Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXV (11-Sep-2020)
(Title : Grandpa's cap and Butterfly Catcher - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 85th edition of LiteraryVibes. A rich fare of delicious poems and entertaining stories await you in our pages. Hope you will enjoy them and share the e-Magazine with your friends and contacts through the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/342 All the previous 84 editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
A few days back I stumbled upon a short write up on "This Is Why You Should Write Poetry". It was an exploration of what motivates a poet to pour out his feelings. Poetry as a form of communication is simple, straightforward and appealing. It doesn't believe in weaving plots, posing mysteries and unraveling them. It simply captures an overflowing moment in a magic tapestry and presents it to the readers to merge themselves in its inner self and hold its beauty in grateful hands. That's why T. S. Eliot had said "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood". It often happens that powerful emotions are not captured in time and the moments pass to lose themselves in the abyss of time. Sarah Norad, the writer of the piece, goes on to advise, "The only thing you really need to write poetry is the ability to connect with your feelings in the present moment."
I was quite impressed by the profound words of Allen Ginsberg, quoted by the writer, "The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does." But do all poets write poetry to tell us about the world, what's good or bad in it ? What about the sheer joy of creation? The songs of beauty, the celebration of life? Out of the vast ocean of immortal poems and songs let me just offer one sample to say, poetry, a thing of beauty, is a joy forever, and that is why one should write poetry:
Love is a many splendored thing
It's the April rose that only grows in the early Spring
Love is nature's way of giving a reason to be living
The golden crown that makes a man a king
Once on a high and windy hill, In the morning mist
Two lovers kissed and the world stood still
Then your fingers touched my silent heart and taught it how to sing
Yes, true love's a many splendored thing.
(By Paul Francis Webster, lyricist for the movie Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing (1955). A video clip of the splendid song is at the bottom of the page in today's LV)
To the poets among the readers, do write your poems and share with us, so that we will come back to the readers again and again with sweet offerings of joy and beauty.
Take care. Stay safe.
Bye, till we meet next week.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MADAM MUMBAI, BESIEGED
02) Haraprasad Das
MAKING LOVE (SHRUNGAARA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE LIGHTHOUSE
ME TOO
04) Ujan Ghosh
REMEMBERING A CHILDHOOD VACATION
05) Bibhu Padhi
CELEBRATIONS: A HOMAGE TO D.H. LAWRENCE*
06) Ishwar Pati
TO BOOKS WITH LOVE
07) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
EVOLVING CREATION
08) Latha Prem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 8 : THE WILD WOMAN
09) Meena Mishra
THE SANDALWOOD FRAGRANCE
10) Sunil Kumar Biswal
JAGAT GURU
11) Dr. Molly Joseph M
TEACHER
ANOTHER TEACHER'S DAY !
12) Vidya Shankar
MY STUDENT, GANAPATHI’S ONLINE CLASS
13) Gita Bharath
OUTDATED FABLE
14) Abani Udgata
MEMORIES OF ANOTHER DAY
15) Supriya Pattanayak
RAIN
16) Sheena Rath
CAR DRIVES.... A PLEASURE!!
17) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
MOOD ELEVATORS OR DEPRESSANTS?
18) Sibu Prasad Das
LIFE UPDATE
19) Ravi Ranganathan
MYKU
20) Priya Bharati
COME SEPTEMBER
21) Pradeep Rath
LOVE IS
SIMPLE PHILOSOPHY
BEAUTY
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
TRUST NEVER DIES
23) Mihir Kumar Mishra
THE RUFFLED THOUGHT
24) Sashikanta Das
PIKLU
25) Sanjit Singh
FREE AT LAST
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE FLAME
Book Review
01) PINGING PANGS
Hema Ravi
Opening bleary eyes,
sleep-laden, feverish, teary;
throat and chest, raw sand-paper;
she curses her own cautions.
The sun is up, the streets and
tracks are silent, reminding –
she has banned her locals,
buses, taxis, and rickshaws;
not to mention, tempos and trucks,
or private cars and bikes; hasn’t given
a worm to her early birds, taken milk
and newspaper to people’s doors.
Her students have not gone to schools
or colleges, she recalls, she has
announced the classes shut indefinitely
when the township had the blues.
With joints aching, fever high,
she controls a coughing fit;
puts on a cotton mask over her
mouth and nose; steps out.
A few yards away, the street deserted,
a chemist greets, “Good morning mam,
at your age, should have stayed home.
Order over phone, get your supply.”
Madam Mumbai has tears in eyes,
“Thank you, my good man, not me
that matters, I worry for my children -
my people, animals, birds and bees;
worry for good souls who serve
the sick, guard roads, keep vigil
by sickbeds in solitary wards,
away from mothers, wives, children;
worry for mothers whose children
go hungry, for hands that don’t
earn their daily wage to buy food,
for marooned mariners in this listless sea.”
She takes the chemist in a feverish hug,
his body burning with fever, his chest
rattling like a rattle. The two fearless
do-gooders go out to serve others.
Note - The poet is a son of Madam Mumbai. The mega city Mumbai used to boast that she never slept; but was put to sleep on the twenty-second March, 2020, and onwards by the total lockdown, clamped. The lament was penned on the twenty-eighth of the same month.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
All entreaties
seem unwelcome
at your lips;
your eyes look distant -
cold hail
pile up by the eye-rims.
But I hear the peahen
giving calls to the king cobra.
He uncoils, rises
out of its cloistered den.
I follow it, and
enter your portal
opening up in invitation.
Taking your lissome form
in my besotted grip
I enter the pleasure park.
Disengaging from
the joy-ride,
I take an eyeful: you lie –
a languorous enigma,
as never before,
a drop of shimmering tear
shying away,
faltering and inarticulate,
a few words,
archaic, but grand and primal,
antiquated heirlooms:
Chhatra and Chaamar;
cheeks dabbed
with coy blush,
an expanse
of haragauraas* in bloom!
No, none of these
poetic phrases
measure up to your
earthy grandeur.
Note - Haragauraa* flowers of Odisha are soft pink beauties known as Balsam Roses. A field of haragauraa in blossom kind of makes the land blush.
Chhatra - A royal decorative umbrella or chhaataa held above persons of position and power.
Chaamara - A royal hair-fan used over royals or gods in temple. In gurudwaras these are called Chaur Sahib, the holy book is fanned with this.
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)”
Have you ever
rigged your sails
on your uncertain
schooner
and challenged your
seamanship
to venture
into the expanse
and depths of the blue
in someone's eyes?
Have you ever
lost your bearings
on your compass
and gibed frantically
from port tack
to starboard
and back?
You are not sure
if your sails
failed you
or was it the
wayward wind?
Have you ever
looked down the horizon
where a desolate
defunct tower
stands in silence
its silhouette
vaguely
splashed on a
somnambulant sky
and then
see it crumbling
and crawling into
its saline grave?
'Hey Lata,' yelled Shabnam,' switch off the gas and let the pressure cooker cool, and clean the utensils in the sink. See that the utensils are shining and pristinely clean. But first, press Gudlu's school uniform and make a cup of coffee for Robin Saab'.
' Yes Ma'am', acknowledged Lata, ‘ but madam what do you mean by pristinely clean?’
Lata was in the habit of picking up new words in English and Shabnam always encouraged and helped her to improve her vocabulary.
Shabnam Souza better known as Oprah Winfrey of the East, is a successful talk show host in a popular TV news channel. Her show known as 'Shabnam Slices' has one of the highest ratings as a television program and she is no less than the celebrities whom she hosts in her shows. She had been very adept in picking up various contemporary social issues, some of them controversial and some critical. The issues covered a wide spectrum of burning problems, ranging from LGBT legislation to mob lynching, abrogation of article 370 in Kashmir, Citizenship Amendment Act, Me Too and the like. Her incisive and deft handling of the shows with an emotion centric approach, her apparent empathy and compassion for the suffering have made her very dear to the audience. Her powerful presence and fact based analyses with undeniable logic have built up her image as a successful opinion maker in the public eye and an obvious outcome had been her immense clout in political circles too. Although sometimes she's accused of fabricating evidences and dramatising the issues to her advantage, she surely carries the audience with her and some celebrities who are on her cross hairs are literally scared to face her interviews. On the other hand if she admires a politician even with a criminal record, she shows the person in the best light and there are instances of complete image make overs for some in power. In return she enjoys their patronage and protection. In short she is the darling of the common man as well as someone whom the rich and powerful cannot ignore.
Shabnam lived in a posh flat in Colaba, an upmarket area of Mumbai with her husband Robin and six year old son Alex nicknamed Gudlu. Robin was a successful graphic designer in a reputed production house but now does freelancing from home, under a long contract with the Disneys. Lata in her early twenties, a school dropout is their housemaid engaged on a part time basis working only in the afternoons, helping in the kitchen and taking the little boy to the park in the evening when he returns from school. She also works in another two households during the morning hours to make just enough money to supplement her family income. Her husband is an auto driver. She has an ailing mother in law at home and they have no kids. They stay in a nearby shanty. Generally a cheerful girl, Lata was very proud of her 'mem saab' who was a celebrity and always asked her many questions to learn about the country and the world. She always looked forward to such conversations on Saturday afternoons, soon after Shabnam's weekly talk shows. Shabnam also found these conversations interesting and always tried to satisfy her curiosity.
This Saturday afternoon, as the 'Shabnam Slices' show came on air, Lata brought a bag of green peas and settled down on the carpet to peel them, while Shabnam relaxed on her recliner with a chilled beer in hand. It was a recorded show though it was shown as 'Live' and had a galaxy of cine stars, journalists and IT professionals, an all woman panel and the topic was Me Too. Shabnam steered the conversation with alacrity and dexterity of a seasoned professional and brought out the salient points of the issue through insightful questioning and discussions. The panel meandered through the Me Too street which was almost a maze of chiaroscuro, partly lighted, partly dark with open ends and blind corners. Discussions hovered around misogyny in general and touched upon gender abuse in office spaces and beyond, about forceful alpha males with testosterone driven sexist behaviour and even 'bobbitisation' as a possible deterrent. Somehow most of the discussions went over head for Lata who tried to comprehend as much as she could but watched silently the heated arguments on the screen in wide-eyed bewilderment. She maintained a small notebook and quickly jotted down few words which she would clarify from 'Mem Saab' later.
By the time the show was over, Lata had finished her green peas pealing and Shabnam two cans of white Bira beer. As Lata looked at her expectantly for their private 'tutorial' session, Shabnam told her to get few large onions and a utility knife from the set of Tomodachi knives, her prized possession, a gift from a Japanese friend. The latter claimed that the knives were forged from the same steel which was used to make the traditional katana swords for the samurai. Lata knew what to do. She knew that some friends were coming home for dinner and 'Mem Saab' had plans to cook Hyderabadi chicken dum biriyani. Lata sat down to do the fine slicing of the onions and soon the razor sharp blade produced the results to perfection.
'Ma'am, what exactly is this Me Too?', asked Lata.
'Lata, this is a world-wide movement against sexual harassment and sexual assault on women. You see, there are many bad men out there. When they get a chance they try to force themselves on vulnerable women and most women keep quiet about it. Some out of fear and some out of shame. Such behaviour by these bad men should not be allowed or tolerated. And the victim should build enough courage to expose them. This Me Too movement helps for such women to come forward together and speak out about their experience. This would surely desist these bad men to repeat such acts with other women since they will be scared to be exposed,' explained Shabnam.
'All these women who were in your show- are they the victims who are coming to the public?, asked Lata.
' No, not all of them. Some are speaking on behalf of their friends and others too,' offered Shabnam.
'Ma'am, they were talking of 'bobbitisation', Lata referred to her note and spoke the word hesitatingly. She continued, 'That it could help stopping the bad men do bad things. What is that? ' Lata was curious to know.
' Oh! That?,' smiled Shabnam, and continued,' there was this American lady Lorena Bobbit, married to John. One evening John had forced sex on her against her will. She was not amused and when he was asleep she castrated him with a sharp knife. Some believe that a woman should not passively tolerate any sexual attack on her and the perpetrator should be punished as such. The word bobbitisation came into being after this incident. Essentially it means severing of the male member of a bad man who forces himself on a woman's dignity and honour through sexual advances, against the will of the woman.'
' Oh, even the husbands can't force themselves on their wives?', exclaimed Lata and continued,’ I always thought that they can exercise their rights over the wives any time whenever they please,’ her voice trailed off.
There was a brief period of silence. It seemed that Lata was taking some time to digest her new found knowledge.
'Ma'am, I want to seek your advice on something personal,' asked Lata furtively.
'Sure, feel free,' Shabnam encouraged Lata to speak.
'I am having a similar issue. But don't know how to deal with it,' told Lata avoiding to meet Shabnam's eyes.
' Come on, don't be afraid. You can confide with me. I can help you,' coaxed Shabnam.
' You know Mem Saab, I hav a Me Too problem too,' said Lata in an undertone.
' OK, tell me,' Shabnam was eager to hear about it.
' One of my employers is really creepy. Whenever he gets me alone, he tries to touch me at the wrong places. He has tried to kiss me too. Once he hugged me tight like a python squeezes its prey and I used all my strength to push him away and set myself free from his hold,' sobbed Lata.
' Hold on to yourself. Be strong Lata. I am happy that you have not yet yielded to his advances,' said Shabnam, visibly angry.
' But Mem Saab, I was wondering if I can do a bobbitisation on him?', asked Lata anxiously.
' Sure, if you have the courage to do it. The best defence against evil men are good people who are skilled in violence. These predators must be taught such lessons they can never forget!', fumed Shabnam.
' Mem Saab, can I borrow this knife ? Nothing could be a better weapon than this,' requested Lata.
'Fine. But remember, such steps are extreme and always have their consequences. One can’t always take law into one’s own hands. It’s another thing when all other options are exhausted. Take care,' advised Shabnam.
Lata got up and went to the kitchen to tidy it up. It was almost half an hour before Gudlu was to return from school. She has to go and escort the boy from the bus stop and then take him out to the park before her day's chores are over.
'Lata, make another cup of coffee for Saab and give it to him in the library. I am just taking a power nap,' yelled Shabnam.
It was hardly ten minutes when Shabnam was shaken up from her nap by a piercing cry reverberating in the house. She sprang to her feet and ran towards the source of the noise, the library. As she entered she found Robin grunting on the white floor, curled up like an embryo, with a pool of blood slowly seeping out of his middle and a frightening Lata standing close by with a blood smeared knife, dumbstruck as if playing statue. It took some time for the scene to sink in and she heard Robin whimper and requesting her to call the ambulance urgently. Shabnam for a moment didn't know what to do, but soon she confronted Lata with unbridled rage and fury and charged her, ' you stupid bitch, you ungrateful wretch, you had to bite the hand that feeds you! Hold on I will ensure that you rot in the jail for the rest of your life.'
With blood shot eyes and quivering fingers, Shabnam was seen dialling 100, while Robin's whimper had stopped and Lata continued to stand there frozen.
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
REMEMBERING A CHILDHOOD VACATION
(In Kaupur Village, Odisha)
Ujan Ghosh
It was 1960. My only sister, eldest of we six siblings had just finished her B.Ed. course from Radhanath Training College, at Cuttack and she was planning to go for a holiday to our Masi’s (mother’s sister) place at Kaupur, a village in the Bhadrak district of Orissa. That time rest of our family were in Athgarh, including me. (Athgarh is a subdivision small town in Cuttack district of Orissa). I don’t know who decided it and why that I should also go along with her to Kaupur. I was only 8 year old then but old enough to be excited about a holiday, that too to a Masi’s house. Traditionally in Indian families Masis are very close to their nephews and nieces and often showered their love on them in whatever form possible. This Masi of ours was married to the Zamindar of Kaupur. Zamindari, as such in the true sense of the word, didn’t quite exist then. Basically, uncle was a big landlord and people from the surrounding villages worked in his orchards and agricultural fields. He had a large old house where he lived only with Masi as they didn’t have any children. In the adjacent house lived his brother and his large family. The brother must have had his share of landed property and lived out of it. Kind of a feudal system, where my uncle was the king and rest are sub ordinates. So, this is the place I was going for a holiday, my first one in life.
My father arranged for an escort to take me to Cuttack. Those days it was not difficult. One just needed to go to the Bus Stand at the time when the bus to Cuttack was scheduled and could easily find a known person with whom you could send something to Cuttack. This time it was me who was being sent. Considering my father’s reputation and the respect he commanded in Athgarh, there must have been more than one person eagerly willing to do a favour to my father. So, there was a person found who not only took me along to Cuttack but also personally ‘deposited’ me to my sister.
At this point I must talk little bit about my only sister. She was the eldest amongst we six siblings and I was the youngest. She was 18 years older to me. I was not just her loving little kid brother, in fact she was almost like my mother. She was taught by my father up to IA from home. She went to Victoria College in Calcutta for her BA. Then she taught at the Athgarh girls’ school for three years, during this period she also completed her MA in English from home, assisted by my father, following which she left Athgarh to complete her B.Ed. at Cuttack, perhaps for better prospects in a teaching career. I must mention here that, during those years our large family was not doing well financially and my sister’s earnings from teaching must have been of significant help to my father to run his family.
So, as per plan I was handed over to my sister in her woman’s hostel by my father’s contact. I was a young boy, hence I was allowed in and in fact I stayed there overnight. My sister’s friends were all very happy and excited to find a little boy amongst them. Someone even put lot of make-up on me and dressed me up. Next morning we took a train to a place called Baudpur near Bhadrak, a subdivisional town but bigger than Athgarh. From there Kaupur is about 10 km. Villagers walked this distance or cycled. Cycle rikshaws were available and also Bullock carts. We took a cycle rickshaw and took about an hour to reach Kaupur. The biggish village was on the banks of a small river called Salandi. My Masi and her extended family lived on the other side of the river from the village side. There was no bridge. It was summer and there was not much water in the river. So, we walked through the shallow water, escorted by a help sent by Masi. In rainy season a boat ferried people across the river. The boat service was provided by Masi’s family.
My Mausa (Masi’s husband), the Zamindar, referred as the Mahashay had his living quarters and other official buildings in a large complex on the other side of the river and was kind of separated from the Kaupur village by the river. It was like a Citadel. The complex had their houses, court, ‘darbar’ and the temple of the family God, Radhakanta (Krishna). I was only eight then and I never visited this place again, but my memories of this place are still quite vivid and fresh. As I hadn’t joined school by then and had all the time in hand, I stayed there for three months. I had a great time there, thoroughly pampered by my Masi and got a lot of attention from the relatives, workers, servants and also from the general public. I was like the ‘prince’ and enjoyed many privileges. For example, I played with other ‘ordinary’ kids a rural game which resembled cricket and I was allowed to continue batting, even after I got out. I never demanded these privileges, but they were was always offered. Other than the main school in the village, there was a small one room school in our side of the river. I was sent to that school for some days, the reason I can not remember. There were about 20 odd students of ages ranging from 5 to 12. All sat in one class and learnt the same things. I was 8 then and already knew lot of things that my father had already taught me at home. But the lone teacher taught something which I had no idea of. And when I told the teacher what I knew, it seemed he didn’t know much about them either. We all sat on the floor. I was the only student who was allowed to take my footwear inside the class. Of course, there were not many who had any footwear. Anyway, my going to that school ended soon after it started, I don’t remember why. Mahashay’s brother and his big family stayed in another big house next to ours. Out of their dozen children the younger few were of around my age. Because they somewhat lost their importance after I arrived, they were very envious of my privileged position. So, they often used to trouble me if they got a chance. In one incident they convinced me to walk barefoot on some fresh leaves, they had spread on the ground saying that it was good for my feet. I fell for it and walked over some fresh cow dung hidden below the leaves to their utter amusement and my embarrassment. I had to be very careful about those kids and tried to avoid them. The village being on the other side, and not many people living near the Zamindar’s house, there were not many kids around for me to play with. So, instead, I used to hang around with the most trusted servant of my Masi. Actually, he was not the domestic servant but a labour for outdoor works, mainly in the gardens and orchards. His name was Baiya, meaning ‘Mad man’ in Oriya language. So, I would spend lot of time trying to do what he used to do like stacking wood, cutting grass, picking vegetables from the garden etc. Now and then if any one was going to Baudpur or Bhadrak for some work, I used to accompany him just for an outing.
My another pastime used to be to tag along my sister when she used to go for her walks in the surrounding natural setting. Sometimes she would sit under a large tree, leaning against its fat trunk and enjoy reading letters she received from her friends and I would hang around playing in the surrounding undergrowth. I still remember the changing expressions on my sister’s face, sometimes serious, sometimes smiling and sometimes laughing loudly depending upon the contents of the letter she was reading.
Although I was only eight years old but I clearly remember the entire building complex quite clearly. Actually, with the Zamindari long gone, most of the complex was in ruins. There were two large houses adjacent to each other, one of my Mausa’s and the other his brother’s. These two were in reasonably good condition. Mausa’s house had two blocks, one a ‘pucca’ house with flat roof and the other one was with slopping ‘thatch’ roof. Both had a courtyard in the middle with rooms around it connected by the corridor along the courtyard. The ‘pucca’ block was used by my Mausa and Masi. The block was not that big. There was one large room used as the bedroom. The wide verandah was used as a living room. Then there were couple of other rooms, I can not remember what they were used for. There was a bathing area in one corner with a latrine nearby and human scavenging was followed for cleaning. There was an open staircase going to the terrace, but I was not allowed to go up. Those days everybody took bath in open near the water source, be it a well, a pond or the river. One spot (ghaat) on the river was reserved for my Masi to take bath early in the morning. The other block with ‘thatch’ roof was kind of a service block which had the kitchen, stores and large verandahs used for different purposes. There was a long room which was the living room for Masi’s use during the day and also as a guest room. We stayed in that room. In some part of the verandah we ate sitting on the floor. In some other part workers ate. There were couple of rooms where the servants stayed. Somewhere thereabouts the chickens and hens had their cages. The courtyard at the centre was used for washing clothes and utensils.
Next to the residences, was the ‘kacheri’, literally meaning, the ‘court’. It was basically a large block with a courtyard and was meant for public interaction and hearing. The rooms around the courtyard originally accommodated the kacheri (court), Zamindari offices, stores etc. In one side room and verandah Durga Puja used to be performed every year. In the other side, in a large room the family God, Radhakanta was placed and it acted as a temple. Most of the rooms of this block were already in a dilapidated condition except this room where every evening Puja and Aarti used to be performed on a regular basis. I vaguely remember about a dispute between Mausaji’s family and another, regarding the ownership/custody of Radhakanta Ji. It was apparently settled with an arrangement of sharing the custody of the God, six months for each family. Just outside this block, but almost touching it was the new temple constructed by my Mausa for Lord Radhakanta. It was a proper temple with a Shikhara. But this structure also looked old and dilapidated although it might have been built much after the kacheri block. I am not sure whether because it was incomplete and that gave that look or because it was not maintained properly. Besides these three structures, residences, kacheri and the temple, there was no other significant structure anywhere near them.
The surrounding was all very green, in fact almost like a forest of large trees. The trees were mostly of Mango, Jackfruit and Ashoka variety. There was one peculiarity I remember that all around there was a fairly dense undergrowth of small Ashoka trees. For an eight year old like me these were of great significance. My forest was made of these small trees. There were paths going through them and as one walked on them the Ashoka leaves caressed your body. Then there were these clearings which were green with grass as sun light could reach the ground. One such clearing was some kind of a graveyard for cattles. One could find lot of bones strewned around there. I was particularly scared of that place. Apparently, the pet elephant of Mahashay was also buried there.
While on pets, it seemed in better times the Zamindar even had a mini zoo. Only thing left of that zoo was a big cage lying nearby with its rusted iron grills. Many of the rods of the grill were stolen over the years. This cage, which had apparently housed a tiger, was of great interest to me and other kids. We played in and around it. It was a great piece of play equipment, one could go in and come out of the cage from various points as some rods were missing, one could climb on it, hang from its ceiling rods etc. etc.
Next to our house ran a ‘kachcha’ (mud) road to the river and continued to the Kaupur village on the other side. This was almost a private road of Mahashay family. In any case hardly anyone lived this side of the river. Along this road, across from the house was their garden. Not a manicured garden with lawns and flowers, but more like an orchard and a vegetable garden. The place was beautiful. I can still see it in my mind. I perhaps didn’t know the value of such places in that young age, but I remember liking it immensely. I spent a lot of time there with my Masi or the workers, trying to help them in gardening or in plucking vegetables, flowers etc. There were large trees of Mango, Lichi, Jamun, Jackfruit etc. and smaller ones of guava, lemon, custard apple etc. All kinds of vegetables were also grown in this garden. Although the river was right there but its water was of not much use. Not only it was in a much lower level and hence carrying it up was problem but also in summer, when water was most needed there was not a drop in the river. Instead, water from a well located at the highest point was used for irrigation and also perhaps for drinking and other uses. Normally, bucket and rope were used to manually draw water from the well. But for irrigation where lot of water was required, this method was inadequate. For this the well was fitted with a ‘bucket-chain’ device which ran with ‘bullock power’ to lift water. The water then ran through a network of drains to irrigate the entire garden. As the water got poured at the well end of the drain it rushed forward through the drain channel, like the flash flood in a river. I used to race along the flowing water and to reach in time at the points of junctions to block and direct the water in the right channel. It was not a difficult task at all as it sounds now. One had to just dump some wet earth lying next to the drain using a spade and block one drain. I used to feel so happy by being useful in an otherwise adult activity. Their chain bucket device, I actually don’t know what it is called otherwise, is basically to lift water from a lower level to higher level. To do that a long flexible metal chain in a loop form was fitted with a number of buckets. This loop was then lowered into the well hung around a wheel. The length of this loop had to be long enough so that the lowest buckets went into the water at the bottom. When the wheel was turned the chain moved so did the buckets and when the buckets filled with water reached the top and turned, water dropped into a ditch. From this ditch the water flowed into the channel. When the wheel was turned continuously the water also flowed continuously. Today perhaps the wheel can be rotated with a motor but in Kaupur it was done by a bullock. The wheel, through another wheel/gear was connected to a horizontal wooden log at the end of which the bullock was tied. As he moved in a circle the wheel moved, so did the bucket chain and water flowed. In retrospect I realise how these simple ‘machines’, irrigation methods, flow of water, gardening etc. must have played an important role in maturing my innocent mind.
The river Salandi which ran through Kaupur was a small seasonal river. Other than in the rainy season, water didn’t flow in it. But there were many small and large collections of water in its bed. The bed was sandy, rocky and clayee in parts. I know about the river a bit as the river bed was some sort of a playground for the village kids and me. Although I was often not allowed to go there by my protective Masi, I sometimes went with an escort or other known kids of our neighbour. People also used the water in the river to take bath, wash clothes, utensils, grains, cattle etc. At one place, there was a circular shaped water body and nearby on an exposed flat sheet rock there also existed few shallow holes of different sizes. They were certainly man made and were called Sita Kund an here. So, did we.
At certain point my holiday in Kaupur was over. It was a long three months’ vacation. I don’t remember whether at that time I felt it to be too short or too long. But after 60 long years, sitting at home, in a lockdown situation due to the Carona Pandemic, when I am trying to relive those three months, I can really feel the experience and the associated emotions and its profound influences and effects on my adult life. One thing for sure, together with my childhood spent in the small town of Athgarh, this Kaupur experience certainly laid the foundation for my love and respect for nature, no matter how inadvertently it might have happened.
Ujan Ghosh did his under graduate studies in Architecture from School of Planning and Architecture (SPA), New Delhi in 1975. After working for two years in Delhi he went to University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia where he completed Master of Architecture and Master of City Planning in Urban Design. He worked for few years in USA before coming back to India and joining Upalghosh Associates as a partner.
Since then he has been practicing architecture and urban design in various parts of the country. He is also a visiting professor at SPA, New Delhi and has been teaching Urban Design for the last 38 years. He was nominated to the Senate of SPA, Bhopal and has been a member of the Board of Studies in different departments of SPA, New Delhi. Presently he is a member of the Academic Council, DIT Univercity, Dehradun and on the Board of Studies,Sushant School of Art and Architecture, Ansal University, Gurugram.
He is the founder member of Institute of Urban Designers-India and its former President.
CELEBRATIONS: A HOMAGE TO D.H. LAWRENCE*
for Gerald Pollinger
Bibhu Padhi
These words of atonement
merely remain fixed to the page,
to those lips which utter them
confidently, without regrets.
Do they mean anything to you?
Perhaps I know how
you would have hated them
for being so. You knew the bleak
poverty of our too sure words.
I’m told that I have
brought to you something
which you never wanted—
a way of calling you affectionately,
an innocent name. And I wonder
what others have done since they
exhumed your words from their
arrogant burial years ago,
why, I, who has been so cruelly
separated from you by time
and your scholar’s pride of place,
shouldn’t say what I want to say.
Will you not forgive me on this?
I may not be sure if you revised
Women in love for eight times
or wrote someone about how
you did not believe that
Birkin had finally won his way.
I have only suffered with you
the strange pangs of doubt
and circumstance that others
may not recognize and hence,
will not obey. Nothing more.
Do celebrations matter? Can our
stiff and mouthless words
return to you what we had
taken away while you were here?
*First published in The Journal Of the D H Lawrence Society of England (UK)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
“Wow, what a wonderful collection of books you have!” My visiting cousin exclaims, a la Little Red Riding Hood.
“All the more to impress you with, my dear,” I tease her in a wolfish tone. I have loved, nay revered, books ever since I can remember. I believe libraries are our true temples, though I have nothing against religions.
“But why are they scattered all over the room?” She gesticulates to a bookcase spilling over with books. More books are stacked in pyramids on the floor. “You should have shelves and display them properly.”
“Hm… I will try to do that,” I reply gruffly. The truth is, a real bibliophile has little time for ‘presentation’ of his books. He buys books, not to show them off in a bookcase, but to read them! As it is, how to monitor the movement of books that are governed by the theory of chaos, mutatis mutandis, switching places in a random fashion? In the process of cataloguing the trees, we lose the essence of the woods!
“This collection must have cost you a fortune,” my awe-struck cousin remarks.
“That depends on what you refer to as ‘fortune’,” I reply. “Generally speaking, acquisition of property is considered adding to one’s wealth, while buying books is money down the drain. The fact is, books may not increase material wealth, but they enhance one’s kitty of pleasure. That’s why Palgrave named the anthology of poems he edited as ‘Golden Treasury’.”
“You are a gone case, bro!” She tweaks my cheek playfully. She looks around and picks up And Then One Day by the inimitable Naseeruddin Shah. “Can I borrow it? I’ve been meaning to read it for quite some time.”
“Of course! But never say ‘borrow’, sister, when it comes to books,” I chide her. “After I finish reading a book, I don’t mind if it goes to Tom, Dick and/or Harry. It will only wither here, were it to come back. So, don’t return the books you take, but pass them on to friends and colleagues. Let them generate a ‘multiplier effect’ in happiness.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Economists say each rupee put into circulation causes a manifold increase in the total money supply as it circulates from hand to hand. Similarly, a book swells the total happiness of society as it is shared from reader to reader. It’s true that in money matters one should ‘neither a lender nor a borrower be’. But in the matter of books, we should not hesitate to be an unstinted ‘donor’!”
Ironically, the next book her eyes fall on is R.L. Stevenson’s Treasure Island, a story that has gifted more ‘treasure’ to the world than all the gold stored in Fort Knox.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
It is so easy
To be usual,
So difficult
To be different
But, nature renews
Every moment
With varied prospects
While I tend to follow
A routine life
Considering it, the bliss.
The world loves clones,
Easy to control
With no particular voice
Of their own,
Can be trained
With little efforts,
All for self gratification.
All the teachings
And religious sermons,
Are nothing but drugs
Converting all into
Soulless animals.
Born from nature’s womb,
I am special and unique,
Destined to be here
For a divine reason.
No way,I can follow
The easy option of rotting
In the sewer,
Not following my passion.
I will rather stand out alone
Against all the hurdles.
I am my own teacher
The worthy son of the creator,
Let me only follow
His inscribed instructions
Which I have carried
In my heart, since inception,
Easy or difficult,
It is the right path
I follow for achieving
My ultimate goal,
Making positive difference,
In the ever-evolving
God’s own creation.
"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.
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 8 : THE WILD WOMAN
Kanaka had always been haunted by the other self that resided deep within her. A wild, wild self curbed and imprisoned within the innerspace of her sophisticated self. Often she had found it difficult to accommodate and adjust with that being which was exactly the opposite of what her mother and grandmother were trying to mould her into. As a young girl and later on as an adolescent she grappled with that untameable wild thing within her which was full of vibrant vitality that dared to violate all the rules patriarchy had drawn for the female folk. Unable to come to terms with it she tried to observe how her peers were managing with it. She found most of them were single minded in their wants and dislikes. They never thought more than their day to day lives and their immediate desires which their parents fulfilled for them. Apart from that there were no whys or unanswered questions for them . They were happy in following the set norms of day to day life. But Kanaka was full of questions for which she had no answers from her parents, grandmothers, aunts or most of her peers.
She remembered how her maternal grandma locked her in a room so she would not run about with her siblings and friends when she became mature at the age of ten. She was forced to sit in her room and listen to others playing in the yard. The room being at the back end of the house she could hardly see anything. What little she could see through the small window was the back wall. She cried her heart out especially when her mother or father too did not come to her rescue. Grandma was a martinet and stuck to the old world regimen. That was the beginning of her hatred for her maternal grandma. And there were no answers to her 'Whys'.
This wild untameable spirit urged her to flout everything, it was like a wild creature closer to the wolf in its desire to protect its family and its pack at all cost but with a spirit that was independent and unfettered. Her adolescent life was one of quest, to find answers to her tormenting questions. She turned to books for answers and read madly, wildly without discrimination but yet she did not get answers for many of her questions. Everyone tried to adhere to the known and the practiced and remained in the comfortable zone. No one wanted to stray out into the unchartered waters. Thanks to her Appa ( father) who wanted all his girls to be educated like boys and had dreams for them she was sent to college. Even though her maternal uncles were against it and advised her Appa to keep her at the farm to assist him and maintain the large farm house, so her siblings could be sent to school and then to marry her off when he found a suitable boy. In her class too most of the girls wanted to get married and keep house. They came to the college because they were safer in college than at home where most of the mothers had become career women like her own mother.
Once while discussing Tess of D'urbervilles in class her friend stopped talking to her for days because she said she liked Alec better than Angel Clare who was a cheat in her eyes. Almost all the young ladies in the class were for Angel Clare. Her argument was that at least Alec showed the courage to marry Tess and take up the responsibility of looking after her whole family unlike Angel who claimed to love her but irresponsibly abandoned her the very first night of her marriage when she shared with him the unfortunate incident in her life as a teenager.
On another occasion after reading 'Wuthering Heights' she stood up for Heathcliff the waif, on that day too her refined friend was aghast. "How can you?" she asked her. She was all for the insipid, gentlemanly Edgar Linton. It almost damaged their friendship. She had heart to heart communion with the wild souls with whom she could identify this untamed self in her. It helped her to conclude that in every woman there resided such a natural innate self, suppressed and oppressed.The hard core training to be a lady modelled on the patriarchal construct had weaned away women from this wild instinctual self.
Aren' t women all over the world like that? Aren't they passionate wild beings? Sometimes as calm and benevolent and patient like mother earth but sometimes like the bloodthirsty Bhadrakali. Don't all women have these two sides - the gentle and the terrible - a combination of Blake's lamb and the tiger, when it comes down to the question of survival and the protection of her pack? She felt a great relief when she read Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estes 'Women Who Run with the Wolves'. The analysis of archetypal tales and myths about women were so revealing and comforting, that she could understand herself as well as the women around her much better, to the extent of empathising with their unique selves.
The Wild Woman
She surfaced
Through myriad materialistic layers
Overpowering and taming the self
Ensconced in mores and traditions.
A butterfly - beautiful and natural
A life force free unhampered
A spirit of attunement,
Leading to pathways strange
Hitherto submerged and hidden.
Trusting her heart, listening
To the small guiding voice inside-
Wild, yet authentic and true to self
Doing what gives joy - laughing, crying,
Dancing, howling, sniffing,
Growling, scratching, loving,
Running free, taking naps
The female soul -
The source of feminine survival
A luminous being, sagacious, instinctual!
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
Roop Kant was almost ready. He looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, gently patted down his abundant puff of hair, and permitted himself a smug smile of satisfaction.
His eyes next travelled to a mound on the bed – dresses to wear – around which his pretty wife continued to hover, her eyebrows knit with worry.
Decision making was never the best point of wives, he mused, shaking his head.
It was always like this when there was a party to attend. Kusum would be fussing over what she needed to wear. Scattered all across the bed was a small hill of blouses which either did not fit her or a mountain of sarees that needed fall bidding or ironing.
He had always enjoyed the irony of being a husband who gets ready on time but is happily reminded more than a hundred times by the better half that he should be dressed up before it’s too late.
“Just to avoid last minute niggles, you know”, he repeated to himself imitating the sweet nagging lilt of his partner.
When God created the species called “Wife,” he was so bemused at the end of it that inadvertently he transferred a virus called “Salvador,” into her system. This virus is always on active mode – it has no pause button, no processing and no disable mode. And as soon as a man gets converted into a husband, he is left with no other choice but to put “Protección,” mode on, he thought shaking his head.
Widely known as RK Sir, and very popular among his colleagues and students at IIT-Bombay, Roop Kant was regarded as debonair. He was always impeccably dressed, exhibited charm, sophistication and class, and considered erudite.
The professor of computer science though was too sensible to allow his much acclaimed qualities and popularity to enter his head and interfere with his teaching. He would often go out of the way to help students clear academic doubts even outside the classroom. The result of this was that a few of them who were too busy with extra-curricular activities for most of the year, invited themselves to his home before the exams. As a kind soul RK Sir wouldn’t mind such welcome intrusion into his home, they had unilaterally decided.
The professor followed a strict routine in his daily life including regular yoga and meditation which helped him remain fitter than other colleagues half his age.
But Kusum, his wife, was just the opposite. She was a simpleton who didn’t care about her looks or believe in dressing up for occasions. When the boldly assertive, tough and straight forward lady, a PhD in botany, moved to Mumbai after marriage, RK tried to encourage and motivate her towards looking presentable, but then gave up on it thinking that his wife was an original diamond which didn’t require any polishing. Besides, personal choice had to be respected.
*****
The small party being thrown at an upscale club in Juhu – this since alcohol is officially not permitted on IIT precincts – was very special for the couple since this was being organised by Dr. Subodh Rao, former colleague of RK who had recently joined the institution as Dean. Being the youngest faculty to hold such a reputable post in a globally renowned technical institute, was truly a great achievement. RK’s mind strayed to evenings they had both spent talking about their future. Everybody in the campus was curious to know why a successful professional was a bachelor, but Dr.Rao would simply drive away such queries with a blanket of jest.
It was over a drinking session a few years ago that RK once asked him, “My enquiry might seem like a cliché but could you tell me your reason for not getting married? Are you heartbroken? Do you love someone?”
The seriousness with which the sensitive topic was raised – coupled with his surrender to the spirits – somehow opened up the floodgates.
“I am not sure what it is but whenever marriage proposals come up I hate to look at the photographs of the girls – they are all painted faces, coloured lips, neatly styled hair and impeccable looks. I hate these fake lasses. I am not a director searching for a heroine to make a movie. I am just a man looking to start a family. What’s wrong with the girls these days?” he asked clearly aggravated.
RK offered no answer but waited for his friend to open up. Which he soon did after putting down another peg of Glenfiddich.
By this time an alcoholic mist had settled over Subodh and he had become sentimental.
“Since childhood I have preserved with me a sandalwood soap which my grandmother gifted to me. I will give it to the first girl whom I really like. But I wonder if such a thing will really happen,” he said bursting into laughter.
“What a gift!” RK had bellowed after him into a night full of mirth which never seemed to end.
****
Finally Kusum had draped a silk saree, tied her hair into a bun, put a red round bindi on her forehead and was looking attractive. “Shall we leave, now?” RK had asked as he took a final look in the mirror and picked up the car keys. She had smiled and nodded adjusting the folds of her saree – in a manner suggesting “All this is only for you.”
RK seemed happy to be able to catch up with his friend at the club but the bumper to bumper traffic seemed to gnaw at his patience. Nothing can be more irritating than driving towards the western suburbs in the evening. He had never wanted to buy a row house in New Bombay but had agreed since Kusum had wanted to stay close to the college where she was a lecturer. Since they had no children she found solace in spending time with her students. The good man that he was everything that made her happy suited him.
RK looked fondly at his wife by the side and felt pleased at the thought of her having a good time out. Such occasions were rare and he did not want to allow his irritation over the traffic snarl and the delay in reaching the party to show.
By the time they reached the club – they had spent hours on a highway that should have been named Chaos – the party seemed almost over. A small get together the guests were already on their way out.
By the time the couple entered the venue of the party Subodh seemed stone drunk. “I am glad you both could make it,” the Dean said smiling. Then turning towards Kusum he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I have a special gift for you.”
He dug into his coat pocket and extended a small box towards her. “This is a special sandalwood soap made by my granny. She had wanted me to give it to the girl whom…”
The sentence remained incomplete as the lawn erupted into peals of laughter. Kusum had accepted the packet of soap with a coy giggle. “I have never ever received such a gift.”
Driving back, at the end of the brief party, Kusum seemed very happy. In a gesture unusual for her she had fondly planted a kiss on RK’s cheek, startling him.
RK didn’t have the heart to spoil his wife’s evening with a rendering of Subodh’s incomplete story. The good man was willing to swallow a small private embarrassment than block the heady waves of sandalwood fragrance which now engulfed their lives.
He turned on the car radio and let out a chuckle when it began playing, “Chandan sa badan…”
(Founder & CEO - The Impish Lass Publishing House)
MEENA MISHRA is an award winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in manyinternational journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 30 anthologies.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series by Visionary Studioz (Mumbai) and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 50 books in 2 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- Series .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has received Wordsmith Award 2019 for her short story , “Pindarunch,” from the Asian Literary Society.
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
As a book worm, Manoj never missed a chance to attend book fairs. These occasions gave him a chance to gape in awe at books of all kinds. He found most of books out of his reach as they cost a bomb. Manoj simply loved books, the sight, the smell and the feel to hold them in his hand, going through the short narrative on the jacket of the book satiated his hunger a little and he makes a mental note to buy them some day. It was on one such occasion that Manoj was in the Great Winter Book Fair that graced the city for a fortnight. The chilling December evening just suited the visitors as the footwork required to go around the exhibition ground would have been a real trouble in the harsh summer days. This book fair in its 20th year had become a major event in the city’s almanac and major publishers from every nook and corner of the country and few from abroad converged here to display their catalogue. Manoj went around from stall to stall eager to see, touch, smell and update his long list of wish list. The stalls were brightly lit with high power luminaries. The central part of the exhibition area had a food court where exotic Indian, Chinese and Mexican foods in addition to tea, coffee and local foods were offered. The aroma from the mouth watering offerings distracted visitors. The composition of visitors was a bewildering mix, from students who explored the exhibition for academic books to seasoned readers who were hunting for the book referred to them by a friend or recommended in a deliberation by an eminent speaker. From believers dreaming to find a book on Himalayan masters to home maker on the lookout for a book on Mexican cooking. From Hobbyist in search of a book on HAM Radio or amateur astronomy to an activist on latest human rights findings. The exhibition ground was full of people of all sizes, colors, looks and nationality.
While Manoj was in the middle of a long corridor with stalls lined up on either side, one stall caught Manoj’s attention. It was lit dimly and sported several tridents on top of it. It stood out from rest of the stalls by being almost dark and a pale yellow color interior. From the dim light, books lined up on shelves were visible. The signboard of the stall read “FRAUD PUBLISHERS - Cheating you since a decade”. Manoj could not believe his eyes, “Fraud Publishers?”. He checked again and spelt it mentally to be double sure what he had read earlier - “F”- “R”-“A”-”U”-“D” Publishers. Yes, there was no mistake that it was a real name. Curious, Manoj moved to the stall and soon found himself face to face with a bearded man wearing pale yellow robe just like saints. He had a dozen of rudrakhya malas of beads of different size around his neck, sported a liberal smear of bibhuti on his forehead. But his hair style was normal though. There was a small crowd in front of this stall.
‘Hi, are you the manager of this stall?’ Manoj asked the man in pale yellow robe.
‘Yes Sir, I am the owner of this stall.’ The man answered with a smiling face.
‘And the name is FRAUD PUBLISHERS?’ Manoj asked hoping that the man in pale yellow robe would be shocked and bolt out of stall to look up at the signboard he had put up and assess if he had been careless in checking any spelling error that has gone un-noticed.
‘Yes sir, that’s what our name is - FRAUD PUBLISHERS” This time the man in yellow robe smiled wider.
‘How come, such an unusual name!!! How can you call your entity FRAUD’ it was Manoj’s turn to be bewildered.
‘Yes sir, we are frauds only, I am the main fraudster and they are my assistants” He pointed at three or four sales assistants with similar get up as the manager, and were standing in a line behind the book display. They all folded their hands at Manoj and greeted with a Namaste.
‘And we are here to cheat the public including you; we have been doing so since last decade.’ Jagat Guru said with a friendly smile.
How incredulous!!! What’s this man up to? How can he call himself a fraud? Who is he? Questions were popping up in Manoj’s mind like red lights going off on cockpit panel of an aircraft about to make a crash land.
The man in pale yellow robe was watching Manoj and could judge the uneasiness on his face. He must be used to such reactions from his customers and to help extricate Manoj out of the predicament he volunteered little more information;
‘I am Jagat Guru Sri Sri Banka Bihari Swami Sarbananda Maharaj, but you may refer to me as Jagat Guru” Man in pale yellow calling himself JAGAT GURU declared, leaving Manoj flabbergasted.
Few onlookers who were casually flipping through books over-heard the discussion between Manoj and the manager, Jagat Guru. Out of curiosity they remained standing to hear rest of the discussion.
Manoj was trying to make some sense out of this very unusual encounter with a strange man in middle of a book fair. He thought to himself, there surely was something this man was trying to convey. Manoj decided to get to the bottom of it. He noticed that the crowd of listeners was growing in numbers and around his left, right and back, some of them even pushing at each other, may be trying to come to front of the line. May be they also wished to know it all. Manoj felt encouraged to carry on the probing questions partly for himself and partly for the crowd around him. From the corner of his eye he could see the titles of books being flipped by prospective buyers and the books invariably bore the name of the writer “JAGAT GURU…..”.
‘How come you call yourself Jagat Guru? Who gave you that title?’ Manoj sarcastically commented. Manoj was always wary of such sadhus parading fancy names. He was sure this man was an imposter and was projecting himself as Jagat Guru, one who is master of the universe.
There was a burst of laughter from people crowding behind him.
‘I have written and published this book. Why should I ask anyone's permission for a suitable prefix to my name? Am I not at liberty to use any name I wish?’ was the non-challant counter question of Jagat Guru.
‘Right, Right!!!’ Some one from the swelled crowd behind Manoj loudly approved Jagat Guru’s statement and jostled to come to front to get a better view of the ongoing discussion.
Manoj was floored by this answer and could find little ground to protest this claim to the title of “Jagat Guru”.
‘You are at liberty to reject my claims of being Jagat Guru’ Jagat Guru added .
There was again a round of laughter from crowd.
‘Never mind, if it suits you, go ahead’ Manoj mumbled.
‘Sir, do you not think that all the Sadhus who appear on TV day in and day out are frauds? Do we need so many Sadhus to constantly remind us to be good men? Men, by nature are good and it is no one’s business to tell them to be good. It is my mission to tell the world the truth behind such fake sadhus and saints’ Jagat Guru kept smiling disarmingly while saying this.
Jagat Guru went on ‘This publishing house of mine is named “Fraud Publication” to garner attention. Tell me sir, would you have come to this stall if it were named anything other than FRAUD PUBLISHERS ?' Jagat Guru asked Manoj.
‘Probably no’ there are a thousand stalls this year and who will go to a stall displaying religious books.’ Manoj confessed.
‘Exactly, that’s why we have named our publishing unit as FRAUD PUBLISHERS and did you read our signature slogan? He Baba Slick Jack !!!', Jagat Guru called loudly at one of his assistants asking to hand him a catalogue of books.
‘Here sir, look at our signature slogan - CHEATING THE PUBLIC SINCE A DECADE’ Jagat Guru held a catalogue pointing to the writing.
‘This is a list of books published by us, the proceeds from the sales go to sustain these volunteers who I introduced as my accomplices in cheating public’ Jagat Guru barely could conceal his laughter while looking at his assistants.
“Sir, choose a book and buy it, you will definitely come back for more with your friends”,
Jagat Guru looked expectantly at Manoj holding out the catalogue.
‘But Jagat Guru , I do not buy religious books, we already have a good collection of Ramayan, Mahabharat, Upanishads et all’ Manoj Protested trying to avoid spending money on a book written by this conceited baba calling himself Jagat Guru.
‘Who said these are religious books? Did I? No brother, they are merely titled deceptively. These books tell the reader how foolish it is to seek god through the teachings of the fake spiritual leaders. They tell readers, how easy it is to be a good man. We all have already enough knowledge about ways and means of being a model human being, we need to do nothing else and only follow sound advice we received when we went to primary school.’ Jagat Guru said.
'These unemployed youths are beneficiaries of the proceeds from the sales’. He continued.
‘And who exactly are you? er er Jagat Guru’ Manoj found no other way to address this conceited taciturn, self styled Jagat Guru.
Jagat Guru narrated his own story as a man employed with HNGC, a central PSU and how he was getting a handsome salary. He always felt that spiritual pursuit as promoted by fake gurus and rituals was a social evil and must be eradicated. He had made it his life’s mission to expose the fallacies behind such things and hence adopted these methods of creating awareness through books and willfully named it as “FRAUD PUBLISHING HOUSE”. Manoj felt tempted to ask few more probing questions as he was not very much convinced about the story narrated by Jagat Guru. But the constant push from a big crowd now gathered behind him made him change his mind. He decided to come some other time just to get some more insight about Jagat Guru, who seemed nothing more than a glib liar at the moment. However he decided to buy a book.
He was browsing through pages of few books those had intriguing titles like “You need No Sadhu to be a Sadhu”, “forty six hand god on top of twenty two steps”. He could see that the Jagat Guru and his assistants watching him expectantly.
Manoj had to pay hundred rupees for a book and offered a 500 rupee currency note. He kept the balance four hundred hurriedly in his back pocket and told Jagat Guru that he will come the next day to know more about Jagat Guru’s vision. Manoj left the stall hurriedly and headed to the parking lot for his car as he had to reach home early.
Next morning, Manoj woke up early for his morning jogging. He usually brought a packet of milk while returning from his morning exercise. He asked his wife Revati to fetch money from the back of his pocket.
“There’s no money in your pocket” called out Revati.
“How can it be???" Manoj looked suspiciously at Revati.
He checked his pocket for the loose currency he had kept the previous night and found that there were none!!! He checked again, checked other pockets and his wallet. But the four hundred rupees he kept in the back pocket was not there. It dawned suddenly on him that his pocket was picked the previous evening and the crowd that had gathered behind him was not usual visitors to the book fair, but an organized gang of pick pockets!!! Oh, how foolish of me!!! How could I get carried away by the discussions with that inveterate liar?Manoj cursed himself again and again.
On an earlier occasion in the railway station while Manoj was in a hurry to get a ticket from the counter and run to catch the train, he found the counter already crowded with two or three persons trying to push their hand through narrow window of the counter. Manoj had no option but to push through the crowd and somehow manage to get a ticket. After getting the ticket and boarding the train, he found his wallet gone. In a flash he remembered it must have been at the ticket counter. The push and cries of the small crowd was not warranted but now in hind sight he could understand that it was only meant to distract him and in the thick of it, pick his pocket. Manoj had vowed to be more circumspect when approaching such crowded places. Despite that, Manoj had to bear the bitter experience on two more occasions, one of them being in a crowded bus.
Manoj was filled with anger, angry at himself for not being circumspect, angry at the fake Jagat Guru. That Idiot Jagat Guru must be taught a lesson. How could he dupe people this way? How dare he? Manoj gave up his morning jogging and spent the next hours getting ready and thinking up accosting the Jagat Guru.
Manoj reached the exhibition ground at sharp 10.30AM though it opened for the public only in the afternoons. He dashed to the stall of FRAUD PUBLISHERS seething with anger. He found the Jagat Guru bent over a sheet of paper probably tallying up sales figure of the previous evening.
“Hi Fraud Master!!!’ Manoj called out to him trying to startle him.
‘Hi, good morning!!! So early???” replied Jagat Guru. His face lit up at seeing Manoj.
‘Of course I had to come, how couldn’t I?’ Manoj said trying to conceal his anger with as much civility he could.
‘Why? What has happened’ Jagat Guru was friendly and looked concerned, his face still smiling.
‘My pocket was picked while I was discussing gyan with you’ Manoj could barely conceal his anger now.
‘Oh!!! Is it, they must be my people only, they are everywhere in the exhibition ground’ Jagat Guru said still smiling, still composed.
Manoj was flummoxed to see his reaction. If he wished to see any tale tell sign on Jagat Guru’s face, there was none.
‘I am really sorry that this has happened to you, more because it has happened here at my stall’ Jagat Guru Said.
Before Manoj could react, Jagat guru beckoned one of his assistants and asked him ‘did you lodge a complaint with organizers?’
To Manoj he said ’Sir, this place has become very unsafe, his (pointing at his assistant) pocket was also picked yesterday. I asked him to go to the organizers' office and lodge a complaint. I also requested them to announce about presence of pick pockets over the public address system.’
Jagat Guru asked his assistant “what did the organizers say?"
‘They asked me to be more vigilant and more alert. And they refused to make any sort of announcement over PA system as it would frighten visitors as if the exhibition ground has been taken over by a gang of pick pockets’, answered his assistant.
‘See sir, I am really sorry to see you suffer a loss. At least I will hence forth tell all who visit my stall that I am not the only one here to cheat you. There are some undeclared experts of a different kind, so be vigilant about them’- Jagat Guru told Manoj.
Crest fallen at the loss, not in terms of money, but in terms of few more books which could have been purchased, Manoj went back home. He found his mother pouring over the book. When she saw him she called out, Son, what a nice book you have brought for me! I love the book. Revati was telling that you know this great Jagat Guru. Take me to him some day.
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com
Teacher
the gentle wind
blowing through
the green red garden
where nascent buds
swing and prod each other
pricking your mid noon monotone..
they appear distracted
but love you and listen
on waves of abandon
so free...
Hah! Look deep
Into those eyes
each a world by itself,
you can hear how
waves lash over
those shores that beckon...
patience, only patience
matters
tinged with love...
they gather around you
the meek, innocent
lamb after the sheperd...
Show them pastures new to roam
dreams fresh to weave,
undaunted, let them proceed
believing in themselves and the world....
to fly free over
man made walls and barriers
Like the benevolent
cloud that floats all over,
the pebbles that gather endless from the sea that spreads ........
how fulfilling....
a corner
you have
stolen
in those hearts
whom you
touched...
those timid looking
eyes
who gathered
confidence
to look at life
fair and square..
over the years..
generations !
hah !
generations
you have
touched...
seen them
grow...
Seeds
scattered
sprouting...
time
knocks..
a visitor
frequenting
after
a long break...
a voice
pipes up
on Teacher's Day...!
a wish
a query..
reminding
how interred
sparks
still glow
among ashen
embers...
thank u dears..
you complete
me,
the teacher
in me...
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
MY STUDENT, GANAPATHI’S ONLINE CLASS
Ganapathi, No, I do NOT want you
To type out the answer
With your trunk; you have to use
Your hands, like everyone else—
Whichever of your four hands that suits you,
When one pair is tired, use the other pair,
But, hands only, got it?
And put that broken tusk away,
I don’t want you tapping the keyboard
With that tusk. Your tusk is your writing instrument.
Look at the others—
Are they tapping the computer keys with their pens?
You will use your fingers to type,
Like everyone else in the class.
GanapaTHI, just because I said
You have to use your hands, not your trunk
To type, it doesn’t mean you can let
Your extended nose hover over that plate
Of kozhukattais, stealthily pick one up
And pop it into your mouth!
But… why have you got those kozhukattais
With you when class is going on?
No eating during class hours!
GanapaTHIIII… I know you heard me,
What with your ears so wide…
Now, no more kozhukattais till end of class,
Or, I’ll have to speak to your parents!
But please tell your mother not to come
To the meeting astride her tiger,
And your father must leave that slithering snake
Usually wound around his neck somewhere else.
This isn’t National Geographic!
(And, it freaks us out too!)
GANApathi, aren’t you being incorrigible
By not sitting properly in your chair
And not facing the screen?
What? You are unable to sit straight?
And why is that, may I ask you?
Ohh…k, so the table hits against your belly?
And tell me, why do you think that happens?
Oh, you don’t know? Well, let me tell you…
That’s because you keep swallowing
Those kozhukattais even in between meals,
That’s why.
See, who is having difficulty now?
GANAPATHI! Take your hands off the mouse,
And leave that mouse alone now…
Yes, I can see that your hands are typing
Out the notes I am dictating,
But that’s only two of your hands.
I mean the other two; you’ve got four of them,
Haven’t you?
There’s one hand playing a cat and mouse game
With your pet, and there’s the other
Fiddling with the computer mouse…
Your cursor’s running all over the screen…
What did it click on now? Your microphone!
Stop that racket now! Your mouse is squeaking
In frolic and the class has been disturbed
By the sound!
Turn off your microphone, remove the mouse
From your table… NO, I mean, your pet!
Let it go, please, pay attention in class now…
You can play later.
Vidya Shankar is a widely published Indian poet, writer, editor, yoga practitioner, mindful mandala artist, a “book” with the Human Library, and English teacher. She is the author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam, in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan, and The Rise of Yogamaya. A recipient of literary awards and recognitions, Vidya is the chief admin of the Facebook group Kavya-Adisakrit and one of the editors of Kavya-Adisakrit, an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House. She is also a member of the poetry group India Poetry Circle, or IPC.
They say if you're steady
And good,
You'll win
But here on earth
The wages of sin
Are power.
The quicker you are
To adjust to corruption
The faster you rise
In the ranks.
Nobody praises or thanks
The reliable steady
Slow thinker.
It takes time and patience
For technological advance
But the world's romance
Is only with finance
And ruthlessness.
In the modern world
The winner is the hare
Otherwise would there
Be so many murderers
Rapists and fleecers of men
Who were absent when
The world was an innocent place?
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
Crab feet wet with the tears of ages
emerge from water to rest on the shore
below the eyelids in unguarded hour.
A lonely road like a drop of tear lolls.
Steps go backwards into the recesses
of heart guided by bright moonlight.
The white scarf of moonlight caresses
in the secluded hours lovingly, even today.
Wind that shook the paper boat reaches
to wipe the dust off the spectacles .
A ghost has come to town now
with forked tongue that licks
daylight out of old portraits,
snuffs out the candle on
the study table of studious kids.
Doors after doors are shut .
Each morning awaits the arrival
of a train laden with corpses.
Doves from the old familiar sky
that alighted on our palms
will not wing their ways.
Their world is now
a foreign land .
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.
The rain drops batter down on me,
Batter my body, batter my soul!
Water runs down in rivulet,
Drenching me to the core!
I feel my tension easing out,
Feel the sorrows flowing out!
Let the self be one with flow,
Cruise along the uncharted, I go!
I try to accept life as it comes,
Let go of my sins and repentance!
The water washes the whole earth,
Cleanses a whole gamut of stuff!
But doesn't it just pave the way?
For the new world and day?
It cools the pyre, cleans the ashes,
Makes way for new grasses!
Droplets that fall from the leaves,
Help give birth to new seeds!
I let the rain batter my being,
Let my spirit be cleaned!
Get ready to taste new things,
Surviving, existing, living!
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
It's been a while almost five months that we all are experiencing lockdown and it has turned our lives upside down. Hence our helpers, drivers unable to join duty.
This morning after a long gap our driver showed up. He extremely happy to see us and vice versa. I was only a little apprehensive on Rahul's reaction since we have altered his routine drastically and he has fitted well into it. He can now go for his drives within the colony only once in the evening.
Suddenly over the breakfast table i could see Rahul continuously looking at something .Yes!! it was the driver who was looking a little lost as it was his first day of duty after a long gap. He was preparing himself to get the car cleaned. Rahul couldn't take his eyes off him in disbelief and carried an infectious smile.
Me meanwhile eager to know if he had understood what was happening around him. I immediately asked my son.... "what do you want "?He looked at me with his eyes gleaming with joy. I repeated my question again. He thought a little, hunting for words and replied mischievously... "Chappals",much to my contentment. He couldn't express further. But as his mom I understood, he wanted to wear his shoes and go for a long long drive which has been snatched away from him for so long.
Hushkoo too(our pet) recognized him and barked continuously wagging his tail to get into the car.
Two non verbals, yet so much of patience and understanding, which we take for granted.
Always appreciate what they can do rather than focussing too much on what they can't do.
Welcome August!!
#ForAutismAwareness
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)
MOOD ELEVATORS OR DEPRESSANTS?
N Meera Raghavendra Rao
Are you one of those who takes the advice of doctors to recommend mood elevators or stress busters? For all I know, the doctor will first ask the
reason for your stress and most often your work and your boss become the scapegoats!
You might end up swallowing all those placebos recommended by your doctor and whether they provide any relief or not, they surely will relieve you of your life's savings.
You might think a home maker who also happens to be a person working from home like me is someone to be envied at as she doesn't have to contend with a cantankerous boss or keep odd hours of work. Let me tell you that you can't be more wrong!
To begin with we run the home and also value our "free time" because we have our commitments and deadlines to keep. In the midst of all these we may not have to answer our boss but have to answer numerous calls (sometimes unwanted ones) emanating from the phone ring and the ring of the call bell which sometimes appear to compete with each other.
If your callers happen to fall in the category of hypochondriacs or geriatric well-wishers of yours, you are obliged to be polite and not forced to disengage the conversation abruptly especially when they are in the midst of reeling out their ailments (genuine or imaginary) expecting you to lend a sympathetic ear. Unfortunately they expect that you also share some of the ailments and are happy when you say they are not alone.
Now, are you convinced that stress need not be caused by work or the boss alone but by mood depressants around you?
It is said that "A lie oft repeated becomes the truth" and in the process of sympathising/empathising with these mood depressants I am beginning to feel a hypochondriac myself! What a heavy price to pay for being polite? I only wish the world consists of more mood elevators than the other kind.
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.
There was a couple sitting in the cafe when I walked in. I am normally not curious about other people's affairs but that does not also mean that I am self-centred. I walked a few steps to one corner of the cafe and sat at a table. As the light was low, I didn’t know who they were until the woman whose back was towards me turned around, and I saw it was Aditi, my wife.
How could she be here ? Who was the gentleman?
This cafe was in the vicinity of my office and occasionally I dropped in to have a sip of coffee on my way back home. It was around 7 PM but the cafe was strangely almost empty. The table I was sitting at, in the corner, was about five tables away from where she was sitting. It was not possible for her to see me. I was not sure about myself as to why I wanted to stay far and study her instead of going to her. Might be I was in a daze to find her there in the cafe with this stranger. Why, all on a sudden, it occurred to me that a sense of despair was gradually crippling me?
Aditi has been a loving wife, a caring homemaker, married to me for the last ten years and we make a happy couple with a seven-year-old son. It was not that I had not wanted a second child, preferably a daughter, thereafter; but it was Aditi who always insisted that we would go for it when the time comes. And all these years, we have opened ourselves fully to each other, sharing our past in a 'bare-it-all' mode. It has become a beautiful caring-sharing relationship of complete partnership and fidelity.
But she has not spoken about any such person who she could sit with in a cafe all by herself. Is it that Aditi had intentionally kept this relationship hidden from me?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I could not see that the boy was waiting for my order; so mechanically I asked for a toast and coffee.
The man was not sitting across Aditi; he had occupied the chair to the right of her, in a typical four-seater coffee table. His face was a dark shade due to the dim light. I tried to figure out his countenance; trying to ideate about his age. Whether he was of my age or Aditi’s? Or was he much older or much younger? Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was bothering myself with the age of this stranger and not the stranger per se. Was it that the acceptability of this unknown relationship depended on the age factor? The man was wearing specs and his physique was lean enough to fit into anybody aged from twenty to sixty.
I didn’t know how long they were there but then they got up to leave. I immediately thought of getting up too to meet them and then, in a reflex, I didn’t have the urge to do so. I saw them leaving the cafe as the swing door closed.
The boy had arrived with the toast and coffee. As I nibbled the toast and sipped coffee, they tasted stale and seepish. I knew at that moment that the reason of such bad taste was within me. I could not control the wild thoughts that came gushing, about the man who was a stranger and about Aditi who had just turned to be a mystery for me.
Who was this stranger? What was the relationship he carried with Aditi? Was it their first meet or were they meeting stealthily all these years? Was Aditi cheating on me all these years? Then I started cursing myself for not getting up to confront them as they left. I started to decipher the relationship and as to why Aditi had not spoken about him. The more I thought, the more I could feel a lump at my throat. It didn’t occur to me that an hour had passed and I got up to leave. The beautiful strings with which I had woven the nest to make Aditi happy suddenly started to feel like stifling threads of a cobweb. The cafe, all on a sudden, looked like a huge cobweb too as I rushed out of it.
As I reached home, I saw Aditi had finished her cooking as usual and was engaged in a talk with Aditya, a happy mother-son tete-a-tete. Aditya obviously had finished his evening studies and they were waiting for me for the usual family all-together dinner. Aditi has this wonderful habit of engaging our son in a talk instead of watching sops in TV. All these years, she has been an adorable wife to me and a loving and caring mother to Aditya. But my experience at the cafe in the evening was haunting me. I hope to have succeeded in concealing my agitated mind as Aditi did not notice anything unusual about me. I didn’t tell Aditi about what I had seen in the cafe. I could have but I don’t know why I didn’t. May be I thought Aditi would tell me everything on her own.
Then, once we were in bed, my mind once again getting back to my unpleasant evening, Aditi snuggled upto me and spoke. She asked me why I was looking so upset; whether everything was alright in office. I wondered how could she read me. And then she spoke about Ashok, the stranger. He was her school teacher’s adopted son. He had lost his mother in his childhood and she knew how painstakingly her teacher had brought him up. Aditi knew him as a boy and cared for him as her brother. Ashok has just come to the city on his first job and while Aditi was on way to my office in the evening to give me a surprise, she chanced to meet Ashok. In fact, it was Ashok who recognized her although they had not met for more than a decade. Since a cafe was nearby, they walked into it to update on life. Ashok was away for studies when Aditi got married and to make good for the missed occasion and to facilitate Ashok's acquaintance with her family she had invited him to lunch on the Sunday next.
With Aditi resting on my shoulders, held in a loving cuddle, my mind drifted on to many things and ultimately to my self-deprecation and resultant remorse on the fragility of my own understanding of her fidelity; and came back fast enough to realise what an adorable wife I had, both passionate about her family and compassionate about the world at large ! And how truly and accurately she could fathom the depth of my agitated mind ! I was wondering about the uncanny faculties God has blessed the womenfolk with, to read into the churn and turbulence beneath men's quietude and placid surface !
And then it suddenly dawned on me that Aditi had spoken about something of giving me a surprise ! As I looked at her in askance, again with her inexplicable way of having read my mind, she smiled in Vidya Balan style and whispered that I was going to be a father again ! She had been to the family doctor that afternoon and all these in-between developments held close to her heart only to spring a surprise on me !
What a life update I said to myself, as I cuddled and softly kissed her.
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.
1. FLIGHT
When I flapped my wings
my mind flew so high
that the birds watched in great awe
all over the sky.
2. EARLY BIRD
Early morning
saw a pair of birds
exchanging sweet words
‘before others do
Let’s play our cards’,,,
3. SURRENDER
Flowers in full bloom
await blossoming of Sun
for tame submission…
4. OBEISANCE
When sunlight
blessed them with a divine touch
flowers paid obeisance
in the only way they knew.
They bloomed…
5. REALITY
Never blame life
for being unkind
leave, leave everything behind
for you cannot even carry dust
when you are laid to rest…
6. PURGE
Tears cannot dissolve
without being wept
like warp
cannot merge without a weft…
7. MEET
Our eyes
they had only to meet
to find resonance
our hearts
they had only to greet
to gain renascence…
8. FRUIT
Water me
said the young, wayside tree
I watered…
Daughter me
said the orphaned girl child
I ‘daughtered’…
Both yielded fruits
from the roots…
9. FUSION
Rain drops on her face
orchestral symphonies turned
nature in fusion …
10. MY PROFILE
I always
maintain my smile
as a buffer
against vile and guile…
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.
"Come September."
The Monsoon has started retreating, leaving behind tales of flood and drought to remember.
A long drive over the brimming river bridge alongside washed avenue trees to go on and on forever.
The earth will take a brownish golden hue as a woman in her ripe youth,
A tree laden with ripe fruits matured yet disarmingly beautiful.
Oh! September, I look forward to meeting you for a better reason,
You are my birth month, and every happening on my special day is etched in my memory.
Receiving a pouch of chocolates from The Mother at Pondy,
Oh! How I showed it off in front of my buddy.
Papa's bold underlining of this month and my birthday in the Panjika.
Mother's morning blessings with a thali full of sweetmeats.
Oh! September, your arrival is awaited each year.
You bring respite, colour, and gaiety in our lives, my dear.
Priyadarshana Bharati has a passion for writing articles, short stories and translation work but reading is her first love. Two of her translated books which have received wide acclaim are “Rail Romance, A Journey By Coromandel Express and Other Stories” and “Shades Of Love”. Next in line are “Kunti’s Will” and “ A Handful Of Dreams “. She works as a Consultant in the areas of Content Development, CSR Activities and Training & Development. She had a long career in the corporate sector and as a teacher. As a translator, she is known to retain the indigenous flavor of the original writing. She regularly publishes articles in her website - www.priyabharati.in - For any queries my contact: priya.bharati65@gmail.com Facebook - @authorpriyabharati.in
Love is
where earth
touches heavens,
where the heart pines,
where life breathes
in men, animals and plants.
Love
creeps in
the fragrance of dreams,
fleeting dances of time,
serenity of sky
and charm of the beloved.
Love is
the essence of bond
between Radha and Krishna,
Adam and Eve,
mother and child,
man and beast.
Love
bridges
earth with stars,
man with soul
and beyond.
God
floated in
heavens wild
love brought him
to our homes and tamed.
He
whistles here
and dances,
an unending dance.
Love is
so
the world is.
Simple philosophy
Pradeep Rath
Always difficult to face the truth.
Like in the perpetual
conflict between good
and evil,
evil is often victorious and rules the realm,
like sorrow and happiness always clash,
clamour for adequate
space in life,
sorrow often wins and lengthens it's scope,
and as you deceive the
world,
try to camouflage
your faults manifest and everyone perceives them,
like we are always tried
and found wanting,
like you fumble a lot
when you meet a doctor
after an ailment
and can't properly explain your illness,
like you suddenly find yourself
utterly lonely
in your voyage
with no companion or succour
and your friends have left you years ago,
like you have sinned a lot beyond redemption
like Dr. Faustus
and can't muster courage to ask for forgiveness
at this juncture,
and what you collect
in your entire life
are a small sack of sands and no water
which you can't carry
with you to the other world.
The sky is still blue with flecks of grey clouds and white,
march on when there is still some light and never shudder in fright.
Beauty glows
in beatific smiles
of a babe,
touches with tenderness
the angelic face
of a lass,
engulfs the serene brightness of moon,
the twinkling stars,
the radiant sun, the rains, lightnings, rainbows
and cool breeze.
It radiates the majestic buildings and
glorious sculptures,
glimmers in
parks and play fields, verdant soil, creepers and trees,
village ponds and vast oceans,
snow clad mountains, lakes meadows and waterfalls.
It creeps into the tiny mole at the face of the beloved,
blooms in the dreamy eyes of a village lass, in her luminous cheeks and glowing skin
and lends them an ethereal splendour.
It radiates within
and lies uncorroded
through the passage of time,
smolders in love,
and propels man to undetake perilous ventures,
all the confines
shattered and shines
in an uncanny effulgence
in the brows of Draupadi and Urvashi,
Helen and Cleopatra and
stretches its branches all over the skies.
Beauty glares in bears
and tigers, cows, dogs and insects,
in all the creatures that God designed,
in all the crevices of his dreams.
It glimmers in lover's longings,
in might of youth, in eternal affection of a sister,
in passionate longings
of a lover
and in the boundless care of the mother.
Beauty and love,
a rare combination
are the blessings of God to preserve mankind.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor was born on 20th March 1957 and educated at S. K. C. G. College, Paralakhemundi and Khallikote College, Berhampur, Ganjam, Odisha. Author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry, two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His compendium of critical essays on trends of modernism and post modernism on modern Odia literature and Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim.He divides his time in reading, writing and travels..
Bhalua was not only my childhood pet, but also my friend, philosopher and guide. He was not born in our village. I did not know - when, where and how he was born. He was an outsider. No one knew his father, mother and pedigree. He was very popular in our village. He had a hairy tail and a streamlined body with sharp teeth and eyes.
As far as I recollect, one evening he came to our home when I was eating 'pakhala', the fermented wet rice. He gazed at my mouth. I gave the Pakhala to him. He was very hungry and finished all of it within a couple of minutes and licked my face, as if he knew me since long.
I looked at my mother sitting beside me. She said - 'He is your friend in this life and was also your brother in previous life perhaps. He has eaten your rice. He will give you back a thousand times. A dog never ever remains indebted to anyone'.
My sister said - 'I was returning from the mela in the afternoon. He was looking hungry and roaming here and there in search of food. He was wayward and away from his parents or master. Seeing 'bada' in my hand, he came to me and barked at me. I gave him 'bada', he ate, waved his tail and came with me. He was also thirsty and drank water in our river.'
By that time I was not going to school. My age was 3 years perhaps. My parents said that Bhalua was around 2 years. He was very cute and naughty. Trust was his identity, life and blood. He was very cunning and wise also. None could study his mind.
Both me and Bhalua were illiterate. Playing, eating, drinking and sleeping together were our daily routine. One morning at 10 AM, my sister took me to my village school. Bhalua went with me. But my teacher didn't allow him to the classroom. He slept outside. We came for lunch at 1.30 PM and returned to school at 2 PM. He waited outside till my learning finished at 4 PM and we came back home.
After school, we were free to play near the temple. I was winning all the games every day, since he would disturb my playmates deliberately. If they were annoyed, he would bark at them loudly. In fear they would accept their defeat.
One Summer, while he was teaching me swimming, he saved a girl drowning in the river. He was a master of everything except school education. He was liked by all, since he would help everyone without doing any harm. Other dogs were afraid of him. Foxes did not dare to enter our village in fear of Bhalua. Of course, he killed one fox in ten minutes flat.
For his strength, vigour, ferocious body, look and appearance, other animals including cow, ox, bull won't dare to annoy him. Once, a hyena came to our village at night. The goats, sheeps screamed. He fought with the hyena for one hour and killed it. After that people called him Tiger of the village.
I was in Class -V and he was sitting outside. Our Head Master beat me and my friends with a cane, because we had not done our homework. At 4 PM after leaving me at home, Bhalua ran away without eating anything. But where he went - I couldn't know.
In the evening one of my friends whispered in my ears- 'Head Sir is missing'.
Another friend said - 'He is hiding on top of a mango tree on the bank of the river.'
The 3rd friend came laughing and narrated the story - 'It is a lesson to the head master who beat us with a cane in the classroom in presence of Bhalua. Sir was going to the river. Bhalua was watching him in anger. When he started barking loudly, he ran and went up the mango tree. Bhalua is under the tree but the teacher is on the tree.
Our village folks saw the plight of the teacher. They took me, my uncle and my friends to Bhalua. Seeing us the teacher was happy. But Bhalua did not budge an inch and was staring at the teacher in anger. Sir told me to convince Bhalua. But he was unmoved.
My uncle told - 'Sir, please give words not to beat the boys with cane. The angry dog may consider your unhappiness. I know, Bhalua understands our language and your sorrow'.
Accordingly our Head Sir promised not to beat us and Bhalua went home. Sir came down and went happily to his residence near the school. From the next day we got no punishment from the teachers. The school turned to a no punishment zone. Bhalua became popular.
The size and behavior of Bhalua changed to a great extent, when I was in Class - VII. He became an adult, though I was still a child. Virtually he became my teaching guardian, though he himself was illiterate. He even didn't play with me in the afternoon. He forced me to read 16 hours a day, failing which he would violently bark at me. I got a scholarship and stood first in our district due to him. Happily he put me on his back and went round my village and let others know my result of flying colors.
One Winter during my high school career, when all slept, stones were coming from the bamboo grove of our village. People thought - a ghost was throwing stones. None could know about it. All were afraid of the ghost. Bhalua could guess and smell something. One midnight midnight when the stones were thrown, we heard Bhalua barking in the bamboo grove. We went there.
My friend shouted - 'Enjoy the fighting between Bhalua and wild bhaloo ( bear). Let's see who is winning'.
I told him - 'Do you wish Bhalua to be defeated'.
My uncle and others cheered - 'Hip hip hooray ! Bhalua won the battle.and the bhaloo ( bear ) is in his clutch'.
My other friend laughed saying - 'No Uncle ! Bhalua has caught the ghost. Actually no ghost is there. Madhia, the wicked boy has become the ghost by covering his body under the black blanket in the dark night and he was throwing stones'.
Madhia wept, touched the feet of all and requested - 'Please forgive me. I was the ghost doing the mischief at night.'
People beat the wicked boy and finished his ghost game. Credit went to Bhalua.
It was a Summer midnight after my HSC Examination. My parents had gone to my maternal grandfather's home. No electricity was there in our village. To escape from the heat, I was sleeping on a mat outside our home with Bhalua as my bodyguard. I woke up from my deep slumber hearing Bhalua barking at the top of his voice. The sound was so horrible that people of my village came together to save us.
We focused our torch lights. Bhalua was fighting with a cobra of around 8 feet long. Both were attacking each other with all their strength. The snake's hood (head) was in the mouth of Bhalua and it's rear portion including the tail was around the chest of Bhalua. Fighting went on for one hour. None dared to help him in fear of the poisonous cobra. Snake's hood came out of Bhalua's mouth and it was looking dead. He cut the dangerous snake to pieces and finished its life. The snake died. But Bhaula lost his consciousness after repeated sorrowful screams. Saliva was coming out of his mouth. Bhalua's dying condition devastated me and I collapsed on the ground, unconscious.
People took Bhalua to the veterinary hospital and me to the hospital for treatment. After treatment, I recovered. But the veterinary doctor reported - 'The dog died of snake bite and poison'.
My parents got back their son by the sacrifice of Bhalua, the epitome of trust. But the unknown parents of Bhalua lost their son without knowing about it. I could not get back my only. I live to remember Bhalua's love, sacrifice and trust.
Bhalua died. I will die one day. But the trust between a man and his pet never dies.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
THE RUFFLED THOUGHT
Mihir Kumar Mishra
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.
PIKLU
Sashikanta Das
Translated by Priya Bharati
I met him the day I took charge as District Magistrate. Had it not been for his name, I would not have recognized him. A doubt cropped up in my mind on hearing his name. His name was uncommon. As far as I could remember, such a name could belong to only one person. The surname also matched. To ascertain his identity, I, maintaining self-restraint and official decorum, gathered information from him.
His name was Suparimal Mohapatra. His father’s name was Subrat Mohapatra. His father had worked as a senior officer in a large bank. They belonged to Balasore district.
I remembered his nickname immediately. Piklu. His friends and neighbours had known him by this name.
The ecstasy of joining as District Magistrate was soon overshadowed by a sense of sorrow for I was reminded of a tragic incident.
Piklu was a Grade One assistant in my office. His emaciated looks, dull clothes, pale and withered face stood in contrast to my radiant disposition which made me feel a bit self-conscious. That terrible day of the past came back in a flash and established itself so powerfully that the present became insignificant. I could not help but remember that afternoon seventeen years ago and I felt agitated.
Piklu, I and the other school friends of our age were playing football in a field in front of his father’s quarters. The game took an interesting turn. There was a deal that whichever team lost would give cold drinks to the winning team members. Piklu and I were on opposite teams. I scored the first goal. After a while, Piklu’s team scored a goal and our scores were level. At this crucial moment, Piklu’s servant came running and said, “Piklu Babu, Piklu Babu, come quickly, your mother is calling you.”
Piklu went home reluctantly telling us to stop the game for a while. We saw a jeep standing in front of his house and a policeman near it. Curiosity got the better of us and we all ran into his house. Piklu, his brother, sister, and his mother boarded the jeep. I could guess from their grave faces that all was not well. Piklu said, “We are going to the hospital. My father has met with an accident.”
The jeep left. Our game came to a stop. We all ran to the hospital which was about a mile from there.
The moment we reached the hospital, we received the shocking news that his father was no more. Many people had gathered there. It was a heart-rending scene. The whole family was crying piteously. I burst into tears too.
So many years had passed but I felt the tears welling up in my eyes and a choking sensation within, on being reminded of that tragic incident.
Piklu’s father was allotted a large house with a beautiful garden with lovely flowers. He had a car. The vision of a magnificently carved door, an expensive sofa set, and beautiful curtains flashed through my mind. For Piklu’s friends, he was an important officer, an affluent person. He had come to our city on transfer. Piklu took admission in class seven. Since we were in the same section, we became friends.
I hailed from a poor family. My father was a teacher in a primary school. I remember the day Piklu called me to his residence for the first time. I was afraid to even enter the gates of his house. A huge sense of an inferiority complex had held me back. Piklu had almost dragged me inside his house. His parents were sitting in the drawing-room. Piklu introduced me to them, “My friend, Prabhat Chandra Nayak. He secures the first position in our class.”
“Come, Come Prabhat, have a seat,” his father addressed me. I felt diffident to sit near him on the sofa. My clothes were dirty. Piklu goaded me to sit. I felt a strange mixture of shame, fear, and inhibition. After a while, I was offered a sumptuous meal at their place. His mother fed me with the same affection as she would feed her child.
Piklu’s father was a simple and amiable person. He was slim and tall. Nobody could guess from his friendly demeanor that he was such a high-ranking officer. I did not ever feel a sense of fear near him. He was generous and cordial, not just to me but to all those who visited his house. He used to call each one of us by name. His mother would serve us delicacies and snacks like cake, eggs, bread, biscuits, samosas, rasagullas and fruit. Those of us who went to his house was always given something to eat. I had had food at his place on several occasions. All of us were invited to the birthday celebrations of Piklu, and Piklu’s brother and sister.
I was Piklu’s most intimate friend. I had a special place in their house as I was a good student.
Piklu was like a pivot in our friend circle. Whatever things we needed for the games we played were provided by Piklu. For some of us, there was another special attraction at his home. It was the library. His father procured a variety of books for him. One cupboard was full of children’s books. They also subscribed to many children’s magazines. New books were purchased every month. We all had the privilege to read these books and periodicals to our heart's content.
Piklu’s father advised us to follow three things religiously. He said that children should eat the food that was served to them gladly and they should satiate their appetite. While playing, children should enjoy the game to their heart’s content. Finally, while studying; they should concentrate on their studies with their mind and soul. Children should not show laxity in any of these three things.
The day the result of the scholarship exam was announced was a special day for me at their home. I had stood first in the entire district. Piklu too had qualified to get the scholarship. I was felicitated with a sumptuous meal and was gifted three to four books. I still remember that one of them was the Autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi. Another was an abridged edition of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Along with the books were two more packets. One contained new clothes for me and the other was a packet of Sandesh(sweets). That night I went home in their car. Piklu and his father had accompanied me. While departing, his father had warned me saying, “Piklu has decided to snatch the first position from you in the next exam. So be careful that you maintain your position.”
It was difficult to believe that this godly person was no more. A sense of contentment was writ large on his face. His simple attire gave him an aura of piety. Everyone who had gathered was eulogizing his virtues. Being kind-hearted, he had rendered help to many people. All the people were lamenting this sudden loss. The heartrending cries of Piklu, his brother, his sister, and his mother were unbearable. Their grief-stricken faces were piteous to behold. Tears flowed down my cheeks as a deep sense of personal loss overwhelmed me.
After a week, Piklu’s family left our town. I visited him every day before their departure. Piklu sat mutely with his head down. It was just unbearable for me to see his crestfallen face. I had no words with which I could console him. I used to sit near him for hours together. When I left him, I said just one word, “Leaving”. Piklu failed to utter even a single word. Probably he was too pent up with emotions to find words to speak. His father had been a father figure to all of us. But for Piklu he had been special. Piklu had never been afraid of him. He had adored, respected, and loved him. He had been Piklu’s most trusted well-wisher and friend. His sudden demise had completely shattered him.
I visited Piklu’s house several times during the seven to eight days before they left. My parents visited them too. But what consolation could we offer the bereaved family? Finally, they left. Piklu did not speak even when he left our town forever. I cried loudly. He and his mother cried. Her beautiful face had changed within these few days. Her eyes and face had become swollen with grief.
Piklu was gone. I did not ask for their address before they left. He did not write to me or share his address. We were completely cut off from each other. I pined for him for many days, dreamt about him, and searched for him in my mind. But alas, I never found him. He seemed to be lost somewhere in the vast human ocean. My father said, “Piklu’s father was a senior officer drawing a salary of five thousand per month.” This was considered a substantial amount in those days, but unfortunately, he had no savings. They did not even have a house of their own. He had spent everything he had earned. At the time of his death, he had no savings. Furthermore, he had taken a loan. This debt had to be paid.
Time went by. In due course, I forgot Piklu. My work schedule and academic pursuits occupied a major part of my life. Gradually Piklu faded away from my mind. I moved on in life, achieved academic excellence, topped the Matriculation exam in my state, became the best graduate, and got a first-class first rank in the Post-graduation exam. I qualified the Indian Administrative Service exam with a good rank, married a girl from a rich, aristocratic family. My life revolved around my family and profession. I worked as S.D.O (Sub Divisional Officer) and A.D.M (Additional District Magistrate) in various postings. This morning, I had joined as District Magistrate and Collector of Balasore.
On seeing Piklu, the tragic memory caused the same anguish and agony that I had experienced seventeen years ago. I could not share this grief with anybody. Piklu probably had not recognized me. Even if he had recognized me, he did not wish to acknowledge or renew the broken thread of friendship due to his position in my office. Was he caught off guard seeing me as District Magistrate? I could mark the change in his appearance. I was devastated to see that Piklu, the jovial, radiant, affluent boy was a mere shadow who did not resemble my childhood friend.
Harish Chandra Babu our English teacher in class eight had explained ‘To be born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth’ by saying, “Suparimal is born with a silver spoon in his mouth.” Our teacher had never translated English phrases and idioms to Odia while explaining in class. Through this example, the meaning of the phrase had become very clear to me.
But today, seeing Piklu, I just realized the dire and unpredictable quirk of fate. Destiny had brought us face to face and had fulfilled a deep longing in my heart but had changed our fortunes so drastically that there was no hope of any reconciliation. This bewildered me greatly.
A moment had changed his destiny from an affluent one to a life of abject poverty. Poverty, scarcity, pain, feeling shame, ignominy was not new to me. Piklu must have had to face such circumstances too. It probably had shattered his tender mind. The hardship of living a life of deprivation had probably made him listless. His mother who had lived a life of comfort and affluence must have been forced to lead a mundane life. She must have struggled to sustain her three children and provide for them the bare necessities of life like my mother had done for me. Perhaps, Piklu had become a clerk because his mother had striven to make both ends meet. His elder sister, I still remember her large and beautiful eyes; might have married a school teacher or a clerk and was perhaps leading a similar life of hardship.
Many thoughts flitted through my mind. Should I take the initiative and invite Piklu to my house and rekindle our lost friendship? Should I offer help and financial assistance to him? Should I go to his house and pay my regards to his mother and repay the love she had showered on me?
No, this would not be correct. This would open up past wounds. My affluence and status would perhaps hurt them. I should not in any way make them feel small. These memories of the past are extremely precious to me. I should not spoil them with my present state of affairs. My friendship with Piklu is precious. Let it remain concealed deep within my heart forever. I do not want to dilute it with the present circumstance that separates us.
For me, Suparimal Mohapatra was not Piklu because Piklu was never just Suparimal Mohapatra for me. He was so much more.
Sashikanta Das started writing since childhood, and all his life remained deeply involved in creative writing. Writing poetry was his passion. Two of his collections of poems, ManaraAkasha Mora and Barapurba, and the only collection of Short Stories Punasha Manoramaselected from among a handful of his stories were published when he was alive. ChandramaO’ Ciggarrette Case, which was planned to be published earlier, could see the light of the day after his death. Born to be a writer, Sashikanta Das made the best of whatever situation he found himself in.
Although he published his collection of stories containing perhaps the best eleven, as a writer of short stories he has remained unnoticed. The attempt of Priyadarshana Bharati to translate them to English and get it published is extraordinary as it would bring his plotted but poetic stories to readers’ attention, the kind of stories that have become rare amidst today’s trend of making experimentations with this short narrative prose fiction.
My mind was stressed,
and I felt depressed,
I wanted to be better than everyone else.
I couldn't handle the mental anguish
Why can't I fulfil my wish?
Life is Unfair, I said in despair.
One night, I was sitting up in bed and there, I thought to myself,
What am I doing? Wasting my life trying to outdo others?
I'm the one who is to blame
For a happy life, I don't need fame..
So I began to let things go
All these desires that are actually very shallow.
Popularity, fame and trying to be the best of men.
For I have now discovered true bliss and Zen.
Now, I just sit up and meditate, in happiness.
Peace, joy and love now flow freely from me.
I realized that to succeed, I don't need to always be a busy bee.
I now look and see
How wonderful life is for me
These things flow now,
Peace, love and joy.
And finally, I am a really happy boy.
Sanjit Singh is pursuing B.Com (final year) in Loyola College, Chennai. His hobbies include juggling, origami, shuttle badminton, public speaking and writing. He has a blog on wordpress.com named "Sanjit Singh - Unconventional Wisdom." The aim of my blog is to present simple solutions to complicated problems that his generation faces.
Snehlata adjusted the tie on her husband's shirt and gave him a small pat on the cheek,
"Oye, what has happened to you these days? You are extra careful while leaving for office, the perfume, the gel on the hair, the trimmed moustache? Some new flame in the office?"
Ramesh Patnaik's heart skipped a beat! Wives! Blast their sixth sense! The next moment he steadied himself and patted her back,
"You only have taught me to be smart and sprightly all the time. After all Odisha's Tourism Secretary has to present himself to the world with a flourish and glamour! Now let me leave. It's getting late. God knows who would be waiting for me! Tourism department is going places now! And look at you, all you can think of is a flame!"
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The "Flame", at that precise moment, was walking briskly from the bus stand to the Secretariat. She was nervous, just a month into the job she didn't want to incur the displeasure of the boss. Anima was the Junior P.A. to the Tourism Secretary. She knew the moment Sir came to office, he would send for her and if she had not reached, he would shout at the Senior P.A. Banamali Garabadu. Isn't he teaching office discipline to his junior? Why is she coming late to office? Banamali babu, the seasoned P.A. sensed the impatience of the colourful boss to see the blooming flower which had fallen into the office like a gift from Cupid. He would be aware that it was not yet ten o clock, Anima was not late, only in his eagerness to see her on a Monday morning, Sir had come to office ten minutes early. But being an expert in handling bosses he would say,
"She must be on the way, Sir, a very efficient and capable lady, perfect in typing and dictation".
Ramesh Patnaik would snort in impatience,
"Yes, yes, I know that, I know that. Send her in the moment she comes in, for dictation".
"If there is anything urgent, I can take the dictation Sir."
"No, no, you attend to phone calls, let her take dictation."
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Dictation? Of course the boss knew Banmali babu was very seasoned and good in dictation. In fact he was good in everything. Actually, Ramesh Patnaik liked him a lot. A humble, God fearing old man, he would bend from the waist in the morning and evening while saying Namaskar to the boss. He would give the impression that the boss was God, as much to be revered as the gods and goddesses adorning the framed photo in the wall in the entrance room. Banamali Garabadu was efficiency personified. Anything that the boss wanted was done in a jiffy! Madam wanted to go shopping for sarees, Banamali Babu would call the show room and alert them; fifteen year old son Mayank wanted to go on a picnic with his friends to Konark, the efficient PA would make all arrangements; twelve year old daughter Ananya forgot to remind about payment of school fees, no problem, Banamali Babu would rush to the school and pay the fees without late fee. But still, Ramesh Patnaik hungered for the young, nubile Anima, not for the old, efficient Banamali Babu.
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Banamali Babu knew there was nothing urgent. The same boss never used to bother with dictation when Sanatan was the Junior P.A. Ever since Anima had joined in the place of Sanatan, Sir is overflowing with new ideas and unending dictation. This eager man in his mid forties was quite a handful, his eyes wandering over Anima's sensuous body left no one in doubt about what must be going on in his dirty mind.
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The mind of Ramesh Patnaik was in a turmoil, why was Anima late? Had something happened to her? Impatient, he looked at the clock. It was five minutes past ten and Anima had still not come in. He had been thinking of her all the way to office. What colour saree would she be wearing today? The yellow chiffon with the green dots which hugs her slim figure so nicely, accentuating the gentle curves, or the light green cotton saree which sits on her like a soft veil or the violet one which suits her fair colour so well? Would she have left her hair undone or tied it into a bun? And the bindi on her forehead, would it be a round one or of a small diamond shape? What ever she wore she looked ravishing, a succulent fruit waiting to be enjoyed with relish.
He was waiting to spend a good one hour with her pretending to give dictation, thinking of words and officialese but actually looking at her sitting demurely, eyes downcast and lips trembling like the tremor of soft rose petals. The moment she came in Ramesh Patnaik would say,
"Come come Anima, I have been waiting for you, sit and take a dictation about my programme for today".
11 am - Telephone call to JS Ministry of Tourism, Govt. of India
No no, make it AS, let me speak to the Additional Secretary, or you think JS will be better? Ok, keep it JS.
11.30 - Speak to batch mate Anil Mahajan about Trade Fair in Patna.
But is it a bit early, Trade Fair is still six months away. Last year Trade Fair was in Bangalore, remind me to check the file to find out when we started the process.
12.30 pm - Dictation
1.30 - Lunch in office
3.00 - Meeting with AS and US in charge of Light and Sound show at Dhauligiri.
Or should I finish the beautification of Sisupalagarh first? When you go from here ask Banamali babu to connect me to MD Tourism. Let me check the progress with him.
4.30 Dictation
Ramesh Patnaik would be fantasising in his mind all the while. Ah, Anima, leave all this useless stuff. Let's change the whole programme to 11 am - Clearing Files assisted by Ms. Anima, Junior P.A. 12.30 Dictation to Anima. 1.30 Lunch with Anima (Special lunch of Biriyani and Fish Fry to be ordered by the office from Pantha Nivas). 3.30- Dictation to Anima 5 pm Tea with Anima, I know you don't like tea, but all that you have to do is touch the cup with your sweet lips and hand it over to me, I will sip it drop by drop like it was nectar from heaven. Ah, when will you give me that chance Anima, when?
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When will Sir let me go, Anima was getting restless. For the past forty five minutes he had been dictating his programme for the day, saying something, changing it, repeating it, asking her for her opinion as if she was a fountainhead of knowledge! Anima had no doubt about the dirty intention of her boss. Being exceptionally beautiful she was always an object of unwelcome attention from class mates and unscrupulous lecturers, but she had managed to ward off all kinds of danger by being aloof, travelling by ladies' special buses and avoiding offers of lift from class mates in their scooters or motorbikes. She knew she would be subject to such harassment till she got married, actually she herself wanted to get married, but she had to save some money from her salary. She knew her father who was a retired school teacher had already spent all his savings on the marriage of her two elder sisters.
Ramesh Patnaik looked at her with naked hunger gleaming in his eyes. In a sky coloured saree with deep red borders she was looking just out of the world. Should he ask her to join him for lunch? Ah, what a joy that would be! Next moment he was assailed by a doubt, would she agree? These days with all the Me Too scandals, what if she told everyone that he was trying to force a piece of fish fry into her dainty mouth? Any way, let him order fish fry first.
Anima came out of her reverie when the boss pressed the intercom and ordered fish fry from Pantha Nivas, the government owned Tourism hotel. Two plates of fish fry.
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Fish fry? Banamali babu was surprised. He knew Sir had a severe problem of irritable bowel syndrome and that's why madam sent only plain rice and non spicy dishes from home. Why did he order fish fry from Pantha Nivas? And two plates? Is he expecting guests at lunch? When Anima came in after dictation he asked her was Sir talking to someone on the mobile, has he invited someone for lunch? She shook her head, she hadn't heard anything of the sort. But she certainly heard him asking Banamali babu to get fish fry from Pantha Nivas.
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Pantha Nivas? She had heard about the hotel from others. How big would be the rooms? She imagined the rooms, coloured walls, white bed sheets, good sofa sets. When she got married she would probably have the wedding in Pantha Nivas. As the Junior PA to the Tourism Secretary she would try to get special service. In all innocence she asked Banamali Babu,
"Sir, how big is Pantha Nivas? How many rooms are there? How is the food? Is it a good place to have a marriage?"
Banamali Babu looked at her in amusement,
"Are you getting married? You haven't told us so far? Where is the Mithai? Who is the lucky man? To get an apsara like you as a wife?"
Anima blushed a deep red, as deep as the border of her saree,
"No, no, it's for a class mate of mine. She was enquiring the other day"
Banamali babu teased her,
"Why only the class mate, even for you also we will make all arrangements in Pantha Nivas. The manager calls me for something or the other three times every day. Last year I had got my daughter's wedding conducted there. They gave me a hefty discount and took special care to make all arrangements, from wedding to reception to honeymoon".
The old man's face broke into a wicked smile and he looked pointedly at Anima, who blushed an even deeper red at the word honeymoon.
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Honeymoon? Isn't it too early to think of honeymoon? Let her first decide about her marriage, which is probably still two years away. But no harm in taking a look at Pantha Nivas. She smiled to herself, may be as the Tourism Secretary P.A. she can ask for the biggest suite there for her honeymoon. She blushed again and was aware of the intense gaze of Banamali babu at her face. She looked at him and said,
"Sir, can we go and have a look at Pantha Nivas one of these days? I am just curious to know how the best hotel of the government looks and feels".
"Yes, of course. Sir is going to Delhi for three days on Wednesday. His flight is at two in the afternoon. So he won't come to office, or even if he comes he will leave by the noon. We will visit Pantha Nivas that day. I will ask the Manager to be present and take us round. We will have lunch also, courtesy, Odisha Torism Develeopment Corporation. I will ask them to make Mutton Biriyani and Fish fry. Hope you like them. Don't bring lunch from home on Wednesday."
Anima hadn't known the Boss would be away for three days. Good riddance from dictation of Sir!
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Sir had pressed the buzzer. Banamali babu lifted the receiver,
"Yes Sir?"
"What happened to the flight ticket? Have the Pantha Nivas people delivered it?"
"Sir it must be on the way. I had reminded the Manager in the morning. It seems the Area Manager for the Beverage company has changed, so it's taking a little longer. But the manager of Pantha Nivas has promised to send it today without fail Sir. Rest assured Sir"
"Ok ok, don't forget to take copies of the ticket. Claim it correctly in the TA bill. It should be around forty four thousand rupees."
"Yes Sir, forty four thousand three hundred seventy two sir, I have already noted it for the TA bill."
"Good, let me know as soon as you receive the ticket."
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The ticket? Anima was looking questioningly at Banamali babu. She asked him,
"Sir? The ticket is coming from Pantha Nivas?"
"Yes. It always comes from there."
"But you told Sir you will claim it in TA bill? If Pantha Nivas is paying for the ticket why are you claiming it in Sir's TA bill?"
Banamali babu laughed loudly,
"Oh my God, what an innocent little babe you are! Wait, you will learn a lot of things in due course. Arey Pagli, you think Pantha Nivas is paying for it? They will always make the beverage contractor, the civil contractor or the catering contractor to buy the ticket. And since this is a government tour Sir claims it in his TA bill. Forty four thousand is just pocket money for him!"
Anima was horrified,
"But Sir, this is wrong! Why should Boss claim the amount if he has not spent it? And you are such a religious person, with a prominent mark of Chandan on your forehead, burning incense sticks in the morning before the photograph of Maa Saraswati, Ganesh and Maa Laxi on the wall. Why are you being a party to this immoral act?"
Banamali babu's laughter got even louder,
"Aha, aha, such innocence! Straight from the university, aren't you? That's why you don't know the ways of the world!"
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Ways of the world? What ways of the world? Do such things really happen? Anima couldn't resist asking,
"What else happens around here, Sir?"
"Oh, a lot. Our boss often throws parties at Pantha Nivas for his friends and colleagues. Not a single paise goes out of his pocket. I was once P. A. to another very senior officer. Every month he would organise parties in big hotels with unlimited flow of drinks and sumptuous food. The PRO of some Industry or Businessman would be waiting in the wings to pick up the bill which would be in lakhs."
Anima couldn't believe this,
"Are all officers like this?"
"O no, not all are like this, but those who host small parties at home are ridiculed by their friends. After all who is interested in soft drinks, boiled peanuts and fried pakodas? Where is the comparison with scotch whiskey, vodka, chicken tikka, sheek kebabs and prawn fries that you get in hotels? Once I was asked to contact a few officers for a party at home by one of my bosses. Out of eight persons I contacted only one agreed to come. The others had no interest in a party at home."
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Home? Anima remembered there was a call from home when she was with Sir taking dictation. She opened the mobile, it was her brother Aniket. He had run into a small problem, in his B.A. Certificate his name had been misspelt as Anicut, it must have been due to some spell check issue and he had been running to the College to get it corrected, but the clerk there was only smiling at him, without making any attempt to correct it. She called Aniket at home, he again expressed his anger and sadness. She said she would check what could be done.
Banamali Babu had heard her part of the conversation, he asked her,
"Any problem Anima? We are colleagues - your problem is mine and mine is yours. Tell me, anything I can do?"
She told him, he was surprised,
"We have been seeing each other for the past one month, but you never told me; am I such a bad person, not fit to know about your problems? Now leave it to me. My friend Ajay's brother in law is the Section Officer in BJB college, we meet often over sumptuous lunches of mutton curry and fish fry. Let me talk to him."
Sir was busy on the phone talking to the JS in Delhi. Banamali babu called on his mobile, Ghanshyam picked up the phone on the first ring,
"Hello Bhaina, pranam, saashtang pranam, long time no meet!"
"Meat? Didn't we have meat curry at my home last week? Now it is your turn, get some crab from Chilika next week and myself and Ajay will come to your place. Now, leave the meat shit business, I have some work with you".
"Work, Bhaina, what work, just order me, I will walk on my head and come over to you to deliver."
Banamali babu gave the phone to Anima, she explained the problem to Ghanashyam and handed back the phone to Banamali Babu.
"Bhaina, what has this world come to? If my clerk smiles and smiles and doesn't do it, madam's brother should understand what needs to be done. Anyway tell her the work is done, a free service from Ghanashyam to his big brother. Let Aniket come and collect the corrected certificate tomorrow afternoon. And this Sunday crab lunch at my place, ok Bhaina?"
Banamali babu ended the call and looked at Anima. Her face was glowing with happiness and relief. Such a cute, graceful girl! He looked forward to Wednesday when he would be taking her for lunch to Pantha Nivas. The buzzer sounded again, Sir wanted Anima to come in for dictation.
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The dictation meandered for one hour, with nothing particular. Some routine letters and useless notes for the subordinates. Ramesh Patnaik was getting absent minded again and again wondering whether he should invite Anima to join him for lunch. Banamali Babu had already informed that the fish fry had been delivered from Pantha Nivas. Sir was looking at Anima, sweat beads had started forming on his face, looking at Anima and being torn in a dilemma. Anima looked at her watch, it was nearing one thirty, sir had been silent for almost two minutes, he was just looking at her and looking away, something was troubling him. She asked him very softly,
"Sir, if the dictation is over, can I leave? Today all the newly joined Junior P.A.s have been called for a debriefing by the G.A. department secretary over lunch. It is at 1.30. Can I go Sir?"
Suddenly Ramesh Patnaik felt relieved, all tension hooshed away like air from a balloon. So he was no longer in a dilemma. Anima was going for lunch elsewhere. May be he would think of giving her a lunch after his return from Delhi.
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Delhi had no particular attraction for Ramesh Patnaik. It was a waste of three days when there was a Delhi tour. He was not keen on attending the Review Meeting, the Ministry of Tourism had granted 30 crores for the beautification of Puri beach seven years back. The contract was awarded to the brother in law of the then Tourism Minister who was now the Revenue Minister. He spent just two crores and misappropriated the balance amount. Five review meetings had already taken place with no progress at all. Who would recover the amount from the mighty Minister's powerful brother in law, now an MLA? The only attraction for the Delhi trip for Ramesh Patnaik was the forty four thousand he would pocket as the airfare.
But the flight from Bhubaneswar leaves at 2.10 pm. While returning it arrives at 1.30 pm. At normal times Ramesh Patnaik would have skipped office for all the three days, but the prospect of seeing Anima would bring him to office for a few hours both on Wednesday and Friday. And he would spend the whole time giving her dictation!
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Dictation! Can he take Anima with him to Delhi on the pretext of giving urgent dictation? Ah, Delhi trip would be memorable if he could do that. Why, he may take her to Agra to show her Taj Mahal also, the monument to eternal love! But could he really take her to Delhi? With the press fellows hounding news like bloody dogs it could become a big scandal! And Anima, would she agree to come? Isn't it a little too early to expect her to accompany him to Delhi? May be he would get a good gift for her from Delhi! A necklace? Wow, that would be fabulous and would certainly tilt the scale for him, but Snehlata had this annoying habit of checking his credit card bills! Ok, ok, a good perfume paid by cash would perhaps be safer. May be he would try to touch her hand and feel its softness when he handed over the bottle of perfume to her. He smiled to himself at the prospect!
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The prospect of three days of freedom from Sir's dictation had made Anima light headed the next day. If she could just breeze through this Tuesday, she would enjoy the next three days. She was looking forward to the visit to Pantha Nivas on Wednesday. Banamali Babu was the first one to see a spring in her step when she entered the office.
"Anima, you look so happy! Any particular reason?" He asked her.
"Sir is going away for three days, this is the first time I will be free from work. No buzzer, no dictation!"
Banamali Babu laughed loudly. Sir had not yet come to office; before Anima was called away for dictation he could talk freely to her,
"You are a young, beautiful, sensitive girl, like a flower fresh from the garden. You must have sensed by now why he calls you all the time for dictation?"
Anima looked down and nodded, yes, she knew.
Banamali babu, the old veteran, told her he had worked under another colourful boss like this many years back. He was a poet and romantic feelings were oozing out of him like tooth paste from a leaking tube. Those days Banamali babu was a Junior P.A. and the forty year old Pratima was the Senior P.A. She was a comely, lively spinster and was enamoured by the poems recited by the boss. She fell for him like a slim, shiny fish for a wiggling bait and sank hook, line and sinker. Sir went to Gopalpur on a tour and took her with him. And at the beach guest house they remained engrossed in the poetry of love till the boss's wife reached there from Bhubnaeswar and severely beat them up with a chappal. The boss returned to office the next day, but Pratima went on long leave and was transferred out to a far off district head quarters.
After a long time Banamali babu was seeing a lecherous boss again.
Anima shuddered. The thought of accompanying Sir anywhere sickened her, boss or no boss!
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The boss barged in. Everyone stood up and greeted him and the gentleman accompanying him. His face lighted up like a colourful lamp as his eyes briefly swept over Anima, she was looking like a ripe pomegranate in her red saree and the red dot on the forehead. The unwelcome batchmate of his, the Tribal Affairs Secretary, had met him in the lift and walked in with him. The idiot! Did he know how much precious dictation time he would be taking away? He started listening to the endless chatter of his batch mate, although nothing was registering in his mind which was covered with a blanket of cloud.
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A cloud had come over Anima's face also. The chirpiness was gone when the boss had walked in. Now she was weighed down by a problem she had brought from home. Her father had asked Anima to go over to the DPI's office today to get his pension papers cleared. Although he had retired six months back he was still getting provisional pension only, some query or the other was holding up the final clearance. He was tired of going to the DPI's office again and again. He had heard that one had to pay ten percent of the lump sum benefits to get his pension cleared, but he didn't know whom to offer or how. He thought Anima could go over and try her luck.
She asked Banamali Babu,
"Sir I have to go to the DPI's office for an hour today. Can I go when the Secretary Sir goes for the monthly review meeting with the Chief Secretary?"
"Yes, of course you can go. But why are you going there? It is a den of corruption and young and beautiful girls like you should not go there to get corrupted!"
Anima blushed, this was the second time in half an hour the Senior P.A. was calling her young and beautiful!
"My father's pension papers are stuck there. He had retired as a teacher from a government school six months back, But he is getting only provisional pension. I want to go and check what is holding it up."
Banamali Babu laughed, one of those knowing, condescending laughs he bestows on people ignorant of government business.
"I know what must be holding it up. You don't have to go there, why should you give pains to your dainty feet when I am sitting here, sharing this cabin with you? The PS to the DPI is my batch mate in the stenographer recruitment, we had shared so many samosas and rasagollas together in our youth. Just write down the details on a piece of paper. Let me call him."
After ten minutes he smiled at Anima in Mother Teresa style, all beaming with love and kindness,
"Tell your father to go and meet Abani Puhana, PS to DPI at ten o clock tomorrow. His work will be done in three days. When Abani promises something it is final."
Anima almost fell off her chair,
"Sir, you have taken away such a load from my mind! Is there anything, anything, that you cannot get done? You are a genius!"
Banamali Babu gloated. In his younger days such words from a dazzling beauty would have flooded him with pleasant waves all over, causing goosebumps! He allowed his mind to tickle itself to a mild fantasy. Tomorrow he would enjoy the company of this innocent beauty for a few hours going around in Pantha Nivas and having a sumptuous lunch followed by fabulous ice cream! For a moment he closed his eyes.
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His eyes going repeatedly to the wall clock, Ramesh Patnaik finally got rid of his batch mate and immediately sent for Anima. For some reason she looked happy and buoyant. While going through the the motion of unnecessary and inane dictations, he wanted to ask her, what made her so bubbly, would she miss him as much as he would miss her when he went away to Delhi. He even thought of asking her what gift she wanted from Delhi, but thought the better of it. He wanted to give her a surprise, a bottle of costly perfume.
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The perfume bottle neatly packed and tucked into his briefcase, Ramesh Patnaik walked into the office on Friday afternoon, eager, impatient, restless. God knows how much he had missed the sweet, innocent face of the young and nubile Anima in the last three days. He wanted to hand over the bottle of perfume to her, look deep into her eyes and tell her how much he had missed her! He pressed the buzzer,
"Where is Anima? I didn't see her at her desk?"
"Sir, she called in the morning and asked for a day's leave. She is unwell Sir, but she said she would be back on Monday. There are two urgent letters Sir, should I come for taking dictation?"
Ramesh Patnaik slammed the phone down. He felt shattered; shouldn't Anima have called him on his mobile and asked for leave? Should she not confide in him? Now he wouldn't see her till Monday! And he wanted so much to touch her hand today while handing over the perfume bottle! He took out the bottle and carefully hid it in the drawer, locking it firmly. Too explosive to take home! For Snehlata he had bought some mixture and pastries.
He called the peon and asked him to get the car ready. He wanted to go home and take rest.
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Rest? Snehlata was worried. Why did her husband want to take rest? It was so unlike him! Did something untoward happen in Delhi? He was looking so downcast and haggard! He had not even changed into his customary kurta pyjama before going to bed. She went near him, he was looking vacantly at the roof. Ramesh Patnaik was debating in his mind whether he should call Anima's number and ask her what was the problem, what illness she was suffering from. But what if she was really ill and someone else answered the phone?
Snehlata pressed his head; was he having a headache? He shook his head, no he was just tired, no headache.
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No headache, but the heartache continued for Ramesh Patnaik through Saturday. He was depressed, it showed on his sad face like the after effects of a cyclone. On Sunday morning Snehlata insisted on going for a movie, Pyar Kaa Side Effects. The kids refused, their friends would make fun of them for weeks, these days which kid accompanies parents for movies? The owner of Swati Talkies was Snehlata's classmate in college. She called him and asked for two passes for the box office for the afternoon show.
Ramesh Patnaik went to the movie just for a little distraction. It was not a bad movie. He started enjoying it. In the interval lights came up and people started going out for snacks and drinks. The manager sent a boy with soft drink and pop corn. Ramesh Patnaik had got up and started stretching his arm and legs. Snehlata nudged him, "I wish our daughter Ananya had come with us. Look at the father daughter duo there in the balcony, how she is holding his hand and they are going out for their drink and snacks."
Ramesh Patnaik looked, and the next moment his heart stopped; he sat down, shocked. Banamali Garabadu and Anima! Ye God, is there any fair play in your scheme of things? For the last one month Ramesh Patnaik was a moth dancing like mad, desperately trying to fall into the flame, and the flame chooses to jump into a bucket of ice! What magic did Banamali play on her? The hall became dark, as dark as his heart. He got up and told Snehlata he wanted to go home, he was having a splitting headache. He wished he could ask the old wizard on Monday to share the secret of his trick with him!
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Story behind the story:
In 1984 I was working in the Secretariat at Chennai, as a lowly Deputy Secretary. I had some official work with a senior Secretary and walked into his chamber. He did not take any notice of me, I sat down on one of the chairs. His full attention was focussed on a slightly senior lady colleague of mine. They were talking, laughing, she flirting with him and he enjoying it thoroughly. The peon brought one cup of tea, and placed it before the lady. She took a few sips and when the cup was on the table, suddenly to my horror our senior male colleague lifted it and started sipping from it! I felt like throwing up, the idea of drinking from another person's cup was entirely unthinkable to me! I came out of the room and my exit was as ignored as my entry. The incident remained with me and formed the seed of a story when I started writing short story in 2009, twenty five years later. Rest of the story is only an enlargement and embellishment of the small idea.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
Book Review:
Poet: N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
Published by: Dipti Press (OPC)Pvt. Ltd.,
Chennai, India
Year of Publication: 2020
ISBN 978-93-86923-48-6
Price: INR 99/-
POTPOURRI OF EMOTIONS
‘Pinging Pangs’ aroused my curiosity for two reasons-the choice of the title and its unconventional looks, akin to a cheque book. This slim volume features fifty poems by N. Meera Raghavendra Rao, who, in her new role as poet has clearly demonstrated that she can engage readers through prose or poesy, also leave them asking for more.
A veteran journalist, photo journalist, teacher, writer, blogger, author of ten books, reviewer, interviewer… amongst many other hats she wears, hence, it is no surprise that N. Meera Raghavendra Rao has been ‘inspired’ to take up poetry as a medium to express her ‘take on life.’ N. Meera Raghavendra Rao’s book of free verses with a significant foreword by R. Chitra, senior journalist, talks about people, places and happenings in our everyday lives, which leave us with a multitude of emotions, opinions, thoughts and learnings. Every poem has a message, either direct or cryptic. There is also an element of humour in many of the verses.
The verses have been grouped under ten categories A-Senior Citizens, B-Palate, C-Chennai Potpourri, D-All in the Mind, E-Divinity, F-Food for Thought, G-Changing Trends, H-Nostalgia, I-Kids Zone, and T-Thinking Aloud, which goes on to prove that there is a poem for all categories of poetry lovers.
‘An Interesting lady…’ on page1 brings in visual images of the finely attired guests seated in the wedding hall, indulging in small conversations, patiently awaiting the entry of the newly married couple. In her unique humorous way, the poet writes-
‘……she picked up a conversation
Wanting to know all about me
Noticed she wasn’t interested…...’
And in the concluding lines
‘And broke into a song immediately
Which was more welcoming
Than futile conversing!’ (page 1)
In Age- A Leveller!... and Why I stood out….. the need to accept all facets of life, aging gracefully in particular is well illustrated, with a powerful message that the clock cannot be turned back!
“Mine gray and his jet black,
Attempting to turn the clock back…’(page 5)
‘while taking a selfie
When silver locks stared at me…’(page 5)
Often, there is a lot of learning from the helpers in our neighbourhood; the raconteur-poet reveals an interesting tête-à-tête with her ‘neighbour’s maid’ in ‘Tea for Two….’
‘On my morning walk
I stopped to talk,’(page 11)
The above lines also offer insights into the lifestyle of the poet. Her morning walks fulfil the exercising routine, also leaves her with the opportunity to exchange pleasantries with the familiar faces in the neighbourhood. After all, a cheerful smile can brighten another’s day, provided one has the heart to smile.
In ‘Tea for Two,’ the concluding lines leave much to interpret about the unsung heroine aka the maid, who, despite her penury has a heart of gold.
‘Collecting her cup of chai
She asked for a second cup
Offering the chai to me
Requesting me to give her company.’(page 11)
The very mention of ‘street food’ evokes mixed feelings in every one of us. The poet is no exception, her ‘five senses are engaged,’ while her ‘nose starts protesting’ as she listens to the ‘cacophony’ and ‘men chatting while gorging on puris vadas and bajjis’ in ‘Street Food….’ Eventually, the mind wins the battle!
‘Though tempted to touch and gobble
I resist to avoid trouble! (page 21)
Chennai’s Potpourri has some appealing verses. Three small poems caught my attention. The first one ‘Granny’s Spectacles,’ (page 29) is about a mischievous little girl who is frightened when ‘everything appeared blurred’ and her ‘granny disappeared.’
The second poem ‘Authors and Readers’ (page 33) talks about the mushrooming growth of ‘authors everywhere’, while ‘readers are elsewhere.’ The punchlines are:
‘And you are not bothered
When you find it’s not the one you authored!’(page 33)
Personally, this poem reminds me of the innumerable ‘Likes’ on Facebook that prove to be the only telltale signs of friends or acquaintances who have stopped by for that split second, before racing off to the next post on the social media site.
‘Those music lovers’………with its candid humour talks about the air-conditioned concert halls ‘with attached food stalls.’ The last two lines in the poem blurt out the truth:
‘Some enjoy music glued to their seats
Others enjoy the everyday Fest!’ (page 35)
The poet talks about the Indian fondness and partiality to the ‘fair person’ in ‘Oh, to be Fair….’
‘As Indians we are brown or dark
Probably with a few exceptions.’ (page41)
Why then are we obsessed with ‘someone who is fair?’(page 41)
From fairness, the poet moves on to ‘designer blouses’ and the fashion statements of women that leave a ‘dent in women’s purses.’ The title is explicit-‘In today gone tomorrow.’(page 43)
In the Divinity section, ‘Power above...’ delivers a compelling message that prove to be maxims for life:
‘Let not arrogance overtake you
And humility elude you.’ (page 56)
The micro poem ‘Temple Bells’ instantly flashes vivid images of the gigantic gongs that reverberate with positive vibrations:
‘Temple bells chiming
Resonating far and wide
Music to the ears’ (page 57)
The poet talks about ‘Destination weddings…’ where each one is busy performing their roles:
‘And the bride and groom
Looking brighter than the Moon
Eyes focused on each other
And those of wedding guest
On the multicuisine spread.’(page 71)
Unfortunately, the onset of the pandemonium has temporarily halted such dream weddings, most weddings at present are occasions with extended families around.
Endearing Madras…. (page 75) is filled with nostalgia of a ‘home for decades.’
The lines ‘with no hassles whatsoever,’ ‘was within one’s reach,’ ‘there was no cause for complaints’ and ‘Today it is Madras of old no more’ reveal a twinge of melancholy that increasing urbanization and technology have brought about in Madras aka Chennai that is about three hundred and eighty years old. However, the optimistic temperament of the poet surfaces in the last two lines:
“But for me Madras is the SAME
Endearing and Enticing as BEFORE.’ (page 75)
My mother’s golden words…… (page 83) touched the core of my being, for, it brought reminiscences of my biological mother.
‘Bring credit to your adopted family’
‘And be proud of your ‘birth family’ and
‘Invest in relationships with those who matter’(page 83)
Such motherly advice held young brides in good stead as they learnt to adapt, accept and tolerate the members in the ‘adopted family. The Indian way of life promoted the ‘My family’ sentiments, never permitting feelings of ‘I, me and mine.’
The book also has lines for an ‘unforgettable aunt,’ who was not a relative, ‘true friend,’ a neighbour who doubled up as a mentor and ‘a good man’ where the poet pays tribute to her sibling. These micro verses reveal the amicable nature of the poet, projects her as a person who values relationships in life.
In conclusion, this book of poems can be browsed without a dictionary - even as I write this, I recall Shashi Tharoor interviewing Sudha Murthy, where the author reveals the need to write in simple English. People may be reading the book while cooking, while doing other domestic chores, so they cannot rush to get a dictionary… ‘Pinging Pangs’ will leave you energized and active….
So, grab a copy today.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, and editor (Efflorescence). Her writings have featured in English dailies, in a multitude of online and international print journals, noteworthy among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal and Setu Magazine. Her short story won the first prize in the Pratilipi competition in 2020. She has authored ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ is co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ In July 2020, she organized an international poetry webinar “Connecting Across Borders.” She was a panelist for selection of poems in “Antargata” (BPC anthology) in August 2020. She is a freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. Email: hemaravi24@gmail.com
MEERA RAGHAVENDRA RAO, a postgraduate in English Literature, with a diploma in Journalism is a freelance journalist, author, reviewer and blogger has published around 2000 articles (including book reviews) of different genre which appeared in The Hindu, Indian Express and The Deccan Herald. Besides, she is the author of 10 books: Madras Mosaic, Slice of Life, Chennai Collage, Journalism-think out of the Box, to mention a few. Her book ‘Feature writing’ published by Prentice Hall, India and Madhwas of Madras published by Palaniappa Bros. had two editions. She has interviewed several I.A.S. officials, industrialists and Social workers on AIR and TV, was interviewed by the media subsequent to her book launches and profiled in Tiger Tales, inhouse magazine of Tiger Airlines. Her blog: https://justlies.wordpress.com & Email: meera45@gmail.com
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