Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXIV
(Title : Mother Nature - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 84th edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with delicious poems and vivacious stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
This week we are indeed lucky to have a poem from Mr. B.S. Raghavan, one of the legends of Indian bureaucracy. He had joined the IAS in 1952 and had served the country with rare distinction in different assignments including a stint at FAO. His poem in today's LV celebrates life in awakening to a fresh year of happiness and promises. LiteraryVibes wishes Mr. Raghavan many more years of joyous living and sweet reminiscences. We also have a new writer in Mr. Philip Thomas, originally from Kerala, presently settled in the U.S. He is a distinguished film maker and a celebrated writer who has won many awards for his works. His story in today's edition is simply brilliant. Let's welcome Mr. Raghavan and Mr. Thomas to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them loads of success in all their endeavours..
Last week I had published a very interesting travelogue on the Canadian Rockies by Shri Debjit Rath. Although more than a hundred visitors have accessed the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/337 to enjoy the beautiful writing, I would still urge the others to take a look at it. The pictures are breathtakingly beautiful, the call of the Rockies irresistibly enticing.
Two days back I read an account of an incident in Nazi Germany. It's about a twelve year old Jewish girl and her six year old brother. In the height of the racist atrocities they were rounded up by Nazi soldiers somewhere in Austria and herded into a group to be despatched to a concentration camp. They waited at the railway station for three days for the goods train where they would be packed into the train containers like sardines and taken to the camps of unspeakable horror. Through the misery and the painful wait somehow the brother clung to the hands of his elder sister. When the train finally came and they were being pushed brutally into the containers the sister noticed to her horror that the boy had lost his shoes somewhere. This certainly meant he would lose his legs to frost bite in the severe snow and ice storm. She got very upset and in a fit of anger she shouted, "You are going to die, you miserable wretch! Die, you careless fool!" Still the boy clung to his sister. When they reached the camp they were forced apart. She never saw her brother again. By some miracle she survived the holocaust and all its nightmare. After it was over she migrated to the U.S. where she lived to her eighties. Her efforts to trace her parents and her tiny brother, "the miserable wretch", brought no results and till her last day she shed silent tears everyday for the cruel words she had spoken to him, blaming herself for his tragic fate.
In our day to day life we sometimes say things that we live to regret. The words come back to hurt us again and again. I have had a few such moments and have felt incredibly sad for them. I am sure others also have similar experiences. If only we could think before we say or do things which would come back to haunt us!
In August 2012 I led a Government delegation to Berlin for the annual Indo-German Joint Workshop on Skill Development. I visited the Hoocaust Memorial on the fourth afternoon on the conclusion of the Workshop. It was one of the saddest days of my life. There is a hall where there are thousand of plaques on the floor depicting the details of some of the victims. In a few cases where notes and letters were retrieved, they have been engraved into the plaques. They would shatter the heart like nothing else can do. An eleven year old boy writes to his father, "Daddy, it is so cold here. When are you coming to take me home?" A fifteen year old girl pleads with her mother, "I promise mom, I will never complain about the food you make. Just take me home and let me be with you." My heart broke into a thousand pieces and I sobbed like a child, reading many such soul-wrenching words.
I hope such horror never happens again to mankind. Never ever the shadow of inhumanity should darken the hearts of those who have the power to shape the course of history. Just because a maniac loses his mind, never the parents should separate from their children, nor a sister mourn for her brother for something she told him. God save us from such horror!
Please use the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/340 to share this 84th edition of LV. All the previous 83 editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Your feedback in the Comments section of the LV page is most welcome. Those of you who would like their literary works to be published in our eMagazine are requested to send them to my email address mrutyunjays@gmail.com
Take care, be safe and stay healthy.
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
GODDESS GAIA*
02) Haraprasad Das
CONNING (BHOJABAAJI)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
TAKING A PEEK
DEVIL'S DUE
04) B. S. Raghavan
NINETY
05) Dr. Pradip Kumar. Swain
WE ARE A LOT REACHER THAN WE THINK
06) Debjit Rath
THE SHADOW SPEAKS
07) Krupasagar Sahoo
LILABATI SUTRA
08) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
THE PILGRIMAGE
09) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
BOAST
10) Madhumathi. H
MY WINGED SOULMATE
BLOTTING PAPERS
11) Sangeeta Gupta
LEARN TO LOVE THE DARKNESS
LIFE
12) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 7 : GOD A LIVING REALITY
13) Sunil Biswal
RX, YOU IN ENGLISH, ME IN HINDI
14) Hema Ravi
HITECH SALES-NO LONGER BRISK!!
15) Sheena Rath
WILL THE WORLD HEAL
16) Meera Rao
MELAKA ,WHERE PAST AND PRESENT CONVERGE
17) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE REFUGE OF HISTORY
18) Sibu Kumar Das
VIGNETTES OF THE RAINS
19) Ravi Ranganathan
SWEET BYTES OF A MEMORY TRACE!
20) Ashok Kumar Ray
NEVAEH & SANHOORA
21) Neha Sarah
SOCIAL HOCUS POCUS
22) Priya Karthik
THE CASKET OF LOVE
23) Dr.Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
KRISHNA
24) Abani Udgata
VAN GOGH’S LAST PAINTING**
25) Mihir Kumar Mishra
A PRAYER
BALLAD OF A BLEEDING HEART
26) P Suresh Kumar
A TRIBUTE TO A FATHER BY A FATHER....
27) Philip Thomas
DUO
28) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE STREAM OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS
29) Sundar Rajan S (Video Poem)
FullMoon Night
(Compliment -: the evocating painting by a good friend, - Latha Prem Sakhya, I gratefully use it as a motif)
I wash face in your stream
see my soul reflect you
in my visage;
wander into your woods,
taste a berry, a sip of nectar,
have an eyeful of the Rainbow.
Your evening sky filled with peacocks,
air wafting fragrant jasmines,
cuckoo sings a plaintive Bismila.
The sickle-moon on horizon,
charming in its waxing,
a dying lamp in waning phase.
Those bright little spangles,
you wear on your night hairdo,
sparkle with romance.
Some nights they are joined
by your milky luminous orb that
rises from ashes again and again.
A bully monitors the dayclass,
none chastens it, none holds its reins
except his harem of clouds
with weapons - tear and rumble,
flashes of anger, alternating with
bewitching smiles at parted curtains.
Sitting by a stream in the sun,
or bathing in moon's milk, I put my head
on your lap of rippling bounties.
(GAIA* - goddess earth.)
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
Trans – Prabhanjan K. Mishra
These days, ruled by conmen,
we stay on tender hooks -
would the monsoon
bring bounties?
Would the half-built bridge
get ever completed?
Would our seniors survive to see
the advent of the new age?
Doubts loom in mind –
the monsoon may play truant.
But we are taught to live
with little expectations,
sustain on happy memories,
partake in laughing-yoga,
even learn to live without
any hope of good time soon.
An incomplete bridge shouldn’t
matter much, nor pushing
the old man into a train, promised
to be chugging off to new age.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful,
like pied piper’s magic?
Or should one expect
more incredible mind-bogglers?
Perhaps yes, one may -
more may be on their way
like applauding the rainless clouds,
“Ah! It brings picnic weather.”,
taking a U-turn and
walking into lanes
of nostalgia, the past, the time
of sticks and stones;
like the serenity of mango orchards,
balmy winds, and cuckoo songs;
soporific dreams to reinvent
living in quaint distant past,
better than the new age
built on junk steel from
half-built bridge.
Finally, the conmen, like bombers,
done with their targets,
would fly away to their
safe havens; but not before
their last sleight of hands –
pulling out all flesh from the bones.
Asking all to sow the last stock
of grain as seeds on fallow land,
promising a bumper crop, they flee.
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)”
I rummage the pages
of old newspapers
and sometimes
the back issues
of inflight magazines
to check the old
Tarot readings
to verify and validate
how much of the predictions
did really happen
and how many calamities
overpowered
the prosperities around
while wondering
how come the future
of millions
be straightjacketed
into just twelve slots!
Then as I browse through
the fresh newspaper
page by page
I again pause at
my favourite pit stop
to check which planet
rules which house
and prepare myself
to embrace my fate
with open arms
and brace for
the imminent storms
that may be nearing
my horizons
and surrender my reasons
to my insecurities.
A huge wave came crashing on his face, almost suffocating him. Then he could feel a bright sun flashing on his face, almost blinding him. He could feel his limp and numb body shudder violently. He felt as if he was being dragged into the depths of the sea by a shark, its sharp jaws clamped tightly on his legs. Then he was woken up from his stuporous slumber with a jerk.
He squinted his eyes to see himself in a small stone walled cell with no windows and an enormous silhouette of a burly man bending over him and pulling him up from a concrete block on which he was lying, for how long he didn't remember. He then felt an agonizing pain on his temple and felt a streak of blood that had now dried up on his forehead. He couldn't move his right hand which seemed to have fractured. He was soaked with water that was splashed on him from a bucket in order to bring him back to his senses. A bright spot light was focused on him and a man in a khaki uniform was towering over him with an evil grin, hurling abuses at him.
'Hey you, treacherous spy, who are you? What were you doing in our territory?' barked the man in uniform.
He tried hard to remember who he was, but it seemed he had lost his memory for good. He had no idea what was his name, where did he come from and how did he come here. Then he realised that he was wearing a flying overall, with an Indian flag stitched to its left sleeve. He then discovered his wings on his left breast and a name tally on the right, which was muddy and his name was barely readable. With some difficulty he managed to read the name written in Devanagari script, Zaheed Raza. Slowly the events during the past day started materialising.
He recalled that he was flying a MiG-21 fighter aircraft as a part of a sortie that was scrambled to intercept an enemy intrusion into J&K, and how he engaged an F-16 in a dog fight. He remembered that he saw the enemy aircraft going down in flames being hit by his K-13 missile and how his old war horse had an engine failure, forcing him to bail out. Flashes of his memory revealed that he was accosted by a group of locals in the enemy territory who manhandled him before handing him over to the Army authorities.
His interrogator continued to holler menacingly and prodding him with a baton. Finally he spoke, 'Now I remember. My name is Zaheed Raza and I am a fighter pilot of Indian Airforce.I can tell you only this much and nothing else.'
'That's what you think. We know how to open your mouth. You will surely tell us what we want to know,' threatened the Army man.
'I have no further information for you. I only fly aircraft whenever I am detailed to do so. That's all,' Zaheed told emphatically.
The Army man punched him hard on the nose and shouted, 'Do you know who I am? I am Major Taimur. They call me here 'the Vicious Vulture'. I will be only too happy to pull out your nails one by one. Then break your fingers one after the other. And if you still don't cooperate, it would be my pleasure to dig my fingers into the sockets of your eyes and claw them out too. Do you understand?'
Zaheed could feel blood trickling down his nostrils. He wiped them with the back of his cuffed hands and replied while looking straight into his eyes, without an iota of fear, 'You don't scare me Major. You try all your stunts but my lips are sealed.'
The Major moved swiftly and hit him hard on his solar plexus and cried, 'We shall see what stuff you are made of. You are not the first one I am handling. You would soon sing like a canary.'
Zaheed grunted with pain, and suddenly lunged forward to the Major to hit him back with his head. Immediately both the Major and his burly assistant were on top of him. The Major took out his TASER and zapped him. Zaheed blacked out and collapsed on the concrete divan.
When he woke up, he found himself on a hospital bed in a small cabin, his head bandaged and hand plastered. Seated on a nearby chair was a dignified looking white haired man in a Major General's uniform, who was looking at him benignly. His name tally read Rehmat Raza. Zaheed took some time to adjust to the ambient light in the room, as he slowly drifted back to his senses. He realised that the gentleman could be his uncle who had chosen to move to Pakistan during partition. His father Professor Ahmet Raza who taught political science at Aligarh Muslim University chose India while his younger brother Rehmat had decided otherwise. Zaheed wished him and tried to get up.
'Don't get up. Just lie down and relax. You need rest to recover. You perhaps know by now that I am your uncle. I am in charge of India operations at the ISI headquarters in Islamabad. I am glad that now you are in my custody. You are safe here,' General Rehmat tried to comfort him.
Zaheed's eyes were getting heavier under the sedatives he was given by the doctor to relieve his pain and he slowly slipped back to sleep. In his drug induced hypnagogic state he remembered Deepti, his wife of six months. Flt Lt Deepti Singhal was a lady officer, a pilot in the transport fleet of the Airforce. Zaheed who was a Qualified Flying Instructor had trained her in basic flying at the Flying Training School. Their acquaintance blossomed into love in due course and they had got married about six months ago, much against the wishes of their families. Theirs was an inter-religion marriage and the society still didn't approve it easily. Their mutual love and devotion to each other finally won and with the full support of the airforce fraternity, they tied the knot. He saw in his dream Deepti standing on a cottony patch of white clouds with a big smile and with open arms, beckoning him. He was trying his best to fly away to her but all his efforts were in vain. He was struggling helplessly to break away from the fetters which held him captive to the bed. He woke up with a jolt, his dream melting away fast, to find a fan whirring on top and a news anchor saying something on the TV kept on a table.
The news of his capture was on the air. The Indian government was putting pressure on the international community to persuade Pakistan to release him immediately. Pakistan was refuting the Indian claim of shooting down of the F-16 Lockheed Martin. Pakistan was flashing his photo with a cup of tea that the hospital had served him, as proof of good treatment. There were debates and discussions in various TV channels.
The next day General Rehmat again paid him a visit. After enquiring about his health, he sat next to him and asked, ' Zaheed, my son, what do you think about the chain of events that happened during the past few days? Do you think that it was just a coincidence that you were sent on a mission here? That your aircraft developed engine snags? That you bailed out in Pak territory? That I, your own uncle, is here to take care of you?'
Zaheed didn't know what to reply, and looked at his uncle questioningly.
'Nothing happens in life by chance. Everything has a reason. It's simply Allah's wish. Your destiny and my destiny. Our karma,' the General paused a while, and continued, 'Let's fulfil the wishes of the Almighty. You are now one amongst us. You forget about India. I will get you a new identity and you stay here to serve Allah's cause.'
Zaheed protested, ' No uncle, don't you think that would be treacherous? How can I, a devout Indian be a traitor and serve the enemy?'
The General smiled and counselled, ' My dear boy, let me tell you something which perhaps no one has ever told you. What is India? What is Pakistan? These territories and boundaries are man-made. God has brought us into this world and universe as a human. He doesn't differentiate between, Zameen, Jannat and Jahannum, the Earth, the Heaven and the Hell. We humans have limitations. We think in finites. We draw the lines and boundaries. That's all. We are professionals. Our life is defined by our karma. Our duty. The place doesn't matter. The assignment does. Your father decided to stay in India, so he became an Indian. I was an Indian but now you call me Pakistani, since I chose Pakistan. But my real identity is what I do. You were a pilot. And a good one too, but tomorrow you can be someone else. That's your new identity. The nationality is like a dress that we wear. The real we are our naked selves. The nation may be our body but the profession is our soul. Recognise your soul. Allah has chosen you for serving his wishes here. Till yesterday he chose you to fly the aircraft for India. But now you are ours.'
Zaheed was trying to figure out his uncle's logic. The General told him to think deeply and left for the day.
The following days, the General met Zaheed in many such brainwashing sessions, till he appeared to yield. Then one day he came up with the detailed proposal.
'Look son, now that you see the light at the end of the tunnel, let me explain how we should go about it. We would shift you to our flying training school and since you are a qualified flying instructor, it won't be long before you master our fighter aircraft. You would then train our pilots. We will also give you training in clandestine operations. We have some assignments for you in Baluchistan later. But first, we must find a bride for you, much more beautiful than Deepti,' concluded the General with a smile of satisfaction.
Immediately after this conversation, Pak TV telecast a news item showing Zaheed trying to escape from the Army custody and being shot to death by the Pak rangers, while crossing the border. No one knew that it was stage managed and the rangers had fired blanks. There was quite a hue and cry over the incident and public memory being what it is, people forgot about it in due course.
The next five years passed by smoothly for Zaheed. He was provided with all the luxury that he ever dreamed of. He was driving a Hummer to work. His uncle found a match for him in Jubeida, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy businessman from Karachi. Meanwhile in India, Deepti was devastated with the news of Zaheed's martyrdom. But after couple of years, she decided to move on with her life and found another life partner for herself, her commanding officer, Group Captain Karan Bhatnagar. Bhatnagar was a widower, who had lost his wife to a car accident and had a four year old son. The little boy Rohit, grew fond of Deepti, and Deepti too was attached to the boy. One day he proposed to Deepti and asked if she would be a mother to his son, and Deepti accepted. Bhatnagar was an up and coming officer, who had earned a name as a strategist and an expert in war games. On relinquishing his command he was posted as the Command Operations Officer of the Western Air Command and was a member of the top think tank of the Air Headquarters.
Zaheed was in Baluchistan to gather some intelligence about the insurgents there, when he received a message to return to Islamabad and meet General Rehmat. The General welcomed him warmly and briefed him about his next mission. He was told to be ready to go back to India under a POW exchange program. As per plans, he was to infiltrate into RAW, the Research and Analysis Wing, the foreign intelligence agency of India. His main job would be to gather intelligence on India's indigenous programs for designing strategic nuclear weapons delivery platforms. The sources of information would be distributed and his job won't be easy at all. It would need careful planning and execution covertly. His wife would be transferred to Pak embassy at Delhi as a junior diplomat.
The plan was executed with precision and Zaheed was back in India. His first hurdle was to face a board of officers at the Air Headquarters. The board was to interrogate him about his experience as a POW and put him through a sanitisation process before he could be reinstated. His uncle prepared him well and he convinced the board about his usefulness as a RAW agent. When asked about his death news, he told that he was presumed to be dead because of the gun wounds, but he had in fact survived the attack. They kept him alive and forced him to train their pilots in their College of Flying Training at Risalpura. He enjoyed some degrees of freedom and had made some friends too. He would be able to use these friends to gather the required intelligence as and when needed. He gave some actual information about the locations of the Baluch rebel camps, which he projected as Pak sponsored terrorist training camps. Based on his information, the Airforce conducted some successful air strikes. ISI was successful in killing two birds in one stone. Their job to eliminate the Baluch insurgents was done by India and Zaheed could gain the trust of the board. Zaheed was finally assigned to the RAW.
It was the night of Diwali. Rohit and Deepti had enjoyed the fireworks with the other Airforce families and had retired for the day. Bhatnagar had to travel to Delhi for an urgent meeting. As the clock struck twelve in the nearby clock tower, Deepti heard some sound in the study room which Bhatnagar uses as his residential office. She got up and tiptoed to the study, and switched on the light. A man in a black track suit with a hood was taking something out of the locker. Deepti saw the man turn around and her heart missed a beat. The man was equally startled to see Deepti.
' Zaheed! I thought you were killed in Pakistan. And what the hell are you doing here in my home,' Deepti asked almost deliriously.
'Oh my God, you were the last person I expected to see here. I had been lucky. I survived the bullets. Never mind. Let's sit and we will talk,' blurted out Zaheed.
'Oh, Zaheed, If you were alive, why didn't you try to contact me? Do you have any idea how I lived here thinking all the time that you were dead, ' Deepti said with tears rolling down from her eyes.
Take it easy now. It’s all God’s wish. But never mind. We will work things out,' Zaheed tried to comfort her.
'No, it's too late. I am now married to Group Captain Bhatnagar. And we have a son to take care of,' she paused a while and continued, ' But tell me what are you doing here? And what is that file you are hiding behind your back?' asked Deepti and tried to snatch the file from him.
The file fell down. It was crossed red with a caption Top Secret.
'So you are here to steal sensitive documents from my husband's locker?, ' fumed Deepti.
'I will explain. You see I now work for the RAW. This is part of my job,' Zaheed explained.
'And you want me to believe that you are obtaining the file for RAW? Tell me honestly, are you the rat? Working for them?’ snapped Deepti.
'I will tell you the details. Just hold on. We should talk about our future too,' Zaheed implored.
Deepti thought for a while and told with a smile, ' OK. I don't know what I am talking. Seeing you so suddenly here has really shaken me up. Yes, we must celebrate first. You had been my first love. No one can ever replace you. Let's go to the dining room and say cheers to our reunion. We can always discuss these things later.'
Zaheed was relieved and followed Deepti to the dining room. Deepti took out a bottle of champagne from the fridge and poured some into two flute glasses. Then both clicked the glasses and said 'cheers'.
Deepti stood up and opened her arms into which Zaheed almost jumped. Both were frozen in a tight embrace, Zaheed's lips frantically seeking Deepti's. Then suddenly Zaheed shrieked at the top of his voice, as Deepti plunged the fruit knife into his heart.
Zaheed fell to the ground bleeding profusely and muttered in a guttural voice, 'You bitch! You betrayed me.'
Deepti stood there with the dripping knife in hand with no mercy or compassion on her face and retorted, 'And what about you? You ungrateful scum. Didn’t you betray all of us?'
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
Ninety-three not out, still at the crease,
Batting on, but ill at ease,
Older I’ve grown by one more year
That’s left a trail of woe and fear,
Wreaking havoc, wrecking hope,
Setting the world on a slippery slope
To nothingness, both far and nigh,
I linger on, I know not why.
How long more in wild goose chase
Of this and that vain craving and craze!
My life has its full course run;
Applaud when my day is done.
Judge me kindly whate’er my sin
Trust me, please, through thick and thin,
I meant naught but the good of all,
Whether it showed wasn’t my call;
I bear no grudge, I mean none ill,
I want all to have their fill
Of joy and health and peace of mind,
I wish well of all mankind.
I wish to seek, to learn, to know,
Till my end not cease to grow,
On all I touch to put a scent:
This is my will and testament
B. S. Raghavan joined the West Bengal IAS cadre in 1952 and was the Commissioner of various Departments. He also served as the Chief Secretary of Tripura. He was Director, Political and Security Policy Planning in the Union Home Ministry and the Secretary, National Integration Council during the period of the first four Prime Ministers. He was a US Congressional Fellow and Policy Adviser to UN (FAO), and Chairman of three UN Committees. He has been chief executive of four major public sector enterprises. He is now a columnist and author, connected with social service and educational organisations.
WE ARE A LOT REACHER THAN WE THINK
DR. Pradip Kumar Swain
(Written on the eve of New Year in 1992, relevant even today)
There is something different as we approach the end of 1991.
Usually, at the end of each year there is a mood of eager anticipation as the nation casts off the old and rings in the new. Next year, the assumption always has been, will be better than this one.
This year should be a year of reveling in satisfaction. The cold war ended in a victory so complete that the collapse of the Eastern bloc was almost embarrassing to those who had feared the communists so much and so long.
On the other hand, our wealth is less than it should be and so is our youth. Thrills have died; banks are dying. There have been 60,000 bankruptcies this year. Our infant mortality is the highest among 20 industrialized countries—double that of japan. We have the strongest military in the world. The Japanese have the strongest banks in the world. We spend money; they save theirs.
Look at our country. We enjoy one of the highest standards of living in the world, yet we are plagued with drugs, violent crime, and pollution. On a more personal level, someone may enjoy a relatively high standard of living in terms of life’s real values is on the poverty level.
From time to time, we should all do as we do for our financial holdings. Prepare a balance sheet of our assets and liabilities as they apply to our true standards of living. On one side we should list our major assets, things like joys of a good marriage, rewards we enjoy from family and friends, good health, the personal satisfaction derived from our work, and so on. On the liability side we would list those unresolved problems, anxieties and fears that disrupt our peace of mind, poison us with prejudices and diminish our self-esteem.
The bottom-line evaluation of such an inventory might prove revealing. We may well conclude that we are a lot richer than we thought—or a lot poorer.
So, buck up, America. We are still 250 million strong. We have mighty resources of food, fiber, minerals, and lumber. We have people trained, able and motivated to work. We remain a nation to which people yearn to come.
There is no reason 1992 should not be a great year. There are homes and products and services our country needs seriously and serious workers who would like to build those things and provide those services.
There is only one enemy we need to fear in 1992. It is, as always, ourselves.
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Professor, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
Memory gushing in from the past, swirling around me,
Piercing the pervading darkness, the silence of the night,
The occasional hooting of the Owl and the barking of stray dogs,
Filled the air with eeriness and decaying spirit,
Dancing in the wind were the coconut fronds.
Playing with the moonlight, blocking its path,
Casting shadows swaying in myriad shapes.
Lying on my back, I recounted the strange moments.
My imaginations going wild, or is it the way the shadow speaks?
Strange shapes indeed – the cascading hair of the damsel,
Waiting to embrace me and whispering love,
I feigned to ignore, looked the other way, but it followed my sight,
As if inviting me to caress it with passion,
Strange trepidation engulfed, the chilling sensation,
A floating cloud flirted with the moon for a while,
The shadows changed, the damsel frowned with dishevelled hair,
A gust of wind blew like a blast from the Bay of Bengal.
She danced all around me, arousing me and speaking in silence.
In the mind’s eye I explored her snowy face,
Pale eyes looked listless like the deep ocean,
Joys of love gave way to melancholy and the air stood still,
She spoke again with the words of silence,
This is where we met, sitting under the shadow,
When the time stood still and the coconut tree stood witness,
Hand in hand we laughed and cried together,
You filled me with eternal youth, a spirit to conquer,
The drive to explore the unknown terrain that lay beyond,
The world looked so small, the frontiers so near,
When I stopped like a fatigued warier, you told me not to stoop.
Your kiss instilled new vigour and desire,
When in a pensive mood, you clung to me lifting my spirit,
The path was long, many came and left but I cared less,
Like a silent companion you held my hand.
Together we moved a long way, but still we had miles to go,
When it was dark you carried the torch.
There was mirth in victory and no regret in defeat.
The thrill to look Devil in the eye, take the bull by the horns.
The shadow stood like soldiers, boosting my courage,
You taught me not to rest on my oars, patted me in silence,
When the accolades came you inspired to aspire for more.
When I was vanquished you helped me to rise,
Like a phoenix from the ashes, knowing not to halt,
The clock kept ticking, never did I stop to listen to the shadow.
I failed to notice my tired limb, urged to drag it through,
Least did I realise that in God’s creation nothing lasts forever.
I know not when I was left alone, drained and hollow.
Bereft of energy, I long for that caress again,
The shadow still speaks but in a different tone,
No more a part of me but it waits like a distant being,
It waits there, asking me to follow into that land of nothingness,
‘Why did you leave me?’ I asked with frayed emotion,
The long pause worried me as I waited for the shadows to dance again.
‘Because that is the way of the world’, was the answer.
And the silence was eternal .................
Debjit Rath retired from Steel Authority of India Ltd. as Executive Director. He had joined SAIL as Management Trainee after completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College. He had a short stint as Lecturer in Economics in Ravenshaw College before joining SAIL.
translated by Priya Bharati
That day I got up with a start hearing the crow cawing loudly. Usually, the crow is an unpopular creature known for snatching food from tiny palms, lifting fish from the fisher women’s basket. But that day I thanked it for waking me earlier than normal schedule. I ran to my neighbour’s house and asked aunty “Is Amu awake?”
Aunty was coating the mud veranda with cow dung (usual practice done in mud structures). Hearing my voice, Amu came out and said, “Let’s go and reach that place before others wake up”.
It was on the fifteenth of August. On days like Independence Day, Ganesh Puja, Sarasvati Puja, the children become excited. Unlike the regular monotonous days which seem dreary and colourless, such days are like colours of the rainbow for these students. They not only get relief from working out math problems but also get a chance to create something on their own and proudly display it in front of others.
I and Amu, we played together and were of the same age.
That day our program was, we would go to the nearby jungle, to collect stick to make the national flag. The flag requires a straight stick. Lest others reach before us and collect the good ones, we ran ahead. After collecting the sticks we scrapped them, dried them on the roof, and then used it to make our tricolour flag with paper, paste, and coloured it. I was holding a sickle and marching ahead. The cranes flying above might have thought that I was going for war from the way I was marching ahead.
There was a forest adjoining our village. This forest begins beyond the ashram of the blind Baba. It extends up to the neighbouring village. Presently we can see a few scattered trees like Sal, Kendu, Jamun which have escaped the tangia (sickle) of the villagers. The area is mostly covered by shrubs and bushes like Aatendi, Karada, Nahalabeli, and Begunia. The village damsels’ nature call is behind these shrubs. The elders of the village claim that there was a time that the royal Bengal tiger used to reside here. The burp of the tiger after devouring the deer could be heard in the village. Now we may see some fox or a few rabbits or a dozen mongoose behind the bushes.
This jungle caters to the needs of all villagers and is like our mother. Twigs and bamboos for making wickets, firewood for the womenfolk, and twigs which we use as a sword for our village drama are all procured from here. We also collect Kunduri, Kankada, and Leutia saga. All our fairy tale characters and stories told by Grandma are somehow related to this jungle.
We were not afraid to enter this jungle. I was holding Amu’s hand and walking fearlessly.
We saw two foxes running towards the jungle at the same pace we were running. They have now got the habit of going to the village to share the husk and starch water kept for the cows. Amu got frightened and stopped. I assured her that seeing jackal in the morning was considered auspicious.
We started searching for the ideal stick for our flag. The branches of Begunia bush was too soft, maybe more suitable for using them as a toothbrush. The twigs from Atendi bush were strong but not strait. The twigs from the Karada bush were soft and used for making the fences. So we searched for the Amahania stick. The farmers prefer to use them to control the unruly bollocks. These branches have also given a lot of pain to students like me who are weak in maths tables and calculations. Still, I had no reproach against it. These were strong, long, and straight. If we scrap it, they look white. These are ideal for making the flag pole.
Just then we saw a Kurei bush. Its branches were laden with flowers and its fragrance could not be washed away by the morning rain. I sniffed through my mucous filled nose.
Amu was sharper than me in intelligence and more practical at that age. She shook me, pointed, and said “Dubu look, what a lot of mushrooms”.
Near the Kurei bush was a termite hill. In it had blossomed plenty of mushrooms. They looked as is numerous snakes had raised their hood in the early morning sun. I was thrilled to see this gift in the jungle. I wanted to dance and sing wildly but controlled myself. Two buttons if my pant were missing. This prevented me from making any such wild frenzy movements.
I ran there and started plucking the mushrooms. I ordered Amu, ‘don’t gape like that standing there. I can hear other children coming. They will try to take share from this.
Amu, looking sceptic asked, “Would there be no snakes in that hill?
“Come, you coward”.
I too was feeling a bit frightened to pluck the mushrooms from the anthill but my temptation for the mushrooms was too strong. Added to that, I had gone there like a guardian of a girl. So I could not show my fear. I struck the stick I was holding several times around the hill then said’ you need not be afraid anymore. Pluck the mushrooms”.
There was almost a basket full of mushrooms on the anthill. It could have catered for the entire colony. Mushroom curry, roasted mushroom, fried mushroom are all delicacies. Just thinking about these items I was thrilled.
After plucking the mushrooms, we were faced with the problem of how to carry them to our village? I was wearing only a pant. I had neither put on my shirt or vest. On other days, after school, I always had a towel on my body, but that day in a hurry, I had forgotten to carry it.
I asked Amu to lift the frill of her frock and hold the mushrooms. She refused point-blank and said, “You run to the village and bring a basket.”
“Why, will your frock start smelling holding the mushrooms I said with irritation? By the time I bring a basket, you know it will be late, others will snatch it.
She replied, bring leaves of Kendu and Sal trees, we can make them into bowls to carry the mushrooms.
I replied, “Is your brain filled with dung to think of such ideas. There are no such trees nearby and by the time we make bowls, it would be afternoon. When will we go to school?
I ordered her; wrap the mushrooms in your frock.
She now showed her gestures that she would go back to her village and said, “You take care of your mushrooms. I am leaving.
I admonished her saying, “Have you gone out of your mind?” On other days when I climb trees and pluck Jamun or guava, how you catch them with your frock? You cannot resist your temptation. What has happened to you today?
She retorted, ‘You are gluttonous yourself”.
I answered back, “Do you not steal flowers near our well early in the morning holding them in your frock”. She replied with equal vigor, “You are no less than a dacoit stealing cucumber and Neua from our garden and getting caught”.
I next pulled her plaits and called her lice headed, I threatened to give her blows.
She cried, “Leave my hair or I will report your name to your father”.
I replied, “Go and complaint to anyone you want, let me see what anybody would do to me”?
She called me several names like, nosey, and ran away into the village.
Such an action of hers completely frustrated me. I started crying desperately. Soon water and then mucous trickled down my nose.
I wiped my nose with my palm and kicked the mound of mushroom in anger and frustration. I next jumped on the mound and ripped some of them with the sickle I was holding.
I neither could get hold of the flag pole nor could bring the booty of mushrooms which I had plucked.
I returned holding my sickle. On way, I sat in a pensive mood in the blind Baba ashram. It was now abandoned for quite some time. The jackals and mongoose resided here now. For many years, this Baba had a tremendous influence on the innocent villagers. Then like other Babas’, he too duped some rich villagers and took gold and money from them and absconded one night. His disciples from the village too left the village in the fear of getting thrashed by the villagers. So this deserted ashram was now the rest house for cow herders in the day time and a place for gossiping and time pass for villagers in the evening.
I sat there for a long time and kept thinking about the strange behaviour of Amu that day. Why did she run away like a frightened calf? Why did she feel uncomfortable to hold and carry the mushrooms in her frock?
She is called a tomboy by her mother for wandering around with boys in the orchard. When she fights like an old lady with others putting her palms on her waist, her grandmother calls her a sharp-tongued girl. She is no shy girl to behave the way she did today. This question kept nagging me like Lilabati Sutra.
It was a puzzle for me that not only Amu, all other girls of her age who would be wild and jumping around with boys suddenly become quiet and walked with their head down like a fruit-laden plant. They do not want to go to school for one or two days a month and then come to school with their hair open. The quarrelsome girls suddenly become quiet. I realized that when a girl enters puberty and passes through adolescence, her behaviour undergoes these changes. This I realized when I became a lecturer and studied human psychology. Probably Amu passed through that same phase. This was then beyond my fathom.
From that day onwards, our friendship ceased suddenly. Even though she was my neighbour, her adolescence, and my childlike behaviour made us apart. When I was looking and behaving like a kid, she was growing tall and behaved more maturely.
She was slim, had a lovely complexion, her plait extended to her knees. She was without any doubt the most beautiful girl in our village. In front of her personality, I felt inadequate. I used to avoid her and take another route if I would meet her perchance.
Just like middlemen coming to your village to take the ripe crops ready to harvest, similarly, marriage proposals came from far and near for Amu.
By the time I appeared for my Matriculation exam (tenth board exam), she was married to a big businessman from Jajpur. After that, I never met her. I went to the city for my higher education. I have heard that Amu comes for a visit to our village in a car alone or sometimes with her husband. I keep asking myself that she will probably not recognize me. I feel hurt fantasizing about her ego.
Years went by; I worked as a lecturer for a few years and then qualified for All India service and was posted at various places in the country.
Busy with my work life, Amu’s image had faded. Still then sometimes when I sat alone, that childhood episode came into my memory lane and caused some discomfort.
I had a chance of meeting her after several years. Amu’s husband was a reputed industrialist, owner of a large mine, and had set up a medium steel plant. Its head office was in the Capital city. The raw material transportation was done by our Department. Her husband came to my office. He was a robust-looking person. His hair had receded. He seemed to be a jolly person or maybe he behaved this way to impress me. He had done his homework on me. From his side he said, he was the son in law of my village. He invited me to his house saying, “Amu will be happy to see you”.
I wanted to meet Amu but waited for an opportune moment.
I was a member of a cultural organization. We were to celebrate its annual function. Taking this opportunity, I went to Amu’s place. My intention was also to avail sponsorship from him for our organization. But Amu was away to some party and I could not meet her.
I met her husband at another party, I sat near him. He was very pleased to sit beside me. “Has Amu or I mean Mrs. Pradhan not come”? I enquired?
He pointed at the stage; I saw her moving sprightly between the boys and girls entertaining all.
She no longer had that rustic look. She neither had that long plait. She had a bob cut. She was wearing a diamond locket. She looked distinguished even amongst the elite class. Her beautiful smile was visible even from a distance. Her husband too did not match her.
Below the stage, some boys and girls were dancing with the music of the orchestra. Amu too was dancing with them. Loud applause was heard.
Even now I looked at her awestruck. When they called me to have dinner, somehow I returned to normalcy.
Amu came to where her husband was sitting.
Her husband said, “Meet your childhood friend Siddharth Babu. You were not there at home the day he came.
Amu became thrilled to see me. She embraced me in front of everyone and said, “Aree… Dubu. You still look the same lean and thin as before. You have the same sheepish smile. You are such a big officer but somehow your appearance does not reveal it.
I relaxed when I saw her carefree style. I replied, “The bigger is the post, the greater is the pressure”.
“Where is your wife? Has she not come?” She enquired.
“Must be somewhere he said. She must be chitchatting somewhere with her group. Let me call her”.
Let her be, let’s bring our dinner plate. I want to talk to you to my heart’s content.
I, Amu, and her husband sat on a table to have dinner. Amu related her past thirty years of her married life, about her grandchildren in front of me without any inhibition.
I too related my not so successful All India service job for the last twenty-seven years to her.
I too told her that diabetes and blood pressure were the cause of my decrepitude look. I also invited her to my son’s marriage which had been finalized.
“You need not invite me. I will take all responsibilities of your son’s marriage. Ok”.
Her husband left to bring some more food items. I took this opportune moment to ask Amu regarding the childhood incident which was still an enigma for me.
I told her, “Do you remember, how we both went to the forest the day before Independence Day?”
‘Of course, I remember”.
“We had plucked quite a lot of mushrooms”.
‘Yes, I remember this”.
‘From that day our friendship ceased”.
“Yes, I do remember this”.
“I still could not understand why you were not ready to bring the mushrooms wrapped in your frock”.
She started laughing loudly with a lot of mirth. This attracted the attention of the gentlemen and ladies around. My wife too looked with large eyes towards us.
Amu looked around and said in a low voice, “You fool, your son is going to marry but you could not understand this much? Like you were not wearing anything above your pant, similarly, I was not wearing anything under my frock.
Unravelling my childhood puzzle, I laughed out aloud. Both of us like two youth thumped the table and laughed for a long time.
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
I am on a pilgrimage
Walking on a narrow road
Passing through forests,
Valleys and hills ,
Singing songs learned
During childhood times,
Throwing out all belongings,
Once very dear,
Carrying few memories,
Difficult to forget
In spite of passing of years.
No soul to guide,
Going alone,
Without any company,
Except the cold breeze
Brushing my face,
Waking me up,
From occasional sleep
Pushing me ahead
For the pilgrimage,
I wish to complete.
Stars often come down
To lift my weak spirit,
In the blinding dark night
Leaving their celestial bliss.
I come face to face
With the last huddle,
The great mountain peak,
Standing between me
And my goal of life.
But, who is going to help
Scaling the height?
I see no one as big
Except the blue sky
Dwarfing the mountain
Who may do the trick.
The sky has been kind
Giving me the advice
That I need to fly,
Over the mountain,
Once,I have strong wings,
Possible to grow
If I am able to spread
Love , care and empathy
To have the blessings
Of the almighty.
Since then,
I keep up the practice,
Waiting patiently
For the right time
To fly over the mountain
And continue the pilgrimage,
A journey from here
To the very end of eternity.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
There are lot of things
I do not know,
Have not heard of.
Lot of matters
I cannot fathom
Or decipher.
Lot of information
I don’t remember,
Or can reassemble.
Lot of experiences
I did not learn
Nor stay away from.
The rest whatever I know,
Neither I am sure about.
Then the little bit I am certain of,
Make me boast of knowledge.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
The wings carry stories, of
Unknown skies, and unheard clouds
Brimming with rain, and sometimes brine too
Evaporating from our eyes, to come back as tears
Camouflaged with the raindrops
Birds know better, and
My darling Crows and Sparrows, know best
Crow! My intelligent bestie
Kind listener, when I scold too
If he fails to drink water, after finishing the biscuits...
How he waits patiently
Until I crumble the biscuits
Dunks them in water(sometimes drops)
As I keep talking to him...
My Shyam, I do not know
If he loves cardamom tea
I taught him(I believe so), to eat slowly
Relish his food, the paruppu saadham
VeNdaikai, and chakkarai Pongal too
He is an adorable giver
Waits for his pigeon friends, to
Take their share, and some cousins too
Join him, to dunk, and drop all the pieces
Of their everyday love
Into my cupped heart, brimming with gratitude
For, rain or shine, highs or lows
I have my crows, to love me a little more, and
A little more, every single day...
Tell me when was the last time
You met the rain
Welcomed with open arms
Listened to all the stories, and songs
The rain carried with every drop
How it dissolves the hulking tears
On falling upon our clouds
Washes away the footprints of pain
That were unseen by many wide open eyes
Holding cold umbrellas in yellow, and red...
This time, the rain arrived
From all the wet doors, and the windows
Dripped the scent of the sky’s dye
All the glistening roads, and loud silence
Didn’t smirk at the dry crowd, the coffee shop hosted.
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
Learn to love the darkness
deep dark night is the only refuge
where you cannot see,
however, hard you try
then the only choice left is
to give up on seeing
and only then
you start to feel
feel your own body, your soul
you realise you cannot brush aside
so much of raw, intense passion
you know how vulnerable
how sensitive
you are within
you suddenly see
after a while you can
actually see in the dark
your whole being
engulfed in love
never expressed
your core so pure, untouched
you stop judging yourself
like everyone does
around your little world
you realise how worthless all your pursuits have been
worldly success is so futile
when you have not
loved beyond reason
and you have not been
loved without reason
In the darkness
you weep your heart out
you have never felt so utterly lonely
you are lost to existence
it is alright, no worries
you can cry in the darkness
nobody is watching.
the only solace is
now you know
who you are
not the one you smile at
in the mirror of your bathroom
each morning
you met your real self
in the deep dark night
learn to love the darkness.
Life
I am not done yet
don't give up on me
bit by bit I pull myself
from my ashes
like a phoenix
I rise to read my poems to you
they narrate your little nothings
the sheer joy of being alive still
is your greatest gift
in deep meditation
in intense silence
I offer you a song
as my prayer
Life
I am not done yet
don't give up on me
bit by bit I pull myself
from my ashes
like a phoenix.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed poet, artist and film maker, also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer, recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. She also worked as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts.
She has to her credit 35solo exhibitions of paintings, 20 published books, has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films.
She is a bilingual poet and has twelve anthologies of poems in Hindi and three in English to her credit. Weaves of Time, Ekam, Song of Silence are collection of poems in English. Pratinaad,Mussavir ka Khayal (2018 ) and Roshani ka Safar (2019) are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.
Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography. 9 of her poetry collections are translated in Greek,German, Mandarin, English ,Urdu, Bangla and Dogri. She is based in Delhi,India.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 7 : GOD A LIVING REALITY
(Illustration Picture Courtesy Raja Martin)
From childhood she had learnt all the Christian tenets and been taught to love and fear a God who loved and at the same time punished like a loving parent. She tried her best to be good. Her paattie's (granny) moral fables about mischievous little girls hung around her neck like the Sanyasi's magic necklace. A gift to the little girl in one of paattie's stories, who was fond of fibbing. Whenever she told a lie the necklace would grow shorter and shorter and choke her neck until she gasped out that she wouldn't lie again. But when she was good it shone beautifully. But often she couldn't remain good. lt was like playing the snake and ladder game. Whenever she thought she had won the game and was complacent, the giant snake swallowed her to reveal her vulnerability as a human being. But she knew she was in the process of evolving to a better being. It wasn't easy, everytime she tried to be perfect in God's eyes she committed sin after sin knowingly, like being swallowed by a quagmire until totally submerged and emerged out bedraggled and contrite, promising God over and over again never to repeat them. She was confident that God treated her like a naughty child, always correcting her mildly or severely, yet holding her consolingly, close to His bosom. It was this feeling that kept Kanaka going.
Years rolled by. Now mature, confident, none the worse for the wear and tear of life she was more positive than negative and closer to God as if she had just to feel around to experience His tangible presence. Often her unworded prayers and half baked wishes were answered, shocking her to the point of speechlessness leading to unchecked tears of gratitude flowing down her cheek. Yes for her, God is a living reality, a living reality.
Colours of Eternity
Oft, in the silence of deep thought
Your adorable, omniscient presence
Environ me in colours of eternity.
I get glimpses of Your omniscience
Your cosmic theology
Secure in such knowledge,
I surge forward arrogantly, vainly.
Forgetting the open jaws
Of the crafty plotter
Sliding down his slimy interiors
I reach square number one in no time.
Shaken and contrite, I arduously
Toil up the ladder, watchful and careful
To reach square hundred
And partake in heavenly joy.
( Excerpt From Nature at my Doorstep(2011)by Lathaprem Sakhya )
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
RX, YOU IN ENGLISH, ME IN HINDI
So, what troubles you sir? Doctor Sitaram switched on his thousand watt smile and looked at his tenth patient of the evening in his chamber. His charming smile is said to alleviate half of the neurotic or psychotic anomalies of his patients. Prashant, the patient of the moment accompanied by his worrying wife were no exception. It was Manaswini, wife of Prashant who seemed more relieved than him. To her, it was almost like light at end of a dark tunnel.
Dr.Sitaram was one of top three psychoanalysts in the town and to sit across him for a consultation needed at least a week’s prior appointment. He was active not only in his medico’s practice but also was known for his involvement in social works through several clubs. He regularly came on TV talks and wrote columns in the news paper.
The doctor’s high wattage smile switched on and off contextually. But Prashant sported a zero watt ‘always on’ smile. He was intently looking at the doctor and was about to say something but changed his mind and decided to remain a mute spectator as his wife started her well rehearsed and seemingly well researched observations about Prashant.
‘Doctor Sir, he has some mental problem and unless you help us we are doomed. ‘
‘Do not worry; tell me what is your problem?’ Dr. Sitaram released his second dose of smile, now probably few watts less than the earlier, at the worried and anxious lady trying to judge who the actual patient might be.
‘Sir, he has been very very unmindful of us and his business. Always lost in thought.’ Cried Manaswini.
‘Is that all !!! That’s why you are here for?’ It was Dr. Sitaram who started getting the feeling that these couple may be there to waste his time and sap his energy.
‘No sir, it is more than that. He was so active just a few months back. He would do the grocery and vegetable shopping without even consulting me. He would promptly go and open his office chamber. He was in fact so punctual that one could adjust the watch by seeing him bringing the milk, taking the dog out, going to his business. But it has all changed. He is always engrossed with either his mobile phone or the old and discarded computer of the children. Does not respond to my calls. Has no interest in affairs of the home. Always calls up people asking for their opinion. I am really worried. I do not know what is in his mind. We have to call him ten times to come to dinner table. Earlier it was he who set the table and called us to join. Now he lives in a world of his own. We will soon be in ruins if he does not spring back to his normalcy. Doctor Sir, please save us.’ Poured out the lady and gasped for breath looking almost on the verge of breaking down.
‘Since how long it has been so?’ Doctor asked her, looking at his patient with searching eyes.
‘Ever since the lock down started Doctor Sir.’- The lady answered. Lock down had become a new way of referring to times just like the BC and AD.
‘Why sir, what’s bothering you?’ Doctor pointed his question for the second time at his patient.
‘Nothing sir, I am absolutely fine. I tried to dissuade her from dragging me to you but she won’t have any of it. I am perfectly fine, in fact better than ever’ - Prashant the protagonist of this story said in a jovial tone, trying to infuse the right degree of regards for the doctor, emotions for the occasion and caution to ward off any further blabbering from his supervising wife.
‘But there’s sure some thing, why else should be she so alarmed’, said the doctor.
The doctor started probing for physical status of the patient before to rule out any pathogenic anomaly.
‘Do you have Diabetes, Hypertension?’, Doctor to Prashant.
‘No sir. I check them regularly every six months. Did check just before the lock down started. Everything normal’ said Prashant showing the Doctor reports on his mobile screen.
‘Do you smoke, take alcohol, chew guthkha”? Doctor asked while rotating his pen.
‘Never, not even once Doctor sahib’, Prashant said with a hint of pride.
‘Do you have normal sleep’ Doctor to Prashant.
‘Like a log’ - Prashant said looking at his wife to check if she was about to add her caustic comments about his notoriously ear splattering snoring.
‘And what do you do for your business’, asked the Doctor trying to find clues about mental unsoundness of this seemingly healthy patient.
‘I am an insurance surveyor, I get paid by number of surveys I conduct. Since accidents have reduced due to no traffic or less traffic I am jobless’, Prashant said.
‘Why then this change in your social behavior as madam says with so much concern?’ Doctor looked concerned.
‘Sir, I always had this irresistible desire to write and publish stories. When my first story was published in the vernacular newspaper, I got nice feedbacks that prompted me to write more. And I did carry on. But my stories caused sparks at home. Tell me sir, will it not take some time to think of a nice and captivating plot and put it on paper? Madam is not ready to accept that.’, saying this Prashant took a pause. He had to phrase his words carefully else there would be unpleasant sequels unfolding once they reach home.
‘But he is not writing any more, once his school time friends accused him of lifting his stories from god knows which books’ Manaswini added almost like a witness deposing before a magistrate.
Manaswinini paused for a moment and added, “Sir, he talks weirdly now a days’
‘like? ‘ Dr.Sitaram questioned.
‘He was telling someone this morning over phone, the speed of my mouth is one billionth of speed of my mind, the speed of mind of my contemporary living beings is one thousandth of speed my mouth, hence there is perfectly no harmony between what I think and what I say, and what I say and what my contemporary living beings understand, that’s why they think I am mad’, Manaswini took sufficient pauses and thinking precisely to replicate what she claimed to have heard his psychotic husband say to someone over phone.
Dr. Sitaram found this quite amusing and the puzzle was now giving him a handle to grab and solve it. He looked at Manaswini and then back at Prashant with an interrogative look.
‘You a writer? You write in Hindi ?’ asked the doctor.
‘Sir, I am now writing in English and no one takes any notice of them. At least not the ones who doubt my writing skill and make caustic comments. And I never ever lift my stories. I stumble upon my ideas during my long talks with friends recalling old times.’ Prashant leaned towards the doctor trying to speak in a low tone so that Manaswini couldn't overhear him.
‘Madam, this is not a problem where a doctor can do much’ Doctor said to Manaswini.
‘Anyway, I am writing a few tests, please get the reports and come tomorrow’ With this the doctor scribbled something on his paper and handed to Prashant.
As Prashant and Manaswini got up to leave and opened the door, Doctor Sitaram called Prashant to stay back.
As Prashant closed the door and came close to the doctor, Dr.Sitaram asked, why did you come to me , you look perfectly normal.
‘Sir, I needed a fresh idea for my next story” Said Prasant.
‘Oh, is it?’ And you got one? Doctor Sitaram said smilingly.
‘Yes, sir, yes, a good one. ‘ Said Prashant.
'Here, take my card, drop me a test mail. I will send few of stories written by me in Hindi. See if you can get them published somewhere. I was also into writing once upon a time.’ Said the doctor handing Prashant his visiting card.
‘Prashant, regarding today’s story, you write in English, I will write in Hindi’ Doctor seemed happy over getting a plot for his literary excursions.
Prashant closed the door and joined his worried and inquisitive wife outside in the lobby.
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
HITECH SALES-NO LONGER BRISK!!
Spotted opposite the Passport Office
His demeanour - full of promise!
Displaying his coconuts on ‘Mano Elanir Shop’
No need from place to place hop.
Brisk sales earlier, he said with pride...
Not now! He exclaimed with the same stride,
fewer visitors, working hours now;
yet, his indefatigable spirit says how
he manages to enthrall,
Keeping pace with changes amidst all…
The tender coconut my thirst quenched.
In the mind, a positive thought entrenched!
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Lives shattered
Everything slows down
Locked in our homes
Feeling of suffocation
Will the world heal
Butterflies flutter
Birds continue to chirp
Silverpearls plummet from the sky
Iridescent flowers bloom
Pristine air caressing your cheeks
Routines mundane
Imprisoned in our thoughts
Family bonding
Endless chores
Anxiety heightened
Each one of us masked
They say universe is healing
Are we healing from within
Will the world heal
Feeling of suffocation
Locked in our homes
Everything slows down
Lives shattered.
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)
MELAKA ,WHERE PAST AND PRESENT CONVERGE
It is traditionally believed that the history of Malaysia began with the founding of Melaka in 1400 by Parameswara, a Sumatran prince. Thereafter, the state flourished under the Melaka Sultanate and eventually became the region’s largest emporium attracting traders from as far as China, India, Arabia and Europe. Melaka came under successive colonial eras when it was conquered by the Portuguese in 1511, followed by Dutch rule in 1641 before the British took over in 1842. All this foreign influence has, over the years, transformed the state into a cultural melting pot. The Portuguese and Peranakan communities have until today remained a distinctive feature of society in Melaka. In the light of its rich historical past, Melaka has been officially declared the “Historical City of Malaysia.”
It took us little over one and half hours by road to reach the ancient city of Melaka from Kuala Lumpur and the drive was made enjoyable and informative with soft music playing in the background and the young lady at the wheel giving us a peep into the history of the place even as she was driving at 80 km per hour! We noticed Melaka had a very interesting mix – the ancient part of the city and the modern. The Churches of Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s are found on one side, the ancient palace of the Melaka Sultanate now turned into a cultural museum and the most modern and imposing buildings on the other which are likely to be mistaken either for academic institutions or five star hotels. For instance the sprawling architectural delight surrounded by beautiful greenery is indeed the largest hospital the city could boast of and the buildings with sloping roofs you see are all residential ones. As is common in any big cities, Melaka too provides a roof to suit every pocket and what impressed me most was the importance given to the façade which is enriched by patches of greenery irrespective of the size of the buildings. We could have a bird’s eye view of these symmetrical structures from atop the hill where Saint Paul’s Church is situated. Though it is in ruins it is still worth a visit for its significance and the Indian connection . It appears Saint Francis Xavier stayed at the chapel whenever he visited Melaka between 1545-1553 and when he died in Sancian Island his remains were buried here for nine months before they were removed to Goa. The Dutch East India Company changed the religious practice of the church to Protestant in 1641 and named it as Saint Paul’s church. Thus the hill came to be known as Saint Paul’s Hill.
On our return we met an attractive Malaysian woman with her two cute children who posed for a shot. What I did not fail to notice was in spite of her non-traditional attire she still had her head covered as was the tradition with muslim women. We passed a beautiful garden on our way to the car park where replicas of the old and the new modes of transport were on display ranging from the bullock cart to a vintage car and a train.
The worst tea we had
On our return journey to KL, we stopped at a way side restaurant for a cup of tea, and found people engrossed in eating idlis and dosas served in banana leaves which reminded us of joints in our own city ,Madras,which were not particularly known for their cleanliness or ambience. Once we emerged , after reluctantly gulping the worst kind of tea we ever tasted ( it was over dosed with cinnamon) I looked up to read the name of the joint, and found “Banana Leaf” written in bold letters .
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.
Abdul Samad was reading an urdu tract written by Anwar Abdul Dehlvi, a writer who was quite well known in 1850s to 1870s. He had written about Dara Sukhoh’s Kafan. Delhi was reduced in population by half after the Sepoy mutiny of 1857 which the Indians liked to call as First War of Independence. But Anwar Abdul stayed put in his favourite city. Col. Hudson had killed both the sons of Bahadur Shah Jaffer, arrested the king who was later on banished to Rangoon. It was all done in Humayun’s tomb area of Nizamuddin. But towards the late sixties of the 19th century there came a Captain Brigham, a thoughtful British officer, interested in history.
Captain Brigham who was interested in history of India, studied about Dara Sukhoh, the Crown Prince of Shahjahan, a believer in Indian syncretism, a cultured scion , a sufi and poet who lost out to Aurungzeb in the battle of Samugarh and Ajmer. He was brought to Delhi was beheaded and his head taken around in the city before being sent to Shah Jahan at Agra by Aurungzeb. as a gift in a tray A macabre end for a crown prince who was the apple of emperor’s eyes.
It was said that Dara Sukhoh was buried in Humayun’s tomb area. His cenotaph didn’t carry any kalima from Quran whereas the adjoining two tombs had. Since they had the Kalima written on them, it was believed that Sippiah Sukhoh, Dara’s younger son was not buried there. No one knew whose tombs were these. Once you climb the steep flight of steps. to Humayun’s tomb, you see there three cenotaphs to your left.. The third cenotaph had only a simple pattern of flower carved into the marble. It was perched on a red concrete plinth. The plinth was a brittle rough to touch and you could see the mottled away marble carvings at some places. For years, Abdul Samad as a guide had told tourists that “This is the cenotaph of Dara Sukhoh. Unlike others he had no inscription on his cenotaph. Having been convicted on apostasy against Islam he had no claim to scriptures even in his death. There was a severing line that passed clearly across the cenotaph. For ages, guides have explained it away as a “crack that appeared in the marble over time, but it was because the line indicates the body and the head of the person were not buried together. Aurangzeb not only had beheaded him, but was systematically effacing constructions and the artifacts associated with him. An attempt to wipe out all memory of the elder brother’s name off the pages of history. In essence, Dara, a variant of Darius, has been consigned to the “dustbin of history”.Of late no one was explaining the cenotaph going through the session rapidly except for him. Even he wondered whether the new generation guides ever knew about Dara at all. After all he couldn’t be the king.
Abdul Samad knew his lines, knew his spins, knew his embellishments. He had used them all for twenty years. Now his discovery from the tract of Anwar Abdul Dehlvi threatened it all. The facts are changed, the emphasis is gone and what he would be telling will sound hollow at least to him..
As per Anwar Abdul Delhlvi, Capt. Brigham was an acolyte of Dara Sukhoh’s. It was much before Dara’s posthomus fame in the late nineteenth century when his Persian translation of Upanishads created a stir in the west gaining many admirers, notable among them were Sir William Jones and generations of Indologists. It was also before Dara’s legacy segued into a testament of decay. Anwar Abdul had said in his tract that Capt. Brigham had gotten the interred kafan out and shifted it to the nearly cenotaph where the Quranic Kalma was engraved. In Samad’s thought such a great man should not evaporate into the dark corridors of history. It was one of the two cenotaphs remaining cenotaphs his body was shifted to. but going by Dehllvi it was the left one which read “Ya Zul Jalal Wal Ikram”. (The possessor of majesty & bountry). Dehlvi was sure about the shift. He himself was confidentially approached by emissary to provide a calligraphist who was also a marble engraver.
Samad started thinking what to do now. Was he to change his guiding, directing people to the right tomb or continue with his old pitch. It would not have mattered to a normal guide whose meal ticket motive was more important than historical authenticity. But he was also a fan of Dara. A clearly enlightened prince-- who understood both the religions and their connection despite their apparent difference in symbolism.. Dara was the Crown Prince who was not to be the king. But he understood the heart of his future kingdom.
“What does he do?” he thought. “Does he change his narration?” Dara needed to be rehabilitated in whatever minimal manner he was capable of. Of late, after the Govt. of India renamed the Dalhousie road as Dara Sukhoh road, interest in Dara Sukhoh had gone up a bit. People tended to linger a little longer when he narrated about Dara Sukhoh and his travails.
Abdul Samad, was a regular visitor to Nizamuddin dargah. He believed in syncretism and did not see people differently as Ulemas did. But he saw their connectivity between two religions as Nizamuddin – Aulia did.
“Hindus can see God in a stone”. Obviously it was a symbolism. Anything you give ascription to becomes God. Why not the wrong grave even? “If people believe that was his grave, so be it. It was his grave then”, he thought to himself. He felt there was no need to change the narrative by a guide. Dara was for sure buried in the first grave, Its interred body might have changed or might not have. But he was not happy leaving the issue there. Dara required some restitution in history. He planned it out contacted Syed Quereshi the calligraphist and gave him the verses. Good thing was he was also a marble engraver. He had figured out the date. August 15 was the best when it was a holiday and he had free entry into Humayun’s tomb. Taking a man along would not raise eye brows of the security people. Along with Qureshi the calligraphist he can enter, The chiseling will have to be soft too. Otherwise there is a danger of marble cracking. It has to be done very diligently and completed within two hours..
Qureshi carried a battery in his hand bag as , he intended using Dremel. He set the Dremel to its lowest speed setting and ran the spinning tip lightly over the drawing on the marble, leaving white scratches over the lines he wanted to engrave. Then he moved the Dremel tip in a fluid, steady motion, as if he was writing or drawing with it Then he wiped the surface with til oil to give an antique look.
On the following day, August 16, when he took tourists to the cenotaph , he had more lines to explain, written in urdu script. Not from Quran but from heart. Nicely written in calligraphic style which looked older vintage than what it was.
“ Tawareekh ne jise panah dia hei, uska Alamgir kya bigaad sakta hei”
(To whom history has given refuge, what harm can Alamgir cause him)
Down below there was no kalima, but a bland line from a couplet. The couplet when written completely made a powerful impact, but written in part just reinforced a sufi’s understanding of life on earth. Both an anguish and a meaningless anticipation .
“Do arzoo mein kat gaye do intezar mein”. A line from the last Moghul, Bahadur Shah Jafar’s poem.. Tourists now hovered longer, soaked in Abdul Samad’s explanation, translation and interpretation.
Finally Dara had his refuge in history.
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.
I
In the rains,
Pakhias* on their back
the peasants bend
to plant the paddy seedlings,
a bunch of it held in one hand
resting on a firm knee,
the other hand planting them
in a strange rhythm of wet symphony,
as if stitching into the muddy soil !
*A pakhia is a sort of rural rain-shield woven from palm leaves, covers the back resting on the head and obviously the hands are free.
II
The boys and the girls
while returning from the school
throw away their umbrellas,
their adolescence get drenched.
They splash water and
innocent mischiefs
as the rains continue to pour !
Their feet in the puddles
dancing to the rustic rhythm of
spontaneity of wild nature within.
III
A group of village elderlies
sips tea at the hut by the banyan tree.
They smoke their bidis*
and talk about the rains
and wish a bountiful harvest
as the smoke from their bidis in curls
evaporates, once beyond the thatch.
*A bidi is an indigenous smoking pipe made from tendu leaf with tobacco inside.
IV
As the village folk get up in the morning
they see the maroon water all around;
the woes of the rains have stealthily
entered their sheds and cowsheds.
The wish of a good harvest
is washed away once again by tears
alongside the crops and cattle in the spate !
The vacant eyes only pray for grace
in the deluge of ever-surging sighs.
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.
SWEET BYTES OF A MEMORY TRACE!
What sits
as a crest
in the crown
of such memories?
the song?
matchless lyrics?
the melody?
pristine childhood?
Our romance
of adolescence?
our deep bonds
that has stood
the test of time?
Or else why would
even half a tune
heard casually
of this priceless music
that shaped our shared moments
churn our nostalgia
so much,so often
that we lose ourselves
seamlessly, everytime?...
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.
Once upon a time I was returning from Thimpu, Bhutan. Our tourist bus faced some serious problems. Our journey came to a halt.
It was late evening. Darkness of the woods was taking away my road, destination, nationality and individual consciousness. Where to go? How to go ? No other way. Happiness of Bhutan was fading away from my mind. My loneliness in darkness was suffocating me. Two hours time passed by.
I saw a car coming slowly and the young couple driving it were romantic . I showed my hand to draw sympathy, though I was a stranger to them.They were kind enough to stop their vehicle near me. I mustered up courage and asked for help. I narrated to them my plight due to the bus problem. Their young mind was sympathetic. They asked - 'What do you want?'
I showed them my proof of identity and asked for a lift to New Jalpaiguri in India.
They said - 'We are also going there. No problem. You may take the back seat.'
I thanked them for their kindness and took the back seat. The car started to ply. At about 10 PM, we reached New Jalpaiguri. I thanked them for their help to an unknown stranger like me and got down.
I was very hungry. First, I went into a nearby restaurant and ate a big meal. Now my problem was to find a place to sleep anywhere.
I searched for a hotel room. But I couldn't find it due to Durga Puja festival time. All were busy enjoying life. Hotels were booked beforehand. Nothing was left for me. Walking from hotel to hotel exhausted my body.
At last at about 11 PM, I reached the reception counter of a lodge. Before asking anything, the reception girl told me - 'No room is available'.
I said - 'Please accommodate me for the night'.
She said - 'If you don't have any complaints, you may get a three bedded dormitory. Two beds are left, since one is already occupied by a foreign lady. You may choose one and stay with her. But don't complain afterwards. Please pay Rs.100/- only'.
I paid the amount, came to the dormitory and knocked on the door.
The young lady opened the door and asked- 'Is it okay for you, my friend?'
I said- 'Ok for me. Thank you for sharing the room. Do you mind my company.'
Her smiling lips told - 'I was alone and in search of a friend. I am glad to find you. I like the handsome man in you. Thank you.'
I thanked God since I got a bed to sleep on. But my Indian mind apprehended something about the unoccupied bed, lest some wicked person occupied it and put us in trouble. I went to the reception counter and paid another one hundred rupees for booking that unoccupied bed. Now with my satisfied mind I came to bed.
To our bad luck electricity went away. No AC or fan was functioning. No light was there. To escape from the heat, we had to make our body almost half bare. It was easy for the mosquitoes to bite us. To get relief, she used some liquid on her body that was dazzling in the darkness which amazed me. Hence, the sleepless night was mostly funny.
In the wee hours, she woke me up and said - ' Please tell me about yourself.'
I introduced myself by saying - 'I'm an Indian and returned from my pleasure trip in Bhutan. I am left with five days for enjoying Darjeeling and Gangtok. What about you?'
She responded - 'I'm Eva from Amsterdam on a pleasure trip to Indian Subcontinent and left with 8 days to enjoy.'
In the darkness, she was staring at me and searching for something, unknown to me. I told her - 'You have come to India to enjoy its beauty in its hills, forests, streams, rivers, lakes, waterfalls, etc, but not to see me. If you like, come with me to visit the landscape of Darjeeling and Gangtok. I will be your free guide.'
After refreshing, we went to Darjeeling. We stayed there for two days. Hotel, taxi, eating and drinking were shared. Tour became less expensive. But life was more romantic.
Darjeeling sightseeing was enchanting. Our staying together in the natural ambience made friendship sweeter. Life was better in sharing. At about 4.00.AM, by taxi we left for Tiger hill, the popular view point. It has a panoramic view of Mount Kanchenjunga. At dawn and sunrise, she was so enamoured by the sight of the sun-soaked reddish-yellow ice-capped Mount Kanchenjunga that she was mesmerised. She asked - 'Why is it called Tiger Hill ?'
I told her a folktale:
Hundreds of years ago, tigers were roaming on this hill freely. They were not man eaters, nor harmful to man. Once, a girl called Nevaeh was sitting on the hill. A baby tiger sat beside her. She didn't feel scared.The baby tiger licked her arm and felt so thickly that it giggled out loud. As she gazed into the baby tiger's eyes she felt so entranced that she began to like and love the baby tiger. Years passed by with her living with the tiger. She named the tiger Sanhoora. Nevaeh and Sanhoora liked each other and lived happily together. Sanhoora defended Nevaeh and vice versa.
But people did not like such incredible love between the girl and the wild tiger. They tried to kill the tiger. But Nevaeh did not allow its killing. Once, she had gone for marketing. A cunning man hit the tiger in the eyes with a poisoned arrow. Nevaeh heard Sanhoora's scream and ran to it, but in vain. She found the innocent tiger dying. Its last breath took away the life of Nevaeh, since their attachment was so intimate and dear to each other. She also killed herself. Both the friends, the tiger and girl died on the spot. Only thistles grow where they fell and died.
People felt sad about the killing of the innocent tiger who was the cause of death of the girl, since they were emotionally attached to each other and one could not live without the other. In memory of the loving tiger, people called it Tiger Hill.
I saw tears in the eyes of Eva. I told her - 'Are you listening to my story or weeping, my friend?'
'Your pathetic story moved my heart and soul so deeply that I can't but cry in their memory, Thanks for your story that brings tears to the eyes of a foreign tourist' - she replied sorrowfully.
After a couple of days we left for Gangtok. On the way we saw the cascading Tista river. But its beauty, sweet sound and the Sun's dazzling reflection on it had no fascinating effect on Eva.
I asked her - 'Why are you not enjoying anything now?'
With a heavy heart she said - 'I cannot forget the death of that innocent tiger who liked a girl so dearly. I had travelled across the World. But never ever I had seen or heard such an incredible story. But for the first time in my life, I felt the beauty in the beast. This is the rarest of the rare love story between a tiger and a girl, the world has ever seen. Though I have already left Tiger hill, yet I see in my mind's eye the loving souls of Nevaeh and Sanhoora roaming on the hill screaming sorrowfully. Can't you feel anything, my storyteller? But I will be spreading your folktale to the World at large so as to teach mankind the value of human-animal relationships in an ecosystem created by God.'
We reached Gangtok, took a hotel room and saw the panoramic view of woods, hills, streams, Changu Lake, India-China border at Nathu La Pass, etc. The story of Sanhoora and Nevaeh had a hangover in our mind.
We came back to the dormitory of New Jalpaiguri that had united us, the two strangers from the Netherlands and India. After sharing our life for five days, our separation was melancholic.
Before leaving for Kathmandu, she came to New Jalpaiguri Railway station to see me off. I saw her drops of love in her tears.
Her sorrowful voice was saying - 'I cannot forget you, my free guide and your World class story of 'Nevaeh and Sanhoora.'
I whispered in her ears - 'Do you see and feel the thistles on Tiger Hill ?'
My train left for Bhuwaneshwar. And I was hearing Nevaeh & Sanhoora's scream in my heart.
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.
Running after likes and followers
Has turned me into an insomniac
Rather than dreams,
Now I have panic attacks!
Ignoring the people around me
I’m stuck in the virtual world
Constantly striving for perfection
Trying to adhere to the new swirl!
Exhausted each night I lie
In my bed wide awake
Wondering how much more
Of this madness I can take!
Till like a bolt of lightning
A thought hits me hard -
We cry about hypocrites
But we’re playing the very same parts!
So let’s keep our virtual masks aside
And see how we’ll like each other then
When you’ll be YOU and I’ll be ME
And the magic will be genuine!
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
THE CASKET OF LOVE
Priya Karthik
Fluttering her delicate black wings,
From tree to tree she swings.
Scrutinizing every fork,
To build a castle for her folk.
Looks hither and thither, she tiptoes gently,
Picks up the leaves,dry twigs ,bits of fabric subtly,
In her sharp curvy black beaks,
Off she flies, landing at the nest tree.
Takes off the next moment,to and fro she flies,
Like a needle and thread, back and forth,
Knitting the casket for her treasure,
Real labour for love and only love.
A cozy cottage of dry twigs amidst thick leaves,
The inner carpet, a blend of flowers n mosses.
To the rhythm of breeze, the boughs dance.
Nests remain secure and sound.
Is it not love that holds altogether?
Is it not love that shields the fall when trees sway?
I understand she constructs, not the nest,
But, a sturdy, soft casket of love ‘.
Padmapriya Karthik is an enthusiastic story writer for children and a poet.She has secured eighth place in Rabindranath Tagore international poetry Contest 2020.Her works have featured in various anthologies published by 'The Impish Lass Publishing House’.She contributes poems to Efflorescence anthology(2018,2019),Muse India an online journal.Her short stories for children have found place in The PCM,Children's Magazine.She has won 5th place in the National story writing contest 2019 conducted by The PCM,Children's Magazine.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
Oh Krishna! You play enchanting music on your flute.
I lose myself in your magical rhythm.
You with supreme consciousness,
As blue as the vast sky and the deep ocean.
Decked up in yellow,in the earth's hue.
Infinite consciousness has made its home in you.
You in your finite form has come down to earth.
As unlimited truth seems to be limited.
So were you closed and barred in a prison.
You were born in a prison but couldn't be confined there.
As consciousness cannot be confined.
Oh Krishna! Lotus-eyed and ever smiling.
A garland around your neck.
The incarnation of the infinite Brahma on earth.
Born to destroy evil forces.
With peacock feathers on your turban.
Beautifying the earth with your presence.
Be with me my Lord and God.
Take away the evil forces of my heart.
Wipe away ego,unkindness and all other faults.
Let all worries and anxieties vaporise and go.
Come with your infinite consciousness and my heart seal.
Let all hatred vanish and my pure self reveal.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist by education, educationist by profession and an author and poet by passion. She has published five books and has received several awards for her poetry including the Golden Rose from Argentina for promoting literature and culture. Some of her poems have been translated into 31 languages and her poems have been published in more than 250 national and international journals. Paramita has started and is the President of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) Mumbai Chapter. She also writes travelogues which are published regularly in e-magazines. She lives in Mumbai, India with her husband and daughter.
It was not complete.
Sunlight was the palette
Squiggly figures writhed,
fidgeted.
They wanted to reach
beyond the sunlit patch.
Roots on their own
like puffs of cloud
float in morning air.
Some shrivel tired
or out of boredom.
Covered with the black-soot
of unanswered questions
they resemble dead ancestors
each adrift in a ghost ship.
Some other roots sail into
adamant acres of sunlight
each moment thinking
tomorrow resembles yesterday.
It is never complete.
A gun-shot sound
is a clap in wildernesses.
( ** From Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. Believed to be Van Gogh’s last painting, “ Tree Roots” is about sunshine, roots and forest. Shortly after that he was found dead with gun shots.)
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.
Nature nurtures a saintly grace
With unusual calmness descending
On its troubled sweating face.
No hurly-burly, no noisy race
The boisterous smartness locked
In tiny turbid showcase.
The fear with her invisible dress
Takes sweet swift turns
Like an Odissi dancer. Embrace
An awful authoritative silence.
An uneasy feeling spins
The nerves, makes the blood freeze
Ambition amputated, means in mess.
A sulking but susceptible phase
Demands an iron will as a dose
Boosting immunity of courage
Oh, doctor’s doctor! Help us
All we need is a safe passage.
I do agree friends, agree
This time will pass, yes it will pass
But know not how to
Write the epitaph of time
How to find words in rhyme
Woven in a monumental, cynical brace!
Life in peril, livelihood threatened
Tired feet tried desperately
To cover the distance and doubt
With burdened head and heart, barefoot
Children lodged on wheeled suitcases
Anguished hope writ large on faces
Not finding a place on the rooftop
Of running trains or interstate buses.
With hunger, destitution, misery
Staring them in their eyes
Migrant laborers made to enact
The partition scene and drudgery
Unknown to my living memory.
Some left their children
To unknown parents or orphanages
Hurried homeward carrying elders
On their shoulders braving sun in rages
The railway tracks in lockdown
Failed to assure a night’s sleep
The corpses of the native on return
Lay mutilated under a goods train
As bombarded soldiers in trenches deep
I have the heart of a minnow
As weak as I know and regret
How skipped my routine for days
In sheer absent-mindedness, sans rest
When the battery of the camera
Brought it alive on the tv screen
With reporters, the real Braveheart.
I bear a grudge against you
Oh time, Oh cruelest abstraction
At a loss of words to narrate
The ballad of my bleeding heart
The choked symphony of my parched throat
As emotions experience a historic onslaught.
Wish, I had Aladin’s lamp to invoke
Brooding Victorian mood or Tennyson’s skill
To encash in mournful numbers the tale
Of raucous sweating masses under COVID spell.
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many.
A TRIBUTE TO A FATHER BY A FATHER....
When I was a child....
My father was my hero and he knew everything in the world..
When I turned a teenager...
My father didn't know anything but meagre ...
He was supposed to earn...
To fulfill, all that I yearn...
I never bothered how...
But, it had to happen now...
I didn't find everything he did, as any sacrifice of his...
But, just a moral responsibility of his...
It is not exceptional...
Because it is just normal
As I grew old…..he grew older..
My torso built up...as his shoulder drooped...
With age, my needs grew...
Not sure, whether his earnings grew...
I never cared or felt...
As long as my needs and dreams were met...
As time moved further..
I became a father..
Stepping into other's shoes is not easy...
And stepping into a father's shoes is not at all cosy...
Now I could see ‘me’ in my son..
His needs, wishes and desires weighef a ton..
To be fulfilled in no time...
Least concerned about the dime...
Everything wad wanted and taken for granted...
Never the needs and desires were to be shunted...
As a father, I had to bear the brunt..
To fulfill his every grant...
I spent sleepless nights...
Just to ensure, his every step in life was right..
Did a lot of planning..
To give his life a meaning...
Now that I became a father...
I realized what it was to be a father..
My father was never understood then..
So was I, every now and then...
I wish I could say this to my father...
Before it is late than never...
Sorry, for taking you granted, for all that I wanted..
Sorry...for not realizing your pain, for my selfish gain...
Hope my son realizes it...
The sooner the better...
Lest, the story repeats..
In a way too bitter...
P Suresh Kumar is a Post Graduate in Human Resources Management. Presently, associated with NALCO, a Central PSU as Manager(HRD). He just tries his hand at some writings that come across his mind. He doesn’t claim to be a prolific writer but beams with pride to be called a novice writer. He has got many unfinished articles/write ups in his kitty. He can be reached at ‘todearsuresh@gmail.com’
Translated by Sreekumar K
Divakaran is a friend of mine. Not a very close one, but we were classmates in school and college. We are now neighbours too.
My party had assigned me the duty of killing him because the apex body was convinced that it could be done only by me. I had to live up to their expectations and kill him. For me, my party and its ideals came first. Whoever stood on its way was an enemy of mine by default. Divakaran was a member of our opponent party.
Looking at the dagger designed with his slightly obese body in mind, I pondered over several major issues. I should stab him from the back first, no doubt. When he falls on his face, I will have to struggle to turn him around before sticking the bloody dagger into his chest. Blood is a good lubricant. Works like oil.
This morning, I was practicing straight stabs on the plantain tree in the courtyard when Divakaran's daughter came over with a bowl of payasam. It was her birthday. I had a hard time getting it down my throat. What would happen to this little girl when her father was dead? But I can't afford to have such thoughts. I spat out the payasam when she turned her back.
It was the man who came to pick coconuts who told me that Divakaran was the man they had chosen to finish me. What a coincidence! A deadly one. Kill or be killed. Party is everything. I have to do unto him before he does it to me. Was it really the verse?
I went back to the blacksmith to sharpen my knife even more. He laughed at me. He told me Divakaran also had gone back to him for the same thing. He asked me if we were going out on a hunting trip.
It has become night. Party had told me not to go alone. But no way I can catch him unawares if I am not alone. He might suspect something and run away. I have to follow the ridge of the bog and catch up with him. I have to stab him in such a way that he doesn't fall into the bog. That would be messy.
Ah, he is here. He is carrying several small bags and packets with him. Probably provisions for the week and may be a gift for his birthday girl. What will that be?
"Gopala, are you not coming?"
He is inviting me.
"Yes." I mutter.
My reply smacks of blood. We are now walking together, apace, he is on my left, shoulder to shoulder. When am I to pull out my dagger? I borrow his glowing beedi to light mine. I can't see his face in the faint glow of his beedi. I am thinking only of my dagger. I have to strike before he suspects anything.
"Divakara, watch your steps." I said
Mercy towards a lamb to the slaughter.
"You too, be careful. Hold my hands. Here. It is too slippery here."
He is returning my courtesy.
My dagger is now burning into my hips. Our beedis have gone out. We spit them away. It is so desolate here. This is the right time. This is the right place. He too would have chosen the same. In this pitch darkness we are going to play prey and predator for no one's eyes. I will surely look after your family when you are dead. I know you will do the same for me. But before all that we have to decide who is going to die and who is going to survive this ill-fated night.
I slowly move my sweating, shivering hand toward the dagger hidden around my right hip. My whole body begins to shake, either with a flow of extra strength or from all my strength draining from my body.
In the grim and grimy dark, I can kind of see Divakaran's dagger too inching towards his left hip.
(This story is taken from his second book of short stories, Pathala Karandi, named after a set of hooks used to retrieve things from deep wells. The story was chosen for its undying relevance.)
Philip Thomas, now residing in the USA was born as the youngest son of Thomas Nooranadu and Saramma Thomas, both teachers, at Adikkaattukulangare, Kerala. A product of the Adayar Film Institute Chennai, he won the state award for his documentary "Kuttanadu: Where Diseases Blossom". He has won several awards for his short stories and headed a literary magazine named Sahithi. Wife, Biji and daughter, Diya. His e-mail: philipthomasonline@gmail.com
THE STREAM OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The room had become stiflingly hot. The sky outside was overcast and humidity had reached its peak. Sadanand desperately wanted a glass of soft drink with lot of ice. The small hotel at Jaipur, the capital city of Rajasthan, had gone to sleep, it was close to eleven in the night. Water in the jug in the hotel room had become warm. He just couldn't resist the temptation to go out for a soft drink. And he knew rain was imminent. Coming from the desert district of Barhmer, where it hardly rains half a dozen times in the year, the desire to get drenched was compulsive. He went out.
The watchman was dozing at the main door. Sadanand asked him if there was a shop nearby selling cocacola.The watchman yawned and tried to smile, a difficult task, considering that more than half his face was covered with a huge moustache, looking like the wings of a gargantuan butterfly.
"Sahab, it is close to eleven, all the shops near here will be closed. If you are really desperate for cocacola, you have to walk about one and half kilometres. There is an all night bazar where some shops sell cocacola and all kinds of drinks."
"But, what kind of bazar is that, open through out the night? Don't those people sleep in the night?"
The watchman laughed,
"O, no, no, they work in the night and sleep during the day."
Sadanand was shocked,
"Who are these shop keepers? What do they sell?"
"Arey Sahab, you are too innocent. People from Barhmer are like that. I am from Jaisalmer. I was also like you when I came here. Now I know who sells what in different bazaars of Jaipur. Now you go and buy your cocacola and come back here. Don't enter that bazar. That is not for decent people like you."
"Ok, can you give some direction?"
"Yes, that is easy. Once you go out of the compound here, take a right turn, go straight for half a kilometre till you reach a petrol bunk. You will see a fork in the road there, take the left one and keep going. After a kilometre you will see the lights of the shop. They keep the area well decorated to attract the customers. But remember," the watchman shook his fingers, "no going inside the bazar, buy the cocacola and come back."
Sadanand nodded and started walking. The air was getting cooler. Ah, rains are so beautiful! At Barhmer where he worked as a lecturer in the local college, rains were rare and when they came it never poured. He wished he would succeed in the interview for the post of Lecturer at Jaipur university and come to live here with his wife Sucheta, son Dushyant and daughter Vineeta! He remembered how the six months old Vineeta had grabbed his fingers with her tiny hand, as if pleading with him not to leave her and go away for three days!
Lights were on in some of the houses. People were watching TV. He missed Sucheta, who must be still glued to the TV playing some stupid serial or the other. She was fiercely addicted to serials. And every night he pleaded with her to come to bed early,
"How can you let yourself be fooled by the never-ending episodes, the hero dying and getting resurrected, the heroine becoming a ghost in the night and a seductress during the day, the dance, songs going on for years without the actors and actresses dying of fatigue!"
She would get vocal,
"Why are you after my serials? Are you a 'serial killer'? Go and sleep, if you want something from me, then wait. Haven't you heard the saying, the fruit of patience is sweet?"
"Ok, I will wait here for the sweet fruit of patience. You watch TV, I will watch you watching TV."
After five minutes she would shout at him in mock anger,
"Don't look at me like a hungry wolf! I am getting distracted, not able to concentrate on my serial!"
Sadanand would go to the bed room and keep tossing and turning on the bed waiting for her. He loved Sucheta. She was an excellent wife, she took good care of his parents who often came from the village to stay with their only child. In fact Sadanand and Sucheta were planning to have them permanently at Jaipur in case he got the job at the university. He wished he would succeed in the interview that was to take place two days later.
The shops were visible now, all lighted and decorated. Sadanand reached the place and was surprised to see so much activity, although it was past eleven. There were about a dozen shops with exotic names, "Raat Ki Raani", "Dil Bahar", "Jannat Ki Husn" "Manoranjan" and absurd names like "Nani Yaad AaJayegi", to "Ek Baar To Chakhle". He crossed the road to the other side and a few shops away he found a big crowd. The name of the shop was "Dil Khush Lassi- Binnoo Pehelwan Ki World Famous Dukan".
Sadanand went there and asked if he could get a glass of cocacola with lots of ice. Binnoo Pehelwan laughed and was joined by a couple of other customers,
"Are you from outside of Jaipur?"
"Yes, I am from Barhmer, but what has it got to do with cocacola?"
"That's why you are asking for cocacola in Binnoo Pehelwan' Dukan, it's like asking for a kilo of Bhindi in a mutton shop"
He broke into a big laugh and as if on cue, few others also laughed loudly,
"Arey Sahab, forget cocacola, taste a glass of special lassi from here, you will never forget it in your life. And if you find better lassi than mine anywhere in Rajasthan, come back here, I will give you a full refund of the thirty rupees I am going to charge you. Arey Chhotu, make a glass of special lassi for Sahab."
Sadanand smiled and sat on a bench waiting for his glass of lassi. A couple of people sitting there moved and made space for him. One of them smiled and asked,
"Are you an afsar?"
"No I am a..", Sadanand was about to say Lecturer, but realised the word would be unknown to these people, so he simply said, "a master"
Binnoo Pehelwan offered a tall glass of lassi and said,
"Masterji, here is your lassi, enjoy. I am sure you will go back and tell everyone in Barhmer about it."
Sadanand took a sip, it was delicious, he had never tasted anything like that in his life,
"Pehelwanji, this is extraordinary, how do you make such fantastic lassi?"
Binnoo Pehelwan laughed,
"It's a trade secret, you will remember the taste till you reach Barhmer"
Everyone had a good laugh.
Sadanand finished the lassi, paid for it and left. Through a road on the side of the shop customers were entering the bazar, with a spring in their steps, cheap perfume wafting through the air like the tune of a haunting song. He crossed the road. The air was much cooler, Sadanand felt light in the head. He tried to locate the road which had brought him to that point, but there were many roads and he forgot which one he had taken. He walked a bit and got confused. Somehow it made him laugh. Such a simple task, and he was unable to do it! He laughed loudly and kept laughing. Suddenly he shouted "Tchah! What a ..." he groped for the right word, shame? Joke? Then he remembered he often called his Dushyant the son of a gun, Bandhook Ka Bacha! So his face lighted up, he repeated "Tchah! What a Bandhook!" He liked that a lot, in fact he liked it more than anything he had said in life! So he stood there, laughed again and said "Tchah! What a Bandhook!" He liked his voice saying that and repeated "Tchah! What a Bandhook!" After he had laughed and said it six times, he suddenly became conscious, what is this, why was he doing it, past twelve o clock on an August night in Jaipur, he, a loving husband to a beautiful wife, a responsible father to two adorable kids, a respectable Guruji to his students? Why?
He decided to move on, he thought he found the road he had taken and started walking on it. His mind was still grappling with the mystery of why he stood on the road and shouted like a crazy man. He wanted to upbraid himself for that, so he hit his forehead with the palm and said, "Tchah, what a Bandhook!"
He bit his tongue in embarrassment realising that he repeated exactly what had embarrassed him earlier, so he smiled and walked on. The smile came back to him again and again like mild streaks of lightning but he didn't stop.
A hundred meters on he entered a lane which was lighted like it was day time, bright street lights were on, people were sitting outside on their string beds and chatting, some were smoking from their hookahs. Suddenly a small girl came running from the side and collided with his leg. Sadanand stood there mortified, afraid the girl would start crying and her parents would scold him, but the girl started giggling. She took his hand and dragged him to under a tree where her parents were sitting. There was a baby in a stroller, the girl said,
"Uncle, uncle, look at my brother Golu, isn't he the most handsome kid on earth?"
Sadanand looked at the boy, he must be around seven or eight months of age, he was laughing and throwing his legs in the air. He was indeed quite cute, Sadanand remembered his daughter, how she had grabbed his finger tightly when he was taking leave from her. His heart brimmed with unbridled love for Golu, the boy in the stroller. He asked the parents if he could hold the baby as he reminded him of his six months old daughter back home at Barhmer. They smiled and said of course! Sadanand took the boy in his arms, he had never felt so much love in his life, it was as if the baby became a part of his heart, his soul and his existence, as if it was a baby God he was holding in his arms. He pressed him to his chest and started kissing him on the cheeks, the forehead and the hair. The baby started squirming, smothered by so much love. The parents started wondering what had possessed the unknown man, why he was overflowing with love for the child. Sadanand had no idea about their discomfort, he kept on kissing the baby boy and pressing him to his chest. The mother nodded at her husband to rescue the baby, he came and quietly took the baby from the clutches of Sadanand and put him back in the stroller.
"Where are you going Bhai Sahab, so late in the night?"
Sadanand looked at him, trying to remember the name of the hotel. He finally remembered it,
"Raj Tarangini Guest House, that's where I am staying."
"Do you know the way to that place?"
Sadanand laughed, a little too loudly, startling the small girl,
"Yes, of course"
And he muttered to himself "Tchah, what a Bandhook!" and started waliking. The girl called after him, "Uncle, Please come tomorrow again, to see my Golu."
Sadanand waved at her.
A couple of hundred meters from there he saw an open space where a few boys were playing football. They were around eight-nine years old, some of them were bare bodied, some had coloured banyans on. He looked at them and thought of Dushyant who had already started playing with a football at the age of six. In a couple of years Dushyant would also play football with his friends. Sadanand wanted to play with the kids. But he knew he had to pretend to be Dushyant to be accepted by them. He went near them,
"Hi kids, will you allow me to play with you?"
"But uncle you are so big, if you kick one of us we will fly in the air!"
"No no, I am not big, I am only six years old, call me Dushyant, don't call me uncle".
"Ok uncle, you can play with us, but be careful, don't kick any of us."
"No no not uncle, only Dushyant, call me Dushyant!"
The kids found it fun to shout at 'Dushyant', 'Hey Dushyant, pass the ball, Dushyant, kick the ball to the goal, Dushyant, here, to the right.........."
Sadanand was having a ball, the best time of his life. He wanted to show to the kids how Ronaldino dribbled, how Messi headed the ball, how Ronaldo shot his free kicks......soon the boys stood and clapped when Sadanand ran with the ball from one end to the other and scored goal after goal.........He became a hero to the kids and it appeared to him that the flats all around the open space were stands in a huge stadium and thousands of spectators were shouting, cheering him and clapping at the goals he scored. The adulation was heady, the lightness in his head felt even lighter. He stopped after a few minutes, shook hands with each of the boys like an international player taking leave from his team mates. He waved at the spectators in the stadium and left the field in a blaze of glory. He hadn't felt so happy over a football game for so many years. From somewhere he heard the song O Basanti Pawan Pagal playing, he looked around to see from which house it was coming. To his utter surprise he found th song playing in his heart, as if from a transistor. He laughed to himself and said loudly, "Tchah, what a Bandhook!" and walked on.
Down the road he came across a park to his right. It was well manicured, beautiful trees swayed in the cool breeze under subdued lights. He entered inside and was pleasantly surprised to see many young couples sitting on the benches under the trees and chatting, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes. At a dark corner he saw a young boy and girl who looked like school kids, in an intimate embrace, kissing each other. The front buttons of the girl's dress were open and she had closed her eyes. Sadanand felt so angry, so frightfully angry! What kind of kids are these! Taking such liberties in a park! He shouted at them,
"Hey, do your parents know you are doing these dirty things here?"
The young pair got up, shocked, the girl arranged her dress and stood there, her head bent. Sadanand went to a tree, broke a branch and came menacingly at them. They started running, Sadanand's anger was like a fire from a furnace, soon it had spread to other corners of the park, there was pandemonium all around. Young men and women, boys and girls started running away from the park, Sadanand chased each of them giving a blow or two to a few with the improvised lathi. Soon the park was empty, but Sadand's anger had not abated. He kept cursing the "characterless youth" under his breath as he walked away from the park.
It was well beyond midnight then, approaching one o clock. He suddenly saw a few people sitting in a row on the roads. They were obviously quite poor, begging for money. He went to an old couple and asked them what they were doing so late in the night,
"It's not late night, Babu; it's early morning. There is a Hanuman temple in the adjoining lane, by four the devotees start coming. They give good alms Babu, but the regular beggars don't allow us near the temple. We are not beggars. There are about a dozen of us here, all abandoned by the children. They don't take care of us any more. Our son lives in Delhi and daughter is in our village but they have told us to fend for ourselves. What can I do Babu at this age, I am eighty four, my old lady is seventy six. Who will give us work? So we live here under the sky, waiting for some alms from the devotees. Look at these people sleeping, they are all destitutes. There is no one to take care of them. Give us something babu, it will buy us a meal in the morning. We haven't eaten anything for more than twelve hours."
Sadanand's anger had subsided, the tale of woe of these destitutes melted his heart. Some others had woken up from their light sleep and were looking expectantly at him. He took out all the money he had in his pocket and counted it - eighty seven rupees. He gave it to them and asked them to share it among themselves. They blessed him. His eyes filled with tears, when he started walking away from them. Somehow he imagined that one day he and Sucheta would be old and may be destitutes like this, abandoned by their children who would be in far off places. Sucheta and he would be sitting near some temple and begging for their next meal. Uncontrolled waves of agony racked his body and he started sobbing.
The path he walked on was meandering into some sort of a deserted area, dark and grim. By the time the sobbing subsided he was suddenly aware of some light flickering behind him. He looked back and was astounded to see a procession of some people walking with torches of flame in their hand. It was a silent procession and as it drew near he saw a dead body being carried on the shoulders of six men. A few others were accompanying them, all with a torch of flame in their hands, walking silently. In no time they overtook him. He was shocked, why was a funeral procession marching past midnight? Whose body was that? Why was there no chanting of Ram Naam Satya Hai? Why was the procession so silent? He moved a bit faster and tapped on the shoulder of the hind most man carrying the body, to ask him whose body was that. When the man turned, Sadanand froze in fear, a cold terror gripping his heart. It was the watchman with the big moustache from the Raj Tarangini Guest House, who shook his fingers, forbidding him to ask any questions, the way he had forbidden him to go into the lighted bazar a few hours back. When the man next to the watchman looked at Sadanand, his heart sank. What was Binnoo Pehelwan doing here, why was he not at his shop selling his world famous lassi? One by one the other four also looked back. They all looked familiar, friends and colleagues from his college in Barhmer!
Sadanand froze in terror, his legs refused to move, he let the procession go ahead. He wanted to go back on the way he had come. When he turned, he got another big shock. All the street lights had gone off, it was dark, densely dark as if he was staring at a closed tunnel. He was scared to go back. He resumed his walk and after fifty meters or so the road ended in a big ground, a sort of an old park. He entered it and looked around. His mind had stopped registering much. In the semi darkness, the faint light of the moon peeping reluctantly from behind the clouds he could see the outline of some fences encircling the ground, he thought it could be a park, a playground, patch of a desert, or even a fragment of the sky. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted to lie down where he stood. He looked up at the sky, dark, ominous clouds gradually overtook it like a black canopy, hiding the moon. The first drops of a slight drizzle started falling. As he sat down on the grass and tumbled over to curl into a sleep, he wondered if he would ever get up again, he felt his cute daughter's tiny hand gripping his fingers and trying to pull him back from some unknown precipice.
The drizzle came, but by a miracle a wind swept away the clouds and the rain stopped. The moon reappeared and shone upon the lone figure of a dazed Sadanand deep asleep in the open ground. With the sun shining bright and hot in the morning Sadanand woke up. He didn't know where he was and wondered why he was out in the open in a park, with cows and goats for company. He dimly saw a group approaching him. A man was walking with a stroller, a small girl running by his side. The man saw him and stopped, surprise clouding his face,
"Bhai Saab, is it you? What are you doing here? Didn't you reach your hotel last night?"
The girl tried to pull him up,
"Uncle, uncle, come and see my Golu, isn't he the cutest baby on earth?"
Sadanand looked at the man, embarrassed, he himself wondered how he ended up in this open field last night. The last thing he remembered was a funeral procession and darkness all around him.
He shook his head in reply,
"Sorry Bhai Saab, I don't know how I came here, I clearly remember I was going back to my hotel!"
The man looked at him closely,
"Where were you before you met us near our home? What were you doing so late in the evening outside your hotel?"
"I had come to have some cocacola with lots of ice, it was so stiflingly hot in the hotel room, but some one persuaded me to have some lassi instead!"
"O my God, did you have the special lassi in the world famous shop of Binnoo Pehelwan?"
Sadanand nodded, remembering the wonderful taste of the lassi last night.
The man patted his head with his hand,
"O my God, O my God, was it the first time you ever had a special lassi? Didn't you know special lassi comes laced with a liberal dose of Bhang? Why did you do that in an unknown place in a deserted town?"
Sadanand smiled, he was no doubt happy to be alive after a heart wrenching ordeal,
"What do I know? I had come out of the hotel looking for a glass of cold cocacola. Did I know, in one single, unforgettable night I would see a procession of life before my eyes? A life complete with the joys of infancy, childhood, adolescence, youth and then soaked with the sorrow of destitution and death?"
......................................
Story behind the story:
In Novemeber 1989, I drank a glass of lassi with Bhang, for the first time in my life, on a Diwali evening at a party in Chennai. I was curious to know how it felt. The friends egged me on and I took a liberal quantity of lassi with bhang. In no time I was laughing like a demon possessed and was eventually packed off home in the company of my family. In a span of the next one and half hours I experienced a kaleidoscope of emotions in a frighteningly severe intensity - joy, affection, anger, sorrow and fear, all of which I have tried to describe in the above story. Even today I clearly remember the song "O Basanti Pawan Pagal' playing inside my heart, yes, believe it or not, it was as if a record player was on somewhere inside my heart playing that song. When I came out to lock the front gate of our house, I was certain that some one was hiding there with a knife to attack me. My wife somehow made me go to sleep. I woke up the next evening after fourteen hours, relatively sober and free from the effect of bhang. I have never touched the bloody stuff 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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