't feel bad for having missed the funeral. All went off well. I tried my best to delay it but the priest insisted to finish the formalities forthwith. Anyway, all arrangements have been made for the Uthamna meeting to offer our condolences today at 4 pm at Doongerwadi. I will come and pick you up at 3 pm.'
'Thanks uncle. I will be ready.'
The Uthamna ceremony was rather a sombre affair. A group of priests conducted the prayer meeting, while the gathering of family and friends paid their respects to the departed souls silently. After the ceremony all expressed their condolences to Roshan, some reminiscing the great times they had shared with Zubin and Delnaaz. Roshan was back at home late in the evening and after a light dinner hit the bed. She was sad and tired. In the small hours she woke up with a start, with a fearful shriek and sweating profusely. The nightmare had come back once again to haunt her after a long gap.
From her childhood it was a recurring experience which scared her to no end. But after her puberty it had disappeared altogether. The nightmare always had been the same with its gory and ghastly details. ' In a very dark night, she found herself sitting in lotus pose on a charpoy like platform in an enclosed courtyard dimly lit by candle light. Surrounding her there are a large number of goats and buffaloes tied to posts bleating and grunting helplessly. Then come a group of warriors in masks dancing and prancing around. They then un-sheath their shining khukris' and chop off the heads of the animals one by one. The heads roll and blood gushes out of their lifeless torsos, drenching the ground around. The dancers go into a frenzy and depart one by one, leaving her alone amidst the severed heads and twitching bodies. The smell of death almost chokes her but she continues to sit as if in meditation, till the first rays of the sun falls on her and her eyes open.'
The nightmares always intrigued her. Her parents were equally worried and had consulted some occultists about it. But they couldn't find any solution. They all were relieved when it disappeared altogether on Roshan attaining her puberty. It was attributed to childhood insecurity which disappeared on attainment of adulthood. But now Roshan was again worried. Why has it returned? The thought of going through it again and again put her into a cold sweat. She somehow managed to just lie down with eyes wide open till the rest of the night, wishing the sun to come up as early as possible.
She made a cup of tea for her and came to their enclosed balcony to sit at her favourite place, a metallic swing her father had installed specially for her. On the opposite wall was a glass case which contained a magnificent brass statuette of Tara which Zubin got as a gift from a Tibetan monk. Tara also known as Jetsun Dolma is considered as the female Bodhisattva and the goddess of compassion, loving-kindness and emptiness. Roshan was very fond of the statuette for its beauty, elegance and divinity that it exuded. She also found it strange that how come they all as a Parsi family had got so attached to a Hindu and Buddhist deity. It was the day of Janmashtami, the day Lord Krishna was born. A filmi devotional song was blaring in a loud speaker in a nearby shanty. The song posed a question from Krishna to his mother Yashoda,' Mother, when all of you my family members are fair skinned, how come I am of dark skin?' The mother smiled and replied in the song,' Son, you were born in the darkness of the night and when it was pouring heavily from the dark clouds. Also you live in the eyes of the fair maiden Radha who uses the darkest ever kaajal to line her eyes. That's why you are blessed with a dark skin.' Roshan's mind rushed into the past. It was quite early she had realised that she hardly resembled her parents, who had typical Parsi features, with light pink skin and the most unmistakable characteristic feature: the nose, prominently imposing. In contrast she had a round face with high cheekbones and slit eyes, and a yellowish skin. Her schoolmates used to tease her as the mongoloid Parsi, one in a millions. When she asked her parents about the dissimilarities, they used to smile and tell her because she was born to them quite long after their marriage, only when the Tibetan monk gifted them with the Tara statuette, they believed that she was a gift from Tara. And that's why there is a striking resemblance between her and the goddess Tara. It's simply a divine manifestation. But there was another reason they added. They tried to convince her in a confidential tone that her great grandfather from her mother's side had married outside the community. It was a love marriage between him and a Gurkha girl. She must have got some of her genes. Roshan as a little innocent child, didn't question further and believed them. But in later years, whenever she thought about it rationally, somewhere deep down she had a nagging doubt about this. She wanted to find more about her origin but always came up against the proverbial wall. The devotional song once again triggered the latent doubt in her. She made up her mind to go to the bottom of two things that intrigued her most, her nightmare and her origin. She called her close friend Manisha whose mother was a practicing psychiatrist to check if she may help her about the nightmare. After having heard her story she advised her to seek divine intervention by meeting Narasimhacharya, a yogi in Joshimath who perhaps could help her out.
Roshan had no difficulty in locating the yogi's ashram in Joshimath. It was a small cottage near the Narasimha temple. She had called him up to fix an appointment and he had agreed to see her. She pressed the door bell and was greeted by a middle aged man who looked very ordinary. She half expected a bare bodied bearded man in a saffron dhoti with sandalwood paste and vermillion mark on the forehead. But this gentleman was just another face in a crowd. Attired in a pair of jeans and a black T shirt, he led her to a typical drawing room in a middle class home. He asked her to sit on one of the chairs of a pair placed face to face near a bay window overlooking a well manicured lawn circumscribed with seasonal flowers. There was no lamp burning near any picture of a deity, nor was there any overpowering aroma of joss sticks. But she could feel a total calm and serene atmosphere prevailing in the room. He pulled his chair and sat opposite her. There was a small teapoy that separated both the chairs. There was no crystal ball nor a human skull placed on it, just a small flower vase with a single yellow rose.
' Welcome to my humble abode Roshan,' said the man in a soft and soothing voice, and continued, ' please make yourself comfortable.'
Then a lady with a beatific smile entered with a cup of tea and offered it to Roshan.
'Thanks,' said Roshan and accepted the cup gratefully.
' She's my wife Priyambada. You please have your tea and then we shall start our session. But let me clarify from the start that I am not really a psychic, neither am I a tantric. I do not have any supernatural powers. I only initiate people who seek my advice into a hypnotic journey and through their responses try to piece things together. I simply connect the dots. People call that mind reading. I am aware about the two things that are bothering you. Let us have a chat and I am sure we will be able to find some explanation together. But to succeed, I would need your total willingness and cooperation. If you are ready, we shall proceed.'
' I am ready sir.'
' Alright let me hold your hands for a while, and you close your eyes.'
Roshan offered her hands to the Acharya who held them lightly over the teapoy and seemed to scan her head to toe for a while. His gaze finally was fixed on a black mole on her right wrist. On closer examination he found it to be the mark of a miniature three pronged trident.
' Tell me, is that a tattoo on your wrist?'
' No sir, my mother told me that it was my birth mark.'
' Oh. OK. Now I would like you to think deeply about the nightmare that haunts you. Just start at the beginning and revisit the scene deliberately with every minute details. Keep telling me what you are seeing.'
Roshan reconstructed the nightmare and narrated it with its horrific details. At the end when she said that it was morning when she woke up and found herself amidst all the blood and decapitated animal heads, the Acharya told her to pause.
' Alright, I know now that you survived this long horrid night. Tell me what happened then.'
' As the sun's rays bathed me, I found a lady coming and holding my hands to comfort me. She then leads me to a bathroom and gives me a bath and dresses me up in new clothes. She puts special make up on me and shows me a mirror.'
' What do you see in the mirror? '
' I see a child's face. The hair had been oiled, combed and pulled tightly backwards and tied in a knot. There is a huge motif in vermilion paste on my forehead, with an eye painted vertically up between my eyebrows. The kaajal put on my eyes had been extended well beyond the corners to give my eyes a bigger and wider look. Two beautiful diamond studded ear rings adorn my ears. I am dressed in a blood red silk dress brocaded in golden zari work. I am crowned with a red velvet embroidered cap with red tassels hanging down from it. There is a marigold garland around my neck. In fact I see in the mirror the picture of a Devi.'
' You are doing great. Now tell me what happened next.'
' Then few priests come and escort me to the Sanctum Santorum of a temple and make me sit on a pedestal. Then they offer me puja. I can hear the sound of cymbals and drums and the priest doing my aarti.'
' OK. You may stop now. You will wake up when I pat you on your arm. You will feel hungry when you wake up.'
The Acharya gave her a light pat and she slowly opened her eyes.
Roshan was feeling a little tired and hungry. Priyambada had set up breakfast on the table for the three of them. The Acharya invited Roshan to breakfast, which consisted of porridge and fresh fruits. After breakfast they again settled down for the second session. The Acharya took her hands in his, once again and asked her to focus on her earliest memory with her parents.
' Alright, you had mentioned that your father was a retired Brigadier and was from the Gurkha regiment. I want you to go back in time and tell me what you may remember about your early childhood.'
' I remember my mom dressing me up for the Army KG school at Siliguri. We lived in our official quarters in Bagdogra. My father was a Major there. He was a company commander in the Gurkha regiment that was positioned there.'
' Anything else that you may recall?'
' I remember our family vacations and picnics. I also remember my horse riding lessons. I was the apple of my parent's eyes. The Gurkha soldiers of my father's regiment always gave me a special treatment because I looked more like them than a true blue Parsi.'
' What about your growing up days?'
' I travelled with my parents wherever they went on transfer. All my schooling was done in various central schools. When my father was in the front I stayed with my mom in separated family accommodation in Dehradun for couple of years. Then I got selected for a degree in Computer Engineering at IIT, Kharagpur. On passing out I procured the job of a software developer in a premier IT company. My parents were always very proud of me.'
' How did you find the Parsi community treating you?'
' I never had any serious issue, but in social gatherings I found some elderly aunties raising eyebrows about my looks. My father was the greatest bulldozer I have ever seen. He stood like a rock behind me and anyone who sniggered would be met with the sternest look from my dad, which he or she would never forget.'
'Fine. End of the session. You will wake up when I snap my finger.'
After Roshan woke up from the trance, it was time for the Acharya to sum up the sessions.
'Look Roshan, I must first thank you for being so cooperative. I surely have sufficient clues to guide you. Listen to me carefully. Both your problems appear to be inter-related. The first problem about your recurring nightmare could be manifestations of some personal experience deeply embedded within your sub consciousness. It's repeated emergence perhaps is a divine suggestion for you to unearth the truth surrounding it. You might have been ordained to uncover the mystery and in the process bring some guilty person to book. The vivid description of your nightmare suggests a traditional practice in a special kind of temple in Nepal. In their Newari community, they have a tradition of worshipping Kumaris , the virgin living goddesses, who are seen as a manifestation of female energy. The Kumaris are seen as living incarnation of goddess Taleju or Durga. As an embodiment of chastity and virtue, a virgin girl is selected based on certain divine signs , thirty two of them all signifying perfection and purity. She then goes through some rituals similar to what you experience in your nightmare and subsequently instituted as the living goddess in special temples. She then reigns as the living deity till she attains puberty. Then another young virgin takes her place and the cycle continues.'
' Why do you say that both my issues are inter-related?'
' See, your non-Parsi features breed the doubts in your mind about your parentage. There may be a possibility that you might have been adopted by your parents. You may argue that why they had not revealed the truth to you. You know, love sometimes overwhelms the truth. People lie or hide the truth mostly to protect something. The fear of distancing you from them because they may not be your natural parents could have prevailed. And you can't blame them for that. It only shows the intensity of their love for you. You perhaps may be aware that in Parsi community it's very rare to find a non- Parsi adoption. In case they had adopted you it only shows their courage to defy their community norms only for their deepest love for you, which they nurtured till the end,' the Acharya continued, 'All I can say that you have to look for some concrete clues about yourself, which I feel still lies at your home. Look for them and you will find them. I am quite sure that you would succeed in your pursuits of truth. Go my child, my blessings are with you.'
Roshan returned to Mumbai determined to solve the riddles of her life. She then systematically searched her father's study and cupboards where he could have stored some records like her birth certificates or her mother's maternity hospital discharge slips. But her efforts were in vain. Finally she noticed a lockable drawer in her parent's bedroom. After a little search she found the key to the drawer in her father's briefcase and opened the locker. The file on top contained a will in which she was declared as the sole inheritor. Below that file was a sealed packet. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she opened the packet. There was a legal document duly signed by a magistrate and a small diary. The document was nothing but her adoption papers registered in a court at Siliguri, twenty years ago. Part 1 of the papers pertaining to information about the child before adoption, indicated her original name as Maya and place of birth as Bhaktapur in Nepal. No specific date of birth was indicated but only the birth year was entered. The space for her natural parents' names however was left blank. The adoption agency was shown as an orphanage in Siliguri. Part 2 which was about information after adoption was meticulously filled up and showed details of her adoptive parents and her new name as Roshan Mistry. Attached to the document was an affidavit showing a new birth certificate showing her birthday on the Navroz of her birth year. Then she examined the diary which mostly contained some names and numbers of functionaries of the orphanage and attorneys involved in the adoption process. There was a small receipt folded amongst the pages which indicated the donation made to the orphanage for her adoption. She flipped the pages hoping to get some clue about her natural parents. She stopped at one page at the bottom of which was written 'Maya's father and his address' and an arrow drawn towards the next page. Her face lit up in anticipation. But the page which could have contained the details was found ripped off and missing. Crestfallen she was about to close the diary shut but she suddenly felt that there were some deep impressions on the next page. She picked up a pencil and started to shade the indentations presumably left by the ball pen writing on the previous page, which had been removed. The writings emerged and revealed that the father's name was Sherjang Thapa Chhetri, who belonged to Bhaktapur in Bagmati province of Nepal. His home address was 56, Dattatraya Square, behind the old palace.
Armed with this information Roshan packed her baggage for a Nepal trip. During the lockdown in the country due to the Covid pandemic, she had an arduous task ahead for procuring special permission and getting a Covid negative certificate from the doctor, to travel abroad. She also spoke to the DG Police of Siliguri about her case and sought his assistance. He gave her a letter of introduction addressed to the Chief of Police of Nepal based in Kathmandu and requested him to extend his help. Roshan landed in Kathmandu and straightway went to meet the Chief of Police. She shared with him the details of the case. The Chief was very hospitable and directed the local DIG of Police Ranendra Rai, based at Bhaktapur to personally look into the matter and give Roshan the desired assistance.
' Sir, these are all the documents pertaining to my case. I am keen to find out about my natural parents and would be keen to know how I landed up in the orphanage in India. I will be grateful if you may help.'
' Let's first check if there was any missing person's complaint filed by your parents. Then we shall pay a visit to the address where your parents are likely to be.'
The police records did not show any missing complaints filed by Sherjang Thapa. Then accompanied by two policemen and the DIG Roshan reached the address, house number 56 on a by-lane near Dattatreya Square and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a girl who looked almost identical to Roshan. There was an uncanny resemblance, as if they were twin sisters. The girl informed that her father Sherjang was not at home, but they could meet her mother.
' Who is it Chhaya?'
' Ma, the police is here with a young lady.'
A lady in her mid forties emerged from the kitchen. The moment she saw Roshan and the police, she made a U turn and ran inside.
Meanwhile a man in his fifties parked a taxi in front of the house and walked towards the house.
' Oh, good. My father is back,' informed Chhaya.
The man entered the living room and saw the police and Roshan and his face paled. He quickly gathered his wits, turned around and ran out. The policemen gave him a chase and caught him at the street corner. He was then taken to the police station for custodial interrogation. Roshan was keen to talk to him but he refused to meet her.
After about a day's investigative efforts, police prepared a report and charged him for abduction of his own daughter Maya and for being an accomplice to human traffickers twenty years ago. His sister-in-law Chameli was also brought in for questioning and was charged as a co-accused.
The case history read like a film script. Sherjang earned his livelihood as a tourist guide in the temple town of Bhaktapur. In early nineties he got married to Champa, with whom he started his family in his ancestral home. Champa was a teacher in a primary school. Chameli, her twin sister also moved in to stay with them, since both were orphans, having lost their parents early in their lives. Chameli picked up a job as a sales girl in a local clothes store. Though identical twins, by nature both were almost opposite to each other. Champa was like a cool pool, serene, quiet and demure. Chameli on the other hand was like a stream in spate, effervescent and bubbly. The threesome lived happily. But soon Champa came to know that Sherjang and Chameli had got into a clandestine relationship. Her silent protests were not heeded to. The final straw broke when she learnt that both of them were pregnant almost at the same time. There were fireworks at home but finally all agreed to accept the situation as it is. In fact to legitimise the relationship between Chameli and Sherjang, Champa got them married in the nearby temple. In due course, both gave birth to two girl children. They were named Maya and Chhaya. Champa' daughter Maya was older to Chameli's daughter Chhaya by couple of months. Though from different mothers, both half-sisters looked like carbon copies of each other. After about three years, their lives took a major turn.
One fine morning a posse of priests from the nearby Kumari temple visited their home. The head priest had a dream about finding the next Kumari, the living virgin deity in this household. They examined both the three year olds for the thirty two divine signs. It was Maya, who passed with flying colours. Her birth mark in the shape of a miniature trident on her right wrist was the final clincher. She was then installed as the living goddess in the temple after the prescribed rituals. Champa was appointed as her personal attendant and enjoyed special benefits of the temple, being her mother. Champa moved into a cottage within the temple premises. This somehow didn't go well with Chameli. She conspired with Sherjang and hatched a plan. She convinced him to abduct Maya and put Chhaya in her place. They were sure that no one would ever know. They then connived with a friend, who was a human trafficker to smuggle Maya out of the country. It was double bonanza for Chameli, killing two birds in one stone. First to enthrone her own daughter as the living goddess and second, to make some money while getting rid of Maya. After they put their plan into action, they spread the story in the neighbourhood that their daughter Chhaya perhaps had been picked up by some gangster or had wandered off somewhere. But Champa was the first one to suspect the switch. She didn't find the birth mark when she gave the goddess her ritualistic bath. She put two and two together and guessed what had happened and who were the perpetrators. She rushed home to confront them. Sherjang pulled out his khukri and put it on her neck and threatened her to slit her throat if she talked about it to anyone. They assured her that Maya was alive and safe somewhere in India. Champa returned to the temple sad and dejected, but soon devoted herself completely in the services of the living goddess. Chhaya reigned as the deity in the temple as Maya for ten years till she attained her puberty and was replaced by a new goddess. She went home to live with her parents without any idea of what had happened. She received a pension from the temple for her maintenance. Champa never returned home and chose to continue as a temple servitor, serving the new goddess. Over a period of time everyone forgot about the incident. Sherjang meanwhile had started a tourist taxi business and was doing pretty well for himself.
Roshan read the case history with tears in her eyes and thanked the DIG for having unraveled the mystery so efficiently and so fast. She then rushed to the temple to meet her mother. Champa immediately sensed who she was and hugged her tight with tears streaming from her eyes. Both sat down under the temple canopy and exchanged their stories. Suddenly Roshan remembered Chhaya and got up to go to her place. Chhaya was at home and received her with a stoic and expressionless face. Roshan sat down with her and took her hands in hers. Then she told her about the entire episode as she had just learnt from the police case history. Chhaya listened to her in quiet dignity and told,' Sister, I can never repay you for your lost years and the love, respect and devotion of people that came my way, which rightfully was due to you. But till now I had no idea that I was the pawn in this evil game. I am glad that the sinners have finally been brought to book. I am willing to come with you and serve you till my last breath.'
' Yes, you are coming with me to Mumbai. But not to repay for your sins that you never committed. Rather to be part of my life, share everything I have, as my sister and friend.'
Roshan then called the travel agent to book three tickets on the next Vistara flight to Mumbai from Kathmandu. Champa, Chhaya and Roshan were going home.
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
There are no rules in this game.
(Even this rule is breakable)
Naming is the game
No, it is not that simple
You name it before it is.
You will know it, kiss it and bless it
But only after the christening ceremony
Christening is only a convenient word
There are no religions, clubs, cliques,
Borders or portfolios like they claim
Name it to quarantine it
Name it to alienation
Fill in the blanks
With appropriate words
Wall with punctuations
Make it sing and dance
You too play along
There! You have done it!
You have possibled the impossible
Bottled Poseidon, tethered a tornado
You have delivered what you'd promised
Without having impregnated
Just by christening a conception
What was not around here before
What your mind couldn't keep
A secret any more
You are happy, exhausted
Relieved, proud, thankful
Like finding the father
Of your illegitimate offspring
It is a tiring game, you are spent
Time to rest
Rest in Peace
“If every event which occurred could be given a name, there would be no need for stories.”
? John Berger, Once In Europa
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.
How well the blood reacts
to the earth’s pre-monsoon smell—
rushing in every possible direction
aimlessly, leaping about the place
as those bare-boiled children do
under the year’s first rain.
How does one hold such blood
in order, separate
what goes into the heart from
what issues from its remotest corner?
From outside, everything looks fine,
as though long-trained to remain so:
the hand moving in perfect sweep
to the eye so it might
wipe off what the eyes cannot see
and yet long for;
the lips making just those words
that are right for the occasion;
the head bent sideways, as if
in appreciation of all
that is meant to matter here, hereafter.
But somewhere, at some point where
according to some perilous law, blood meets
blood, something appears to be missing--
a word unspoken, maybe unheard.
As I watch the steady rain fall,
the sound of the blood can be heard
on the rooftops and down there
among the dancing feet of children
in the rain. Something remains absent
in the middle of these sounds
and movements, something
very near to what couldn’t be said
or carried in the blood.
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.
"Don't waste time looking at old photos!" the wife barked at me when she saw me blowing the dust away from an old photograph. I had just found it in an ancient tin trunk while 'spring cleaning' our house in preparation for our golden jubilee anniversary celebrations. My wife wanted all unwanted items accumulated over the years to be discarded before we entered what she called the 'twilight innings' of our life, the time when darkness closes in and yet there's a spark of light to brighten one's years.
Shifting through so many trunks, suitcases, cartons and cupboards was a Herculean task, with all of them heavily infiltrated by an army of junk! There were old clothes in various stages of disrepair, electrical wires and fittings that had lost their conductivity long back, as also plastic toys and soap dishes destined to outlive their owners twice over. The tedious work of carrying out 'due diligence' of the contents of the boxes was so vexing, especially with a cantankerous wife in the background, that I felt like throwing everything in the junkyard. Yet, I couldn't very well do that, since it would have meant throwing the baby out along with the bathwater. That everything inside those trunks was not 'garbage' was amply demonstrated by the precious photo that had risen like a phoenix from mounds of dust. It was remarkably well preserved, considering what it had gone through for such a long time. But there was no time to examine it at length; my idling was causing ominous rumbles to emanate from my wife, who would not let me rest in peace till the task on hand had been completed to her satisfaction. So, I put the photo away in my pocket and carried on with my rummaging.
Later that evening, relaxing in my chair, I took out the photo. After divesting it of layers of dirt that it had been saddled with for decades, I looked at it with a tinge of nostalgia. It was a portrait of our small family taken at a local studio a couple of years post-marriage. Our son had just been born and my wife's midriff was still struggling to acquire its status quo ante. What a happy picture we presented then!
I wanted to preserve it and took it to a photo studio to see how best that could be done. The studio owner marvelled at the quality of the material used in those days. "Now, prints hardly last ten years," he remarked. When I enquired about framing it, he said, "I don't think that's advisable. Moisture within the frame will make the picture stick to the glass and then the photo will peel off in pieces, spoiling it totally, unless a gap is left between the photo and the glass."
I went to a photo framer and presented my predicament to him. "The photo must mean a great deal to you," he quipped with a smirk.
"Yes, but what's that to you?" I was peeved by what I perceived as infringement into my private domain. But he did a good job of 'double framing' it, as he called it, leaving a gap between the photo and its glass frame. Taking the framed picture home, I hung it on our bedroom wall. I wanted it to be a surprise for my wife. She saw it when we were preparing to retire and piped up to her full volume, "What on earth do you want to display that stupid photo here for? I look so idiotic in that rustic sari!"
I gave her a disarming smile. "Because that's the silly girl I fell in love with and married, darling, not the one now by my side!”
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.
Five day weeks were still in the distant realm of the possible. The workday used to start at seven in the morning and officially last till 1330 hrs. But winding up the day’s work, ensuring that the office premises were secure before leaving etc. invariably stretched till 1415/1430. Lunch in the mess with other dining members, exchanging the day’s experience, extended generally up to 1530. Games and sports at 1630 left little time for siesta.
Sundays therefore were special. One could sleep till late, particularly after a late night session of ‘rum and rummy’ on Saturday evenings.
So one can imagine the shock when the duty waiter, knocks on your door at seven on a Sunday morning, and announces on your bleary eyed, barely awake face that the Station Commander was waiting at the squash court and wanted me to join him for a few games. All the sleep evaporated and I hurriedly dressed, grabbed the racquet, dashed out of doors buttoning up the knickers (zips were still sometime in the future).
Myriads of thoughts were crossing the mind about what to expect, but I heaved a huge sigh of relief when greeted by the CO, “ kyon nind se jaga diya kya”. A few games followed. We youngsters had learnt the fine art of putting up a vigorous fight before ‘sadly’ loosing to the boss. A cup of tea at the end of it was followed by a conversation with the Statin Commander, which went something like this,
“What are you doing after breakfast?”
“Nothing sir.”
“Okey come over to my place on your bike. Bring a spare helmet. Is 0930 okay.”
Reached the Station Commander’s residence right on the hour to find him waiting outside. He promptly climbed on to my pillion, put on the ‘spare’ helmet and said ‘chalo’. I made bold to ask him ‘where to sir’.
‘Nashik’, was his laconic reply. At the time (1976) I was posted at Devlali, a small military town in Maharashtra near Nashik. It housed the training center for Officers of Corps of Artillery. Indian Air Force has an important storage and supply depot there. Those days Devlali was the typically proverbial ‘one horse town’, with a couple of nice eateries, a couple of movie halls and little else. Nashik, about 20 Kms from the Air Force base, was the nearest city with most facilities.
Conversation on a Yezdi motorcycle, whose silencer mufflers were removed, at the whim of the young owner, was a difficult proposition. And what kind of conversation a young Pilot Officer could have with Station Commander. I was riding as if in a straight jacket. So it was mostly a silent drive.
After driving for about thirty minutes, a tap on the shoulders was the indication to stop. I found that we had stopped at a popular vehicle repair garage run by a retired Subedar of the Corps of EME (Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) of the Army. Seeing us the old soldier bounded out and greeted the Station Commander with due respect and that is when I noticed the old two door model Standard Herald car of the CO parked nicely washed and polished.
“Arey Saheb, why did you have to come, you could have sent someone to collect the car” the Subedar said. “I just wanted to see the repairs myself” the Stn Cdr parried. We were treated to some warm tea and biscuits. Dues paid, car collected, we returned to camp.
This Station Commander, Late Air Cmde Manjeet Singh Judge AVSM,VSM, would never use service resources for personal needs. The inconvenience to Pilot Officer Das was compensated by an invitation to 'dinner and drinks’ at his place.
This was an unforgettable example of probity in public life for a young officer.
............................
The annual inspection visit by the Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief (C-in-C) is the event of the year at any Air Force Station. A ‘good’ inspection meant a good report for the Station Commander. So no effort was spared to make the visit a success. Air Marshal IH Latif, C-in-C, Maintenance Command, (later Chief of the Air STaff) was on annual inspection visit to Devlali.
The first item on agenda is the station parade, in which all personnel take part. It gives an indication of the state of discipline of the Station. It went off well. The C-in-C, after reviewing the parade, was brought to office of the Station Commander for a cup of tea, debrief on the parade, before setting course for visits to various sites and sections.
I was the Station adjutant, waiting outside to open the car door for the C-in-C. He came out, to find me stiff in ‘attention’ position holding the door open, thanked me as he entered the car. The next thing that happened is indelibly imprinted in my mind. The Station Commander told the C-in-C, ‘Sir, during your visits you will find some shortcomings. They are all mine, please tell me about them. My boys have done whatever I have asked them to do’.
Another lesson in PROBITY in public life. Don’t find the likes of him any more.
Jane kahan gaye woh din.
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.
It still rains
Pattering all night
Breaking deadly silence
Keeping me awake
In a pensive state.
Let me love little more
To my heart’s content
Before it stops and goes
Stealing away my beloved
And evocation of feelings
Going beyond my control.
Oh ! Rain ,
My dearest friend,
You are the only witness
To my love in true sense
That I keep in my closet,
Away from everyone
Including my love interest.
You know,
I am only comfortable
Expressing my love
In your presence,
Particularly,
When you insist on
With your persistence.
If you wish
You may go.
Do come back
During the spring
When romance is
At the peak.
Flowers spreading fragrance
Birds singing in tandem.
Come quietly to drizzle
In gentle pace.
And sprinkle my love
On my beloved
Telling all the secrets.
"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.
Female,
The Fe part in a male,
Forged and wrought,
Emerges from the dross
As one lustrous component.
An element that can fortify,
A symbol for sustaining the life.
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.
(Title borrowed from Mathew Arnold)
Lathaprem Sakhya
Kanaka from her childhood was fascinated by the myths of mermaids and mermen. She read all the stories and myths related to them and they left a deep impression on her mind. But the story of the forsaken merman which Mathew Arnold had written as a poem haunted her.
It gave her an answer which she had been searching within herself for a long time. Her parents had consented to the intercaste marriage and both the families were happy. But society around Kanaka was full of questions. Some questions she answered, some she didn' t purposely. For, she herself was in search of an answer.
Born in an orthodox Christian family she never expected that her father would consent to an intercaste marriage. Like almost all the love affairs in the 60s and 70s she thought they would go their different ways. Her husband's mother too being a staunch Hindu she was certain that he would never get consent from his mother so their love had to be buried in their hearts, she thought. Thus after her PG she had sent in applications to various institutions and was waiting for a job.
One afternoon Niranjan and his mother came to their house. It was so far off from the main town, in a remote hilly region. Without any prior information they arrived. In those days communication was totally impossible for people in remote villages. How his mother made the long walk through the paddy fields and valleys to reach their house was a mystery to her. Climbing the hill, the last lap to her house was totally tiring for her, yet she made it to the top. She was on the verge of falling down, so tired she was trekking up the hill. When she decided to come, she never expected it to be so difficult.
Living all her life in the city this was a new experience for her. It was time for Niranjan to get married. All his brothers had settled down and he was the youngest. He wouldn't consent to any proposals put forth by his uncle. At last he confided in his mother. She remembered the fair young girl who lived on the other side of the road. She liked that family a lot and was really sad when they moved away, after selling their house. She couldn't believe that Niranjan had a yen for that girl. The decision to go to Kanaka' s house was taken quickly. She knew that once Niranjan makes up his mind it is fixed forever
Kanaka's mother was delighted to see her neighbour after a gap of nearly seven years. They had come to this remote village after her father decided to give up his business in the town and devote full time to farming. After serving them refreshments Kanaka disappeared into her den. She had never expected such a move from Niranjan's side. What would be Appa's answer, gave her the jitters. Hiding in her room she watched them through the chink in the window,
Appa, Niranjan, his mother and her Amma were in deep discussion. Appa' s face was inscrutable. When he got up from the chair there was a smile on his face. She ran to the verandah and hid behind the door and she caught him saying in his broken Malayalam mixed with Thamizh words, "Sister, because you came all the way to ask for her hand, I will give her to you, after she gets a job and stands on her feet." Appa's word was always a promise, for he was a man of few words and never broke his word. Kanaka was told later that her father had consented for the marriage but it would be only a Registered marriage as they belonged to different religions. And he didn’t believe in religious conversion as religion was a personal affair. And that the marriage would take place only after she got a job, as Niranjan had already landed one.
Kanaka was planning to do research when she got appointed as a lecturer. In due course, after six months she was married off, at the Registrar's office. Only her aunt from her mother's side turned up. All the other relatives were at war. Appa did not bother. Niranjan' s family took Kanaka to heart and that was enough for Kanaka's parents. And it was an acceptance of two families with all their differences in customs and religious beliefs intact.
Life went on smoothly for Kanaka but for the frequent questions, admonitions and advices of her co-workers and her supposed well wishers
"When are you going to join a church?"
"Will Niranjan convert?"
"In which religion do you believe now?"
"Are you going to embrace Hinduism?"
"Both of you should embrace one religion or it will affect your children's future."
Like that, these questions and the innuendoes sometimes prompted her to discuss with Niranjan.
"Look Kanaka, do what gives you happiness, peace of mind and comfort. I am not a believer."
"What about our child?" Kanaka would ask
She can decide her religion when she grows up.
Kanaka was happy. For her, her sole God was Jesus Christ. He was her strength and power and she taught her daughter everything she knew about her own religion.
Kanaka had seen Niranjan's mother light a lamp and pray at twilight, without fail everyday. She inculcated it into her life too. Every evening they would light the lamp and sing hymns and pray to God Almighty.
Kanaka was sure that God would be pleased with her even if she did not go to church.
Whenever her friends told her she should join a church she would say, "Yes, if God wills, one day, when Niranjan says let us join a church". Until then her church would be the room where she and her daughter sat to worship their Lord. She did not want to save her soul leaving Niranjan and her daughter out. Yes, if she went to church it would be with her Niranjan and Juny. She did not want to be like the cruel lady Margaret who married the king of mermen and went to live under the sea and then deserted him and her children to save her soul. Though it is a fantasy she still loved the tale.
Margaret, a young woman, falls in love with a merman. The merman was the king of an underwater kingdom and he could not change his fish body. So he told her it was easy for her to go and live with him. She went with him to the kingdom under the ocean where she lived as his queen and became a mother to three children. Years sped by and suddenly without warning a wave of nostalgia struck her. She starts yearning for her home. Usually it happened when the bell of the church near the shore tolled for evening prayers. She would then be assailed by an intense desire to save her soul. So one day she told her merman king that she wanted to go to church and pray for her soul when Easter came. For, the church bell that tolls on the land is beckoning her. He lets her go on condition that she should return after her prayers. But she never returned.
The merman and his children waited for a few months, then they went in search of her on the shore.They would sit on the rocky shore in the even tide everyday, calling out "Mother, mother please come back." One day, at twilight, even the merman called out "Margaret, Margaret". There was no answer. That day with their fish bodies so unwieldy, they arduously climbed on the shore and made their way to the nearby church.
They looked through the window and saw her sitting in prayer her eyes raised heaven ward. They called out to her but she did not look at them. Tired, the merman herded his little ones back to the sea and they went back to their palace under the ocean. The merman told his children they should never wait for her again.
"Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!
Call her once before you go—
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain—
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
"Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!
Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-wall'd town
And the little grey church on the windy shore,
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!
.................
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side—
And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea."
(From the "The Forsaken Merman" by Mathew Arnold)
Yes, Kanaka never wanted to desert her family and save her soul. She was sure even God would not accept her if she deserted them... For God being Love, loving one another as you love yourself is the most important tenet ...
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
What is there to boast of?
Beauty withers like a flower
Health fails to many an ailment
Wealth can perish to penury
True love may turn false
Earth is shattered
Justice has become a fairy tale
Kindness a false promise
Aborigines continue to be outcast
The poor remains poor
Discrimination and segregation
Appear in new shades
Many a woman is snubbed, thrashed,
Raped and burnt to death
Children are treated ill and denied
The pleasures of childhood
Leaders are deprived of their loyalty,
Voicing hollow ideals pointing nothing
Trust is lost; malice in sway.
Stark reality, though it be,
Let’s carry a spot of light in the darkness
A drop of love in the loveless ocean
Sharing and caring beyond barriers
Light will dispel darkness
Love will overcome enmity!
Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 32 books of the members so far.
PRAKRITI - MY ALL!
Madhumathi H
Nature, is God's pseudonym...
The divine, smiles through a myriad pattern
Colors, textures, and scents of the universe
Nature nurtures, nourishes, and heals our soul
Like a doting parent, precious friend...
The tall brown mountains, like heaps of caramel and cocoa
The gentle wind, carrying Jasmine's whisper
Silvery streams, like flowing glass
Milky cascades, rapturous river, and the Magnum opus ocean
Nature is an artist with a magic palette
Being the canvas, and the art too
Heals our frail soul, waters our parched heart
Gently hugs our quivering tears, and
Transforms them into sunshine smiles, and laughter...
Love-scented oxygen from the gallery of green
Colors on petals, sticking to my soul to bloom in my dreams
Crisp blue sky, Parijat-kissed breeze
Nectar from the flowers, drenching my heart
Honeyed-joy treasured from everyday walks
Solitude, sprouting from the womb of silence
Nature heals, and restores hope...
Like a child my heart pauses, at
The twigs the birds use to build their nests
'A home is made of hearts', and
I hear happy conversations, when I listen to the twigs...
Those golden yellow blossoms, Peach, Majenta, white Bougainvilleas
Gulmohar, smiling at the sparrows, and squirrels
Anamika milky lilac, ochre leaves with crimson splashes
`
Half-bitten badam shell, in beetroot shades
Clutching them, my palm blushes too, while eyes grin
(Ssshhh! No! I can't share them, please...)
None of the blossoms I carry home were plucked but picked
As they swirl from the branches, and
Kiss the earth, sometimes
Land on the vehicles that hibernate...
Pebbles, from the riverside walk
Myriad leaves as fabrics of seasons
The eucalyptus, soul's aroma therapy
Oranges and lemon, intoxicating
Pomegranates and mangoes, appetizing
Deliciousness abound, in Nature's world...
Some feathers are the resume of birds
That carry stories of faraway Skies, and restored answers
Reminding me, Nature is my nest, home, cradle and swing...
My Mitr Mentor shoulder and anchor, Nature
Asks me to believe each day
I belong to those emerald feathers
Sunshine petals, Azure blue of the canopying sky, and
To a million hues of the universe
Its eternal patterns, and
My soul camouflaged by Nature
Am an obedient student, surrendering to Nature's immortal feet
Observing with love, allowing myself to be absorbed...
Can I ever stop, from sharing
What all my soul inhales in rapture, but
Somewhere I have to, while Nature
Will be gifting me bliss each day
Sunsets and moon rises, butterflies bird songs to thunder
Rhythm of rain, Petrichor, clouds and the taste of raindrops...
Each day, my heart would expand and explode in joy
Stacking up the treasures from Nature...
At the break of dawn
As a dewdrop kisses a blade of grass, and the earth melts
A brand new heart, gets ready
For all the Euphoria!
I elope with Nature every single day, and
Come back home, with a blushing soul
A healed heart, stolen kisses from the flowers, and
A mind as light as mist
Like Wordsworth, Keats, Bharathi, and Shelley
Nature never did betray me
My last breath will smell of gratitude and love, settling on eternity's lake
Please meet me in my poems, for
My soul shall never leave my words
That Metamorphose as Nature...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
I am the tide
The rising tide
The ebbing tide
The flowing tide of music
That's inside
You.
I am always all around
For I am the deep, profound
Soul of sound
From Mother's heartbeat in the womb
To the Requiem in the tomb
I am ever there for you
Always there for you.
When my waves leap up and surge
And you feel a mighty urge
To touch your particular star
I teach you who you are
Who you are.
I sussurate, I sigh,
As I toss you up on high,
The seagulls cried,
Your sails spread wide,
And finally you surf the tide
Of the music that's inside you.
The billowing tide,
The heaving tide
Of the music that's inside
You.
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
Sought
Approval for identity.
Failed.
Changed identity for approval.
Gained
Neither identity nor approval.
Dejected.
Law of attraction works.
Rejection.
Paradigm shift.
Filled with self acceptance.
Smiles aplenty.
Law of attraction works.
Nods of approval flow.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
LIFE OF AN ASSISTANT HUNTER
Sunil Kumar Biswal
(Disclaimer: This fiction of a story is set in a bygone era and hunting is a gross criminal offence now. We should protect our animals, forests as they are crucial to our eco-system)
The views through my train window was simply breathe taking. It had just left Koraput Station at 5.50PM sharp. Koraput is an unofficial hill station of Odisha. The next station was at Damanjodi, home to the biggest Alumina Refinery of Asia. Along the way the route passed through Sunabeda where the bleeding age technology combat aircraft Su-30 is built by HAL . The rail route runs alongside the Kolab Dam Reservoir. The vast expanses of the water extend to horizon dotted with never ending mountains. Depending on time of the year the place offers different eye candy pictures to the traveller and compensates the unearthly 16 hours journey to the state capital at Bhubaneswar. This was the monsoon season and Koraput has it’s special typical climate where the rain lasts for days together. The last few days had been no different and it was only today that the weather had become somewhat sober. I was happily seated at my window side seat and soaking myself with the bounties of nature while the train was warming up to the night’s journey. By the time the train pulled into Damanjodi station it was already beginning to be dark. A new passenger had taken seat before me and we exchanged pleasantries and found that both of us were going to Bhubaneswar. He seemed a man to be in late fifties and the one thing that immediately drew my attention was his thick moustache which ended on either side tapering to needle thin pointing upward. A locket of tiger nails imitating his moustache was dangling from a golden chain. “Muchhe ho to aisi, barna na ho” I chuckled to myself mentally. It appeared that we may have nothing in common to strike a conversation and I hated to discuss politics, the staple subject for most people during long journeys. The cacophony from animated discussions from other passengers, playful giggles from children travelling with their parents filled the compartment.
The advent of smart phones had obviated the charm of a discussion with co-passengers and soon I put on my earphones to listen to listen to golden oldies. Briefly when I opened my eyes, saw that my co-passenger was immersed in a Jim Corbett book. The train was moving on and one by one all milestone stations were left behind.
I was happily lost in soothing music when there was a sudden jolt with loud noise. I was bodily lifted from my seat and fell face down flat on the floor of the train. I opened my eyes but could see nothing as the power had gone out. There was screams from all sides, children were crying, mothers were trying to hold on to them and assess of their well being. Someone switched on the mobile torch and I looked up to find a hand extended at me trying to help me get up. It was my co passenger. I took his help and stood up. For next few minutes we helped other passenger and found that apart from the loud jolt no one had suffered any injury. I found my co-passenger much more agile than me though we both seemed to be of same age.
‘Sir, Thanks for helping me. My name is Suresh. What’s your name sir?’ I asked.
‘My name is Duryodhan Sahu. I am a manager in the refinery’. Answered my co-passenger.
It soon became apparent that the rail track ahead was blocked due to a massive landslide and we were struck. The guards of the train went around calling out if any one was injured and assured us of early rescue. This rail route passes through most desolate areas of valleys of Eastern Ghats mountain range passing through innumerable tunnels, cliffs and forest. The only source of rescue is by the railways which would take few hours to respond to the situation and not before next morning. We were condemned to our fate till such rescue reached us. What was comforting was that, apart from the sudden jolt of emergency brakes, no passenger had suffered any injury.
We were now at our seats looking at the moonlit jungle outside. It was a moonlit night and I could see the dense jungle and the valleys in distance which seemed very surreal.
‘It looks mesmerizing, is not it?’ Asked Duryodhan.
‘Oh, they sure do. Mysterious, beautiful and dangerous’, I said half to myself and half in response to Duryodhan’s question. The Jungle out there presented a sight beyond words.
‘Dangerous did you say? Have you ever really known the jungles?’ Duryodhan turned his head towards me with brows raised in inquisitive expression. He seemed to be in a mood to carry on a lengthy discussion for which I was not ready. The prospect of immersing myself in bliss of golden oldies while enjoying beauty of jungle in a moonlit night was a better proposition.
‘Duryodhan babu, the jungle you see there is more dangerous than exciting as you presume it to be or as it appears to be from that Jim Corbett book you hold in your hand. You just have to walk into it to get a taste of it.’ I said.
‘I did more than that, Suresh babu, for me it was a way of life once. I was a “Pari Banua”. He answered with a smile.
‘Whats that you said ? Pari Banua ?’ I asked
‘See, “Banua” is the chief hunter. A “Pari Banua” assists him while he goes around hunting’. Duryodhan was lost in the view of jungle outside while responding to my querry.
‘Hunter? Assistant hunter?? Are you serious Duryodhan babu, are not hunters a little bit incongruous in our times ?’ I asked inquisitively.
‘Believe me sir; it was all I did once up on a time’. Duryodhan’s eyes went up to the shining half moon while he answered me’ He almost seemed to have gone into a trance trying to recall a bygone era.
I had instinctively removed my earphones to move to edge of my seat to prepare myself to listen for this seemingly exciting story from him.
‘Oh yes, I would love to hear few of your experiences, if you do not have any objection, Duryodhan babu”. I said trying to hide the excitement in me.
‘But this place is too noisy with people shouting, discussing and children, music playing from mobile phones. Story of jungle deserved to be told in a befitting place. Let’s go to the front of the train.” Duryodhan suggested.
Shall we go? Duryodhan was impatient.
‘Ok, let’s go then.’ I switched on my mobile torch and we climbed down the ladder of the bogie to the track below. We saw many a passengers already out on the track with beaming their mobile torches trying in vain to dispel the darkness. I could see the silhouette of the train, the power lines in the dim moonlight and it created an eerie scene.
There was someone, probably the guard of the train from the rear of the train calling out at the passengers not to alight from the bogie as it was dangerous to do so. The message was relayed by passengers of the last bogie to the passengers of next bogie and the message travelled till the other end of the train. Someone willfully inserted the word ‘Tiger” to the original message and soon every passenger on track made quick retreats to safe confines of the bogie. Doors were slammed shut and I too sprang to board the train. Duryodhan caught hold of my arm and said-
‘Never mind the warning. There is no tiger around. Not even a deer. They are history. I am dying to see the jungle and explore the area more. Let’s move to the point where the landslide is. That is perfect place for us to relive my “Pari Banua” days. This train is going nowhere before morning’. Duryodhan was all excited and bubbled with energy.
We started walking in direction of the train engine. He was more adept at walking then me as I used my mobile flash to light up the path ahead still stumbling few times. Duryodhan stopped me and asked to switch off the torch and asked me to keep my eyes closed for some time. While I did so, he whispered ‘Suresh Babu, this is your lesson one, when you are in a jungle, use no light and make no sound”.
Now, open your eyes and try to look around you. Do not worry you will get used to and start seeing enough to find your way. Duryodhan had taken the role of mentoring me into the art of being in a jungle.
True to his words, I could make out shapes and could now walk relatively comfortably following him. We passed the engine and reached the spot where the land slide had blocked the track.
‘ Suresh Babu, look down there; can you see the rail track and the train?’ Duryodhan pointed at the place we just had left behind and climbed up on the steep wall of the hill. We were on top of a rock that offered view of the jungle from a vantage point. The sky was dimly lit by the half moon and was full of an unusual number of stars.
‘My God, So many stars? I exclaimed. Duryodhan was now seated on the flat rock and was motioning me to also stop besides him.
‘The sky is always full of stars, it’s a different story that we have no time to see them and never see them due to glare of lights in the urban areas.’ Remarked Duryodhan sarcastically.
‘Well Suresh babu, let me take you back to my days as an apprentice to skilled hunters. It was long long ago when I was just out of my college and was on a mission to get a job somewhere. I was staying with my parents then in Cuttack. I was fond of food and particularly relished non-vegetarian food. As my family was strictly vegetarian, I had to satisfy my cravings in hotels and many a times at my friends’ places. On one such occasion I met a group of hunters at my buddy’s house. The tales of jungle and their heroic encounters fascinated me. Gradually I got so acquainted with them that they taught me how to make bullets of different kinds for their country rifle, taught me how to make crude rifles, taught me how to lay an ambush for the animals, how to imitate different cries of a variety of animals. It is something like today’s discovery channel shows on animals. I never knew when I started going with them as an apprentice to give them a helping hand on their hunting expeditions.
I interrupted him “But why would anyone wish to hunt? Was it not illegal then as it is now? And is it not cruel to kill innocent animals by shooting arrows or guns at them?”
‘You are right, even I have similar view as yours now, but those days were different. I won’t do it today for a thousand reasons which I never ever thought in those days. The hunters were normal people like us leading normal life like everyone but once in a while they went out on hunting expeditions. They did it for the sheer thrill and for the meat they would get. The forest rules were there but no one to monitor.’ Said Duryodhan.
‘And how did the hunting happen…?’ I was really too eager to listen.
‘Wait, we will have all of that if you promise not to interrupt me. Here, do you take this?’ It was Duryodhan’s turn.
He took out a bottle of cold drink from his bag slung over his shoulder and held at me. ‘Please taste it. Already mixed with soda and water’. He tried to update me at nature of drink he was offering.
We took sips of the intoxicating drink by turns as he started his time travel.
**********************************************************************************
The hunting plan would begin with informers in villages close to the jungles. The informer was part of the chain and he would closely monitor the movement of all animals timing them. He would avoid areas which were frequented by dangerous predator animals like Tiger, Bears, and Elephants and choose areas where preys of our interest could be met. He would dig up few pits around the watering holes of the animals. On the day of hunt it was his duty to cook food for us, to lead us to the pits and cover us up once we were inside the pit. Then he would go back to his village before evening. His support to us was paid off by some money and a share from the kill. That was the tradition of such informers and they enjoyed trust of the hunters’ generation after generation.
On the day of hunt we, a group of four to five “Banua” and about eight or ten “Pari Banua” would set off from Cuttack by bi-cycles. We would cross the Kathajodi river which was mostly of sandy bed and a narrow shallow stream of water and reach the other side of river at a place named Chandaka. Our target was the “Chudanga Gada forest”. Our first stop was at the informer’s village where we would have our heavy lunch and then the he would lead us to the selected location of hunt. All ten or fifteen of us would be divided into five groups and enter into the pits. The informer would cover our pits with cut branches camouflaging it and would leave us.
Here would start the most critical part of the adventure. We had to wait, wait and wait for the night to fall, for the animals to come. Each moment would seem like an eternity. If we felt like sleeping we would but at least one member of the pit would remain awake at all times. The main hunter would have the best gun and we the assistants would have functional guns more as a tool to boost our confidence and also to give us a feel of it. During the time the hunters were in the pit, no one was allowed to speak, not allowed to smoke, not even allowed to cough or sneeze. If they wished to talk amongst them self they did so by imitating sound of some insect. I was particularly good at making sound of a female tiger but it was of no use as we were not tiger hunters and our plans always avoided areas where tigers were likely to be seen. Hunters develop a sixth sense while at the jungle and can sense the presence of animals by smell, sound and reactions from other animals.
At last when the night comes, the forest is enveloped in complete darkness and it becomes noisier by the constant hum of a million varieties of insects. We can see above the pits but hidden below the camouflaging cut branches all around the pit and our trained eyes could see in darkness everything that moved about us.
Finally when our target animal came to drink water, the hunter from the closest pit or from the pit with the most vantage view pulls the trigger. His trained ear could know if the bullet has hit the target or flew off in a wrong way. The rule was that only the hunter who pulled the trigger and hit , would immediately come out of his pit and run to the injured animal. He had to chop off the hoofs of the poor animal and if often have to urinate on it.
‘Why So?’ Was my question as I had forgotten his warnings not to interfere in his thought process?
Duryodhan looked at me in a frustration of breaching his condition and said, ‘do you know that when the animals die, they become ghosts and such ghosts are aplenty in the jungles. The moment a deer is hurt, they enter the body and make the dead animal take a flight and it is very difficult to run after such an animal that is possessed by the “BHUTIA” the animal ghost.’
I took a sip from the bottle he passed at me and looked deep into his face or whatever was visible at this dark night. Just to check if he still was sane or the alcohol had taken over him.
‘Many often’, he went on, ‘deer who are hit by bullets runaway at unbelievable speed and just vanish into the wild bush. It is difficult to trace them despite our best efforts. To prevent that the hunters have to cut off the hoofs’
“But why urinate ?” Suspense was killing me now.
‘So that the BHUTIA, the animal ghost refrains from possessing an impure body’ Said Duryodhan seriously.
Duryodhan went on ‘Then all of us come out of the pits and the hunters would rejoice by smoking beedi the urge for which they had suppressed for so long a time. The dead animal would be taken to house of the informer and everyone got their due. I got to eat a sumptuous meal with the meat from kill and that all I was in the team for.’
Duryodhan looked remorsefully at me and said ‘Gradually my disillusion at cruelty to the animals was more intense than my fascination for the jungle or the meat I so craved and I stopped joining the expeditions, but I had learnt the skills and had this burning desire to try them on my own. May be god wished to fulfill my dream and we are struck here for my dream to come true.’
Suresh babu, are you listening? He asked thinking probably I was not.
‘Yes yes, that’s quite an experience of yours.’ I answered.
‘Suresh babu, I will give you a demonstration of what skills I have acquired but never got a chance to apply’ Duryodhan sounded like lab assistant of a junior college lecturing his students.
He went on ‘You please sit here and close your eyes. Imagine that this jungle is full of man-eater tigers just like Kumaon or Kaladungi. I will move to that stream and try to mimic call of a tigress. Had it been real Kumaon or Kaladungi, a real tiger would have responded to my call, but we are unfortunate to be in a jungle that has been stripped of the last rabbit’. He chuckled loudly and moved away from my sight to my surprise.
I closed my eyes and let my imagination run wild putting myself deep inside an Amazon forest. My modest setup of Koraput jungle only provided with little cues by the constant chirping of the insects. I erased the occasional sound drifting towards us from the stranded train and focused deep at my imaginary Amazon.
I heard a roar muffled at first and then clearly, the roar grew in intensity and frequency. I simulated the presence of a female tiger and thanked Duryodhan’s skill as it sounded almost original.
Then, the roar was replaced by a ferocious blare as if coming from a real royal Bengal tiger. It sounded so real and numbing that I not only stopped simulating but was gripped with fear. And then came a shrill cry of a human and mixed with thundering roar of a tiger. In a shock, I opened my eyes and could not make out if I was dreaming or the scene was real . I instinctively sprang from the rock I was sitting on and dashed in direction of train several feet below. The ground was slippery due to rain and I tripped, slipped, rolled and then blacked out.
* * * *
The maintenance staff of the railways that were assessing the damage at the blockade saw someone laying on the track on the debris of landslide and the engine driver recognized me as he had seen us going up the hill. I was helped to stand up and taken to my seat. I was too numb and too exhausted by the trauma to express anything. I tried to answer the volley of question thrown at me but could barely mumble anything intelligible. I was sent to laxmipur station by the railway maintenance push kart and then to local hospital for treatment and that was last I heard of Duryodhan.
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com
Some days are really tough,
How I wish they weren't so rough.
Why so much of chaos and turbulence,
Mind and heart seem to be losing patience.
A feeling that all strength has deserted us,
Looking forward for an anchor to tow us.
Will no one resolve this incertitude?
Until I heard my inner voice rattling me,
The answer was somewhere within me-
My attitude is everything is what I heard .
I just had to come to terms with life,
Stand like a rock against all strife.
I had to rise up with my wave of thoughts,
Helping me row forward to reach my destined shores.
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 TRUE STORY - IN THE LIFE OF A GENIUS NAMED RAHDNOOS!
PART I
Rahdnoos, The Sly! Rahdnoos, The Fearless!
When it was that Rahdnoos, an overweight strapping genius (in the true sense of the word), 25 years old, finally plucked the courage to ask his parents permission to buy a cell phone, they peremptorily denied him, with a ringing “no!” that bounced off the wall-papered walls. The ringing lingered with more than a mere rejection. It was laced with a ‘whence-the-audacity?’, with the unmistaken edge of ‘don’t-bring-that-up-again’.
Rahdnoos, though did not know when to leave a bad thing alone.
Or perhaps he was just ignorant of the consequences of broaching a subject that had been definitively put to rest.
He waited a few days, a few minutes more for added measure, then coughing with ease he repeated the question as if to spark conversation, waft fresh air into the musty, TV-laden vibes of his parents’ living room.
“Mawther,” he began gently positioning his foray during a lull in the cacophony from the television.
“Mawther-can-I-have-a-cell-phone?”
It came out quickly, the question almost conflated into one word.
Prising his parents from the television is never easy. Once their eyes are locked, they are riveted till the channel needs a-changing or bed-time rolls around, or stomachs start rumbling-grumbling; no question easily answered, no interjection vainly brooked. His father was present, just as before. But it was to the cooing dandelion-down corners of the feathery soft of his mother’s heart that Rahdnoos directed his question to.
His mother, eyes widening as she turned slowly, her breathing apparent from the slight trembling nostrils. She had surprisingly dismissed the fact that she was intently watching her favorite serial - Coronation Street.
If Rahdnoos seemed to conjecture his mother’s heart as being lined with dandelion-down, that dandelion-down was exploding and casting cirrus-cumulus clouds in the living room air.
His father had thrown himself into the ring too, with his glare.
And they were in unison when they yelled:
“NO!”
It was full-throttled, from voices that had metastasized into vaguely familiar, minor explosions. With a malice unmatched in Rahdnoos’s ears and a glint that seemed to lift the dullness in the room, they yelled once more:
“NAWWW!!”
The last “Nawww” caught Rahdnoos in the groove below where his rib-cages meet above his belly (he learned later - his “so-lar plex-us” - his mind mostly on rarefied thought, has little time for labels of body parts) and the bulge in his throat (his “A-dam’s A-pple – Adam of the Bible?” he had asked with a beatific smile one day in Sunday school). The “NAWWW!!” lifted him physically and dumped him without aplomb making him slouch more than he was used to. He cleared the strain in his throat that felt like a scratchy peel of an apple had lodged itself at the back. Rounding his shoulders, he looked at his father and then his mother, blinked almost as if he were ready for a catnap and continued to gaze somewhere pleasantly between his parents, intently, and then seeming to look beyond, a thousand yards away. He then shuffled up to his feet, paused to take a deep breath, sighed and ambled on his way to see through another day.
When a week or two later Rahdnoos called his mother from Raynes Park station before boarding the 4:13 to be picked up exactly 18 minutes later when the train rolled into Stoneleigh, he was asked:
“Are you going to be home soon, son? Are you at the station then?”
It was a matter-of-fact, everyday-question, a question that conveyed:
I am looking forward to your coming home soon; I have dinner ready for you; I know you must be hungry as usual at this time of the day; I know too, you are calling from where you usually call before boarding the train home.
Rahdnoos, the sly, bracing himself for what was to ensue, responded:
“I am in the twain, Mawther.”
“IN the train?” responded his mother imitating his tone.
Her mind kept ringing with the word ‘in’ and she had to stop that ringing before turning to hard-nosed curiosity.
She continued:
“Whose phone are you using? Is Jean with you in the train? Don’t play with me Rahdnoos, I am busy now”
. “Mine. It is my phone” said Rahdnoos drawing a not-so-subtle territorial line.
There was a pause at the other end, a feeling of being nonplussed, a feeling akin to being caught blindsided by the headlights of a truck on a dark highway. That feeling seemed to ooze through to Rahdnoos.
Instances abounded of Rahdnoos executing a thought in his mind, even when forewarned not to do so. If he saw no reason that was compelling enough to desist, then that inclination to see that thought to fruition was almost a certainty. His mother knew of this trait in him. Yet she paused, unable to comprehend the thought that he was talking while mobile from a ‘mobile’ that was his mobile? The pause lasted several seconds, not unlike a command to a computer from the early 1990’s uploaded with the latest software from this century. Rahdnoos wondered just for a moment whether he had lost connection; he looked at his cellphone, the luminous green was still on and the screen showed the seconds still ticking away; he wondered too, a little concerned, whether he had fallen short in his negotiating skills and the choice of the handset he had made in the transaction completed in the electronics store a week before.
“Mawther, are you there?
“Mawther. I’ll explain when I get home. I can’t speak too long, it can get expensive.”
He disconnected.
Calmly.
His parents learned over the next few hours that Rahdnoos, a week-to-the-day, had walked into a store, had chosen a plan and a phone that suited him and signed a contract more favorable than any of the contracts his parents had managed to lock into, with the help of a very understanding sales clerk. They learned that he had waited a week to learn to dance stubby fingers on the keypad blindly, learned to speed-dial important numbers, and the art of talking while walking, talking while eating, even talking while talking, anywhere, everywhere, without any concern as to who was listening. His parents knew that to cancel the contract would only hurt the more, financially.
They reasoned:
Rahdnoos does need a cellphone! After all, what would he do in an emergency and no one around knew of his inability to speak under pressure? And his words are not comprehensible at times… And so difficult to locate at times…
And it is not as if we are going to have to foot the bill. He will be paying for it through his own government allowance.
Yes! And now he will always be a touch-tone away!
A peal of laughter rang above the static crackling from the television.
PART II
A Warrior At Heart!
When it was that Rahdnoos was born, it was a joyous occasion. In a neighborhood that was new to them, his parents wanted to connect, seeking not merely acceptance from, but a belonging, to the community they were now a part of. Rahdnoos was well on his way before they had moved to their new locale and they hoped that the birth of a new one would be a warm excuse to break the ice with seeming well-wishers. After all, who can refuse a bundled joy in swaddled white? Who can turn away from the fresh fragrance of untainted breath, from tiny fingers that wrap around, not distinguishing black or white or brown? Who does not feel joy at the sound of a gurgled burp in a baby that brings a smile to the baby’s eyes and face and lips and toothless, pink gums? (That gurgled burp, by the way, Rahdnoos still willfully brings up after dinner much to the annoyance of those sitting next and the unbridled delight of those who slave in the kitchen)
Are these sweet-nothings of babies not universal causes for hugs?
When Rahdnoos finally made it into this world several weeks early, they sent out invitations to view the baby. As anticipated and hoped, the event was a good bonding-with-neighbors exercise. No one was able to resist the charm of a baby that seemed to be, just seemed to be…
As Rahdnoos grew into adulthood, family and friends were surprised how quickly he grew in intuitiveness and in honing his ability to brook glances that treated him an equal. If he intuited that another was merely a sum of platitudes he would just walk away hurt. Exchanges of pleasantries, he would leave to others bound by the mores of a society compelled to wallow in politeness and glibness. He could easily have become disillusioned with human beings, but it is to his credit that he learned to carve a niche, seeking not only refuge, but also residence on his own terms.
He learned an innate knowledge of his own abilities, of what he could do, how far he could go, to what limits he could stretch himself and most importantly - of when he needed looking after. His was indeed a lonely life though, for he had no option, most of the time, but to be in the company of those who were not necessarily faster-quicker-brighter-surer but almost always were at different wavelengths. He did not know how it felt to be involved intimately; that is not to say that he had no craving for intimacy. He did, but quickly grew to realize that there will never be anyone of his own ilk to say:
Ah Rahdnoos, I know how you feel – I too go through the same pall of loneliness.
The genius that he was, in a rarefied world that few tread, his personality was smelted from cravings unfulfilled. What is taken for granted by most - to play, to share, to laugh, to cry, to hug, to hold hands, to grow at an equal level were not experiences that lent him a richness. These unfulfilled needs formed a cross which he bore with great dignity. Over time he came to recognize these needs with increasing intensity but learned to subsume them and came out to meet the world silent. And yet he was always seeming to whisper:
I am here to stay a while.
Do I slight any?
Anyone wish to hide me away?
Then that for you
is a sign to climb
a rung, perhaps many.
But me? I am here to stay!
-a while, do what I may
within bounds-
to smile while fighting for causes
perhaps small, yet looming large within,
bearing unseen scars.
For know! that I am a Warrior at heart
Come dance with me.
Come ride these clouds
Of white and grey with me.
Not giving in, no self-pity!
You can guide in ways intangible-
like that extra ‘X’ or is it a ‘Y’?
-a mere technicality,
one that the eye - will not behold for any to see
And know!
I am a Warrior!
A Warrior at heart!
These words shimmer lightly around him; if obliquely articulated, they are not taken to heart; if they are expressed by Rahdnoos in certain actions, in a rare display of his powers, they are not believed by anyone! Well most who come in contact with him. For they think:
How can such thoughts emanate from one so of a world we do not identify with?
PART III
The Deep Blue Revelation
Two weeks pass after Rahdnoos’s cellphone mega-acquisition and he is sitting with his parents in their lounge, watching a documentary of how Deep Blue, the IBM supercomputer battled and bested Gary Kasparov, a genius of another kind, the greatest chess player in the history of the game. His parents learned that Deep Blue had been declared the winner. The world had been in thrall, in fear too that the day a computer had finally beaten man had arrived. The documentary pointed out that even though this event had been anticipated, even inevitable, still the watershed moment was thought to be some decades away- time enough for humanity to accept and embrace its own ‘inferiority’ to machine; time enough, perhaps, for human brains to evolve further and not be overtaken so comprehensively.
For a while at least.
But all too suddenly, it seemed, the chips had chipped in, caught up and whooshed past; the bytes had bit and bitten hard; the mouse was squeaking, its squeak resembled a roar more than a pipsqueak. The invasion of another intelligence destined to rule had finally begun! Paranoia in anticipation of the event had prevailed in some minds and now that the event had finally overtaken the Rahdnoos household, a ripple of mild unease was felt here too, an awe, a feeling of ‘what-now?’.
“God”, his mother said. “That is scary.”
“You are right”, his father said, “that is indeed disturbing.”
“What is it Mawther?” Rahdnoos intoned shaking his clenched cellphone, always at the ready for any incoming calls.
His mother wondered whether she should correct him on his pronunciation of ‘mother,’ but changed her mind. She had corrected him so many times, she let it go. Furrowing her forehead instead, she concentrated on his question; how should she explain their fears in a way that he would comprehend?
“Well son, you see a simple machine beat the greatest chess player in history. Kasparov – there has been no one like him ever before.”
“So what Mawther? Why did you say it is scary?”
“Well, what it means, my dear son, is that one day you and I could be ruled by computers and robots. We could end up being slaves of Deep Blue. Does that not frighten you Rahdnoos? Probably not you! You will be happy! Oh Rahdnoos! Why was I not blessed with you having even half a human brain, let alone that of Deep Blue’s brain, my dear, sweet Rahdnoos?”
She muted the television and getting up from her seat, went over to where Rahdnoos was regally seated and gave him a big hug.
Rahdnoos, smiling, did not attempt to free himself.
He then spoke into the shoulders of his mother, his words muffled in his mother’s embrace:
“ You mean we all could be slaves of a computer? Like I am a slave of you Mawther? Ha!! Just kidding Mawther.
He then came out of his mother’s embrace, held her at arms-length and said:
“Anyway, it’s only chess Mother.”
When he wanted to, he would revert to the correct pronunciation of the word.
Looking over his mother’s shoulder, he said:
“Don’t be frightened Father.”
And looking deep into his mother’s eyes as he continued to hold her, he purred:
“Anyway Mother, can Deep Blue give me a hug, like you do? Or can Deep Blue run to get you a cup of coffee with love like I do, when you most need it, without your asking?
Or knowing you have a headache, get you your aspirin without you asking? Or run to get a band aid when you get a paper-cut ”
“Mother! Mother!
Why are there tears in your…? Did I say anything to hurt you?”
PART IV
Light! For Those In The Shadowy Dark
When it was that Rahdnoos was born, they learned, several weeks later that he had embedded in him one extra something most ‘normal’ human beings do not have.
Not an extra digit in his left pinky that could have been surgically removed, not an extra toe that could have been hidden from human sight by never taking his socks off in public, perhaps.
No, not even an extra abundance of hair on his body that could have kept him warm when he refused to wear his jacket in the winter.
It was one extra something that was invisible and impossible to remove, intangible and outwardly non-existent.
An extra chromosome.
You mean those X chromosomes and Y chromosomes that we all are born with?
Yes those very Chromosomes!
Ah!
Yes Ah!
And what a direct hit that one extra chromosome made, for sure on his intellectual ability!
Hmm! Perhaps.
What is certain though, without an iota of doubt, that that extra chromosome had a direct positive impact on his ability to connect and love through his heart.
Rene Descartes is often quoted as having said :
“ Cogito, ergo sum” - “I think; therefore I am”
That still reverberates as an echoing truth not only in the hallowed halls of academe but also among the masses.
We are, because we think.
On that same vein then, Deep Blue with its ability to process billions of processes of thought, enough to beat any human chess player on this planet - also thinks.
Ask Kasparov - he will tell you with a stern glare that it is so!
So - just as we are, Deep Blue too is? Is that not hold if we are to go by Descartes’ philosophy?
Ask Rahdnoos though and he will disagree, vehemently, pulling the plug on that one.
For Rahdnoos, feeling determines whether we are or whether we are not.
For Rahdnoos, Rene Descartes would have uttered immortal and truer words had he said:
“Sentio contrecto; ergo sum.”
Translated, it would read: “I feel; therefore I am.”
For machines can never feel like human beings.
And so.
Let us leave Rahdnoos to his rarefied musings. Let us retreat in a whisper so as not to disturb his trail of feelings.
Rahdnoos! A Genius Thou Truly Art!
Jairam Seshadri returned from North America where he worked for several decades as a chartered accountant in senior positions in well established organisations. He now lives in Chennai with the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity with a smile on his mien induced by his three dogs. His legacy, he believes, will be his WOOF SONGS AND THE ETERNAL SELF SABOTEUR, a collection of poems dedicated to the memory of his three four-legged companions.
My Madras Day has nothing to do with Francis Day when he set foot on Madras soil three and odd centuries ago but it commenced three and odd decades ago when I joined my husband in Madras.
Fresh from college, (having passed out from Jamshedpur), I was new to the language and people of Madras and felt like a fish out of water until I picked up Tamil. In fact, it was an incident that took place a few days after my arrival in Madras that motivated me not only to learn spoken Tamil but conduct classes in spoken English for the benefit of those who were not fluent in the tongue.
Having been newly married, we were invited to a dinner by my husband's close friend. He welcomed us with great warmth, then introduced his wife to me and turning to my husband said, "Let mami and my wife be to themselves, I am sure the two of them will have a lot to talk." I had to silently follow the lady into the dining room and sit on the mat she had spread out for to sit on.
To my consternation she started the conversation in Tamil and noticing my blank look asked, "No Tamil?" I nodded my head in embarrassment. "I understand English, but no speak, no practice," she said apologetically. She was certainly better off than me in that she could at least follow what I said, I thought.
Life in Madras in those days was simple, uncomplicated and going out either by public transport or by one's own was a pleasure, as there was less vehicular traffic and commuters paid heed to traffic rules. Although there were quite a number of cinema halls in the city, very few of them screened latest Hindi movies.
When it came to food, people here generally preferred a three-course south Indian meal, where sambhar and rasam were a must. Chapattis and pooris were popular with the south Indians but they constituted "tiffin" and not a meal. I found it amusing to find chapattis were invariably accompanied by sagu (mixed vegetable) or "Bombay chutney" and pooris with "masala", i.e. potato and onion curry. Other side dishes were unheard-of.
Hotels/restaurants mostly offered south Indian fare. Connoisseurs of north Indian vegetarian food were delighted when a new air-conditioned vegetarian restaurant, 'Swapna', which included a number of north Indian dishes on its menu, opened on Mount Road somewhere in the early seventies. 'Swapna' was indeed a dream come true for my husband and me who craved for genuine north Indian food in this south Indian city.
Today, after decades later, 'Swapna' remains a dream for people like me though a number of multi cuisine restaurants have come up all over the city to the delight of gen next who make a bee line to malls and binge on ‘international ‘fare’ in great company. Those who can stretch their purse strings five star hotels are always there which offer better ambience ,ofcourse for a price.
Come the marriage season and we got to see women attired in their best kanjeevaram silks with shimmering diamond studs and nose screws lending to their traditional look. Men were dressed in their silk /cotton veshtis with broad zari borders in red, green and gold, costing quite a fortune. Well to do women flaunted their wealth by adorning heavy jewellery, their diamond studded studs competing with diamond adiges and diamond bangles which went well with their rich silks. Among the younger lot, the girls wore half saris with silk lehengas and tucked in long sleeved blouses.
The changing scenario and what Madras has given me Madras is changed to Chennai and along with the change of its name, it had undergone transformation in several respects- tradition is giving place to modernity in dress and lifestyles and that personal touch is missing with the advent of whats app and face book which have replaced personal phone calls and meeting and interacting with friends and relatives.
A BIG THANK YOU MADRAS
I must thank Madras for making me an author ,My 11th, book ,a collection of 50 poems published by Dipti press has just been published and I thank ODYSSEY Book store for proving a platform to launch them.We do miss Landmark book store which was indeed a landmark in this bubbling city.
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.
The venue was a cave in which a shaman was conducting occult rites. Either you call him a Shaman or Tantric, he was trying to help others achieve the unachievable. One may call it hocus-pocus or black magic whose result is unfailingly impactful. Bang on the target. A fire was burning, the Tantric was throwing mustard seeds into it which used to burst and create an eerie sound in the process.
“Om Him, hring, kring, kring………..” the mantra of tantra he was chanting solemnly. The arcane tantric mantra chanting had its effect. The shaman was wearing black robes and had a vermillion smeared on his forehead. There were six human skulls in front. The Blood of a chicken was there in a container. He used to throw the blood into the fire in between. This used to create a hissing sound as if a snake was responding to threat.
A coconut, shaven of coir was in the middle of fire. The oil which was being poured on it in a ladle was making it burn faster. Then it cracked open with a sound. The tantric closed his eyes for a minute. Extinguished the fire and turned to two persons who were in the side. He gave them the burnt coconut, salvaged from the fire and declared pompously in a baritone. “The work is done. His head will crack like that Rest assured , Ma, Chamundi’s followers are at work on him now. He would not escape this time.”
The two persons bent their head in obeisance and collected the cracked coconut.
“Bury it under the earth. No dog should be allowed to touch it before it is buried” was the Shaman’s magisterial advice. They took out a packet of Rs.500/- notes and kept it near his feet.
“Yes, from the ashes, please collect some. Someone should put a tilak of the blackish ash on his forehead” the tantric added. The two persons got down to the task as if it was mission. Ash was all grey but ash of the burning log was unmistakably black. They were busy dousing the fire and retrieving the blackened ash as if their breathing hinged on it.
Meanwhile Dhanjay Dhule was in a VIP room in a Sparsh Hospital in the capital city of the state. Entire floor was occupied by his assistants and security. No one was allowed to enter the area. A bumble bee would have found it difficult to enter. Only Dr. Madhav Salwan , the owner and the chief doctor was allowed to enter. The Nursing assistance was provided by sister Sumitra, the most trusted nurse of Dr. Salwan. She was allowed to come in the morning and go back in the night. If necessary she was to stay back overnight.
Dhanjay Dhule was given a paracetamol by Sister Sumitra. He popped it into his mouth drank a gulp of water and switched on the T.V. Today is his fifth day in the hospital. T.V was full of news about him. It was all about how serious he was and Dr. Salwan’s statement about how doctors in Sparsh Hospital were monitoring his parameters. A shot also showed how his party people were praying for his quick recovery in temples across the state. Of course the newspaper also criticized the Chief Minister moving into private hospital. They concluded that high and mighty in the govtdon’t have trust in government hospitals and government doctors. “” These guys would take a long time in understanding rajniti”. Thar was his thought.
Dhule looked at the critical news and smiled. Today’s criticism is tomorrow’s forgotten item.
Dr.Salwan came on the7th day, as he did every day of his stay.
“Would you like to get discharged and move into home quarantine?” the doctor offered.
“No, I would stay here full fifteen days and leave the hospital only when I am tested negative.”
Dr. Salwan gave a faint smile. “But it is CM’s pick. We are only in service. “ he thought to himself.
“Sir, with thirty five years of service, I only have a Padma Shree. Other doctors like Dr Sivam, Dr.Malhotra have got a Padma Bhushan each. May I request to consider my name at least this time. “ He said it sounding submissive enough with a grin on his face. When he said consideration he meant approval following the Byzantine tradition of the capital city. Dhule correctly understood it as request for anointment.
“Of course. But we don’t do anything half-way. You will get Padma Vibhusan, this time.”
“Thank you, sir, I would be grateful.”
“Dr.Salwan, But please make sure that the details of this hospitalization should not spill over” Dhanjay Dhule half requested and half-ordered.
“No way. The medical details do not spill out of this place ever. You must have seen there is a lock in Sister Sumitra’s tongue. I know people are praying for your recovery. Let it get traction. More prayer is better for any human being, let alone in politics” doctor helpfully added.
“But my assistants tell me that people are doing tantric puja so that I would die”. Dhule added pensively. He was not entirely free of premonition despite his outwardly Napoleonic clarity,
“Let them do any puja. It may work if the person in really ill. If you are already healthy, it would strengthen you further. Same thing about negative prayers in mosques and temples”.
Dhanjay gave an ear to ear smile. Dr. Salwan’s answer was only reinforcing what the astrologer had said. Some communities do not like him and wanted him to go from the earth. That was when his astrologer suggested the remedy. They hatched a plan as a follow up. Bibi Institute of medical sciences was a premier government hospital in the capital city. Often patronized by high & mighty. The doctors were very well qualified there. But it would have been a giveaway. In government hospital there is no secret. What if the health facilities are better. It did not serve his purpose. But in Sparsh everything in hermetically sealed.
He was not exactly very popular with all segments of population. He was a strong and resolute man. Some swore by him and some swore at him, though under the breath. Whatever, he took up he completed . Whatever he wanted to achieve like finishing up Naxalites, closing the madrasas or stopping the minority appeasement that he did diligently and impactfully. It necessarily mrant that the admirers swell and so do the voters. His belief was a snake should be killed . It should not be allowed to escape injured. It would come back to bite you.
“Being in the hospital, I would miss the Bhoomipuja of Hanuman temple. For which the party President from Delhi would come.” He rued his luck thinking about it. He was afterall a great devotee of Hanuman. He didn’t like missing the spot light. But finally he was better off skipping it with the Covid-19 as the reason
He was being talked about as a no-nonsense man. A replacement for the party President when he demits office. But that was tricky. People can carry tales of ambition and that can make the equation murky The party president himself did not like spot light being on any one else. Now at least as the Chief Minister of the state where the Hanuman temple is coming up he would not share the spot light. Good for him in long run. He was thinking to himself.
“Sir, there is something interesting happening all around. Covid-19 is raging and today my driver’s mother has tested positive. Now he would be home quarantine too. What his mother said is interesting. She said if the Chief Minister had tested positive, that meant the disease was not making any distinction. The spread would happen despite the best effort.“ The doctor added effusively.
Dhanjay Dhule smiled to himself. The covid management was floundering. Some had called him the clueless captain even. Now with this news, it would mean that the spread of disease was despite all the efforts of the government. Good for him, the unintended consequence of his admission to Sparsh Hospital.
Dr. Salwan took his permission to leave. Sister Sumitra entered. She had a smile on her face.
“Sir, I have this Kala tilak from the Hanuman’s temple. They had a yagna yesterday. I want to put it on your forehead.”
“No, sister, Covid patients should not put anything on their face. You please put it on the door from the outside. But keep praying for me. A sister’s prayer always helps.”
Her enthusiasm clearly waned. Dhananjay Dhule, the Chief Minister had a smile on his face which lasted longer than the usual.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
Oh! Lord with the elephant head
With red tilak on your forehead
Smeared with sandalwood paste
Artists work done in haste
Modaks you love to eat
And we enjoy a lavish treat
Chanting mantras on the streets
Ganpati Bappa Morya!!
You the only Vighnaharta
Oh Lord!! Lambodara
Liberate us from all obstacles
As we bow down to our loving idol
We seek your Blessings
As the chanting gets overwhelming
Reminiscing your presence
Showering on us your blessings from heaven
Ganpati Bappa Morya!!
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)
Here are some simple but immortal lines from 18th century Poets that speak of the glory of rains… lines in poems that perfectly catch the beauty of the rains… more simple the words, more profound and lasting they remain.
Here is a Keats Gem:
Gentle cleansing drops/Sweet and clear
Bathe the earth tenderly/A ritual
So often a sight/For the summer months yet
Renewing the soul/With each weeping cloud
The rain comforts/a parched patch of soil
The flowers and foliage thankfully/bend low in reverence
If Keats comes, can Shelly be far behind?
This is what he says
The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
Of course, seeing the rain our dear Wordsworth goes into ecstasy
How beautiful is the rain!/After the dust and heat
In the broad and fiery street/In the narrow lane
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs/ Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out/from the throat of the overflowing sput!...
And finally, a beautiful description of rain by poet William Blake in one of his Prose Poems:
“The light of the sun slowly fades away as the thick smoky gray clouds hide it away. Then it all starts with a low pitched pitter patter , then a louder plip that quickly begins to intensify. Pretty soon the rain starts to pound fiercely against the glass window tap, tap creating a sharp quickening rhythm that’s all its own. The sound of the rain is so strong and overpowering that it forces me to listen to its song. Puddles begin to form and I can see the rain drops bounce lightly against the water. I start to wonder if it will ever stop raining. In this moment it felt as if the water will keep falling from the sky for all of eternity”.
Let us all enjoy the rain in our own way, as these romantic poets have enjoyed…
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
An undying spirit,
Which strives to attain merit,
The sense of duty and purpose,
The sensibility of a mission,
Intermingling with the depths of the soul,
A clear conscience,
Directing light on our path,
The Path,
The undying path of truth,
An undying voice,
An undying virtue,
An undying day,
A day of peace,
The undying spirit of righteousness.
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.
It was a sunny Summer day in August 2019. Our Air India flight reached Moscow and we got down. We did not know Russian language. English was seldom used in Russia by and large. No one was speaking English. Tourist information was mostly written in Russian. I could read -'UUEE, SVO' and understood - It was 'Moscow Sheremetyevo International Airport'.
Thousands of passengers were coming and going but their nationality, language and look / appearance were different. All were strangers. None knew the other. We stood on a queue that reached the immigration counter. I submitted my passport. My visa was written in Russian. English was not required and immigration was done by body-language. They stamped my visa ( in passport ) and I left the counter.
We came down by an escalator but could not find the guide since it was not the arrival gate. We could not get any tourist information as we did not know the Russian language. Without getting any guidance, we went up by a lift. But no exit was there. We came down by a staircase. Some time passed by. We got an indication from the body-language of a helpful Russian lady. Accordingly, we reached a closed door. Other passengers were also there. We waited for around ten minutes. Suddenly the automatic door opened. We found an underground tunnel. A metro train was waiting there and we rushed into it. Before I took my seat, the train started moving.
Now we reached outside the metro station. I was disgusted with the typical language problem. English was mostly unknown there.
At last the smiling lips of a charming lady uttered - 'I'm Catherine'.
I asked her - 'Catherine,the Great?'
She said - 'No, Sir. Our Empress is no more now. I am your guide, Catherine, waiting to receive you and show you the kaleidoscopic, baroque-style art and architecture of Saint Petersburg in which the souls of Catherine the Great and Peter the Great (Tsar / Czar ) seem to be roaming ever since they built it.'
We got into a comfortable and luxurious bus that started our journey. The roadside beautiful meadows, colourful trees, cold breeze, enchanting flowers thrilled us for around 7 hours & 700 kms bus journey from Moscow to Saint Petersburg under the smiling guidance of the English-speaking Catherine.
During our travelling I asked about her. She said- 'Now I'm single and a guide by profession'.
I asked her-'Do you mind sharing your company not as a guide but as a friend?'
Catherine remained silent. But her body-language offered her willingness.
We reached Saint Petersburg at night. I was astonished to see the setting Sun at around 9.30 pm. The sun-soaked- reddish-yellow water of the Neva river, the baroque-style buildings, the sky and the landscape amazed us. The environment was fascinating. I checked into my hotel room. We stayed there for four days before returning to Moscow, the capital of Russia.
The next day we visited the Winter palace on the Neva River which had been declared as the State Hermitage Museum and opened for tourists. It was the Winter Residence of Tsars. It took 3 hours to enjoy its art and architecture which is famous for its typical beauty.
Then we went to Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral on Hare Island along the Neva River to feel its heavenly and spiritual atmosphere. It is the tallest cathedral of the World.
The Summer palace is on the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea. Its main attraction is its natural ambience, park, water fountains, etc. It was used by the Tsars in Summer. Its architectural beauty is unique. It took one day due to its distance from our hotel.
There are around 80 canals and 4 rivers in Saint Petersburg for transport by boat, cruise, ship in warm seasons for around 7 months. We travelled on the canals and Neva River by a cruise to see the beautiful city. Tourists never forget to enjoy Cruise travel which is part of tourism.
Catherine's friendly company helped me enjoy the typical beauty of Saint Petersburg, the old capital of Russia. The capital was shifted to Moscow in 1918.
Catherine described -'Saint Petersburg is a city situated on the Neva River, at the head of the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea. It served as a capital of the Tsardom of Russia. It was also known as Petrogard (1914-1924) and Leningrad (1924-1991). Now it is called Saint Petersburg. It was founded in 1703 by Tsar Peter the Great. From 10,000 to 30,000 workers laboured annually for 22 years from 1703 to 1725 to build it. Thousands of architects, masons and interior decorators were recruited from Italy, Germany, Holland and France for construction of distinctive baroque style architecture. Catherine had also left her mark in beautifying the city. Here women are beautiful and romantic. Men are gentle and handsome'.
At about 1:00 am (night) we went to the Neva river that flows to the Gulf of Finland on Baltic Sea. In her friendly company, I enjoyed the beautiful white night and the colourful, captivating drawbridges opening-closing show from 1.30 am to 5.00 am. It is a tourist attraction in Saint Petersburg. Thousands of tourists enjoy it at night in Summer. In winter no ship / cruise / boat nor any tourist is available here due to frozen rivers, canals and extreme icy cold temperature.
Catherine told -'Though they have made it an incredible show but it was actually a mechanical process to open the drawbridges on the rivers to allow the cargo ships to enter into and to go out of Saint Petersburg'.
I asked - 'Why is it called white-night?'
She explained-'White nights are fascinating for tourists in Summer. The night is not as dark as that of India. One can see things in faint darkness. It is whitish-dark in colour. So it is called white night. This is typical to Saint Petersburg in Summer. Night life is romantic in Saint Petersburg in Summer. But in Winter nights are not at all enjoyable. Tourists also do not come in Winter'.
In her sweet company, the white-night was turning rosy in the wee hours.
During travelling, I observed that Saint Petersburg is famous for its romantic ambience, eclectic-style Winter Palace (State Hermitage Museum), fascinating Summer Palace, magnificent buildings, heavenly cathedrals, beautiful rivers and canals with bridges crossing over them and museum-like streets, beautiful ladies and handsome gents which cannot be described in words. It can only be felt in heart.
Me - 'I find here more ladies than gents. What is the reason behind it ?'
She ( Catherine ) - 'Population of Saint Petersburg is around 5 million with 54% female and 46% male. So ladies are more than gents. You will be astonished to know one million ladies fought in the 1st World War and 2nd World War. We are famous for our bravery and patriotism.'
Me - 'So you taught me fighting skills by your tanks and guns used in the World Wars. It is also a part of your tourism. Thanks a lot to Russian lady soldiers'.
In course of talking and traveling...
She - 'I came to know that Indian marriage and family system is the best in the world',
Me -'We believe in Vasudhaiba Kutumbakam which means the World is one family. You are also a member of my family. We are famous for our hospitality. Indian marriages are made in heaven and never broken in a lifetime. Such a rare heavenly relationship is not available anywhere else in the world except India. Please come to India to have a feeling of Indian marriage and family system. It is my invitation to you, my friend'.
She smiled from the core of her heart which was expressed in her body-language. I felt the Russian beauty in my heart.
She - 'Ok,man. I will come to India next year to have an idea.Thanks a lot for your invitation. Now my friend please enjoy the Russian Summer (from June to August ) with around 18 hours pleasant daytime, around 6 hours white-night, temperature ranging from 18 to 24 degree Celsius, beautiful flowers and trees. But the winter is just the opposite with around 18 hours night time and around 6 hours day time, temperature around minus 10 degree Celsius. People say- Russian winter and its frozen ice defeated Napoleon of France and Hitler of Germany. Snow lies on the ground for five months. The rivers, canals and nearby gulf typically freeze over two months. So tourists seldom come in winter. Electric trams run on the river. People enjoy ice skating, sledging, ice hockey, etc in Winter'.
Me -'Next winter I will enjoy ice skating in your glamorous company. I am neither Napoleon nor Hitler to be defeated by you, my friend'.
She welcomed me in her laughter.
Me - 'I have heard about the sufferings of artisans and workers in making picturesque Petersburg'.
She - 'Behind the architectural beauty of St. Petersburg, I also felt the sorrowful episode of peasants and prisoners-of-war who were pressed into service to build the city's numerous magnificent buildings and canals. When harsh climate and malaria killed tens of thousands of them, their bodies were dumped into construction sites. Hence it is also called the 'city built on bones'. It is a pity that their souls are still roaming and weeping in the art and architecture of Saint Petersburg, but people of the World are happy to enjoy its beauty'.
Me - 'Why do we call it Saint Petersburg?'
She - 'In commemoration of Peter the Great (Tsar) and Peter the Saint (the Patron Saint) the city is called Saint Petersburg. Some people also say that it was named after Saint Peter, the apostle.
It is a wonder of the World considering its magnificent buildings. Its architecture is distinctive baroque style. Its canals are similar to that of Venice. Now it is the cultural capital of the World including Russia. The historical center of the city is protected by UNESCO',
Me -' Please see that naughty boy. His mother standing by is calling him Peter. I think his name is also Peter. But his lovely appearance says - he is neither a Tsar nor a Saint. Hence Peter may / can be a Tsar or a Saint or a boy. Burg means city. It is confusing by whose name, the city is called Saint Petersburg. It is a democratic feeling that People's ( Boy's ) name, Tsar's name and Saint's name has been taken to name the city. I feel there is a great Democracy behind Autocracy in Russia. It is immaterial to know the name of Peter as a Tsar or a Saint or a Boy. But it is material to know that the picturesque art and architecture of Saint Petersburg justify the name of Peter as a Tsar or a Saint or a boy ( future citizen). Thank you Peter. You are Great to make the city a Great Heritage of the World.'
She - 'Thanks for your jokingly beautiful analysis and appreciation of our city that we boast of. Thanks a Iot, my Tourist the Great. I am proud of you'.
I understood, the Tsars, Peter I, II & III and Catherine I & II had contributed mostly in building Saint Petersburg brick by brick which attracts millions of visitors every year that boosts its tourism and fills its exchequer. Ironically, sufferings, deaths and killings of workers had given birth to the enchanting beauty of the typical art and architecture of St.petersburg. It cannot be denied that the autocrat Tsars were also great for their contribution to the art and architecture of Russia and the World. After independence from the autocratic Tsars, perhaps no spectacular achievement is conspicuous in Saint Petersburg's art and architecture. Whatever we see here, we feel the unseen hand of Tsar in it. But today's Elected Autocracy / Democracy has renovated and maintained the magnificent art and architecture of Saint Petersburg built by the Hereditary Autocracy.
Being curious I asked Catherine jokingly -'Do you feel any difference between Hereditary Autocracy and Elected Autocracy/Democracy?'
She remained silent with a smiling face, since it was a political or paradoxical question and it did not come under her domain of tourist information.
My pleasure trip to Saint Petersburg came to an end. I felt that both Russia and Russians are actually friendly to India and Indians.
I thanked Catherine for her professional expertise and friendly tour guidance. We left for Moscow by train.
Now the story recollects my sweet memory of Catherine and Saint Petersburg, Russia.
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.
They were a small bunch of guys who had just started to relish their assumed adulthood in the college campus. Their seniors who would graduate in a year’s time had no qualms in giving them some sort of equality. They gave them a friendly wink whenever they spotted them puffing away their cigarettes in front of the paan shop outside the back gate of college building. Their silent encouragement added a spring to their feet. They were coming of age and the whole collage acknowledged that. Life for them was turning rhythmic with new found acceptance from all quarters. They occasionally split a beer between themselves from their pocket money. There was no scope for any sense of deprivation. Life felt filled to the brim as they unhurriedly took one step at a time. The future seemed full of grand possibilities. They were on a high.
But one fine day, Debasis, on a bright October afternoon, when all of them were savouring brown peas curry, known as ghugni in local parlance and crisp vadas at the small eatery beside the pan shop, dropped a huge bombshell, when he quoted Ernest Hemingway who had famously quipped that if one has not lost his virginity during his puberty then he would never ever become a real man in his life. All three of them felt a lump in their throat. They simply gaped at him in wonder. They all knew Debasis was a little cynical about things, he belonged to economics department that probably explained to some extent his natural penchant for pessimism.
But he was just the messenger, and that apart all of them liked the macho writer and empathized with his love for bull fighting and trout fishing. To them Hemingway was the real man, a proto male. Pages of his books smacked off male audacity and nonchalance, if not chauvinism. They all belonged to different streams. Pratap studied chemistry whereas Saurav and Deepak were from psychology and political science. But it was their sanguine love for literature that had glued them in a deep bond. They often discussed Old Man and the Sea and Lady Chatterly’s Lover as if they were delving deep into the eternal secrets of Old Testament and New Testament. Their admiration for Hemingway and DH Lawrence was intensely biblical.
But today, the same Hemingway was the root cause for their sudden misery. The trio looked pensively at Debasis. They realized they were all well past their puberty. But still they sought some redemption. It is better late than never.There was not much left to debate over as they looked blankly at their aluminum plates still containing remainder of the ghugni. Their appetite had long back vanished and they dragged their heavy feet back to the college campus.
The afternoon sun was shining brightly on the grassy surface of the big, empty college ground. There was no point going back to their class rooms. During the post-lunch sessions, the teachers mostly yawned and went through the motion. They decided to slouch under the shade of the cycle stand. The cozy cycle standwas the perfect place to provide them shelter from the Hemingway storm.Pratap pulled out a crumpled cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Please, any one has a light,” he begged. Saurav handed him over the match box.
``Was Papa Hemingway a smoker, I know he liked champagne and beautiful women,” Deepak asked sheepishly. ``Screw him,” Pratap screamed. He had enough of Hemingway bull crap and was in no mood to spare him. After all he had disgraced all of them by unwittingly exposing their Oriental predicament.
“Yes he at times smoked Cuban cigars, of course he liked the Cuban women and found them very seductive,” Debasis again dropped another bomb that momentarily diffused the thick air of melancholy.
No one uttered a word in response. The lone cigarette got passed around in that eerie silence. Debasis was a reservoir of exotic information, he knew literature as well as European football, Micheal Platini, the French captain played for the Italian club Juventus, Maradona turned up for Napoli, all these were on the tip of his tongue. But he did not smoke or drink, he was a debonair teetotaler. Meanwhile, the shadows had begun to lengthen across the spacious cycle stand. They got up and headed towards the front gate of the college. A group of girls from their batch were heading home after a full day of studies. Their coy glances did not stimulate them today.
``You can’t undress these babes even in your mind, they are bloody stiff like nuns,” Pratap sneered.
They overtook the group of girls and walked out of the college gate with long, quick steps. They just kept walking aimlessly, going past the police station, the municipality market that came alive in early morning with vendors selling everything from vegetables to fish and meat, the `chudapati, where they sold flat rice, and the handful of guys who sold soaking wet cottage cheese , tightly wrapped in thin cotton cloths. They now hit the central business zone of the town. Here everything revolved around the temple of Lord Jagannath, which stood imperiously in a little distance on the left. The long, wide road was buzzing with activities. Shops, hawkers, pilgrims crowded the stretch. Everybody seemed to be basking under the glory of Lord of the Universe. They quietly turned to the right and kept walking.
Finally they reached the far end of the town and settled down in a quiet yet spacious tea shop. Pratap went to the nearby paan shop to buy few cigarettes. He knew the locality well because his uncle who was an Ayurveda doctor stayed nearby. They sat down on a wooden bench and ordered for tea. A couple of regular customers were sitting at a table in the far corner. Soon couple more joined them. They sipped their tea and started discussing their plans for the future. Their virginity suddenly felt like an albatross around their neck. They wanted to get rid of it in the name of their favourite author. Meanwhile, the flowery smell of marijuana came floating in the air from the table in the far corner. The proprietor went around serving tea and hot snacks without any botheration. The men talked animatedly and passed the chillum around to each other. Each guy took a deep pull before passing it to the next person.
“Hey they are smoking ganja there,” Debasis whispered.
‘In every chai shop here you would see someone or the other smoking a chillum, no big deal,” Pratap scoffed in real annoyance. They went back to their main discussion and finally decided to seek comfort from a whore. They all agreed a whore alone can help them get over their shortcoming.
``Enough of damn celibacy. I know a chap here. Let me go and do some fixing and come back. You guys stay right here. I would be back in no time,’’ Pratapassured them and stormed out of the shop. They now stole tentative glances at the other table. The discussion under the thick haze of smoke had turned more salacious. The men were boasting about their sexual escapades without any inhibition. They were loud and clear. It was a holy town yet full of paradoxes. From the ground beneath, a raw, spiritual energy emanated whereas sensuality blew hard across its air. And as youngsters they forever remained confused, trying to figure out which way the wind was blowing.
Pratap came back after half an hour or so. He seemed breathless as if he had run a full marathon. “I have fixed it up, tomorrow is going to be our full moon night,” he blurted out and snatched the cigarette from Saurav’s hand and tookcouple of quick drags. “Who is the whore,” Saurav asked, flashing a toothy grin.
“Shut up, a whore is also a woman,” snapped Pratap. The irritation was clearly visible on his face. He took a deep pause and said hoarsely, “Komala, she is Komala.” This was another bomb and the other three repeated in a chorus `Komala’. The name had been a part of their subconscious since their school days. They had never seen her, but every time the topic of easy sex came up Komala’s name cropped up inadvertently. She was a reference point and pervaded the mental landscape of the whole town. Komala was the libertine, the whore of the town, a modern day Amrapali whose name people loved to refer. Popular glib talk had already immortalised her, but the more they talked about her, the more enigmatic she became in their collective consciousness. Debasisfinally broke the uneasy silence. “I won’t be able to make it, tomorrow evening I have to attend a function with my family,” he said meekly.
“I had never counted you in,” snubbed Pratap. He turned to Deepak and asked in a stern voice, “Are you in, man?” Deepak just nodded in response. They got up and wanted to head home now. The next day was the pay day.
When they met each other in the college the following day. They hardly spoke to each other. For a change, they did not bunk their classes. They needed some respite from their nagging thoughts that focused on the impending evening. After the college hours, they regrouped at the eatery behind the college. They repeated the same order of the previous day. Pratap ordered for tea after they were done with vada and ghugni. They hung around in the eatery and waited for the evening darkness to provide them with some cover.
Once the street lights were on, the trio started walking towards the designated place. Pratap led them into a dilapidated house behind some small cabins. They sat on the steps and waited for Komala. It was a dark and shady area. After few anxious minutes and couple of cigarettes, they spotted a human form approaching them. As it got closer, they now clearly saw the saree clad figure of a woman. Even in that darkness, it was not hard to discern the slender frame of Komala. Pratap got up and went towards her. After a small talk, they both came and sat on the steps. Saurav and Deepak felt a little itchy. Komala smelled of jasmine and Ponds powder. She had clearly done her shringar, an occupational hazard may be.
“How many of you are there,” she asked in a soft voice. Her voice had a distinct richness to it.
“We are three here,” Pratap answered hurriedly. May be she could sense some tremor in his voice and laughed softly. Meanwhile, Deepak had already started panicking. Komala’s laugh freaked him out. He just got up and ran. His panic-stricken exit looked like a scene that was lifted straight from a movie like `Summer of 42’. Pratap wanted to follow him and but Komala dissuaded him.
“Let him find his comfort elsewhere, he does not belong here,” she sounded almost maternal. For some strange reason, Pratap felt let down by Deepak’s panic attack. Later, he realized actually he was using Deepak as a weapon in his bitter battle against Hemingway.
The duo moved towards the meadow behind the house. The yellow moon was shining right above them. Both Pratap and Saurav took their turns. Komala’sdexterous fingers guided them in that darkness and brought them to sensual raptures hitherto unknown to them. They surrendered before her craft and sensual prowess. By now they had forgotten about Hemingway and the puberty deadline totally. They had already entered into another realm, mysterious, deeper and thrilling. They felt a strong gratitude towards Komala who had exposed them to the totality of pleasure. She had taught them it was not just the final thrill that mattered but the sensation in every cell of your body that culminated in liberation of your whole being. Hemingway had clearly lost out to this ancient seductress.
When they woke up to their earthly senses, Komal was buttoning up her blouse.She then rearranged the jasmine on her hair and looked up at them.
“Leave quickly, this place is not safe, a lot of hooligans are prowling this place,” she had a friendly advice for them. They paid her up and left immediately. But next day, both Pratap and Saurav came to the same spot. They were eager to see the true reflection of the seductress in broad daylight. It was early noon, the soft rays of sun fell across the place. They sat on the steps of the small, dilapidated building and waited. After a while, they saw Komala in a distance. For the first time they realized how slender and wiry her frame was. There was no trace of fatigue on her face. She had a real swagger.
“Hey bastard, why are you charging so much for a pappad,” she was threatening the young papad seller in mock anger. The gorgeous smile never left her face, rather it turned wider with every expletive. Her eyes fell on Pratap and Saurav and a hint of recognisition filled those intelligent eyes. Then she again got back to the pappad seller and threatened, “You bastard, don't act smart,” she was perfectly enacting the ways of a local muscle man. To them, she no longer looked like a libertine. They felt as if the lady in the Statue of Liberty had come alive in front of their eyes. They were looking at an emancipated woman, who had broken through the glass ceiling. A woman who had been able to define her own terms and walking languidly on her well-defined path. When they were back in the college, both Debasis and Deepak rushed towards them and asked, “Hey how did it feel?” Pratap looked at the cloudless, clear October sky and whispered, “Oh it felt like an eternity”
.
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
A pair of cat’s eyes
burning like hot charcoal
through pitch darkness
stare at her.
She sets her study table
in order, on return from
the bazar
Her face disappears or
changes in the mirror in front
each =me.
Just the other day on the street
stuffy vapidness of humid
aAernoon weighed on her.
To ignore, she hummed
to herself a song on
the busy by lane. But
the draught in the air
played mischief and tugged at
her hair, erased the rhythm
of her song in sly overture.
Look! how soon she
a girl singing happily to herself
turned in to a picture pasted
on a billboard!!
If you look back from
the bend on the road
travelled thus far,
the liHle girl in her childhood
wearing a frock of rainbow stood
far, far behind. Her mother and
grandma churned milk and lit
the hearth below an unchanging sky.
And spoke of gods and pes=lence ,
of closed confines that reeked of
child-birth, regular as river in spate.
Be like the river, they said, that flows
quietly in to the sea or the earth.
She looked ahead to the hill top.
The i=nerant clouds roamed free, and
the glow-worms in a light-storm spun
magical lines on the nights’ canvas.
These lines became a face .
In the silver lake of the mirror
to-day, uncertain faces gleam and fade.
When will she reach the hill-top and
bathe in the moonlight ?
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.
At nineteen,
I got a jolt,
as I walked under the sun
sudden darkness enveloped,
I tripped and almost fell,
a sturdy branch
held me firm,
I got up and stepped on grass.
All my friends had marched on, a dark despair
enveloped me,
I trudged on,
but fell into a stream.
Merciless deep
waters surrounded me.
There was no wave.
I knew a little swimming, clutched a pole,
covered the distance, and reached the shore.
Someone held me fast
every time I fell,
lifted me,
I escaped unhurt.
As I walked, followed me,
gave me a lot,
more than I deserved
and filled me to the brim.
Sometimes, I looked behind, found none.
Perhaps it is you,
the great master
in shape of my cousin, my parents
and great teacher
and I can't thank you enough.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist and essayist was born on 20th March 1957 and educated at S. K. C. G. College, Paralakhemundi and Khallikote College, Berhampur, Ganjam, Odisha. Author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry, and two books of criticism, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017.He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
Translated by Priya Bharati
Even before the glare of the setting sun had lessened, the three men had occupied their seats on the bench in the quiet and deserted riverbank as per their routine habit. Though by the general perception they would be considered old, yet the y did not think that they belonged to this category. Sunil had retired from lectureship almost ten years ago and Shyamabandhu and Birendra had retired from service more than five years ago. Sunil as the head of an institute had to handle the unruly students and sometimes some of his defiant colleagues in his career and was enjoying his retired life. Post-retirement, he had refused the offers to join private institutions and spent his retired life doing what he loved that is reading and writing. He lived in the new colony near river Mahanadi with his wife, doctor son and daughter in law and one grandson. He says, “I have no unfulfilled wishes and I would spend the rest of my life the way I always wanted.” Similarly, Shyamabandhu had retired around six years back from a senior post of a nationalized bank. Both his sons were engineers working abroad. He too was enjoying a free retired life without any family obligations. Birendra, the third in line too had retired as a Chief Engineer. He too had built a double storied building in the same colony. He had rented the ground floor and lived on the first floor with his wife. His only daughter was married and living outside Odisha. Thus he too had a good retired life without much hassle. All three had built houses in the same colony and are living there for the last ten years. Birendra and Shyamabandhu were friends and neighbours. They became acquainted with Sunil three years back through a common friend in a vegetable shop. This new friendship with Sunil too was limited to sharing basic pleasantries and salutation with folded hands whenever they met.
After almost two months of formal acquaintance, one day, while sitting and enjoying the sunset on a bench by the riverside, met Shyamabandhu. Shymabandhu seeing him cried out, “Aree Sunil Babu, I too come to the riverside in the evening for a stroll but I rarely come to this end because it is close to the graveyard and is known to be an ideal place for anti-social. But you seem to be at ease here enjoying the riverside view. Of course, you are a famous poet and writer. You can write at ease on any topic. I just remembered my childhood friend who was a budding poet who tried to write on any and every topic but had to face many reverse consequences. Just thinking of him I cannot help laughing.” Saying all this in one go, he sat down near Sunil Babu on the bench.
Sunil smiled and replied, “I love to sit on this bench every evening. I can say for sure that if you become a regular visitor here, you too will fall in love with this place. You seem to be a humorous person, I would like to hear about your poet friend.”
Shyamabandhu replied, “What to say about him. He troubled us with his unending poems when we were in class nine. He would write poems in a copy, on the wall, on a blackboard, and even on the white shirt of a guy sitting on the front bench for which our Maths teacher boxed his ears. Once he wrote a poem on the most beautiful girl in our class and was hackled by her elder brother. He did not stop there but also penned a poem on the Sanskrit Sir’s belly and how he stroked it and for this got some good thrashing. His friends were fed up hearing his poems. Even a chocolate and namkeen pouch offered by him to listeners could not help. Everybody avoided his company and no magazine wanted to publish them. Finally desperate, he was advised by a fortune-teller to gulp three live fish. He did that and was hospitalized for three days. Now he is living a normal married life with his wife far removed from his poetic madness. It seems a good scolding from his wife cured him of this madness.
Sunil immediately got interested in Shyambandhu. His sense of humor and his way of talking made them close friends instantly.
After that day, Sunil and Shyamabandhu reached there without fail and spent their time discussing literature and family matters. After about a fortnight, Birendra too joined them. Going there and spending time became such a regular habit that they felt uneasy if they missed even one single day. All of them were happy go lucky, friendly, and romantic by nature and wanted to enjoy their retired life fully. So they enjoyed their friendship. They talked loudly and laughed openly without any inhibition.
It was a deserted spot near the graveyard and few came this way. There were two to three cement benches slightly away from the river. Sometimes lovers preferred to come here but none had developed an irresistible craving for this place like these three friends. They would sit looking at the river, discussing various topics without any interference till sunset, and then went back home. Sometimes they discussed their love affairs and passed mischievous comments, behaving like teenagers beyond any control.
Today too they had reached their favorite spot before five in the evening. It had been hot for the past few days. The Professor was wearing dhoti & Kurta, holding a sophisticated walking stick. The cigarette packet in his transparent kurta was visible. Shuamabandhu was wearing a loose pajama and a brick coloured kurta. He too had paan in a silver box. Birendra was wearing a pant and shirt and holding a cigarette packet and a small and beautiful lighter. Today he had taken extra care to dress up. He was wearing a dark coloured floral printed branded shirt, a belt, and was holding a plastic box in his hand.
Birendra was softly singing an old popular song of Akshay Mohanty. The moment he came near, Sunil cried out, “What is the special occasion for this special attire of yours and what are you holding in that box?”
Biren replied shyly, “Today on my birthday, my wife made me wear this shirt sent by my daughter. She had made a cake and made me eat a large portion. She has also sent some for both of you.”
Shyama Babu took the box from him, gave a piece to Sunil, and also ate a large piece. The aroma of the chocolate cake spread around them.
Sunil, in a grave voice, teased Birendra saying, “You two oldies are having a romantic time and your children are not there to interrupt. Has your wife spoilt you by feeding you an only cake or with something more? OK. As long as you bring sweets for us, we will pardon you.
Birendra retorted back, “Who said I am old? Do you know at which age Onassis married Mrs. Kennedy? I am not old and never shall be. I will always remain evergreen. I may be called a middle-aged person. Besides who says that old people cannot enjoy life?”
Shyamabandhu replied, “You may be evergreen but too afraid to do anything without your wife’s permission. Among all the three of us, I am a romantic person. I have fallen in love as many times as the number of hair on my body. If I could write like Sunil Babu, I would have written endless love stories,” needless to sayShymabandhu was completely bald and hairless.”
Birendra replied, “When did you find the time to have so many love affairs from your busy bank schedule?”
Shyambandhu replied,”You must have heard this statement, ‘Where there is a will, there is a way’.”
Sunil, taking a deep breath replied, “I have written several love stories but I am neither evergreen nor romantic. I am only a devoted husband.”
Both Shyambandhu and Birendra cried out together, “Your entire life has been spent amid beautiful college girls and colleagues. You are so good looking. You must have had several love affairs before and after marriage. Your stories reveal that your knowledge of love is very deep and mature and this would not have been possible without personal experience. Tell us about a few of your affairs. We will not tell your wife, we assure you.”
Suddenly this loud talk and laughter stopped abruptly when out of nowhere a boy and a girl appeared and sat in the adjoining bench very close and an intimate posture not bothering to restrain themselves very well knowing that three old people were sitting close by.
The three friends had been so engrossed in their conversation that they had failed to see the lovers coming and occupying the adjoining bench. Sunil broke the silence and said, “We were talking and laughing so loud. These lovebirds disturbed us with their arrival.” He seemed much restrained while saying this.
Shyamabandhu in a hushed tone said, “See how close they are sitting and talking. They must have come here in that two-wheeler. These youngsters have no regards for elders.”
Birendra joined in, “These youngsters have no shame. They have not bothered to restrain themselves very well knowing that we are sitting so close to them. During our days, hardly one or two girls were studying and they sat on the front bench. We boys sat crowded in the backbench but never shared the same bench with them. He had forgotten completely that just a few minutes back he was referring to himself as evergreen and middle-aged.”
Sunil replied, ‘We are looking at them so intently but see the girl, she is not bothered Such a shameless girl.”
Shyamabandhu replied, “What to say. Nowadays all the girls are behaving this way. That day in the crowded bus I saw a girl put chocolate in a boy’s mouth.”
The conversation between the three friends took a complete turn. They believed that the youth of their times were much more dignified and cautious in their manners. The girls were especially very modest and well behaved. “
Every day, after this it was seen that the girl and the boy came and sat intimately and became busy with their love talk. The three friends thought that the lovers would be fed up seeing them sitting in the adjoining bench and leave the place.
Nothing of that sort happened. The three old men could have easily moved to another bench placed farther away but they did not do so. Surprisingly they came and sat on their bench and liked to see the boy and the girl and their intimate ways.
The three friends had become more cautious in their way of talking and laughing. While talking softly, they would cautiously glance at the girl.
The girl was attractive to look at. She had not cut her hair short like other teenagers but kept long hair tied into double or single plait the breeze blew the stray hair and made her face more lovely and her large beautiful eyes with thick lashes enhanced her beauty. Her skin was glowing, she was tall thin and had a beautiful figure. On the whole, she was very beautiful. Though none of them openly gave their opinion, all three of them felt that the tall and dark boy was no match for her.
One day an incident occurred which made the two groups sitting on two adjoining benches develop a bond of acquaintance and within no time brought them nearer. A ruffian boy and his two friends from their colony got a whiff about these two lovebirds spending time together in this deserted place. They arrived there and started harassing them. In the first two days, they sang cheap songs, passed vulgar comments which made the two feel very uncomfortable. On the third day, one of the teasers came closer and pulled the girl’s dupatta. The boy tried to prevent that. He caught the teaser’s hand and said, “Do you know that eve-teasing is punishable? For the last two days, you are intruding on our privacy and teasing us with vulgar songs and comments. We had not reacted then, but today you are crossing all limits.”
The next moment the three ruffians surrounded them. The ruffian pulled his hand from the boy’s clutches and said, “What did you say? Your privacy is being disturbed? Do you know that this place is ours? Who has permitted you to sit here with your girlfriend?”
The three old men saw that the situation was going out of control. The girl was looking desperate and the boy was looking frightened.
The three friends were known and were respected in their society. Shyamabandhu was the advisor of the youth club of their colony. Sunil’s son being a doctor in their colony was a great help to the colony residents. Though they did not know the three ruffians in person, they were familiar with their faces.
All three of them immediately felt the urge to protect the girl at this juncture. They almost shouted together, “Hey boys, why are you troubling the two? They are not causing an inconvenience to anyone. Please leave them alone.”
The three ruffians looked at the three old men and apologetically said, “Uncle, this was just innocent ragging. If you do not like it, we will leave them alone and this place”. Then patting the boy, one of them said, “OK. Sorry brother” and they immediately left the place. The girl looked at the three old men and gave a lovely smile. The boy too looked at them with gratitude. After this incident, familiarity developed between the old men and the girl. The three old men liked the days when the girl came a bit earlier than the boy in her scooter. After this incident, on her next visit, the girl came earlier than usual and in a bashful manner gave three packets of paan to the old men. Looking at Shyamabandhu she said, “I have brought special paan for you as I see you taking them regularly. My father too takes paan. For the other two uncles also I have brought paan. I have learned to make paan from my mother.
The three friends eagerly accepted the paan and asked, “What is your name, and what is the profession of your father?” The girl replied, “My father is a Banker and my mother a Teacher. I have two younger brothers and I am in my final year in plus three Science. My name is Pushpita.”
Birendra in a mischievous tone asked, “What is your friend’s name and what does he do?
The girl became very conscious and blushing replied that his name was Sugat and he worked for a private company. While talking to her, the three friends could get to know that their families did not approve of their relationship. The girl said that they had decided to marry after her graduation even if their families did not give their consent.
Just then the boy arrived. Sunil told the girl in a soft tone, “He is waiting for you.”
The girl went and sat in her place on the bench. Birendra commented, “See how bashful are her manners. Just like the freshly washed Madhavilata (flower plant belonging to the climber family).
Silently, the other two friends acknowledged his saying.
Sunil said loudly,” I did not know that Birendra is a poet.”
Birendra replied, “I am an evergreen person. I would like to bring all the poems bursting out from within me but my lack of command on the language prevents me from doing it.
Shyamabandhu and Sunil laughed out loudly hearing his answer which made the boy and girl look at them. They immediately became conscious and restrained themselves.
Of late, the three friends became more careful about their dressing. Sunil started wearing ironed dhoti and kameez every day. He no more used his walking stick and both Sunil and Biren realized that smoking cigarettes was no more considered fashionable and reduced the number of their cigarette intake. Of course, they had not let their wives know about this habit of theirs. Of late, both Biren and Shyamabandhu wore a coloured shirt with matching pants with more care. Shyamabandhu too reduced his intake of paan and one day cut off his beard and mustache which he had kept for long. Their conversation too had become less but their ears and eyes had become more alert. Whenever they got an opportunity, they would silently look at the girl.
One day the girl was seen looking excited. She ran and sat near Sunil Babu Saying, “Uncle you are such a great and famous writer! I came to know about it when I saw your interview on TV. My mother has read a lot of your books. I have not read any as I do not know good Odia being from an English medium background. But I will learn the language to read it.
Sunil hearing this became elated and replied, “Tomorrow I will bring two of my books for you that have been translated into English.”
Birendra and Shyam gave a knowing smile to each other seeing their friend feel elated by her praise.
The life of the three friends was thus spent happily. They no more felt it odd to see Pushpita sit so closely with her lover, laugh, and talk in her lover's ears. Birendra one day said,” We were criticizing them but is it not natural? We could not enjoy this type of relationship during our time. What is the charm of life if one cannot experience such secret love affairs?”
The two friends agreed to this statement wholeheartedly.
The girl had of late become very close with the three uncles. She regularly brought paan and other titbits for them. The three friends while opening the packet felt happy and enjoyed them. While eating these titbits, Sunil would forget about his sugar problem and Shamabandhu about his high blood pressure.
The three friends decided that most of the days they got something from the girl. They too should give them something in return, but for this, they needed a special occasion to celebrate.
The next day Birendra came with a large packet of special sweets (Jaggary Sandesh) and declared that it was his marriage anniversary.
The girl ate the sweets, came and sat close to Birendra, clapped and smiled and wished him” “Many, many happy returns of the day Uncle and convey my wish to Aunty too.”
Birendra immediately could sense that his friends were a bit jealous, but ignored their knowing smile and hummed an old Hindi song as per habit.
This is how each of them brought something in the pretext of a special occasion and shared it with the girl.
The girl became closer and closer to them. These evening meetings became so very alluring that Shyamabandhu did not accompany his wife to his son’s place in Singapore. Sunil too did not go to receive a gift and citation being offered to him by a Literary Society at Rourkela. Similarly, Birendra did not go on a religious tour to Kedarnath along with his wife and her relatives.
All three now were more smartly dressed. They now had a confident gait. They no more had acidity problem eating namkeen and dahibada.
One day the girl brought gobi pakoda for the three uncles from home. Seeing all this, the boy became irritated and said “There is a limit to everything. It is not good to be so close to them.”
The girl, dancing her eyebrows replied, “Feeling jealous! Shame shame. They are my father’s age.”
The boy replied,” They are men after all.”
Though these words were uttered softly, the three friends could still hear it and enjoyed it with a knowing smile.
Once the boy and the girl were absent for three days. It was the rainy season and the rain was pouring day and night. Even then the three friends reached there holding their umbrella when the intensity of rain lessened. The river was rising and the water was whirling. The three friends were as agitated as the river. The girl had neither come nor had sent any message.
On the fourth day, she came along with the boy. Seeing their faces she smiled and said, “I had to go to Berhampur to attend the marriage of my cousin sister that is why I could not come.”
Sunil said in a reproachful tone, ‘You could not make a phone call and let us know?”
The girl caught her ears apologetically and said” I did not have your mobile number. Henceforth this will not happen. She took their mobile number and went back to her bench. There she saw her boyfriend sitting with a long face. She smiled sweetly and going closer to him and said sweetly, “Being jealous suits girls, not men.”
The boy smiled and the three old men too were smiling to themselves.
With the onset of winter, the evening became dark sooner than before. The lovers reached the place a bit late. The friends too returned late walking under the starry night and were not bothered about the cold wind.
That day the three friends sat for an hour. The boy reached alone and sat in a pensive mood with his head down.
Sunil asked him anxiously,” What happened to Pushpita? Is she not well?”
The boy looked at them gravely and said, “She will not come here again.”
The three of them shouted together,” What do you mean?”
With a depressed tone, he replied, “Her parents have finalized her marriage with an NRI Engineer. She will marry him and go to the States after twenty days.”
The three were shocked at hearing this news. They cried out together, “This is wrong. Don’t worry, give us her address. We will go and convince her parents. How can she marry someone else when she loves you? We will bring her back to you.”
The boy gave a sad smile and a drop of tear rolled down his cheek.
The three friends realized that their words had no meaning. The love story which was unfolding before their eager eyes remained unfinished. Each of them sighed heavily and their breath mingled with the cool air of the river bank.
N.B – The pictures have been taken from Google and the copyright is with the owner.
Dr. Dipty Pattnaik is an ex reader in Chemistry but her passion is literature and she emerged as a writer of short stories, novels, translations, children’s stories and popular science books late in life. She has been enormously prolific, publishing more than ten collections of stories.
Priyadarshana Bharati has picked some of Dipti Pattnaik’s stories from different collections, and has compiled them under the heading “A Handful of Dreams”. These are mostly women centric stories. These women characters belong to the middle class Odia families. It is their problems and concerns, their aspirations and expectations, their struggle for selfhood, and their psychological state of suffering as homemakers that are reflected. Her writings are rooted in the culture she herself lives.
Where is the music now?
Strings snapped, ukulele in pieces;
you can’t play the notes.
Only the strains of the last music
reverberates in the desolate house
and then go drifting into the sky.
Who says, we grow old in years
measured in counts of the Spring?
Memories only make us old.
The rivulet that meandered
by the side of the hamlet, is no more.
It has vanished, only the memory lingers.
The burial ground by the village river
doesn’t ask for names.
It only burns bodies.
The shape that is laid on the pyre
turns into a fistful of ashes;
the remains of all valour, vanity and ire !
It’s not dust only we are made of
and not unto dust only we go.
We go to air, fire and water too;
the mourning hearth and burning heart
take us everywhere, open or core.
Only the lone tree by the burial ground sits still,
as if in meditation about flesh, flower and fire.
Sibu Kumar Das has a post graduate degree in English Literature from Utkal University (1976-78) and after a few years' teaching job in degree colleges in Odisha, joined a Public Sector Bank in 1983 and remained a career banker till retirement in 2016 as head of one of its training establishments. Occasional writings have been published in Odia newspapers and journals.
the circumstances are perfect
the moon shining just right
not a bad cloud in the sky
the breeze a gentle envelope
a picture-perfect scene of romance
and yet to the faithless heart
there will be in the full glass
of sparkling wine
an invisible stone in sight
making drinking from
the blossoming fountain of love
an impossibility
the circumstances are rotten
the lover mourns her beloved’s separation
noise, smoke and souls
are being trodden upon
how could love flourish here
not a kind soul or saviour in sight
and yet to the faithful heart
there will be against the
cracked glass
the vision of a kiss
before she sleeps
making love, till the end,
a possibility
water flowing up
from bottom to top
mountains turning soft
bales of black smoke
feet retracing steps
walking backwards
soldiers burying their guns
flowers blooming into buds
roots flowering over branches
yellow moons and a white sun
the roving tiger a soaring dove
clouds turning to dust
the ground rising to meet the sky
and stars falling like rain from above
everything is possible
in love
Dr. Sonali Pattnaik has a PhD in English and teaches Literature in English at St. Xavier’s College (Autonomous), Ahmedabad. She was formerly a permanent lecturer in English at Delhi University’s Kirori Mal College and has taught Literature in English, Film and Gender Studies to students in Mumbai University, SNDT University, Jai Hind College, Mumbai, Whistling Woods Film Academy and Kasiga School, Dehradun, among others. She is a published writer, poet and a visual artist. Her academic work has been published both in print and online, in several national and international journals and she has attended and taught at several national and international seminars and workshops.She has been writing poetry and publishing in school and college magazines since the age of ten. Her poetry and book reviews have been published in print and in online literary journals which include a collection of poems and short stories titled Journeys published by Sampad South Asian Arts, Muse India, The Book Review, The Indian Express, Cafedissensus, Wordgathering, Writer’s Asylum, Women’s Web, Tehelka and Intersections (Australia).
She is a devoted and committed parent and homeschools her daughter and believes in bringing together creativity and practicality in education with a strong foundation in love, equality and honesty, something she strives for in her work as well as in the way she lives her life. She is currently working on her first book manuscript.
I kept on moving from one prison to another,
For years and years and had no strength to move further.
I started doubting myself, losing all hope,
As if there was no way out, absolutely no scope.
Ruminating over my own condition,
I almost forgot to participate in the conversation.
Until brought back to senses by the strong touch of the jailer,
We had almost reached the unreachable cellar.
How traumatized was I at the sight of the carcass!
Was that a horrendous painting on the canvas ?
The unexpected click of the key opening the oxidized lock,
Brought a stir in the painting and it began to flock.
Moved the silhouette, flagging and limping,
Mumbling in a voice flimsy and quaking quavering.
How shaken was I at her condition!
Observing her moth-eaten clothes, her chiselled face and blood flecked eyes.
I notified her how much for her, the humanity cries.
With her contorted, rheumatic fingers, she held my hands.
Just have a look at me, my son and tell me today, where do I stand?
How should I stop myself from taking a leap in the dark today?
The amiable dawn is dressed up to the nines.
Whispering the songs of love through pines.
Is it right to be hard on someone on this promising day?
Behold the clarion call of nature and make up leeway.
I refrain to move ahead without your thoughts and memories.
If I choose to move alone I will either be sad
Or guilt ridden that why I failed to gauge your expressions.
My mind is filled with suspicion and query.
I should have mustered some courage and not seemed wary!
My spiritual temper warned me against crying aloud,
As it would disturb the fairies over the purple clouds.
I carve a wonderful world of words, fantasies and imaginations.
Far off from gloom and filled with fascination.
Cool breeze whistles over the slumbering morn and embraces my sigh.
Millions of thoughts inconspicuously muddle through explosion drenches.
Marching towards me leaving the world of chaos and sorrow.
As I stand at my window to greet a new tomorrow!
I watch the city like a lone wolf in the crowd that
Divides the hum and haw from sincerity and senses.
The people avoid getting down to the nitty-gritty blinded by dazzles.
As I avoid the people on the rocks walk,
All set to rob Peter to pay Paul, pretending rolling in money.
Feel I like passing through a rogue’s gallery, unnoticed, non-existent.
The world around me is falling like the house of cards
I observe honesty, truthfulness, integrity, love, care,
Vanishing in front of my eyes in thin air.
The vacant eyes search for a genuine friend,
Who is so hard to identify among thousand strangers.
Trying to climb the ladder of success,
Trespassing warning given by wise men,
Working day and night to make a memorial shrubbery.
Sparing no time for introspection they
Never understood that they are heading towards D-Day.
And everything will come to an end so soon.
Could not they have given it a thought?
That all the worldly possession they bought,
Would lead to disaster that would never be unwrought .
Could not I do something to save the doom?
Getting rid of the fear that looms
Have taken I the decision of coming out of gloom and why not take a lucky dip into the evening of the moon?
(Founder & CEO - The Impish Lass Publishing House)
MEENA MISHRA is an award winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in manyinternational journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 30 anthologies.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series by Visionary Studioz (Mumbai) and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 50 books in 2 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- Series .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has received Wordsmith Award 2019 for her short story , “Pindarunch,” from the Asian Literary Society.
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
(Translated by Sreekumar K)
How bad! Can’t even get a glimpse of Sophy. Not even through the half open window. What a pity!
The home nurse came in, looked around and adjusted the mask. Then she too left. Already eighty. What can Corona do to an old man of eighty. Kill him? Ha ha ha. Waste of time Corona, waste of time. Why do you want to do what old age has been trying to do for quite some time now!
And what difference is it to die now? When did this start? This quarantine. What a difficult word to say!
Those birds have come again to the front courtyard. It is when they are that a little bit of life is felt deep within.
It seems the health workers have advised Sophy not to come here straight. Old people catch it fast, they told her. Where is she put up. At Varghese’s place? Such a small house. She must be choking there.
Thought of sneaking out and going over there. Just across the mud path. But there are police everywhere. No need to get into unnecessary trouble. After all, it is more for the others than oneself. A couple of days of staying in is OK.
Opened one shutter of the window and left it like that when no one was looking. When Sophy comes, she might get off the car right on the mud path. She might be sitting on the right seat in the back. If they are coming from the market side, the right side of the car might be on the other side and no chance to see her when she gets off. If they are coming from the church side, the right side of their car will be on this side and when she gets out it might be easy to catch a good sight of her. God, make them take the church road!
Last time she came she ran out of the airport to hug and kiss. Such a sweet little child! Can’t believe she is getting married. She is still a little child to one and all.
She too will have to stay indoors for two weeks, minimum. Only the close relatives are allowed in the church. Still no chance! Those above 60 are not allowed. Will have to wait for them to come for visits before they go abroad.
Slept till it was pretty dark in the room. But the courtyards are well lit. Sophy would have come and gone in. Missed it. Should get someone to tell her to come to the window. The corner room has light on this side. So, she will be properly lit to see. This room’s light should be switched off first. Let her be seen first. Only then should the light in this room be turned on! A surprise for her!
O, they have already put up a canopy there. What do they call it now? O, Shamiyaana. Wedding preparations have already begun. That was not necessary. What if those workers have corona? They are so careless. Won’t take a bath even once a week.
Can’t see properly, but there seems to be five or six people outside Varghese’s place. Everyone is wearing masks. Not bad ideas to have a pandal. Because of the wedding coming up there might be visitors. It is good not to let all of them in. The bride should be kept safe.
More tube lights have blinked to brightness. Is it some new piece of furniture in the courtyard. Glistening in the bright light above. Funny, it looks like a coffin.
The home nurse returned to turn on the light. Before she was asked, she gave a hurried reply.
“Sophy’s plane has not come, Appacha. Only tomorrow. I have to close this window.”
“Why? Did the pilot catch corona?”
Suppressing laughter, tried cutting a lame joke.
“Is there a roadblock in the sky too?”
She didn’t laugh but snuffled a little and wiped her tears with a tissue.
That girl gets beaten up by her man everyday, more when he is drunk. Varghese would have given him some money for the pandal work.
She returned with some hot porridge and remained mute. She went on snuffling and wiping her eyes. Told her to take the porridge away. When asked about the pandal and the coffin looking thing, she said it might have been a dream or something. Right! Coffin is my only dream now.
Finished the porridge only to make her feel fine. Lost the appetite for anything. The window is tight shut. No light or sound from the outside. This is going to be a sleepless night.
Is it raining again? When did it start? Monsoon, like airplanes, does not keep time anymore. Often delayed. And when it comes, it is a downpour. Sophy’s plane might come tomorrow morning. The rain has to stop by then. It has been raining continuously for two days now.
The home nurse returned to say good night. She was still crying. Her breath could be heard when she came close, to put on the mask properly. When she spread the blanket over the shoulder, her tears fell like drops of hot water on the forehead. Poor thing. She must be scared to go home tonight.
Told her to come back early tomorrow to open the window. She should also tell Sophy to come to the corner room window at ten in the morning. Only if Sophy arrives by that time. Or, at two o’ clock after lunch.
Is someone screaming out loud? Maybe it is another dream. This torrent should stop now. Sophy’s plane must be landing tomorrow morning or even before day break or midnight. Pilots are also human beings. They will have a hard time landing if it goes on raining like this. Prayers.. Prayers..prayers.
It is still pitch dark in this room like inside a coffin. Only one last wish in this life. To witness Sophy’s marriage.
The church bells are already ringing. Is it already Sunday? Who knows?
Seema Pushpakumari, born in Kottayam, Kerala, has won several prestigious awards including Vanitha Story award and Kerala Kalakendram Kamala Surayya award for her stories, novels, memoirs and translations into Malayalam. She is a prolific writer in Malayalam. Her e-mail: seemasamban@gmail.com
(Translated by Sreekumar K)
Actually I didn’t know such a person.
Had I taken English literature for my degree, I would have at least learned something about him. Alas! When the Sister insisted that every student studying in that women's college has to wear a sari, it was my father who told me that learning literature wearing such shackles wouldn’t go well and that the fresh air of freedom is essential for pursuing literature. My father added that what I need would come to me if I lived without choking myself in confinements. It looked like it had come true.
It was only yesterday that I met him in person. Wandering lonely as a crowd is one of my recently acquired habits. I see people, I hear voices. Some I forget, but some, those that I find useful, I keep in my mind.
This was how it went yesterday.
I was out roaming.
Whom do I run into but the one and only Christophe Morli.
Please, please wait. You can ask me who that is later. Let me finish how I handled the situation.
“What brings you here?” He frowned at me.
“Nothing. I was just...”
“None of your tricks. You were there last week too, right?
“Yes, I was, brother.”
“And...”
“I just roamed around there. Read a few stories and poems I found.”
The smell of coffee freshly ground
or rich plum pudding, holly crowned
or onions fried and deeply browned.
He began cracking his knuckles.
“Aha, Orotha, you’re good.”
He sang the rest.
In his shaky voice.
The fragrance of a fumy pipe
The smell of, apples, newly ripe
and ..
Now you continue.."
I raked my memory
"And Printer's ink on leaden type."
In such a suspicious situation, my only hope was that his words might save me. I looked hopefully at him.
He was born in Pennsylvania by the end of the nineteenth century, studied at Oxford, took up journalism, became famous as a novelist and finally in the New York Roseline Cemetery...
I repeated a traditional chant the elders had taught me.
May the souls of the faithful
Departed through the Mercy of God
Rest in peace
Being a poet, he had easy access to my thoughts.
"What were you mumbling?"
"I was praying."
"Funny."
We sat on one of the park benches.
I was not from that place and didn’t know the names of the lakes, trees or flowers around us. I didn’t know the names of the skyscrapers or the fly overs.
But I knew the Roseline Cemetery, the massive cathedral beside it and the tall crucifix nearby.
I could see all that from where I was sitting but they didn’t grab my attention. Nothing mattered more than this wonderful charismatic person I had come across.
We sat there till daybreak.
"Orotha"
"Yes, Morli brother"
"You said you read most of what I had written."
"Yes, I did. I even took a screenshot of the poem Milk Man."
"Really!"
He moved closer to me.
"Orotha"
"Yes?"
"Is your hair really curled?"
"No, I have set it using aloe vera gel."
"Really? You are a smart girl. I was about to tell you..."
He began in a tremulous voice
"It was in 1951, that my heart started acting up. Then I realized that this imaginative existence is not worth it. I realized that I should write down something for the others."
"Yes, I have heard that."
"After I died, it was there in several newspapers."
"I read it. I read it out to my kids too."
"Could you please repeat some?"
"Read everyday something no one else is reading."
"OK."
"Think everyday something no one else is thinking"
"And..?
Let it come..."
"Do everyday something no one else would be silly enough to do "
He coughed.
I wanted to ask him whether he needed a mouth freshener. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow.
He rubbed his hands together to warm them and pressed them onto his neck.
He resumed.
"It is bad for the mind to continually be part of unanimity"
I shook my head in agreement.
"Orotha, did you get what I was saying?"
"Why are you asking!"
"I am not a couch potato. Even if I am not well read or a thinker, what I have to do will be left there for me to do. No time for any new thoughts there."
"That is not what I meant."
"Then?"
"When something has come looking for you, don’t say no."
"Me?"
I got up.
"Be of help to people."
I lost my patience
"Just shoot. What did I do?"
He held my hand and made me sit down again.
"Did Susanna from 8 B call you today?"
"Yes she did. She asked me whether I know someone who could stitch a shirt for her eight month old baby. For this Onam."
"What did you say?"
"I told her the truth. I told her I don’t know. "
"What? Is it like you don’t know whether you know or you don’t even know whether you know you know or don’t know."
I suppressed my laughter.
"Orotha, I was not trying to irritate you. Do you remember? You saw her even last week at the balcony raising her baby to show him to his father."
"Yes, I saw. I felt so sad."
"Who do you think he is? Interventional pulmonologist. He is good at removing small things that get into the lungs of children and also adults."
"Yes, I know he is good at it. He has saved many lives. But such an unassuming fellow, he is."
"He doesn’t go home because he has to work in the hospital everyday."
"True."
"Then, it is your turn now."
"What? No, I can’t do that. I want to do that. But I don’t know how to do that."
"Do you know how to stitch two pieces of cloth together?"
"Yes, that I can, but..."
"Do you want to?"
"Yes, I want to."
"Then you should begin to."
"Wait, do you know how many lives are saved by doctors who sew up hearts and lungs? You just fill that boy’s days with happiness."
"Yes..."
"Let him sit on his dad’s lap in his new shirt this Onam."
"Let your I want to defeat your I can’t do."
Before Christopher Morli vanished as the little wisp of smoke from a blown out candle, I reached my place. I grabbed my husband’s shirt and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time.
Collar
Sleeves
Buttons
Pocket
My awe was quickened by the words left behind by an old man who had voyaged to another shore. My mind was embalmed by love and compassion. On cue, my sewing machine took it up without the usual demur.
When I finished doing what I had never done before and that too successfully, my mind recalled the chance meeting I had with such a great soul during one of my wild ramblings in alien lands. His voice still reverberated in the recesses of my mind
"Orotha,"
"Yes..."
"We all are for all, meant for all, built for all. That is how it is here. And I am sure that is how it is there too. Let it show."
I said, Amen
P S; Some stories are not just told, they are woven and stitched together.
Rose George lived and worked in the Middle East for a decade. Presently staying at Kochi, Kerala. She has an avid interest in issues concerning humanity and environment. She records everyday life in the simplest manner so as to help people see through the clutter. Humourous in speech and writing, she describes herself in two phrases: one who got into the wrong bus and one who found an extra supply of oxygen in writing.
INDEX OF MIND
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The moment Siddharth Vajpayee entered the room everyone stood up - the Private Secretary, the Senior P.A. the Junior PA. the Stenographer and the Peon. Only Dinesh, the Diarist did not wake up from his nap, he was not supposed to because he had been born with the divine right of enjoying long stretches of nap with short stretches of intermittent activities. Their boss Sutanu Das, Secretary to the Chief Minister, was inside his chamber and Siddharth Vajpayee had an appointment with him at three. He had arrived ten minutes early. At sixty eight years of age it is better to relax and catch up with one's breath before going to meet an important person.
Every one had folded his hands in greeting the old man, a well respected, highly regarded retired civil servant. A short, stocky young man came forward, touched his feet and stood there. Siddharth Vajpayee beamed at him,
"Who are you? Your face looks familiar!"
"Yes Sir, my father Brij Mohan Upadhyay had worked as your P.A. about thirty five years back. He speaks so high of you Sir, he says you are the most honest, strict yet simple officer he had ever worked with. You are still a legend here sir, in our Madhya Pradesh Secretariat."
The retired bureaucrat was happy, at least some people still remembered him in these corridors of power, notorious for forgetting officers once they lose their power and position. He beamed even more,
"O, you are Brij MohanJi's son? You look exactly like your father when he was with me. I was at the time a young Joint Secretary in Finance Department, my first posting in Secretariat. He was a big help. Where is he now? Here, in Bhopal?"
"No Sir, he has been living in our village Debipur after his retirement fifteen years back."
"O yes, Debipur, on the way to Sanchi! I have been there. Once when we were going on official tour Brij MohanJi took us to his village. Your grand father was so happy to see me. I remember I ate a dozen jalebis and would have eaten some more, except that I heard some giggles from behind the curtains, the women folk of the family found it so funny! How time flies! When your father comes to Bhopal next, please bring him along. We will have a long chat."
Siddharth Vajpayee looked at the wall clock. It was about to be three. He moved towards the door. The two P.A.s jumped to the door blocking him, as if he was an intruder from across the border.
The Private Secretary wiped some sweat from his brow and screamed,
"Sir, sir, sir, a meeting is going on with some NGO representatives. Please wait. Sir will call you once the meeting is over."
Siddharth Vajpayee stopped in his tracks, embarrassed,
"O, some meeting is going on? When is his next appointment after mine?"
"Three thirty Sir, you have enough time. Please sit in the Visitor's room. I will send some coffee for you. Or should it be tea?"
"No, nothing. Just a glass of water will do. And let me wait here. At least I will feel the flavour of a government office after a long time. You people attend to your work. Don't feel disturbed by my presence."
Siddharth Vajpayee walked over to the small sofa near the door to the chamber and sat down. He looked at the photographs, the calendar, the clock and an image of Lord Ganapati on the four walls. The rooms in the Secretariat must have been the same thirty five years back when he came first to work here, only he had no time to notice them. Now he had all the time in the world to notice the minutest things!
The grand father of the present Chief Minister was the CM for many years, a wily politician who kept everyone happy and gave a free hand to the ministers, and party leaders in 'serving' the people and serving themselves. How true of Indian democracy is the adage 'God helps those who help themselves'! Yes, how nicely our rulers help themselves, at the cost of the nation! His son was deputed to the Center by the cunning father, lest he becomes a threat to him. A four time MP, the son was also a Minister for two terms at the Center. Unfortunately he died early of unknown causes, although there were loud whispers that AIDS got him due to his philandering ways.
The present CM was a true successor to the 'rich' tradition set by his grand father. It was common knowledge that in every major city and town of Madhya Pradesh the CM's family owned land, malls, cinema halls, petrol bunks and huge buildings rented out to offices and business establishments. They had no doubt helped themselves unabashedly and God had helped them abundantly. They of course built many temples all over the state, as a show of gratititude to the Gods.
Everyone who knew the corridors of power was talking about Sutanu being so lucky to work under a powerful, ambitious man like the CM. Sidharth Vajpayee wondered how Sutanu must be coping with it. He had seen Sutanu as a young Trainee thirty years back, when he himself was the Collector of Indore district. Such a nice, simple, idealistic young man! Sutanu had a boyish face, so innocent, he looked like someone still in the high school! And he was strikingly handsome, with dimpled cheeks and a winning smile. One could hardly believe he had cleared the civil services exam and entered the threshold of a busy, hectic career.
Kalyani, Siddharth's wife used to treat Sutanu like a son, an elder brother to their two kids. Every evening he used to join the family for dinner, so bashful, and respectful. Kalyani thought this pure soul was going to have huge problems in his career. She believed in the saying, face was the index of mind and had no doubt Sutanu's innocent face reflected a clean mind, simple heart and a pure soul. What an exception to the young brats who think no end of themselves once they clear the tough UPSC exam and get selected for IAS! Kalyani had no doubt that Sutanu would shine as a model officer. "Mark my words," she used to tell Siddharth Vajpayee, "this boy will be a pride to the IAS."
Sutanu finished his training in a year and got posted as a Sub-Collector at Jabalpur. Siddharth hardly saw him again. After a couple of years, when Sutanu was still a Sub-Collector Siddharth got posted as Secretary in Bhopal and in due course left for central deputation to Delhi. From there he got an assignment at the African Development Bank for nine years and returned to Government of India as Secretary Urban Development. After retirement he had a stint of five years at the UPSC and finally was back at Bhopal.
While working at Delhi Siddharth had received the invitation card for Sutanu's marriage. He was surprised to know that the simple, innocent, idealistic boy had been ensnared by a cunning senior bureaucrat and was getting married to his daughter. His father in law was known to be thoroughly corrupt and manipulative. Sutanu got posted as district collector in all major districts of Madhya Pradesh like Gwalior, Indore, Jabalpur and Raipur. He handled many important departments and finally got picked up by the present CM four years back as his Secretary.
On return to Bhopal Siddharth Vajpayee stayed in the house he had built in Sanat Nagar, a decent colony at one point of time, which had fallen into a decrepit, neglected area as more and more posh colonies spang up in and around Bhopal. Numerous problems had started plaguing Sanat Nagar and municipal authorities were not very responsive to complaints. Siddharth had sought time from Sutanu to come and request him to intervene.
There was a suppressed uneasiness in the room. Everyone was worried about the presence of the old man in the room. The PS was wondering what would happen if some dalal called to discuss a deal, how would he reply? There were files inside the chamber worth a fortune for him, by delaying them for a week he could cause huge loss and there is a commission for expediting them.
The senior PA was worried that somebody night walk in and may spill some beans without being aware of the old man's presence. And that Hemant from the Irrigation Seceretary's office was a gutter-mouth. The moment he spoke, filth came out, four lettered words and unparliamentary expressions. If he walked in talking it would be a major embarrassment.
The Junior PA was wondering what must be happening inside Sahab's chamber. Hope no sounds come out, as it happened often, when the meeting became too loud.
The steno wanted to go and talk to the old, retired man and tell him how his father used to speak about him to the children all the time, asking them to study hard and try to become officers like Siddharth Sahab! But he was reluctant to go near him, lest the others made fun of him later.
Suddenly everyone was startled by the sound of women's voices followed by some loud giggling and boisterous laughter from inside the room. They looked embarrassedly at the old man who wondered what sound that was. He looked at the clock on the wall. 3.15! Would he have enough time to discuss everything with Sutanu? He had come with so much hope to spend a good half an hour with the powerful bureaucrat, to give him some new ideas! About Urban Renewal, his experience in some of the emerging African nations and from his days as the Union Urban Development Secretary. But time was running out.
On an impulse he got up and opened the door before any of the staff could stop him. Next moment he stopped in his track. The scene before him could have been lifted from a Hindi movie. A beautiful, slim girl was bending from the side over Sutanu, trying to feed him a piece of barfi, although his eyes were ravenously glued to her bosom. Two ladies, obviously older to the girl, were laughing loudly, urging her to insert the barfi in his mouth.
When Sutanu saw Siddharth Vajpayee standing at the door aghast, he pushed the girl away and got up. The three ladies, laughed coquettishly and collected their purses. Promising to return the next day with more sweets, they moved towards the door. On the way out they threw a mocking glance at the old man and God knows what made them burst into bigger, louder laughter.
Sutanu folded his hands and greeted Siddharth. By the time the old bureaucrat sat down, Sutanu pressed the buzzer and hissed at the PS, "Why didn't you tell me Sir was waiting?" Siddharth knew exactly what that meant. The PS would probably be reporting at some other office tomorrow morning. A PS who cannot warn his boss of an impending disaster was as good as useless.
Siddharth felt bad for the PS,
"Sutanu, please don't get angry with your staff. They tried their best to stop me from barging in. It was I who got impatient, knowing that your next appointment is at 3.30."
Sutanu looked at him, hardly concealing his irritation,
"Why did you take the trouble of coming Sir? We could have talked over phone. Do you have some problem to discuss?"
"Yes, but more than anything else I wanted to see you and spend some time with you. I had seen you as a young probationer, so full of idealism and empathy. Today people think you are the most powerful bureaucrat in the state. I wanted to see how you are using this tremendous power to help the poor people of the state. I remember your telling me you wanted to join the IAS for that only, "to wipe the tear away from every suffering individual" were the words if I remember correctly."
Sutanu looked at the clock on the wall. His next meeting was not with a retired, garrulous time waster. A leading industrialist was coming to discuss a huge project. His anxiety was palpable, his rough, mature face looked stern,
"Yes Sir, what is the problem you wanted to discuss Sir?"
"The colony where I and some other retired bureaucrats are staying has become unliveable Sutanu. At one point of time, when we were young, Sanat Nagar was a coveted location, now due to neglect by the municipality and mushrooming of slums all around, the colony is a stinking cesspool."
Sutanu wrinkled his nose,
"Sanat Nagar? Can any decent person live there?"
Siddharth was taken aback,
"About a dozen retired IAS and IPS officers are staying there. Don't you think they are decent enough?"
Sutanu smiled indulgently,
"No No Sir, what I meant was, such old decrepit colonies are fit for clerks and stenos, not for officers like you".
Siddharth wanted to ask Sutanu if clerks and stenos did not deserve to be called decent, but it was getting close to 3.30 and he had so much to discuss,
"I wanted to give you a few suggestions on Urban Renewal, I had carried out a project in Johannesburg....."
Sutanu was getting impatient, he looked at the old bureaucrat contemptuously,
"Johannesburg? O, Johannesburg, yes sir, did you discuss your problem with the Municipal Commissioner of Bhopal?"
Before Siddharth could reply, the phone buzzed,
The senior P.A. informed that CM wanted to speak, Sutanu waited till the big man came on the line,
"'Pranam Sir, .....Yes Sir,.......Sir Sir,......Sir Sir Sir, Yes Sir, Six o clock Sir? Yes Sir, we will be there, but Sir what I wanted to suggest....' Oh, Dhat Saala, kaat diya."
Conscious that he had used an expletive against the CM, he avoided looking at Siddahrth and pressed the buzzer again,
"Ask the Excise Commissioner to bring the Makdampur Distillery file and be here by five, he has to accompany me to the CM's place at six. Cancel all my appointments after five......who? Health Secretary? Send him in"
Siddharth looked at the clock. Three minutes left, three minutes of his much awaited meeting. Before he could speak, the Health Secretary rushed in. He was about to sit, Sutanu held up a hand,
"No time to waste Anbumani, go back and finalise that new hundred bedded hospital proposal in CM's constituency. I want the file on my table by ten o clock tomorrow. I don't care if you don't go home tonight, but I don't want any silly excuses tomorrow morning. Now leave."
Sutanu looked at Siddharth,
"Sir, have you brought anything in writing? A representation?"
Siddharth took out the paper along with a few photographs of the dilapidated roads, the broken down garbage bins, of stray dogs, cats and big bandicoots fighting over rotten food.
"We had met the Municipal Commissioner but there was no response. A word from you will go a long way. Actually different pockets of the city can be beautified, we can make Bhopal a beautiful........"
The buzzer again, the P.A. on the line, - Sir, Mr. Ginodia with his team is here". Sutanu's face brightened, as if spring had arrived, following an unwelcome winter.
He took the paper from Siddharth Vajpayee, put his initial and threw it in the Out tray. His hand pressed the buzzer twice as a signal to the PS to send Mr. Ginodia in. He stood up to fold his hands to get rid of the retired bureaucrat.
Siddharth forced himself out of the chair and looked at Sutanu closely. He was more aware now, that the boyish, charming face was gone, the face had become rough, the dimpled cheeks were replaced by scars and pimple marks, the eyes gleamed with the cruel glint of a man obsessed with unbridled materialistic ambitions. This was a mere shadow of the once-upon-a-time young, bright, innocent, promising probationer who had occupied a fond place in the heart of Kalyani like an elder son. As Siddharth Vajpayee left the chamber he knew Sutanu's face would be haunting him for quite some time, the face which was the index of an insensitive, diabolical mind.
........................................................................
(The story behind the story: it is based on my perception of a friend who I met after a long gap. As a young IAS probationer he was simple and fiercely idealistic. When I saw him thirty one years later, I couldn't believe how much he and his sweet, innocent face had changed. I don't want to go into the details. The memory is quite disturbing for me. We never met again.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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