Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXVII (25-Sep-2020)
(Title : Climber at my Doorstep - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 87th edition of LiteraryVibes, complete with beautiful poems, wonderful stories and delightful anecdotes. Please share it with your friends in Email, WhatsApp, Facebook and Twitter by forwarding the link https://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/345
There is also an interesting piece on 'How Important is Emotional Intelligence?' by Ms. Priya Bharati at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/344
I hope you will enjoy Priya's article as also the rich fare offered in today's LV.
Do remember to remind your friends that there is a treasure house of poems, short stories, travelogues and anecdotes at the previous 86 editions of LV which can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
In today's edition we welcome two brilliant literary personalities, Dr. Aparna Ajith from Ezhimala, Kerala and Ms. Babita George from Bengaluru. Both are young, passionate about literature and as their writings show, extremely talented. We wish them the best in their literary endeavour and look forward to publish more of their creation in the days to come.
Today's edition, however is truly embellished by two fantastic young talents, Ms. Varsha Shree, a prodigious girl of eleven from Bengaluru and Ms. Hiya Khurana, a bundle of poetic energy, all of thirteen years of age, from Chennai. Both are exceptionally gifted, as if God has created them to spread smiles and cheer through their creative efforts. We at LiteraryVibes are indeed lucky to see a glimpse of their talent and we wish them the shine of the moon and the light of the stars in their literary dreams.
The fact that Varsha and Hiya indulge in their literary passion and the parents encourage them to do so, proves the richness of the tapestry we are weaving for the future. When we were students hardly half a dozen career options were available to us. Today the horizon is studded with myriad stars by way of opportunities and one has to extend her hand to pluck one. The possibilities are endless, the choices unlimited. Let our children have the freedom to think and achieve what was not even in the realm of our dream. In that context, the following poem, floating in Internet, is revealing:
REUNION
The topper of the class
is a happy Homemaker.
Backbencher of the lot
is an Entrepreneur.
The flamboyant fashionista,
Became a dreaded Lawyer,
Often ignored Joe,
turned a well known writer.
The one who failed in math paper,
is a Fashion Designer.
And one who often got to stand outside
the class, is a respected Army Officer.
The reunion taught me,
How people came with many layers.
And told me why we should never judge
a book by its cover.
Each child there has a
different success story!!!
(Courtesy: Women's Corner)
Take care, stay safe and healthy,
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
KUMBH AT PRAYAG
02) Haraprasad Das
LIVING INCOGNITO (AGNYAATAVAASA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
OCEAN IN A DROP
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE HOUSE
05) Debjit Rath
TIME TO LEAVE
06) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
LOVE AND REALIZATION
07) Ishwar Pati
THE KISS
08) Madhumathi. H
HOPE...
SLITHERING TIME...
09) Latha Prem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 10 : SUPPLEMENTARY
10) Sunil Kumar Biswal
YOU ARE ON FASTEST ROUTE!!!
11) Hiya Khurana
MY FEELINGS TOWARDS ALL THE TEACHERS IN A FEW WORDS........
DOVES
12) V. Varsha Shree
THE TELESCOPE
13) Babitha George
WILDFLOWERS
14) Dr. Aparna Ajith
REMINISCING MY TEACHER
15) Dr. Geeta Mathew
AMAZING PEOPLE
16) Dr. Molly Joseph M.
WALLS
17) Lt en N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
JAYAVELU AND THE ELEPHANT HERD
18) Gita Bharath
THE RETIRED BANKER
19) Sheena Rath
SELF
20) N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
INVESTMENT THAT PAYS RICH DIVIDENDS
21) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE CURIOUS CASE OF DINABANDHU SWAIN
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
TRAVEL TO SIN CITY
23) Abani Udgata
APARTMENT RAIN
24) Pradeep Kumar Rath
GRIEF IS A SILENT VALE
WHY AFRAID?
25) Sibu Kumar Das
THE END STORY
26) Mihir Kumar Mishra
PAPER BOATS
27) Ravi Ranganathan
POSSESSION
28) Sashikanta Das
THE MINUTES OF A MEMORABLE MEETING
29) P. Suresh Kumar
THE UNFORGETTABLE TWINS.....A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE
30) Srikant Mishra
LATHICHARGE
31) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AMBARISH, MY ATHEIST FRIEND
This dip is dichotomy,
filth and purity compete
in divine depths;
turbid water, turgid mind,
divine zeal,
the name ‘Kumbh’, purer
than any priest of the town.
What would wash what?
Does the dip wash souls clean?
or do souls, the water’s purity?
Looking around –
I see you dip and wash
your golden-brown fruits
sticking out of wet linen,
stooping coyly
with dagger points;
you unfurl a raven cloud,
flinging it back, soaked to strands,
dip again; the strands floating up
a black kelp to Cyclops-eye.
I don’t really know
why this fight between
the river and you at the base,
when I stand at the vertex,
the eternal triangle;
why I beseech the river
to spare my sinless soul
I offer on a platter,
“Don’t make it filthy maa,
with your muck.”
Holy Ganga, here I come,
a churn of sin and serenity,
not in dichotomy
but in harmony between
Mahavir and Mamhud of Ghazni.
With your fire
I burn my sight,
my Cyclops-eyes,
skimming and swimming
over your holy water.
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
LIVING INCOGNITO (AGNYAATAVAASA) – 4
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I am not beholden to,
nor do I easily forgive… anyone,
not even my parents
for their overindulgence.
I move with wife
to her secret retreats,
to douse her smouldering embers,
to fill her longing emptiness.
I don’t forgive wife either,
if she drags me from hills
to her plateau.
I give her the slip,
glide down
to the sedate bed,
down in mushy silt,
down the golden steps,
descending to the cradle of creation;
accepting her challenge,
upholding my fort against hers,
her three amorous calls,
not submitting to death easily,
not being pushed out
of the combat ring
until chime of the final bell.
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)”
The amoeba moves up the value chain
and slides down
to come in a full circle
tracing a zero
a void
that contains all that matters
and perhaps that does not.
The singular becomes plural
in steps of ascending order
one fissions into two
the yin and yang
the duality graduates to
the trinity of triumvirates
opening the vistas
emanating in four cardinal directions
the senses and elements emerge
and the six dimensions
try to define
the boundaries of existence.
The rainbow melts and merges
into a white sheet
while you ascend along your spine
from the gross to the sublime
and run your pen
on the Möbius band
trying in vain to trace leminscates.
The planets and the zodiac signs
dictating your destiny
you continue your
search for synchronicity
unendingly.
Till perhaps you realise that
the drop engulfs the ocean
the void envelopes the universe
and the zero confines infinity.
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
I have been here since the time
I learnt to know one house from another.
There have been times when I thought of
leaving it altogether, forever.
Perhaps I will never be able to do so.
I’m bound to its walls, damp with
last year’s rain, smelling its stale
unmoving air. And yet, why can’t I
bring myself to a modest decision?
“There must be something in your
horoscope, the time of your birth,”
my astrologer-friend once said.
“For instance, the stubborn Saturn
in the eleventh house, the Moon weak
and cold in the sixth, the sly Rahu
in ominous conjunction with
the Brahmin Jupiter
These will not let you move.”
I am not sure my friend can read
the planets well, but I believe
in his conclusions. I know there are
other houses I could move into—
smaller, warmer, where I need not wait
through the day only to smell
the stale stagnant night air.
Nothing moves here, as though
chained to ancestral blemishes
never forgiven. No one visits us.
They left it long before the effect
of the past had started to bother us.
They now live in large cities,
in rented buildings, government quarters.
I don’t blame my father, who put
all that he had saved into this house
in the hope his children wouldn’t have to
seek other houses. He was right
in his own way. He is not here,
having left the house one new-moon night
when no one was watching, long ago.
But he has made me stay here,
in this house, haunted by malefics
in obdurate conjunction with each other
and my own sulky, capricious years.
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.
His hands were wrinkled yet firm,
Bearing the mark of many memorable sagas
Gently he placed it on her forehead.
She was breathing with pain,
Like the flickering embers of a relinquished Campfire.
Memories from the past came gushing .........
The lively years they spent in their cottage on the Hills,
The lovely plants she tended like her own offspring,
The Dahlias blossoming in multiple colours,
The cabbages, big enough to be the neighbours envy.
Young and ebullient, she was the cynosure of all eyes,
No less in intellect she was always there to help,
And the neighbours loved her for what she was.
She taught them to shun gossip and work to add value,
Her presence awakened them to a life of friendship.
To every need of the children she catered.
While the official errands took him away for days,
For the offspring she was the friend, philosopher and guide,
Like the stern mentor she did not spare the rod if need be.
Like a shadow she tagged on to him, relieving him of many worries.
Duties made him move from place to place, and she followed.
Ever alert to the new needs like an adept House Maker,
Days passed into months and months into years,
She was too busy to count them as the Children grew up as they do,
To find their way in the world for which she prepared them well.
She missed them but never meant to deter them in their pursuit,
About them she talked to her neighbours,
With pride she displayed the small gifts they brought her on their visit.
Never did she want them to stop and look back,
Neither did she want a thing in return.
A fountain of love, she was for the grand children,
But never was she possessive to spoil them, as the grannies often do.
They clung to her with love and respected her as the matriarch.
Never did she grumble for the scanty funds her husband could earn,
She toiled to make the best of what she had.
Never was there a shortfall for household chores.
She, like other ladies, wanted to look pretty
And she did so by shuffling the few dresses that she possessed,
She used the perfume that came to her as gift from relatives.
She adored her husband for his honesty, though it entailed hardship.
Kind to one and all, she even spared a little for those in need
Their need is greater than ours, she muttered.
But ever blessed she was with goodwill from one and all.
In hours of need, someone was always there to help,
Be it a little support for the children or an emerging need.
Like an astute woman she lived her life, with malice towards none,
Ever wedded she remained to the cause she came to serve.
As a wife she cared for him through thick and thin,
She endeared his family like her own and their feelings she shared,
And for them she was the binding force holding them together.
Now, when the lights were failing with approaching gloom,
When she was about to fly away from all worldly pain and anguish,
Leaving behind the nest she had woven with care and concern.
The children she perspired to groom with silent sacrifice,
And the man she loved and supported with her life.
Her tired eyes turned to him as she whispered,
“I have served you for six and half decades, brought up the children,
I tried not to fail in my duty; no qualms or regret do I have,
God was kind to me that I had you as my life partner,
I have done my bit and now it is time to leave.”
Deep into her eyes he looked, the eyes that he revered,
And the eyes that were an ocean of love and kindness.
Like a child he gently placed his head on her lap,
As he did at times of grief and when worldly woes weighed heavy.
“I do not want to stop you because I do not want you to suffer more”.
“I know my body well. It will be a while till I close my innings,
I have never realised to exist without you, yet I will try my best.
Please wait for me there as you have all along done here.”
And she closed her eyes with a smile that dispelled the gloom,
Reminiscent of the one she wore as a young damsel.
Debjit Rath retired as Executive Director of Steel Authority of India Limited. Specialised in the skills of communication his motto is to serve the community, live and let live. To him the essence of life is to spread the message of love and kindness. To him every day spent on earth is memorable and has a meaning ordained by destiny.
He has reached
Almost realized
Gone beyond mind
Conquered all senses
Can see things clear
Free from greed ,
Material hunger,
A step away
From God’s eden.
Wait ! Hold on.
He is in dream
Eyes closed
Still contemplating
Something is amiss.
Probably
Some kind of illusion
A far away call
Of love
Tried to stop
Journey of realization;
There is a void
Deep and alive
In spite of all meditation.
Difficult to choose,
The unfulfilled love
Or becoming a buddha.
Let him return
To know for sure
What is better
May be it is easier
To reach the heaven.
He will miss the love
That awaits back home.
It is this realization
For which
Gods come down
To experience
Leaving the opulence.
Looked back,
Saw paradise
In her eyes.
For the first time.
No more doubts
In his mind
Love holds the key
To realize
The ultimate goal of life.
"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.
Sujoy had been at sea only once in his life. That was when he sailed across the Atlantic from New York to Southampton in England. A young boy then, he had made the journey alone. Though airlines were making a headway into passenger traffic, sea fare was still cheaper. Besides, many people were positively scared of flying. What if the plane crashed?
The journey by sea took him seven days. It started out as a dull affair, but at the end it turned out to be a memorable one. Even now, Sujoy’s skin erupts with goose pimples at its recollection. For the first two days, he was down with seasickness and confined to his berth. He felt utterly lonely and miserable in an unfamiliar world. He recovered on the third day after his body grew accustomed to the ship’s rolling motion. He came out on deck to take in fresh air. All around him spread the vast ocean, with hardly a wave disturbing its deep calm. His nostrils twitched with the feel of the moisture-laden breeze.
The ship was humming with activity. Everyone was busy enjoying, as if severing links with solid ground had liberated them from the shackles of amundane world. Shaking off his sense of isolation, Sujoy spent hours in the warm swimming pool, simply floating on the water or playing tag with other swimmers with whom he had struck up an acquaintance. A bit of tennis in late afternoon helped him to build up a healthy appetite for dinner, after which there was dancing in the ballroom. For those like Sujoy and other Indians who shied away from dancing with strangers, the evening was for movies. Brand new releases were being screened for the passengers (a different movie each evening). So the hall was almost always full.
Sujoy found a seat next to a young American couple who were on their honeymoon. They introduced themselves to him and soon the three of them were laughing away to glory at the filmy jokes. After the show, they continued their banter in the dining hall. When the couple invited him for an after-dinner drink, Sujoy settled for an ice cream. As expected, they grilled him with the usual questions on India’s elephants, snake charmers, et all. They expressed genuine ignorance when Sujoy tried to dispel their distorted notion of his country.
“How come you ain’t dancing, like other couples?” Sujoy asked out of curiosity. The girl, Barbara, wanted to say something, but George, her husband, butted in, “Oh, there’s plenty of dancing back home. Out here, it’s more fun watching movies that we don’t get to see at our place. Ain’t that right, darling?” he turned to his wife. She nodded her pretty head with a faint smile.
After a while they bade each other good night. Sujoy wasn’t feeling sleepy and went up on deck for a stroll. Standing at the railing, he let the pleasant sea breeze caress his face. He looked down at the fathomless ocean. It was invisible in the pitch dark, except where the wavy moon cut a silvery path from the ship all the way to the distant horizon. There was complete calm on the deck, apart from the steady plop, plop of the waves that lapped against the ship’s side.
Sujoy’s reverie was rudely disturbed by stamping of feet behind him. He turned around to see a young woman running wildly towards the other end of the deck. She held onto the railing and burst into tears. Sujoy looked around. There was no one else with her. He sensed something amiss and ran to save her. It was the young bride whose company he had enjoyed earlier in the evening. What was it that had made her cry, that too on her honeymoon?
“Barbara,” he called softly to her. “What’s wrong? Can I be of any help?”
She looked up sharply, confused to find someone else on the deck at that late hour.
“What? Who? Oh, it’s you! What do you mean by sneaking up on me like that?”
Her burst of rapid-fire unnerved Sujoy. He felt hurt. “I had just come up to get some fresh air,” he mumbled defensively. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you, if that’s what you are thinking. I thought you were going to…well, you know…do something silly.”
There was a moment’s pause, and a sharp intake of her breath. She moved a step closer. “Oh, Su-jay, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude. Honestly! Please forgive me.” She took his hands in her soft ones and kissed them. She did that over and over again. “What a sweet darling you are, thinking of poor me!” She held Sujoy’s face in her hands and gently kissed him on the cheeks, first left and then right. The next moment she was sobbing freely on his shoulder. Her tears singed Sujoy’s skin. The smell of her perfume and the touch of her silken hair drove his senses mad. Before the young boy had had time to recover from her tears, she pressed her trembling lips on his! A hurricane roared through Sujoy’s fibres, drowning him in her latent heat.
Just as passionately she had kissed him, she let go of him equally abruptly and, still sobbing, fled from the deck. Sujoy had to hold onto the railing to keep himself from falling down, his legs trembled so much. His vision was rapt on the silvery moon and its passage to the horizon on the ocean’s surface. For a long time he just stood there, savouring the ethereal splendour of her kiss.
Sujoy got up next morning with a hazy remembrance of last night. Did such an insane incident take place, or had his own imagination lost its sanity? In any case, he was in for a rude shock. When land was sighted, all passengers rushed onto the deck for a view. Sujoy found Barbara and George standing hand in hand and talking animatedly, as if their quarrel of the past night was already a thing of the past. She was civil with Sujoy, showing no hint of embarrassment or remorse—or even recollection perhaps of the previous night. Had she forgotten the kiss, or was she pretending that it didn’t happen? Sujoy was baffled; but kept his peace. They parted as good friends, never again to meet.
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.
Haphazard mind, dangling questions
Doubts and fears stampede
Life sometimes blurs our vision
Blocks the path, with heaps of ''what ifs"...
Yet
There is always light
Through hidden windows and louvres
As patience waters hope...
Komorebi of tomorrows
Light up our souls
When tears crystalise, as
Souvenirs of battles fought
And smiles bloom like a flower
After a handshake with the storm...
Between the silhouettes
Of a hundred men, women, children
Walking along the shore
Staring at the waves
Collecting shells
Building castles
Counting the boats
Splashing the crashing water
Quietly sets the sun
Leaving light-prints
In gold, crimson, and
In the dazzling colors
Of hope
Handholding our dreams
To spread all over the sky
At another promising dawn
Kissing our wounds
Like a butterfly, upon
A dew-dwelling rose
Perfuming the world
With all the notes
Of evanescence...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 10 : SUPPLEMENTARY
Kanaka was hurrying to her class. As she cleared the last step of the staircase, through the corner of her eyes, she saw a student standing outside the Zoology Lab and sobbing her heart out. She went up to her and gently called her. "What is it, child?"
" Miss, I failed in English, I will never be able to clear my exams now. I will fail this year.".
It was heart wrenching. Kanaka wiped her tears and told her that she would talk to her after her class. But during the noon interval when she did not turn up Kanaka went to the Department. She was a zoology student and she was also the chairperson to the union So she was popular among her teachers too. From the Department Head, Dr Shyama she learnt Nigi had scored very high marks for her main subjects and second language, but had failed in English. She had to clear her paper in September and there was only one month to go. Kanaka was disturbed. She knew that the girl had to do the English first and second papers together as supplementary Examination. That meant studying three textbooks and a grammar text. And there was hardly one month. Prof. Shyama sent the laboratory Attender to find Nigi. She was in the adjacent room where the final zoology classes were conducted.
Nigi came totally downcast. Her charming smile was missing. Tall and lanky she was not very attractive. But she had magic in her glittering, smiling eyes that drew everyone to her. They talked to her consolingly. But she started sobbing.Through the heart racking sobs they extracted the facts that she lived with her mother and father in a remote village. There was no one in her village who could teach her english as most of the people were farm labourers or day labourers. It was her parents' intense desire to educate their children that brought her so far. She had never failed in any class. Her father was only a day labourer and she had two siblings. She never expected to fail and she was worried about her parents, how they would take this failure.They would be heartbroken. She could not think of tuition in the town because her parents could not afford that. The Head consoled her saying that she would talk to her parents and would find some way to help her.
Kanaka who was listening to everything felt awful. She wanted to help Nigi but how. Maybe after class, so she told Nigi she would teach her after 3. 30 pm for one hour daily.
"But how miss?" I can't stay back after class, there is only one bus and it will leave by 4 o' clock."
Impulsively, Kanaka said,
"Why don't you stay with me for the whole month?"
She saw a ray of hope behind the tears.
"Go, tell your parents, discuss with them and tell me tomorrow". Nigi's face lit up. Having consoled the child Kanaka felt happy. Nigi left with a happy countenance.
But Shyama Mam was dubious.
" How Kanaka?" "It will be a burden for you and your family." "Yes mam, I know but how else can I teach her ? Let her talk to her parents and decide. She should not feel that there is no one to help her."
Kanaka knew it would be very difficult. Far away from home and no one to help them they had decided in the beginning itself that they would stay quite near the college where she worked. The search for a comfortable house proved futile. Finally they got a tiny two bed roomed cottage. As they were just beginning to settle down they had only the necessary items of furniture and utensils. The only redeeming feature was, it was on the opposite side of the College. Hardly five minutes walk. So they decided to take it for that academic year. Shyama ma' m who had visited her once knew it had space only for a small family. Now they had only a part time help, there was no need to accommodate a maid. Juny was in the fifth standard, almost ten years old so she was given the tiny bedroom. Sometimes she slept there but most often she slept with them. Yes, Nigi could be given Juny's room but there was only one table which they could share, she decided.
That evening it was a big discussion at her home too. Her little, lonely, girl was delighted that she would have a sister for one month. Her husband just nodded his head. When it came to helping someone Kanaka could never be dissuaded. Nigi's parents came and met Kanaka and her Department faculty. They were extremely happy that Nigi was going to get help in her studies.Thus Nigi came to stay with them. It was a tough time for all of them. In kanaka' s tiny rented house Nigi was accommodated in her daughter's room and had to share her study table.
Life was also regimental. Kanaka managed to find three hours to teach Nigi daily. She would wake up at four o'clock and teach Nigi till Five, then she would go to the kitchen. By the time the maid arrived she would have finished the cooking part. In the evening after supper Kanaka found two hours to teach her. All the texts were taught and grammar too was dealt with. She was asked to revise and study then and there itself without wasting time. A week before the exam Nigi's mother came and took her home.
After the exam Nigi would come with her question paper to the staff room. And they would go over it. Kanaka would calculate and tell her she would pass. Before the final year students were dispersed for study leave the supplementary results came out. One evening Nigi burst into the staff room as Kanaka was packing up. Like a whirlwind she rushed to her and hugged Kanaka impulsively.
"Miss I passed. The supplementary results have come out". Tears of joy pricked Kanaka' eyes. Yes she had brought light into the life of a youngster, what else did she need.
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
G. Praharaju, fondly called Raju by parents, switched off his mobile and switched it back on. He must have done so at least a dozen times in past two hours searching for the cell network in vain. The car that he and his parents were travelling in, followed by another car that belonged to his uncle were stranded in the middle of Bhadrachalam–Motu highway. There was in fact no highway worth the name. A poorly maintained decrepit road winding through dense forest with innumerable mountain streams crisscrossing the road at regular intervals made the journey excruciatingly slow and uncertain of final outcome. The family was running behind time to reach the bride’s house in Koraput that seemed to be in another planet.
Six pairs of eyes were riveted on Raju’s face trying to decipher some good news. There was no such positive expression on Raju’s face. Raju was solely responsible to lead them to this miserly condition by his super reliance on technology.
“No Luck!!! No network” Said Raju looking apologetically at his father who was seating along with his mother in back seat of the family Toyota Qualis.
His father exploded in rage saying “I knew this, I knew this” and went on giving a tongue lashing to Raju. He could have gone on and on as he was doing so since last three hours. Raju’s mother stopped him from chiding their son.
“How can you be so insensitive? Do not forget we are going to the bride’s house for negotiation for the wedding of the same son. Have hope, we have visited Bhadrachalam Temple. Lord Rama will surely keep us out of any trouble. I am sure we will make it” Raju’s mother tried to reason with her incensed husband seething in anger. Raju’sfather kept cursing himself for accepting his son’s plan to travel by road.
Raju, a software engineer in an MNC in the Hi-Tech city of Hyderabad had returned to India after a three year stint in Silicon Valley of USA. His parents were eager to get a daughter-in-law before Raju went away to the States again. Raju had fallen in love with a girl working in the same company’s India operation and the girl happened to belong to Odisha. Her father was working in the Collector’s office in Koraput District. The two families were in a hurry to find suitable matches and the children had made it easy for them. The need of the hour was to take the proposal to its logical end by organizing a wedding ceremony and for the reason a small ceremony to make formal declaration of engagement was organized at the bride's house in Koraput. Raju's family with its extended members totaling eight people needed to attend the negotiations function. The bride’s family lived in Koraput, a remote corner of Odisha and the nearest rail station and airport was at Vishkhapatnam, a good 200KM off from Koraput.
Raju was a gadget freak and loved to use technology to the fullest. He quickly made searches on Google maps and found that his destination was merely 650 kilometers away by road via Bhadrachalam-Motu-Malkangiri –Jeypore-Koraput. It would be not only economical but also made sense. Raju approached his father apprehensively.
“Papa, if we go by flight we have to travel from airport to their town by road and it is 200KMs” said Raju
‘So? Do we have a choice? Even if we go by train, we have to cover same distance as by road”, answered his father.
“Why can’t we travel by road, it is merely 650KMs, we have two cars and all eight of us can comfortably travel and more over mummy will be only too happy to visit the famous ancient Bhadrachalam temple she spoke about often” Raju suggested looking for his father’s approving nod.
Raju had taken great care to help his father understand how the Google map worked, how the GPS satellites orbited the earth and how the GPS signals augmented with omnipresent mobile signal made the world a small village. Raju also gave his father tid bits of his days in Silicon Valley where he went on expeditions with friends to unknown places and how not even for a single instance they were lost.
His father had accepted Raju’s proposal after a full family meeting on the issue and Raju secretly had requested his uncle to vote in favor of Raju's proposal. His uncle had a greater influence on such matters and also shared a few of Raju’s obsessions about technology. He was especially happy at prospects of testing the small walkie-talkie Raju had brought with him. Raju had trained him to use it so that when they moved in the car, they can easily keep communicating instantly without dialing a number and waiting for other party to respond. As wished by Raju, the family had decided to make the journey by car and stop over at Bhadrachalam, rest for the day and proceed early next morning to cover 215 KM only and reach the bride's house around noon.
Accordingly the family set out two days before the event at bride’s house and enjoyed the journey till Bhadrachalam. Raju kept brushing up his parent’s general knowledge about geography of the area and how they will be going upwards above the mean sea level to a place that was 1000 mtrs above MSL and was on peak of Eastern Ghats mountain range. All members of the family were in great joy.
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Sri Girija Shankar Rath, the bride’s father called for his daughter. It was almost noon and the groom’s family should be reaching any time. But he had no details of their progress. They had called him early in the morning probably from Bhadrachalam. They assured him that they will reach in time.
“Yes Papa, Did you call me?” it was his daughter.
“When did you speak to Raju? I am not getting his father on phone", Girija babu made an attempt to hide his worry and tried to sound normal.
“No Papa, I am also not getting him, or any other member of his family”, answered his daughter.
Girija Babu looked at his daughter and this time his worry was visible on his face.
“Did I not tell you to warn Raju about the roads!!!? It is your entire fault. No, it is my fault, I should have said more firmly that the road is not a reliable one and nobody uses it regularly, moreover, more over….” Girija Babu stopped midway and left the sentence incomplete. His face was pale with fear of some ominous happening.
“What is it Papa? What worries you? They will come, may be a bit late, but they will come for sure, please do not worry and do not give your blood pressure a spin, ok Papa ?” said his daughter.
Girija Babu was worried for a different reason. What he did not want to spill before his daughter and others was nagging him constantly. The route that his son-in-law was coming though was infested with naxals. It is said that they pose no harm to common people, but who can say for sure? Girija babu shuddered to think beyond this. He raised his hands in prayer and prostrated himself mentally before Lord Jagannath asking for protection of the groom’s party.
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The road ahead was blocked. It was a dead end and there was no living soul in sight. Raju had been recalling in his brain all the crossings he had taken in the past few hours and if he had missed the main road and followed a branch road. The signal on his mobile was still absent.
His walkie talkie crackled to life and his uncle’s calm voice was heard loud and clear “Raju, can you see any road ahead ?”
“Negative, uncle, negative, maybe we have to turn back and go till some point where we might have missed the main road” Raju spoke into the walkie talkie being aware that his father was intently listening to their conversation and probably preparing for next round of castigation.
“Do not worry Raju, we will find a way…..” his uncle stopped abruptly and Raju could see why.
All of a sudden, out of the dense jungle came out one, followed by two and then many people wearing camouflaged trousers and pointing automatic weapons shrieking at them menacingly to come out of the cars. Raju, his uncle and all family members were too numb to see what was happening around them. Before they could respond the two cars were surrounded by an army of naxals.
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Girija Babu looked at his watch and it was past two hours of the scheduled time. Most of the local guests who were invited had taken their lunch and left. The family was sitting around the small makeshift pedestal for holding the ceremony. They had been trying to contact all the numbers belonging to the groom’s family and the numbers were showing as out of network. Someone asked the bride if she was very sure about intentions of the boy she had chosen.
“Something must be holding them up, they will come” Was her laconic reply.
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After grilling the family with questions about their whereabouts and reasons for being in the jungles, the group that had taken hostage of the groom's party offered them cooked food and an assortment of jungle produce against protests of Raju’s father. They had provided Raju’s family an escort to lead them safely out of the jungle till proper road was reached. Just as they left them the leader of the naxal group told jovially but firmly not to speak about their experience to anyone.
Now that groom’s party was out of the jungle and on a proper road, the mobile signal that they so desperately waited for, appeared on every one’s handsets, the mobiles started bipping endlessly as a barrage of undelivered messages forced into the connected mobiles. As Raju’s father called the number of his would be samudi Girija babu, Raju checked his mobile for navigating the rest of the road. The Google maps app cooked up a travel plan and a voice announced “You are on the fastest route”.
“Please put that darn thing away and focus on the driving, I will be your navigator”, Raju’s father barked at him.
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
MY FEELINGS TOWARDS ALL THE TEACHERS IN A FEW WORDS........
A seed lay in intense fear,
Oh! It was in such a plight...
For it was dark all around,
And not a single beam of light.
The seed did not know his way,
As the dark soil left him blind,
But suddenly the Sun sent for him a light ray,
Which grew some hope in his mind.
The Sun is Nature's incredible creation,
Whose light turns a hopeless seed into a happy plant,
Just as a teacher in a student's unformed life condition,
Gives light in the form of love, care and education.
Teachers give our lives a new start,
And work hard day and night for our well being,
From the bottom of my heart,
I thank all my teachers for everything.....
Happy Teachers Day!
Hiya Khurana is 13 yrs old and is studying in 9th Standard. She developed an interest in writing since a very young age. She enjoys writing essays and poems. She started writing poems at the age of 10. She likes reading short stories and poems. She won an essay writing competition at the age of 8. She has also won many school level speech competitions in English as well as in Hindi. She represented her school and backed a position in the Top 10 in a national Hindi speech competition held last month - Aug'2020. She is also interested in painting and crafting. She has won many school level drawing competitions. She also enjoys playing chess and has participated in an inter school chess competition as well. She has won chess awards at the school level.
Once, there lived a ten-year old girl whose name was Reva. She used to do everything well, but she did not know as to what she wanted to take up as her career. She would rack her brains trying to find out, but to no avail. So, she would think to herself, “Everyone knows their dream career. Why am I always so confused?” She would then think again, but in vain.
One day, she and her parents went to a toy-store, to buy a gift for her five-year-old cousin. Her cousin’s birthday was just three days away. When she was looking for a suitable gift, a toy-package fell off a shelf and landed on her head! She picked it up and read what was written on it. It said:
‘This Do-It-Yourself mini telescope kit lets you see far-off planets and study their surface. High clarity provided by the strong lens! Great for little astronomers and space-scientists!’, Reva read to herself.
She turned it over. It had fascinating pictures of the moon and various planets. At first, she thought it would be a perfect gift for her cousin, but then decided he was too small for it.
In the end, she got a model robot for her cousin and the telescope kit for herself. She built it that very day. She started using it the next day. She was excited the first time she used it. She had spotted Mars!
The years passed. Now, Reva was waiting for her tenth grade results. She had forgotten her dreams. She had dismantled her telescope, and had put it in one of her old shelves in her attic.
The next day, when the results appeared, she saw that she had excelled in all her subjects. She told the news to her parents. They were ecstatic. Once the excitement died out, her father said “Good job. Now, since you have some time, clear out all your useless books and toys from the attic.” Reva agreed. She borrowed a dusting cloth from her mother, and got to work.
She had cleaned up most of the trash, and had put all the trash into different garbage bags to be sorted, when she saw a dusty old chest-of-drawers. “I must clean this up too. There must be a lot of garbage in it.” she thought to herself. She dusted it thoroughly. Then she opened the topmost drawer, to find useless bits of paper. She put it in the appropriate garbage bag. Then she opened the second drawer. She found moth-eaten rags, which, again, she put in the appropriate garbage bag. When she opened the third drawer, she found a dusty box. When she dusted it, she saw what it was. It was her telescope!
Like lightning, her memories and dreams, came back to her. Her dreams returned.
Reva grew up to be one of the leading space scientists of her country. She led her country’s best space missions, and gained fame all over the world.
V. Varsha Shree is an eleven year old budding writer cum poetess. She began writing short stories in English at the age of five and poems in English at the age of seven. Her poems have been published in ‘Writers Editors Critics’ journal, ‘Madras Hues, Myriad Views’, a souvenir book on Madras, ‘Confluence Volume 3’, a book of Collaborative Poetry, ‘Efflorescence’, an annual poetry collection brought out by Chennai Poets’ Circle (in 2019) and in the poetry anthology, ‘Muse of Now Paradigm –An Entry into Poepro’ in 2020. She has also read and shared her poems in various forums like ‘Chennai Poets’ Circle’, ‘Bangalore Poetry Circle’, ‘India Poetry Circle’ and Lit Experia Fest at Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Her short stories have been published in Science Shore magazine and Writers Editors Critics journal.
Wildflowers, hidden in the sunlight
Swinging in the wind, happily and cheerfully
Relishing the beauty of its wilderness
No one cares to look at you
As you’ve grown in the wild unnoticed
Looking so stranded, yet so adorable
In the midst of a broken road
My eyes caught you in this narrow path
Caressing your wild and untamed glory
You offered me this bunch of flowers
Destined for the unknown.
Babitha George is an aspiring poet and a writer. She is an ardent lover of nature, arts, literature, philosophy and cosmology. She has rich experience throughout her life that encourages her to write poems and stories. Her experiences on life’s journey have made her a deep thinker, empath and a keen observer of life.
A passionate individual, dancer, coffee lover and an amateur artist who loves to be with people who has a positive attitude towards life. She is a seeker by nature and always in the pursuit of things that can make a difference to this world.
She holds a MBA in marketing and was working as a marketing professional in Bangalore. Her real life experiences, imaginative mind and the love for creativity turned her on to the world of writing.
A budding writer whose poems have been published in three anthologies ‘Behind Every Story’, ‘From the Poet’s Pen’ and ‘The Great Indian Anthology Vol 1’. She can be reached at the Instagram handle @ineffable.mindz
(Photograph of Sindhu Madam)
“The dream begins with a teacher who believes in you, who tugs and pushes and leads you to the next plateau, sometimes poking you with a sharp stick called truth”. The renowned American journalist, Dan Rather’s dictum exemplifies the saga of my teacher who walked into my life quite accidentally and incidentally a decade ago. This very compelling presence of my entity has bid an eternal adieu by reaching the ‘undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns’. She left me with the imprint of an impermeable darkness on 2 March 2020, her birthday. I do not know where and how to begin my personal and academic affiliation with my teacher, Dr. Sindhu Menon. I am extremely flummoxed. So, let me take a walk down the shadow lane of the remembrance of things past. The vast treasure trove of memories made me get down in front of my 10HEMA batch of University of Hyderabad where I joined to master a Master's degree in English Literature.
Those brand new days of Master of Arts still remain fresh in my mind. My recollections hark back to Sindhu Ma’am ( My ‘teacher’ and ‘miss’ address of school and college day teachers transformed to Ma’am all on a sudden) in special. For me, everything seemed to be new and the University life started weaving novel patterns in everything I came across. Wasn’t it a cultural shock? I don’t know what to coin for my expressions brimming forth from the newly imbibed impressions? A girl born and brought up in the affection and warmth of parents and grandmother’s cocoon ever since her birth had to uproot herself to obtain her higher education from a Central University! Indeed a relocation to a strange new world at the Pearl City and the girl in her twenties will be miles and smiles apart from her dear most ones at God’s own Country. Yes, the immature girl in me had mustered the courage to be a part of an academic centre of excellence. I fancied of Allu Arjun’s land. For me, Hyderabad always springs the umpteen images of Allu Arjun movies: Happy, Bunny, Arya, Arya 2 and what not. On a pleasant sunny morning in the month of July, my classes kicked off. Things started taking an O. Henry turn. I felt a sudden urge to go home and reunite with my family. My nights were all set to create a river of sorrows via the telephonic vibration. The cerebral energy imparted by my parents began to wane. I was in an utter imbroglio. Finally, I came up with a solution: Why not to confide my worry to Sindhu Ma’am?
I marshaled the audacity to meet Sindhu Ma’am next day, after her classes. Her internal assessment scores were announced that day and I scored fairly well. Yeah, it was the right time to have a word with her regarding my anxieties. I still remember the intensity with which she shouted on me after having a glimpse of my assignment and paper presentation scores. I thought for a while: “I should never ever come to her with homesickness apprehensions. She will eradicate my worries by explicating her own worries as a student”. There came a soliloquy in me: Teachers are same everywhere irrelevant of time and space. They can sense our essence and efficacy so as to mould them as better citizens. Here began a rare emotional connection with my Sindhu Ma’am and I can’t heave my heart into my mouth when it comes to my personal and academic bonding with her.
I cannot thank Sindhu Ma’am adequately for the incredible patience in managing the ‘often unbearable me’ and enduring with all my complex, complicated, naive and incoherent queries. In these past years, she has seen me through heart aches and agonies, stabilities and instabilities, imagined and real, and provided the warmth of affection through her text messages that has been my stay all along. She has always been supportive and caring that allowed me to remain enthusiastic all throughout my sailing through Ph.D. Although I could meet her only once during my Ph.D tenure, her lovely and lively messages kept me on track always and as usual her ‘all the best’ spoke volumes. She knew me with all my positives and weakness right from the beginning of my first semester of M.A. She mattered to me more than a teacher confining to the four walls of all the four semesters of my Post Graduation days. She was there to scare and care me whenever I required both to the most. I am indebted to her for enriching and enhancing my passion for English literature. Her romantic literature classes and the poetry appreciation tasks in fact whetted my appetite for the vibrant and volatile verses. I am humbled by the very talent I acquired from her; yes, the ability to send telephone SMS (Story Message Service). The bedrock of literature has malformed me to give descriptive answers rather than objective ones and I have adopted that in texting as well over the course of time. And, Sindhu Ma’am was an adept in responding to my queries and worries within a wink. She was too full of the milk of human kindness and above all, a mind desirous to impart knowledge to her students always. Had I never come across Sindhu Ma’am, I chould not have even thought of a research plan. It was SindhuMa’am who inspired me to do research as she was cocksure that I would come out with an authentic work.
The bygone days and years have seen a doctor in making and I became Dr. Aparna. Be it my pre-submission seminar, final submission, my open viva voce, I expected that one message from Sindhu Ma’am. She never failed to surprise me by wishing all the best in all phases and faces of my life. Her messages always offered a solace and solution when my going was tough. Her prayers and blessings became indispensable for my odyssey. I have made up my mind to set off my journey all the way from Ezhimala to Hyderabad just to have a glimpse of Ma’am. I spoke to her immediately after receiving my provisional degree certificate. She assured me that she will meet me this year if and only if her health was fine. I counted days to materialize this assurance in 2020.
As usual, I wished her Happy birthday on 2 March 2020. Her birthday falls a day before mine. I had the habit of wishing birthdays at sharp 12o’ clock ever since my convent school days. I still follow that routine and I send her wishes every year without failing. At times, she sends me ‘Happy Birthday in Advance to you’. I was a bit distraught after wishing her on her birthday this year. She did not reply to me, not even an emoticon. I scrolled the previous messages and read the last year’s message a myriad times: “Thank you, Aparna. A lovely message to wake up to! Sindhu!
I could not resist sharing my angst to my husband. He said “Don’t worry, girl. She might be busy. Just give her a call”. Yeah, why can’t I give a ring? I tried twice but in vain.
I got a call within an hour. It was not from Ma’am, but from my husband. Sujeeth asked, “Did Dudru( my sister) call you?"
No, I answered
Jeeth replied: "She has to convey a message that your Sindhu Ma’am passed away”.
A tsunami of thoughts began stirring my perplexed mind. The light that has been kindling in me for long is no more. Whom will I wish birthday, a day ahead of my birthday? Who will be there to inspire, motivate and hint on the harsh realities of life? A sheer uncertainty glimmers in, around and within me. I do not know how to pen my feelings. At times, my words fail in the smithy of my soul.
The august presence of the absolutely adorable slice in my life’s rainbow continues to remain afresh in my life. My much awaited journey to Hyderabad with my husband flutters at the viewless wings of creativity. Let it linger as the journey we yearned for. Let her continue to remain as a beacon of inspiration and affection in multitudes of students like me. I have nothing to offer to my utmost loving and adoring Sindhu Ma’am. This is a tribute to you - with all my heart – by your ever-loving Aparna!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
People are more important than events or places. At least, that’s what I believe. Whether you have a long association with them or only a few short meetings, they form part of the fabric of who you are today.
Over the years, row after row of people crowd my mind: ordinary, lovable or just amusing, but all of them extremely dear and interesting.
There was Govindan, the cook in Rourkhela, a small town in Orissa, regaling me with stories of strange birds and beasts in his native village, while I spooned tiny morsels of rotis and vegetables into my mouth. Pillai Uncle appears before his magical toyshop in the same town. The toyshop shelves spilled over with dolls and trains and golliwogs. How I wished I could have them all! In Rourkhela a bloodcurdling scream tore the silence of the night jolting us awake from a deep sleep. Peeping through the curtains, our hearts in our mouths, we saw a shadowy figure of a woman who seemed more like a ghost or spirit. Was she real or just a figment of my imagination? I will never know. But on dark, windy nights when the moon plays hide and seek between the clouds, I can still hear that terrifying scream in my imagination.
A picture appears in my mind of Akhtari, our short-tempered but lovable cook in Calcutta teaching me exotic Mughlai dishes over an old kerosene stove which blew fumes into my face as she stirred the contents of the pot with a large wooden spoon.
There was Tailor Master snipping at buttons and bows and measuring out bolts of colourful cloth and exclaiming ‘Namaste, Bijoli Baba. What can I do for you today?’ The pleasure of talking to him far surpassed our delight in our newly stitched clothes!
I can still see the two lovable beggars dragging themselves on our road every Friday morning shouting ‘Aee Mehidi’ and ‘Ooh Baba’ in a shrill, quivering voice while people tossed coins into their rusty, tin boxes. Even today, I don’t know what these words mean, but they fascinated us so much!
Where is Ranu, that chirpy little girl with her long pigtails who used to join in all our games helping us to draw chalk lines for the hopscotch squares in our large drawing room? Is she still in Calcutta or worn out working in the paddy fields in some remote Bengal village?
Sister Edmund whom we watched in fascination on our Annual Sports Days as she ran like the wind in her blue nun’s garb, leaving all the teachers miles behind. In fact, she was so fast that we wondered whether she was a magical sprite sent by the fairies to teach us good manners and decorum.
I can still see Khanna Uncle in his shop in New Market frying up batch after batch of chips in hot oil and tossing them in salt and spices before handing them over to us in specially fashioned paper cups. How we enjoyed them as we travelled back to our home in Park Circus!
Pattazhy, a small village in Kerala was our maternal grandparents house. There memories center around Bharathi, the cook blowing to life the embers of the wood fires on which delicious stews and curries simmered slowly.
In Pattazhy too, was Raghavan thattan, who would arrive with an old tin box from which he would fish out a special pin to pierce our ears watched critically by our grandfather. All the children would crowd around him and watch in awe as he completed the procedure and then settled comfortably on the verandah steps to relish the tea and vadas provided by Bharathi who would also lean against the wall and exchange Pattazhi news with him.
In Kumarakum, my paternal grandparent’s home, was Thomachettan Uncle and Chackochi Uncle who were so devoted to my grandfather that they were not even interested in listening to my stories which everyone loved! Vembannad lake there was mainly associated with Kuttichettan Uncle who made nightly trips to bring back boatfuls of karimeen, prawns and sardines. I can still see the thin and wiry Padmanabhan Uncle deftly steering our vallams with his son, the ever-smiling Karunakaran Uncle.
In Udaipur, Bhagwati our cook loved to feed me dish after dish of rubbery omelets and salt less kichadi which I gulped down with innumerable glasses of water so as to not hurt his feelings. In Udaipur too, was Champalal our cook who used to watch us eating sookha rotis while he gobbled down ghee-soaked parathas with great enjoyment. He was not interested in all our silly diets!
Once on our annual summer holiday to Trivandrum in the KK Express, we came across the fascinating Mr. Damodaran. He gave us a long lecture on avoiding railway food which according to him was not only tasteless but also unhygienic. However, to our amusement, he insisted on eating from our thalis.
How can I ever forget our wonderful driver, Hari Singh in Rajasthan, twirling his moustache and standing in attention, or Kamal and Chitter our orderlies who were like family members and are so devoted that even now after so many years they telephone us every other Sunday. How we miss these lovely folks!
One by one, these wonderful people appear in my mind’s eye to be remembered fondly and then to be tucked away safely in some corner of my mind for the time being and then to be pulled out again and again when times are bad and difficult.
Dr Geeta Mathew holds a Ph.D in English Literature and has been teaching English over the last thirty years in St Angela Sophia School, Mayo College and St Xavier’s in Rajasthan. After relocation to Bangalore, she has been taking classes for Spoken English for ladies. She is the author of a book of personal reminiscences entitled ‘Bijoli’s Patchwork Quilt’ as well as some books on the usage of English for children.
have you ever
talked to
a wall?
When you
talk to a wall
You get relief,
unafraid
You can vent out
your corked up
thoughts, feels
it just stands
impassive
indifferent
but listens...
after all
listening
is what you
need
a punch box
to pummel on..
If walls had
ears
and tongue
how many
stories
they would tell....
other than
walling in
and walling out
how much
they serve,
these.walls...!
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).
JAYAVELU AND THE ELEPHANT HERD
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
I first met Jayavelu at the swimming pool of the DSOI (Defence Services Officers’ Institute), New Delhi on a cold wintry morning in February 1977. This was my first posting as a subaltern to the Engineer Regiment at Delhi Cantonment after commissioning and completing six months of training on Combat Engineering at Pune. Jayavelu was then a Lance Naik, one notch above a sepoy, posted to my subunit. He had excelled in swimming and diving and had been a member of the MEG (Madras Engineer Group & Centre) team. He was therefore assigned for duty at the DSOI swimming club as a life guard and a coach. A most unassuming soldier, he spoke less but was very sincere in his job. My self and other officers of my regiment would frequent the swimming pool in some evenings and most Sunday mornings and Jayavelu made sure to appear dressed in his lifeguard's robe and coming smartly to attention, greet me with “Jai Hind Saab”. This public display of respect certainly boosted my morale and my ego.
From Delhi Cantonment, the Regiment moved to Phulbari Tea Estate in Assam. We were stationed amongst the tea gardens, the nearest town being Rangapara North, about eight kilometers away. It was also the nearest railway station where narrow gauge trains were plying to Bengal and Bihar, connecting us to the rest of India. The area was classified as a field area with families being permitted for short duration during holidays. Our higher headquarters was about twenty five kilometers away. The foothills where the border of Assam and Arunachal Pradesh met were thirty kilometers away at Bhalukpong. Beyond the tea estates, up to Bhalukpong, the area was covered by the Nameri National Park and Reserve Forest and was habitat of wild animals like leopards, elephants, bear, deer, wild boar etc. River kameng, a mountain river flowing from Tenga, along the highway reached the foothills at Bhalukpong and further emptied into the Brahmaputra River downstream. For entertainment, one had to either go to the cinema hall at Rangapara North or the Air Force Auditorium at Tezpur. The Kameng River provided many picnic spots and was an ideal waterway for rafting. One could also collect fine pieces of drift wood, shoot ducks or indulge in some angling along the way. I had collected a number of driftwood pieces and still retain a few, having gifted away many to the ladies (wives of brother officers of the regiment).
Driftwood Pieces Still in My Possession
On reaching Phulbari, Jayavelu was selected to undergo a course for his next promotion to the rank of Naik. I was the officer in charge of the course and put them through a very tough physical and mental regimen of six weeks. I strongly believed that “The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war” and conducted tough training regimen. Jayavelu worked hard and passed with flying colours and was promoted. He was also a good cross country runner with good stamina. He was given higher responsibility to carry out various tasks and performed them well without much supervision.
It was around March 1979 that we had moved out for our annual bridging training camp to Lokra. The camp was on the bank of Jia-Bhareli River and was approximately 20 kilometers from our location. In the midst of the training, the regiment was informed that a VIP is scheduled to visit our headquarters at Tezpur and has expressed his desire to go on a reconnaissance along River Kameng. I was tasked to make all arrangement for the VIP visit. Because of his watermanship skills, Naik Jayavelu was selected to make all the arrangements to establish an administrative base by erecting an awning (shamiyana) with sitting arrangements for few senior officers, a pantry and a field toilet near the start point. Two rubber boats with paddles and life jackets were to be anchored along the banks for the reconnaissance. Having been briefed, Jayavelu collected all stores and gathered his team of soldiers and went off to Bhalukpong. Having completed his task he was to stay put there to conduct the boat operation for the VIP. I was to see the arrangements the next day, twenty four hours ahead of the VIP visit. He was also to liaise with the Forest Department office at Bhalukpong and take their help if required. Jayavelu completed his task and confirmed to me in the evening on the radio set that all arrangements had been made and the forest department informed of our activities in the area.
Early morning of the next day, there was commotion outside my tent. The task force, less Jayavelu had returned from Bhalukpong all looking deathly pale. On inquiry it was revealed that the party having completed their task of erection of the awning, the pantry and the toilet tents had their dinner and went off to sleep. Jayavelu slept in the pantry tent and the others slept in the body of the truck. Around midnight, a herd of elephants were passing by and finding unfamiliar objects decided to investigate. They pulled down all structures and trampled on them. The soldiers sleeping in their truck were roused from their sleep. Sensing imminent threat to their lives, they immediately started the vehicle and drove back to the camp. In the confusion, the driver thought that Jayavelu was in the body of the truck and the others assumed he was in the driver’s cabin. It’s on disembarking that they realized that Jayavelu had been left behind. I sensed the worst. Immediately, a search party was sent to the rafting site to find out his whereabouts. We also alerted the Forest Department to keep a look out for him.
Around ten O'clock, Jayavelu appeared in the camp, sweating profusely and in a dazed state. Till today, I can remember his scared face. He was still in his overalls in which he had gone to sleep and his feet were bare. I was very relieved to see him. He was shocked beyond speech and did not respond to any of my questions. Without any loss of time, I took him to our doctor Capt Nayak, a young but competent officer. He too could not extract any information from Jayavelu whose speech had failed him. He was administered a sedative and kept under observation for twenty four hours. There was no change in Jayavelu’s health by the next morning. He was still unable to speak, though his other faculties seemed to be perfect. I asked Capt Nayak whether we should evacuate him to the nearest military hospital. The doctor told me that it will take some more time for the shock to wear off and recommended that he should be sent on leave. I agreed to his suggestion and sent him home along with one escort by the evening train.
When Jayavelu returned after his leave of two months, he was his usual self and ready to perform his duties. He came and narrated all that had happened to him at Bhalukpong the fateful night. After his dinner, the others went to sleep in the truck and Jayavelu slept in the pantry tent. Being tired after a hectic day of work, he fell asleep immediately. Around mid-night, he was woken up by the sound of breaking branches and heavy footfall. Before he could sit up, one tusker charged in to the tent. It lifted Jayavelu with his trunk and threw him out of the tent. Then, it went to look for the pots, pan, grocery and vegetables kept in the corner of the tent. Jayavelu having escaped trampling by the tusker ran for his life on the jungle track. He was so frightened that he ran for 35 kilometers without stopping en route, till he reached the camp. "When the elephant lifted me up, I had given up hope of surviving. He could have crushed me with his foot and killed me. Luckily, he went for the food. It was a miracle that I survived Saab". I could not agree with him more. He had come back literally from the jaws of death and was lucky to be alive. What a traumatic experience he must have gone through.
A year later, I was posted out and lost contact with Jayavelu. He continued to do well in the service and retired as a JCO three decades back. He has settled down in his native village of Mellapadi, about 50 kilometers from Bangalore. Few days back, when I recalled this incident, I called him up on phone. Even four decades later, he not only remembered me but also reminisced about the cross country races we ran together and the back breaking promotion course that I had conducted for the boys. After recalling the good old days, I asked him if he remembered his encounter with the elephants. “How can I forget sir? God saved me that day”, he said.
(For information of readers, the Corps of Engineers provides combat engineering support to the Army in war. The Motto of the Corps is “Sarvatra” (omnipresent), befitting the numerous tasks carried out by the Corps. The “Sappers” as the personnel are called, are “First to get in to the battle and last to come back”. Mine field laying and breaching of enemy minefield, handling explosives to demolish bridges, obstacles etc, construction of dry and wet bridges in quick time, construction of helipads, bore wells, mountain tracks, field defences, underground operation rooms, habitat for troops, trail blazing in desert etc are only a few of the sapper tasks. One of the roles of the Corps in war is to hold defences like the Infantry, after completing the sapper tasks. The of Engineer also provides manpower for the Border Roads Organisation and Survey of India. The Engineer-in-Chief is head of the Military Engineer Services (MES) which provides works services to the Army, navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, DRDO, Ordnance factories, Kendriya Vidylaya Sangathan and many other organizations and is the largest construction agency in the country.
The sappers have rendered assistance on numerous occasion to the civil administration during disaster management , all over the country. As an example, the three foot-over-bridges constructed at Elphinstone Road- Parel, Currey road and Ambivili stations in Feb 2018 in Mumbai were constructed by the Corps of Engineers. The sappers had also been involved in rescue and relief operations in the Super Cyclone in 1999 in Odisha.)
An alumnus of Sainik School Bhubaneswar, National Defence Academy, IIT Delhi and Osmania University, Lt Gen N P Padhi was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in June 1976. During his career spanning 39 years, he held many challenging technical and administrative appointments, namely; Chief Engineer of a Corps, Works Adviser to the Air Headquarters, Chief of Staff of Tri-service Andaman & Nicobar Command, Chief Engineer of Southern Army Command, Director General Works in Ministry of Defence, Chief of Staff of Eastern Army Command. As Director General Weapons and Equipment in the Ministry of Defence, he was responsible for Capital procurement of weapon systems for the Army. Apart from winning the Silver Grenade as the best Young Officer, best officer in Mountain Adventure Course, he won the Gold Medal in BE and a CGPA of 10.0 in M Tech from IIT, Delhi. He was awarded the Harkirat Singh Gold Medal for Excellence in field of Engineering in 2000, Commendations of CISC ( 2005), Chief of Army Staff (2008 and 2010) and Chief of Air Staff( 2009). The officer is recipient of the Vishist Seva Medal from the President of India in 2014 for Distinguished Service of a High Order and the Param Vishist Seva Medal in 2015 from the President of India for Distinguished Service of the Most Exceptional Order. On superannuation in May 2015, he worked as President and Unit Head in a 1980 MW Super Critical Thermal Power Plant at Allahabad.
It was midnight, and in the silent house,soft clicks were followed by the swish of a heavy door opening .Suddenly The overhead light was switched on. The masked man near the heavy safe swivelled around in alarm. Standing by the door was the owner of the house, retired bank chairman Ramrajan.
Before he could utter a word, the burglar jumped across and drove the full length of a dagger right into his victim's heart.
Then, he calmly emptied the safe and walked out of the house.
Prominent retired banker murdered! Screamed the headlines next morning. There was a picture of Ramrajan wearing his white shirt with a tie embroidered with the bank's logo, and a broad tie pin. The pin had a one rupee note engraved on it.
Detective Ashok Krishnan sat behind a huge pile of reports and files on his desk. It was clear that Ramrajan had surprised a burglar who had stabbed him. The forensic report put the time of death after two a.m.
It was also clear that the house had not been broken into, and all the windows and doors were locked with no telltale scratches of marks of duplicate keys or manipulated locks.
The murdered man was a childless widower who lived with two grandnephews. Only the three of them had keys to the house. The maid, unable to get a reply to her ringing and knocks on the door, had called Ravi, the elder grandnephew and, together, they had gone in to discover the gruesome murder.
Both Ravi and his cousin Rahul had been away the previous night, attending the marriage of a common friend, and staying on at the marriage hall which was a few miles away.
Ashok glanced at the list of valuables, especially gold and diamonds which the deceased man had invested in, in the last few years.
The burglar had apparently known about the young men being away, the valuables in the safe, and even the combination. Not only the front door, but the safe, too, had not been forced in any way. It was a heavy reinforced steel safe with a combination lock. The lock was very modern with ten spaces and a regular Qwerty keyboard.
The combination had been known only to Ramrajan, and he had been known to tell his friends that nobody could guess what it was. He was of the old school of public spirited and patriotic Indians, having been born in the year of India's Independence. He even had a tie clip featuring a one rupee note, his only accessory apart from a gold plated watch, and he wore these to board meetings and special occasions.
It seemed to detective Ashok that only Ravi or Rahul could have engineered the theft, maybe with an accomplice or on their own. But the snag was that Ramrajan had boasted only the week before at a party that not a single person knew the combination to the safe, not even his nearest and dearest.
Ravi had followed in his great uncle's footsteps and joined a bank. Rahul was a veterinarian. Both were good at their work. Both were known to have expensive tastes, clubbing and vacationing at exotic resorts.
Could Ashok fix on the guilty person without any doubt? If he clearly see who could have guessed the safe- combination, it would be a giant clue.
There are thousands of ten letter words and word-number combinations and the alarm would have sounded if a wrong letter or number had been keyed in. Patriotic Banker's brutal murder! Another headline on his desk.
Some vague memory teased Ashok's mind. Was it something his grandfather, also a retired banker had told him? He had casually mentioned never seeing Ramrajan without his white shirt, tie, and tie-pin. Ashok kept gazing at the photograph in the newspaper. Some how he felt the clue to the murder was lying hidden in the photograph. His mind went into a spin. And then it clicked. Ah! The tie-pin, the unique, one of a kind tie-pin!
The next day, he confronted Ravi as he returned from the bank. Against Ashok's reasoning and questioning, Ravi broke down and confessed.
Ashok had deduced that only a banker (Ravi) would readily guess that Ramrajan's secret combination, especially when juxtaposed with his tie pin, could be the ten letter word "GOVERNMENT". All Indian currency notes are issued by the Reserve Bank, only the one rupee was issued by the government mint. The one rupee being the only note with the word "Government " Instead of Reserve Bank on its face. To a patriotic banker, it would have been a matter of significant pride to see this word on his country's currency. And Ashok turned out to be perfectly right!
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.
I looked into the mirror
I got a shiver
She stared at me
And looked deep into my eyes
As though she knew all of me, lies....
Don't drown yourself away in responsibilities
Like you, many casualties
Live a day for yourself
Go!!, ring the doorbell
Everything can wait
For all the happiness you create
Go slow!!, go slow!!
With every flow, as you grow
My hair with silver streaks
Don't you take a sneak peak
Wrinkles around my eyes
Telling each and every story of my life
For perfection i strive
Like any other beehive.
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)
INVESTMENT THAT PAYS RICH DIVIDENDS
What do you do when you get angry with your friends and relatives ? Do you stop talking with them till your anger ebbs and at the same time have an urge to talk and feel something is holding you back? asked an acquaintance of mine (who is a practicing sociologist) as we were having dinner in a hotel.
Though I felt the question came out of the blue my response was rather spontaneous. “First of all I don’t believe in protesting silently when I am angry and keeping them guessing as to the reason for my silence. I’d rather sort out the issue at the nearest opportunity by talking it out with the person/s concerned. It may cause some unpleasantness but the issue will be nipped in the bud,” I said.
“Will you react the same way with both friends and relatives ?” she asked after a long pause.
Why should there be a difference ? I shot back.
The incident set me thinking for days and I tried to analyze to see the importance of the two categories of people in our lives . One category constitutes our blood and distant relatives and the other our circle of friends (which includes our inner as well as outer circle ) . I concluded that both categories of people are equally important and one cannot either under estimate or over estimate either of the categories of people as we need both in our lives. What is even more important is like any investment , one needs to invest in friendships and relationships and needs to work towards their enhancement. Investing in real estate ,shares or the yellow metal might pay rich dividends in terms of monetary value and support despite the swings they undergo but investment in relationships both with friends and relatives is equally important as it provides the all important moral support in one’s life and more so in times of need.
Investment in relationships with people, be it relatives or friends can be compared to a fixed deposit in a bank. Whatever be the amount you invest in a fixed deposit in a bank the money grows within a period of time and when you choose to withdraw , a sizable amount is in your hands and you benefit. The more number of times you renew when your fixed deposit expires , the richer is the outcome in terms of money. Similarly, if you invest in relationships and renew them from time to time a healthy relationship between persons evolves resulting in rich dividends (however in relationships you don’t allow them to expire ,renewing them in this context means keeping in touch with people) .
A common refrain you hear in the present scenario of increasing number of working couples and youngsters is “where is the time to keep in touch with people?” Ask them whether they are in touch with their friends, prompt comes the answer, “certainly we are because friends are not the same as relatives”.
Unfortunately this divide between friends and relatives ,blood relations included seems to be widening with the former taking precedence over the latter and the adage out of sight, out of mind appears to apply only to the latter category of people . I f only we realize that both friends and relatives are equally important and we are able to maintain our friendships and relationships without sidelining or giving up the latter for the former , we will truly become good human beings.
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao, a postgraduate in English literature, with a diploma in Journalism and Public Relations is a prolific writer having published more than 2000 contributions in various genres: interviews, humorous essays, travelogues, children’s stories, book reviews and letters to the editor in mainstream newspapers and magazines like The Hindu, Indian Express, Femina, Eve’s Weekly, Woman’s Era, Alive, Ability Foundation etc. Her poems have appeared in Anthologies. She particularly enjoys writing features revolving around life’s experiences and writing in a lighter vein, looking at the lighter side of life which makes us laugh at our own little foibles.
Interviews: Meera has interviewed several leading personalities over AIR and Television and was interviewed by a television channel and various mainstream newspapers and magazines. A write up about her appeared in Tiger Tales, an in house magazine of Tiger Airways ( jan -feb. issue 2012).
Travel: Meera travelled widely both in India and abroad.
Publication of Books: Meera has published ten books, both fiction and non-fiction so far which received a good press. She addressed students of Semester on Sea on a few occasions.
Meera’s husband, Dr. N. Raghavendra Rao writes for I GI GLOBAL , U.S.A.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF DINABANDHU SWAIN
Lalit Mohanty got an untimely call on a second Saturday from his father-in-law. The old man was 92 years old but active still.
Three NEFT transactions of Rs. 50,000/- each have been indicated in his SBI passbook between May 18 to May 20 when the country was in a lockdown. This was a second Saturday, so no bank can be contacted. His father-in-law never did any internet transaction. Lalit got the whatsapp images of the passbook which showed that the money has been transferred to his father –in- law’s account in ICICI bank . Strange. What was the point in transfer, if it is not meant for a purpose or meant to be drawn from there. The old man didn’t have any intention of drawing from the SBI account. Second Saturday did not help in checking the status of the account in ICICI bank. Police officer in Lalit stirred. He sent out an email to the fraud cell of RBI and a mail each to SBI and ICICI. He also triggered his contact in the head office of both banks. By evening, he got some information from his contact in RBI.
It was a bank fraud and further details would be obtained on the ensuing Monday.
Sunday was a day when precious little could be done. But calls were going back and forth understandably. Rs. 1.5 lakh from a retiree’s account is not a small amount. He tried to piece together the details.
Who could have done the NEFT transfer. In his in-law’s house, no one could have. Was it a fraud done by someone in the State Bank itself. If yes, how did he manage to get the password even? Who else could have done? He spoke to his father-in-law , more to assuage his unease and anxiety.
The State Bank account has been there for the last 30 years. He never activated net banking there, but occasionally used the debit card. The ICICI account was for a limited purpose as the gas subsidy used to come there. It was opened 7 years back. He wanted to close it 2 or 3 years back. But was requested by the bank Manager to keep it active. The branch was only 100 ft. away. Conversation is as important as the transactions both for him and the Branch Manager. Some intelligent conversation with a decent elderly gentleman was always welcome. Lalit’s father-in-law volunteered that ICICI officer had come home and had given a welcome packet. But it was checked by Dinu (Dinabandhu) who had informed that debit card was not there.
Pritish Mohanty, father-in-law of Lalit was a PSU General Manager. A very loyal and trustworthy person of his was Lingaraj Swain. He was almost like a son. Initially Pritish had put him in a job in the Steel Plant. Later on the job became regular and he continued to stay with the Mohantys. He used to cook, do odd jobs and used to take care of them. When children were abroad what better arrangements can be done. Lingaraj was fiercely loyal and conscientious. He got married and continued to stay in the outhouse. Lingaraju had two sons, both were born and brought up in the house. They had access to everything in the house. Literally, they grew up as grand children. Dinu was elder one and Artabandhu was the younger one. Arta moved away for education and job thereafter. He did well. Dinu was an affectionate person, good with his hands, good with computers too.
Dinu could fix almost everything. The boy had a mind for fixing trouble in any machine. This included mobile phones, computer and anything one could think of. He completed his schooling with lackluster grades and joined ITI. He did some odd jobs on computer in the small city until he was sent to Bhubaneswar and Hyderabad for doing courses. Preetish babu’s two sons who were away were prepared to fund his training. After all, he was like a grandchild of the family. Perhaps, more valuable to thier parents as he was around to take care of many things. With Lingaraj and Dinu were around there was an assurance that old parents were not left alone or lonely. It was all God’s grace that someone was there to look after them. Lalit and his wife were near 2000 kms. away.
Everyone was pursuing their career. One son in the US, one daughter in Delhi and the eldest son was in Bhubaneswar. Typical modern dispersed family. Only stability and predictive amidst this was the presence of Lingaraj and Dinu. Lingaraj was also growing old and was preparing for his retirement back in his village. But he had given promise that until old man was alive, he would be with him. A rare sense of duty and loyalty, Dinu was the icing on the cake. An all purpose man, could drive Pritish around when his driver, Ajay didn’t turn up, would help him in sorting out papers, could run errands and was always ready to be sent to innumerable relatives carrying messages or things. To top it all he was the person who gave the assurance of a family, where three generations were together. Someone, of your own, what if he was not a direct grand child. Now, even he had left though used to come once in three or four months.
Lalit overheard flurry of telephone calls between his wife and in-laws. Every time, his wife Happy would come back to relay the conversation. It obviously did mess with his clarity of thought. But this was no time, not to lend at least his ears. More than the loss, it was the shocking aspect of it which bothered everyone.
Dinu was attempted to be contacted. He was in a rented accommodation in Bhubaneswar . He had gone to Hyderabad for ¾ days and was under home quarantine on return.
Lalit got thinking who could have transferred it to ICICI account by net transfer. It was mostly likely to have been emptied out from the bank by ATM withdrawal. In all probability it was not a practical joke played on the old man. But the family said they had not received the ATM card.
It must have been an insiders’ job. Either someone in SBI had joined hands with someone in ICICI to do it. But SBI man risking his job for only for Rs. 1.5 lakh is unlikely. It was a net transfer eventually. It could have been done by anyone from any place. In that event people at both the ends must be in collusion, where SBI man could have given the account number, customer ID and guided his proxy. If so why did he not transfer the entire Rs. 33 lakhs.
The second alternative was people who were closely attached to the family. Either Ajay the driver, who occasionally used to take the passbook for updating or Dinu or both together. Dinu was good at computer and he could have hacked into the account or created a new password etc. for opening internet banking account. But why did he need to do it when whatever he required could have been asked for.
Another set of telephonic conversation started in the evening. More to calm the noise in the mind of people involved. He could figure out that everyone was trying to put Dinu beyond the rem of possibility. Dinu’s call came around 6.30 PM. He explained to Happy, what has happened and advised that FIR should be lodged to find out who all were involved. Yes, FIR would lead to ISP of the computer used. What if it was used from the computer of a cyber café?
Now Dinu himself is suggesting FIR lodging. Was he doing it to put people off his trail? He was intelligent enough to cover his track. As an IPS officer, Lalit’s detective sense didn’t allow him to remove him from the zone of consideration. But now he knew, if Dinu is culpable directly or indirectly it would break everyone’s heart. Money lost will be secondary in this event , would break families and will create a mayhem of broken trust and hearts. He just kept it in his mind. But the family would be disappointed, may be devastated if he was the person.
Monday morning, all his contacts reverted back. ICICI contact informed that Rs. 25,000/- was drawn in five tranches in Bhubaneswar from the ATM only at Bomaikhal. “That was interesting!” Dinu stayed in Bomaikhal for the time being. Only 6 months’ back he had over used Arta’s credit card which was given to him for emergent use. Thereafter, he had diverted Rs. 50,000/- given by Lingaraj to be transferred to his brother’s account in the village where he was building a pucca house.
It was interesting. Dinu was drawing on his good will in a hierarchy. First from his brother, then from his father and now from a grand father. No the only grand father he knew and grew up with. Lalit smiled to himself.
Since ATMs and the timing of the drawals were known, it was easy to figure out from CCTV footage who drew the money on every occasion. Was it Dinu himself? Or did he deploy one or more people to do it? Or may be Dinu is not at all involved. He activated his contacts in the security of ICICI bank. As expected different people came on different occasions. It was Corona time. It didn’t help that everyone was wearing masks.
Now calls were pouring in. Everyone asking who was the person? The brother from USA rang up and said “even if the person is Dinu let’s not file an FIR. We would criminalize him”. The brother from the army rang up to suggest that FIR be filed. Both Pritish and his wife were sure that no one from the family was involved. Happy had a reasoning, it was Dinu who suggested that FIR be filed, so be it. No one knew the figure of withdrawal.
Dinu rang up to check the update. He insisted over and over again that FIR should be filed.
One thing was sure, the ATM card has not been issued by hand. So it had came in the welcome kit. It was Dinu who had declared that ATM card was not there. Possible it was there and he flicked it. ATM card issue without signature was not possible. But when it came in the welcome kit. One signature was taken for the kit. Could Ajay have taken it? Not likely. Even if he took it, Dinu would have known it as both of them were very close.
Why did Dinu take three years to use it? He didn’t have to, perhaps. He was following a hierarchy of use; brother, father, grand father. Why didn’t he flick the whole amount? Perhaps his connection with the family was too strong to consider pillaging beyond requirement. Perhaps, the comfort of own funds. When you are too closely associated with a family, you treat the money pilfered from the family account as your own and you use it prudently, even if one is better off cleaning it up. Lalit was convinced that Dinu felt strongly about the family. Even on one occasion, he has put back Rs. 2,000/- in the ATM.
Meanwhile, telephone calls came confirming that both net banking in SBI and the ATM card in ICICI bank is disabled. Good. No further damage will happen. Damage is now limited to Rs. 125,000/-.
He got thinking about Dinu. A tall ,well built and intelligent boy of twenty eight. What if he was not great at studies, he was impeccable in his practical thinking, good with tinkering and reverse engineering. “Has he lost his way?” Lalit explained to himself . A slightly deviant grandson when he does it, normally is it not it condoned? In what way, Dinu was different then? He had a future which would be extinguished if an FIR was filed. A criminal would be surely made out of him. From the family side, he knew they didn’t care about Rs. 125,000/- but what would shock them would be the disloyalty. Weren’t these infractions spotted in others? But a seed of criminality if spotted, must be taken care of. He typed a small note on the computer himself. It read :-
“Dinu, I have been watching you. What you have done is not correct. Never do it again. I have not told anyone, but be sure you are under watch. Life would not give you a second chance.” He posted it to Dinu and told his PS to post it from a post office from a post office away from the office.
Now, he informed everyone that the damage has been limited to Rs. 125,000/- and the net banking and the ATM cards have been disabled. Everyone shied a breath of relief. The question was, could he find out anyone. His answer was no. The proof was inadequate and no purpose would be served if the FIR was to be lodged. Life requires saving lies. No one asked him and he didn’t have to reply regarding Dinu’s involvement.
Happy came and told that she was always sure that Dinu was not part of the problem. “But who was the person? She asked “We would investigate discreetly”, was his reply. After one month everyone forgot about the incident. Dinu got a job in Ranchi. With his first salary he got a reasonably costly gift each for the grand-parents. He was remembering the strange letter he had received and was asking curiously “Why?”
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
It was our pleasure trip to the USA. We arrived at Doha Airport on an early Summer morning. There were 50 ladies and gents in our group. Though we were all Indians, our states, languages, religions, castes and creeds were different. We introduced each other and became friends. There was unity in diversity. Indian was our identity. We called it 'Mini-India'. Our relationship was cordial.
We were going from Doha on the Persian Gulf to Los Angeles on the West coast of the USA by the Qatar Airways flight. It was a day time air journey. Flight time was around 16 hours irrespective of India, Qatar, Los Angeles times. Flight took off at around 7.35 a.m. (Qatar time) in the morning. Now our 'Mini-India' was moving in the sky which was almost clear and cloudless. The sunshine was bright. Weather was pleasant. I was enjoying the blue sky from my window seat.
Whatever met my eyes was new to me. I was amazed to see the Persian Gulf, Arabian desert, sand dunes and sand rivers. I felt the beauty of sand for the first time. We flew over Asia and Europe and enjoyed the landscape below. The breakfast, lunch and drinks in flight were delicious.
After some hours, the incredible beauty of the vast stretches of ice and ice hillocks mesmerised my mind. It was the North Pole in the middle of the Arctic and the end of the Earth in the northern hemisphere. One can walk on the Arctic ice. It was the rarest of the rare scenario. The panoramic view of blue water, stretches of hundreds of miles of ice and ice hillocks engaged my attention. I was overwhelmed by watching the heavenly beauty of the North Pole.
My friend disturbed me by saying- 'What are you gazing for hours without any break?'
'It is the Arctic and the North Pole' - I told him.
He could not believe it and saw in his own eyes. He was amazed and asked me - 'Why are we flying on the Arctic near the North Pole? There may be danger!'
I told him - 'Our Earth is spherical. From Qatar, the USA is on the opposite side of the Globe, though both are in the Northern hemisphere. We cannot go inside the Earth. The air route over the Arctic (near the North Pole) is the shortest and less time consuming. The distance is more in other routes. So we are flying near the North Pole. Our aeroplane and air route are in perfect condition. No danger can be expected.'
He asked- 'What is the temperature of the North Pole? It may be minus 100 degree celsius probably.'
I told him -'The temperature is at the freezing point i.e. around 0 degree celsius in Summer. Please see the vast stretches of ice and ice hillocks. The ocean under the Arctic ice is cold, but still warmer than the ice. So the ocean warms the air a bit. There are several species of fishes and aquatic animals in the water below the ice. The animals such as Polar Bear and Arctic Fox live on the fishes. It is cold because it does not get direct sunlight. The constantly moving ice makes it impossible for human settlement.'
He asked- 'What is the duration of the day and night there?'
I told him - 'From late March (Spring Equinox) to late September (Autumn Equinox), the duration of the day is 24 hours for around 6 months in Summer and the Sun is on the horizon. The midnight sun is a natural phenomenon in Summer. We are lucky to come on a fine and bright day in Summer to enjoy the beauty of ice on the Arctic. In Winter (from September to March), the weather is just the opposite with 24 hours night for around 6 months, temperature is around minus 40 degree celsius and the Sun is far below the horizon.'
Now, my friend also joined me in watching the spectacular scenario of the Arctic which is surrounded by Greenland, Siberia, Canada and Alaska. The long 16 hours flight time was not so boring.
After some time, the blue water of the Pacific Ocean and landscape appeared before my eyes. The smart, smiling and beautiful air hostess announced - 'We will reach Los Angeles within an hour.'
At last, we reached the Airport at about 1.35 p.m. in the afternoon ( Los Angeles time). After online immigration, we came outside and our guide was waiting there with a luxurious tourist bus. He welcomed us to the USA. We went to our hotel by bus with the guide who stayed with us during our American sojourn.
After refreshment, we were busy sightseeing the beautiful city of Los Angeles. Long hours of journey had exhausted us. After dinner, we returned to the hotel room for rest.
The spectacular beauty of Los Angeles, Hollywood and Beverly Hills fascinated our imagination. Los Angeles is a sprawling Southern California city and the centre of the World's film and television industry. Hollywood is our once in a lifetime destination. It is regarded in the highest esteem for the Oscar Awards. It is the heaven for cinema stars and well known for its glamour and movies. Near its iconic Hollywood Sign, studios such as Paramount Pictures, Universal and Warner Brothers were famous for behind-the-scenes actions. Beverly Hills is home to many Hollywood stars. It is famous for its privacy, security and beauty. The sceneries of Los Angeles, Hollywood and Beverly Hills are mind-blowing.
In the morning at 8 a.m. (after a couple of days) we left for Las Vegas which was around 270 miles away from Los Angeles. Our bus journey was fascinating to view the beautiful landscape on the way. We reached there in the afternoon and checked in a casino-hotel for rest, leisure and entertainment. Hotel rooms were less costly due to in house-casinos, bars, strip clubs, shopping centers. In Spanish, Las Vegas means 'The Meadows'. It was settled in 1905. It is the leading financial, commercial,cultural centre for Nevada, the Entertainment Capital of the world and famous for casino-hotels and associated activities. Downtown is around 4.2 miles. Its attractions are glamorous. There is something for every sort of traveler.The casinos are artistic masterpieces offering fame, fortune and riches beyond the wildest dreams, if we enter in and luck favours us. The city streets are filled with a symphony of glimmering casino lights, colors and sounds that are unmatched anywhere else.
Some call Las Vegas the 'Sin City' for its vices such as gambling, striptease, bar dance, adult entertainment, nightlife, etc. Las Vegas strips are spectacular. It is an outlet for the unfulfilled secret passions of humans. It is open all night long. Nightlife is more glamorous than daylife. Nights are more beautiful than days. Sins are part of the nightlife. It is not about glorification of sins. But sins are the actual happenings, a way to attar at tourists. Otherwise, around 50 millions of tourists won't come to the 'Sin City' annually, in spite of the heavy expenditure involved. Its tourism generates 58 billion dollars annually and supports 3,70,000 local jobs / business there.
In Las Vegas, it's legal for adults to do many things that are outlawed in many major cities. Adult entertainment venues are also known as gentlemen's clubs or strip clubs. Many of its destinations cater to adult vices, hence the enduring 'Sin City' moniker. All its vices have been continuing for around 100 years. Sins are not treated as crimes and as such tolerated there.
After an early dinner in an Indian restaurant, we enjoyed the 'Fremont Street Experience' in the evening. It is a must-see in Las Vegas. Live shows are performed here by eminent artists. Strip dances are the main attractions. Free light shows are enchanting. It is a street in downtown. Its Viva Vision video screen is the largest in the World. It was an incredible experience for us.
After Fremont Street Experience, our tour guide left us saying - 'Las Vegas is primarily known for its gambling, shopping, fine dining, entertainment and nightlife. It is the global leader in the hospitality industry. The City's tolerance for numerous forms of adult entertainment earned it the title of the 'Sin City' of the world. Striptease, lap dance, strip club, bar dance, etc. are common and normal features here. Please enjoy your nightlife in privacy and come to the hotel any time. Night is open for enjoying life. But be careful. There is a saying - 'Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas'. All are your unknown friends. Pay and enjoy is the slogan of the night. No one knows the other. At the end of the night, none is your own. Tipping is expected everywhere. Sins are not regarded as crimes here. If you like, you may enjoy the sins at your risk.'
At about 10 pm, our 'Mini-India' was separated for enjoying life individually. Glamorous life began. Who went where, we did not know. Our hotel was at a walkable distance. We were engaged in some forms of entertainment.
My friend told me - 'As per the tour program, we will leave for the Grand Canyon tomorrow. In future we may not get any chance to come here to enjoy the sins (which are crimes in India) and such an opportunity may not be available in other cities of America. Let's have a chance to indulge in sins which will evaporate in the morning sunshine. Our expenses for such fun should be shared by us, since we don't know who would gain or lose in the sins'.
I said - 'Ok. We should not leave the chance. To avoid any unforeseen unpleasant situation, we should be careful. We have to take the risk and return by midnight'.
For the sake of experience, I entered into the casino, gambled and earned 60 dollars. Services in the casino came around with free drinks. But the tip was 2 dollars per drink. The sin was both pleasure and profit for me. I was happy for my gain in gambling.
My friend went into a strip club and enjoyed striptease at a cost of 50 dollars including dance, tips and drinks. Striptease was glamorous but costly. My friend was glad for the romantic experience in spite of the loss.
After enjoying the spectacular vices, me and my friend reached our hotel room in the dead of night. Our gain in the casino was lost in the strip club. Out of my gambling profit, I shared my friend 50 dollars for the striptease loss. Still our net profit was 10 dollars from the sins which were pleasant, passionate, romantic and also costly. However, such experiences were new to us. We did not bother about the sins which were no crimes, rather funny. Our vices were lost in the night. We were gentlemen in the morning.
We thanked the tolerance of the 'Sin City'. Whatever happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas. Next day, we left for the Grand Canyon.
The 'Sin City' is a Heaven on Earth. Its sins are glamorously beautiful and funny which remained in my memory ever after.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
Thirteenth floor.
My apartment
stifles a shudder.
Is it raining outside?
Sure. A mutiny rages.
Dead plants fester.
Incomplete bird-songs float.
Fetid nullah carries
pairs of rotten shoes.
Soaked backs of pariah
dogs bounce hard raindrops.
Pallid evening sky grey as
the lips of soothsayer about
to predict a tragic death.
In million fragments of its
liquid web rain spins
a conspiracy across
the marshy carpet splayed
obscenely thrust towards
the evening sky.
The wind dripping, inconsolable
looks for someone long-lost.
Knocks on each window pane.
A lone finger perhaps mine
stretched to the horizon
flicks off the weak moon.
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.
Grief is a silent vale.
As I try to run the distance to reach it's cliff,
fall every time and left panting,
'tis never easy you know, console myself.
A lack of grit and purpose, never tried enough.
Looking back,
it doesn't seem good
as I could have done it.
Never too difficult.
Now it doesn't matter.
I try to walk alone,
afraid of falling again,
losing my bones to the fishes.
Spring doesn't come again.
It arrived while I was dozing on a couch,
touched me, sang some songs and fled.
No use searching for it.
I now wait for you to come, my dear.
I may see you in the radiant eve with the lone light flickering, flowers swaying in the wind and birds singing.
Together, we'll be laughing like long lost friends and riding the clouds.
I have seen the young sun growing pale fighting the battles
yet rising in triumph vanquishing the foes,
the faded moon fleeting in strange desperation, laughing in mirth as it eludes the enemy's clasp,
the stars glittering in glee in a scattered sky without a trace of agony being devoid of friends,
the winds offering incense at dawn and at dusk in gratitude to gods for their existence and strength,
water in rivers and seas dancing in frenzy in a spiritual ecstasy singing God's praise,
why are we afraid?
we are no fragile souls wrapped in some wrinkles and warts,
ignore the shadows trailing in our silent sojourns and rise with flowers.
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..
I stare at
what seems an inevitability of being old;
that the subject of death
recurs in our talks and
each one comes up differently
although sure of its certainty !
We all are nearing seventy.
No one of us is afraid of death though;
but each one has fancied an exit unique.
Paritosh, the widower, has this:
“To leave quietly in my sleep,
As mutely a ripe old leaf detaches itself !
They only see me in bed as lifeless,
as a pale withered flower.”
Manindra, always a family man, says:
“Why should I go stealthily, awry?
I wish to have my entire family
by my bed-side as I leave.
But I don’t wish they cry.”
Banshi, always into histrionics, says:
“Post-death I would have one regret,
of course if I could sense one then !
had I not been into a duologue with Yamdoot*
as he came to take me away.”
Sarat, a great lover of music, wishes:
“As I breathe my last, I wish
I am able to tell someone to play
Mehdi Hasan’s 'Nadiya kinare mora gaon'
Or 'Amwa taley sainya kabse akele' !
I can only pass this world peacefully
by listening to it one last time.”
We are jovial about death
we celebrate death everyday, in our own way;
our discussions always end
with a hearty laughter !
Because we discover:
in our supposedly wishless deaths yet
each one of us unknowingly wants
that cherished last wish is met !
That the way the end we cherish
may or may not come true,
but we all saw the baby that once
trod the grass and played with toy
in trying and tumbling steps,
in years, grew to a handsome boy !
To show that life has its own pace
it moves the same way in death, with grace.
*Yamdoot is a messenger of Death.
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.
Mine is not a trained hand
Nor am I keen to learn
The folding of papers in turn
And giving it a shape, size of a boat
I know how to get wet and float
My paper boat down the stream
After a shower of rain
Splashing water, with a giggle full throat
It is life, my life, I kept it afloat.
The thatched roof coloured the rain
Like raw coffee poured in haste
As the little boat painted the crest
Of my imagination, ignorant of rest
In purple hue like Autumn sunset.
With chirping of birds returning to nest
Swaying Kasatandi in smoky river beds
Ready to raise a coloured canvas in zest
My emotion rule my mind till now
As the boat floated on hindered down
Wadding its way among water bubbles.
It turns up side down and I frown
To find it wet, heavy and unusable
Like pretty pleasure of life, positions too
When there is a countdown
To fall a prey to COVID-19,
For all and sundry, king or the clown
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.
Sharing a conversation that I read in a Tamil fortnightly magazine recently.
A man was in the dying stages of his life. He saw God standing very near to him with a suit case in his hand.
God: It is time for you to depart from this world Son!
Man: What is it in your suit case?
God: Your Possessions.
Man: Like my dresses, money, jewels etc. isn’t it?
God: No. They are not your possessions. They belong to this earth.
Man: Then, does the suit case contain my memories?
God: No, Memories belong to Time.
Man: Then, Does it contain my Knowledge ?
God: No, Knowledge belongs to the circumstances.
Man: Ok then, does it contain my family and friends?
God: No, they all dwell in your heart.
Man: Surely it contains my body?
God: No, your body will be consigned to dust.
Man: Then, it must contain my soul.
God: Son, your soul belongs to me.
Not satisfied with God’s reply, the Man forcibly snatched the suit case from God’s hands and opened it himself. IT WAS EMPTY!. With tears rolling down his cheeks and a broken heart, the man asked God:
Man: Nothing is mine?
God: You said correctly.. Nothing is there in your possession.
Man: In that case, what exactly is my possession.
God: Yes. All the moments that have lived and all the good actions that you have rendered.
( The suit case was full of such moments that only God could see)
This conversation between God and Man teaches a very valuable lesson for all of us.
That is this: That Every moment that we are fortunate to live is ours. So, let us fill each of these moments only with good thoughts and actions. Let us see only good things. Hear only good things. Talk only good things… And let us thank God each and every moment.
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.
THE MINUTES OF A MEMORABLE MEETING
Translated from Odia by Priya Bharati
After reading the letter, Dillip Mohanty looked closely at the address on the envelope.
His address was written correctly. Dillip Mohanty, Deputy Chief Engineer, etc.
The writer of the letter was not unknown to him. Having served outside the state for a pretty long time, he had lost touch with most of the people he had known from his state. He had almost forgotten the names of his intimate friends. Contact with kith and kin was maintained once in a while through letters although infrequently. In this context, a letter from a famous man from his home state surprised him and made him a bit unsure - whether it was addressed to him?
The letter was personally written by the Deputy Chief Minister of his state, Kuber Dalei.
Kuber Dalei was from his neighboring village. They had been schoolmates for eight years, that is, from class four to class eleven. After that, they had never met for the past thirty years. Within this time, Kuber Dalei had risen from Sarpanch to Deputy Chief Minister. Similarly, Dillip Mohanty had risen from Assistant Engineer and was now Deputy Chief Engineer in a reputed company.
This letter from him was the most unexpected. He had written, “To cater to the needs of the local people, I am upgrading the old high school to a college.” He had invited Dillip to be the chief guest and he would not take no for an answer.
Dillip Mohanty had to accept the invitation of his former classmate. On the scheduled date, he got down at the station close to his village. He had not expected the minister’s car to be there to receive him. The Honorable Deputy Chief Minister had sent his apology for not receiving him personally. The Principal of the proposed college Dr. Sanjib Mishra, President of the Managing Committee and the Head Master of his old High School, Narahari Babu with some college students were present at the station to receive him with garlands in their hands.
Dillip Mohanty felt uncomfortable seeing that all these special arrangements had been made for him. He did not feel that such a grand welcome was necessary. He had not contributed in any way to the college in his native village, and he felt that he did not deserve the respect and attention that he was getting. On alighting from the train, he touched the feet of Narahari Babu, his old-time Head Master to show due respect. While sitting beside him in the car he maintained the same decorum and respect towards him. When they reached the college, the Deputy Chief Minister Kuber Dalei came forward to receive him. He embraced Dillip Mohanty immediately. There had not been much change in the appearance of Dillip Mohanty, but there had been a sea change in the appearance of Kuber Dalei. Dillip said to himself, “If I had met Kuber in some other place, it would have been difficult to recognize him.”
Kuber Dalei had left no stone unturned in his arrangements to greet Dillip Mohanty as their chief guest. From the time of receiving him at the station to the time of seeing him off, Kuber had meticulously planned the whole event.
In the evening the College opening ceremony was followed by a general meeting. There was a great crowd that day probably because of the presence of the Deputy Chief Minister.
The meeting started as scheduled.
The President of the Managing Committee read out the report on the proposed changes to be made in the college. There was a special mention of thanks to the Deputy Chief Minister for his contribution in creating the college and there was a request to the public to help and cooperate for the development of the college. This was followed by the address of the President of the college. Some elite members of society praised the Deputy Chief Minister for his contribution towards the college and prayed for his long life.
Next was the turn of the Chief Guest to speak.
Dillip Mohanty was not being able to appreciate the way the meeting was going on. He had no interest in politics when it was mixed with education. He wondered if he had not made an error of judgment by accepting Kuber Dalei’s invitation
He became apprehensive because he could not figure out why Kuber Dalei had invited him so ceremoniously to be the chief guest. In fact on such occasions, such a grand welcome is given to industrial magnates, ministers, or smugglers with the hope of a large donation to the institution. Such people look forward to such invitations and they give adequate donations to get recognition. But Dillip Mohanty did not exactly fit into this category. He was holding a high post and earning substantially but his savings were not sufficient if a donation of a large amount was expected from him. He became apprehensive and could not fathom why Kuber Dalei had invited him with such fanfare.
He wondered how he would come out from this situation with dignity. Kuber Dalei had donated his land to the college and had also arranged Government and Non-Government funds for it. That he would be probably expecting a fat amount as a donation from Dillip Mohanty became all the more clear. Dillip Mohanty started cursing himself for accepting this invitation without giving it sufficient thought.
Now it was his turn to address the audience. He spoke for about half an hour. After finishing his speech, he had a feeling that his speech was not very inspiring. But it was followed by loud applause from the audience.
Then the President of the meeting, Deputy Chief Minister, Kuber Dalei got up to give his speech. Loud applause greeted him.
After addressing the members on the dais and the audience, he said, “I cannot express in words as to how happy I am at the inauguration of a College here today. I can be counted as an illiterate person. I could not qualify for the matriculation exam even after three attempts. I was no good as a student. I had all the facilities to get a higher education, but somehow academic excellence eluded me. Though I left studying, I realized deep within my heart that education is priceless. It is unfortunate that many meritorious students, due to lack of funds and adequate facilities are unable to pursue higher studies. There is a saying, “One may have suitable ear lobes but lack earrings, and one may have earrings but not have ears lobes to flaunt them.” Many meritorious students do not have enough funds to buy books or pay their college fees. They are forced to leave their studies halfway and become clerks and mingle with people who have low mental maturity. There is no dearth of such examples. So by taking an initiative to establish a college, I have not only tried to help such students but also have tried to fill a void within and experience a sense of satisfaction. I feel that today I have been able to qualify a major exam.”
“Today I would like to narrate to you an incident of my student life. As a minister, we have to attend several meetings and make innumerable speeches. Our speeches have necessary and unnecessary statements. They may be repetitive and fictitious. You may assume that as the President of this College, I will give a similar speech. But I would like to say something new to you all, something that I have not divulged to anyone before. I request all of you to listen to me with patience.
“The incident that I am going to narrate today took place nearly forty years ago when I was a student. I am the only son of my father and I belong to a rich family. My father was the owner of a hundred acres of land. For me, education was just a pastime. My mother did not want to send me to school because she could not bear being separated from me. It was my father who had forced me to study until High School. My mother used to cry thinking about how I would stay with other children like a commoner.
“Though my father had sent me to the hostel, some special arrangements had been made for me. It was not a big deal to get such special treatment in those days. I stayed in the room meant for the Hostel Superintendent. Special food was cooked for me and the Superintendent. Good quality rice, ghee, fish, vegetables were sent regularly from my home. My father enjoyed hunting. So very often, deer, sambar, and rabbit meat were sent for me to my hostel. The Superintendent was paid fifteen rupees extra to take special care of me. Not only that, his family members too had a share of all the food that was sent for me. The mess cook, servants, peons, everyone was subservient to me. My father used to keep everyone happy. My classmates and teachers were extra nice to me. Besides these special arrangements, I got a generous amount of pocket money. My father gave me ten rupees and my mother gave me fifteen and sometimes twenty rupees. Everyone was grateful for the lavishness which I bestowed on them.
“My affluent lifestyle did not have any impact on two people. One was a pure Gandhian, our khadi-clad Head Master, Narahari Babu. He had even turned down the request that my father had made to give me private tuition. He was the only person who refused to accept things sent from my home like rice, fish, vegetables, pulses, etc. He was the only person who dared to punish me by making me stand up on the bench when I fared poorly in my studies. I was afraid of him only.
“The other person who was never affected by my affluence and material possessions was my classmate, Dillip Mohanty who is the chief guest of this auspicious occasion. Narahari Babu was a disciple of Gandhi and he had adopted his philosophy. He set an example for others by his austere Gandhian lifestyle. So not being carried away by the affluence of other people can be considered natural for him. But my classmate, Dillip Mohanty, how did he remain immune to all this affluence of mine? I fail to understand this even today. I still remember the student, Dillip Mohanty. His possessions included two pieces of handwoven dhoti, one cheap shirt, and a towel. He kept his belongings in a cane suitcase. It also had a bottle of body oil, some parched rice in a cloth bag, and jaggery in an earthen pot. Everybody knew that Dillip Mohanty came from a poor family. He had lost his father. His mother took great pains to educate him. His only obsession was to study. He was by nature amiable and pleasing. He was simple and humble. He was the best student in our class and was loved by all. This was one of the reasons why I wanted to be his friend. But he did not accept anything from me. He refused the offer of even the smallest bit of cake that came from my home. For this, I had a special reverence for him. But at the same time, I thought he was egoistic because he was indifferent to my affluence.
“Then a deplorable incident happened. My father had sent fifty rupees for my monthly expenditure. There were five ten-rupee notes. That money was to be given to the Superintendent. But for some reason, the Superintendent was not present that day. I had kept the money with me. It was Sunday afternoon. Dillip and I were studying. The money was lying near my book. I went out for a short while. After coming back, I sat down again to study. But Dillip left after a while. After some time I discovered that there were only four-ten rupee notes. I suspected Dillip Mohanty immediately. I went to him and asked him to return my ten rupees. He was completely taken aback. He said, “I do not know, your money was near your book.” I accused him and told him to stop playing games and return my money. He had only one answer. He said that he had not taken the money. I was agitated by his behavior. It was beyond my comprehension as to how such a meritorious student could stoop so low to steal. Such unworthy and cheap behavior enraged me. Within no time the news spread like wildfire throughout the hostel. All were my well-wishers. They sympathized with me and rebuked Dillip. In the evening the Superintendent returned. The moment he heard my allegation, he was furious. He called Dillip and advised him to return the money. He said, “I will excuse you if you return that money.” He also threatened that if he did not return the money, the consequences would be bad. He tried to convince him to return the money. Dillip had only one answer. He said, “I did not take the money.” The Superintendent lost his patience. He first thrashed Dillip with his hand and then caned him several times. But Dillip had only one reply. He said that he had not taken the money.
“The Superintendent was agitated beyond measure. The anger was not exactly what Dillip had done. He was more worried about me. What would he say to my father about the stolen money? He felt that he would be blamed for the loss of money. He searched Dillip’s belongings but the money was not found.
“That day the punishment meted to Dillip was extremely brutal. Everyone was sure that because of dire poverty, Dillip had been tempted to commit such an act in a moment of weakness. All my friends endorsed the punishment saying that the thief deserved it.
“The next day I discovered that Dillip was completely innocent. I had kept one ten-rupee note in my book as a bookmark when I had left that place for a short while. I had completely forgotten about it and had no recollection of this incident until the next day. I had suspected Dillip because he was poverty-stricken. The next morning when I discovered the money, I was shocked and repented silently. I ran to Dillip. His head was swollen due to the beating he had received and his eyes were swollen due to grief. I had gone intending to say, “Dillip you are innocent, I have got my money.” But seeing his condition, I could not say anything. I did not dare to own up my mistake. I felt miserable. After this incident, I tried to rebuild my friendship with him but could not get close to him again. Dillip changed completely after this unfortunate incident. He did not mingle with anybody. His life just revolved around studies and nothing else.
My dear brothers and sisters, for the past forty years I have repented and prayed for forgiveness. I was tempted to write a letter to him to convey the truth but I did not dare to do so. When Dillip was at college, I had written a letter to him to offer him financial help. He had sent a short reply politely refusing to take help.
“After this, the time elapsed. Many changes took place in our lives. But I have never forgotten Dillip. I have kept track of him. Dillip passed his exam with flying colors, went to Germany to pursue higher studies, and was awarded a Ph.D. He holds a senior position in his company. I experienced a sense of pride in his success. But to tell you the truth, I have been suffering deep anguish, an indescribable agony since that unfortunate incident.
“I have personally invited him to inaugurate this college to create an opportunity to meet him. I had a strong fear that he would not accept my invitation. But the generosity of his heart and mind is evident from his presence today. He has not imprisoned himself with trivial incidents of the past. He has accepted my invitation and come here. This proves that he has pardoned me unconditionally. Still, for the unpardonable crime that I had committed, I fall on my knees and ask for his forgiveness.
Kuber Dalei finished saying this and he fell at the feet of Dillip Mohanty who was completely dumbstruck. He had been listening to this confession with his head bent. He immediately got up from his chair and lifted Kuber Dalei and embraced him and started crying loudly. Kuber too held him and shed copious tears.
The people who had gathered there witnessed this emotional episode and became silent for some time.
After a while, Narahari Babu, the working President of the Managing Committee and a true Gandhian, separated the two inconsolable friends.
The meeting came to an end with Narahari Babu’s befitting concluding remark, “Let the magnanimity in the hearts of these two friends be the foundation of this educational institution.”
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.
THE UNFORGETTABLE TWINS.....A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE
A man with relentless service to the society, runs an NGO which focuses on promoting girls' education, a medical professional with impeccable track record of surgeries, profound knowledge, expertise in handling critical medical cases of pregnancy, the only name which every couple aspiring for a baby could think of. A man who is fondly and famously called ‘a poor man’s doctor’ for his free service to the under-privileged class of the society. He is none other than Dr. Sunil and it’s our privilege and honour to felicitate him with the award ‘Doctor of the Year’. So put your hands together to welcome ‘Dr Sunil’, a true legend the medical profession is proud of, …and the whole medical fraternity looks up to.….
Announced the anchor of the event in a baritone voice, that reminded of the legendary actor Amitabh Bachhan. The entire auditorium was reverberating with the claps of audience which mostly comprised of the budding young medical professionals with lot of dreams and aspirations to make an indelible mark for themselves in the profession.
I got up and headed towards the stage to receive the award with some doubts and random thoughts tirelessly making rounds in the mind like 'Do I really deserve this?.. Is it necessary?' etc etc... Before, I could give additional fuel to the thoughts, I was on the stage and the felicitation was on.
In spite of the confusion in the mind, with great humility I received the award and delivered an address, not sure of it being an inspirational one, but certainly irrational and irrelevant to many as end of my address signals the start of sumptuous dinner and most of them were hungry as if they hadn't eaten since morning.
At the dinner table, a group of young medical professionals thronged me for my advice on ‘How to scale greater heights in the profession?' I simply smiled and replied…Don’t chase money, follow your heart. Do selfless service whole heartedly and that will pave a path for you with success, fame, money, happiness etc., all the way. One pretty girl in her early twenties asked me... Sir, what is your most painful experience in your professional life? This question startled me and hit me like a lightning bolt, but I composed myself immediately and in turn questioned her… why a painful experience? Why not a memorable and a pleasant one? "Pleasant experiences are memorable, but not life changing" was her prompt reply with lot of ease and clarity in her mind. She further added …"only the painful experiences teach you a lesson and give you a life time experience worthy, meaningful and life changing." One of my old friends interrupted the conversation, I thanked my stars and escaped from the situation, the question and that girl.
In the late night, resting on a recliner and looking at the stars from my balcony with a glass of wine in one hand, enjoying the serenity of the night with a light, soothing music of old Hindi melodies, I was literally on the seventh heaven. The next song that ran on the playlist was…..Kisi Ki Muskurahaton Pe Ho Nisaar, Kisi Ka Dard Mil Sake To Le Udhaar, Kisi Ke Vaaste Ho Tere Dil Me Pyar, Jeena Isi Ka Naam Hai… these lines suddenly reminded me of the question asked by the girl in the felicitation ceremony , my heart started pounding and I started sweating..
I travelled nearly twenty years down my memory lane and a late afternoon incident in my clinic flashed before my eyes… I could see everything as though, it was happening in front of me and I was a mute spectator to it….
It was a pleasant afternoon after a mild showers in the morning...the climate was soothing enough, less traffic, so the voice of nature in the form of hustling sound of leaves, harmony of birds' chirping was clear and pleasant. I was sitting in my O&G clinic gazing at the window, enjoying the serene beauty of nature and floating into the thoughts of the medical profession and the noble service being done to the mankind. I felt proud of being a doctor and lucky enough to get the opportunity to serve the society. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the utterance of Dr. Saab by the nurse...I shook a bit, as I was in a different world, landed on the earth and instantaneously in my clinic....
Yes,… I said.
A couple came for check-up... replied the nurse.
Ok....let them in...
Namaskar...Dr Sahab...greeted the couple in their late twenties…
By their appearance, I could figure out that they looked like lower middle class who strived very hard to survive. Generally, I charge a meagre amount or even don't depending upon the economic profile of the patient.
They had come for a routine check-up. I went through her reports, everything seemed good and she was going to give birth to twins. I asked my nurse to take her to the examination room. In the examination room, when I placed the stethoscope on the belly for a routine check-up, I was amazed to hear clearly the heart beats of the twins which is generally a rare phenomenon with the stethoscope in such check-ups. In addition to the heartbeat, I could hear someone mumbling. I was perturbed.!!!! Was something wrong with my stethoscope? I checked the stethoscope frantically and it seemed to be in perfect condition. Again, I repeated the examination on the belly and this time I could figure out that, it was some kind of conversation going on between the twins in the mother’s belly. I started listening to the conversation with lot of inquisitiveness. It ran something like this…
Male Twin Brother - Hello sister!
Female Twin Sister - Hello my brother...
M - Aren't you excited!!!!, we are going to see the light of the day....very soon. We will get rid of this tube like structure which brings food to us, we will be out of this water bubble… get rid of all the sliminess ...
F - Hmm...(in a gloomy tone)
M – Why!!! what happened?.. Aren’t you excited...?
F - Not sure...
M - Not sure of what...!!!!
F- Not sure of seeing the world...
M - You look confused, scared and lost. What's the matter? You are as hale and healthy as me....where is the problem? Tell me, my dear sister!
F - The other day, when you were sleeping..I overheard a conversation between our parents...
M - What was it? Weren't they excited about our landing on earth...
F - Yes, they were more excited than us. But, I think their poverty, other traditions, beliefs and culture force them to take a harsh decision...
M - What harsh decision.!!!.
F- They came to know from some tantrik guru that, one of us is a girl and they are thinking of aborting me if possible, or else to put me to sleep forever after our birth.....
M- What rubbish!!!
F- Rubbish, but harsh reality..
M- Sorry to hear this....but, if that is the case, why not both of us?..Why only you?
F - Because girls are still seen as a burden on the family, unlike boys, who carry forward the family’s lineage, take the responsibility of the family...If given an option, undoubtedly and unconditionally they would choose the boy over a girl..
M - What shall we do now?...
F - Nothing …except just waiting and watching.....
M- If something like that happens, I will never forgive our parents...
F- (Laughing loudly) Good to hear such words from you...and concern about me...but once you are out into the world...you will forget everything and even might not be aware of my co-existence with you...
M - Then what should I do?..
F - If possible, get this into your mind that both are equal and have equal right to live...and try to spread this message as much as you can. Even if one person transforms because of you, this conversation of ours about my future and my gender will find a meaning and purpose.........
Ok... sleep now...You have many things to do and achieve. Probably, I have only one thing to do, to sleep and may be forever………………
My eyes turned moist and I became speechless, over the last sentence in particular. At that point, I cursed myself for being a doctor, which enabled me to go through such painful experience. I was still in a quandary, did I really hear the conversation or I just imagined it from my subconscious mind after hearing all the stories of female foeticides in newspapers, magazines etc. Humane side of me wanted to question the parents about such barbaric act, but with what authenticity I could ask them? So, I refrained myself from further venturing into the matter.
I assured them that everything is ok. I did not charge anything from them but I could not dare ask them about their future plans. In stead I gave them some money to take care of themselves.
Though female foeticide was not a new thing and I had been reading about them in the newspapers, and watching in the news channels etc., it had never hit me as hard as on that afternoon. May be, such a close encounter with harsh reality was God's way of telling me to do my part for the society. That afternoon changed my perspective about life and its purpose. Soon after, I established an NGO that took care of orphan girls, promoted girls education, and provided financial assistance to poor families to take care of girl children.
Aji Sunte Ho….Raat bahut ho gayi hai…andar aa jayeeye….aasmaan mein kya rambha urvashi..dikh rahi hai aapko?…. my wife yelled in a shrill voice from inside.. and that brought me back to the present with a jerk. I grinned and went inside the house.
But, till date, many questions haunt me!!!.. whether that listening experience of the twins was real or was it a kind of hallucination? If it’s real !!!…, Did the female foetus see the light of the day? Did she survive? However, thanks to that experience I embarked on a path of saving girl children and ensuring their progress in life.
As rightly said by the pretty girl in her early twenties, a painful experience can sometimes become a life changing one .….
P Suresh Kumar is a Post Graduate in Human Resources Management. Presently, associated with NALCO, a Central PSU as Manager(HRD). He just tries his hand at some writings that come across his mind. He doesn’t claim to be a prolific writer but beams with pride even if called a novice writer. He has got many unfinished articles/write-ups/poems in his kitty. He can be reached at ‘todearsuresh@gmail.com’/09439288008
Life is a teacher. Enriching experiences at times give a sense of fulfillment.
Towards the later part of engineering, an unwanted situation came forth.
We, the students, went out of our campus in support of a countrywide movement and started blocking the main road that leads from the REC campus Gate towards Sector-3, Rourkela. It was a peaceful march by the daring rengcolians?. No slogan, no noise in the scheme…only sitting on the road and supporting the cause.
Cops arrived and warned to retreat else face dire consequences. Looked like a mild threat initially.
However, as time passed, it felt awfully grim and dauntingly serious. They were well positioned on the front. Gradually they grew in number and surrounded us on all sides carrying their scary apparatus?.
Those days, with ample Police exposure in the closest circle (Father, heading a special wing of Odisha Vigilance at Headquarters. Maternal uncle, a young IPS officer with CISF, Rourkela), I found this real life occurrence quite interesting ? although it was leading towards a dreadful repercussion.
Lathicharge looked inevitable !!! A senior cop known to my family was heading the troops. He must not have recognized me in the crowd. With a dubious mind, two choices were with me - run to him for rescue or face the legal wrath with my fellow college mates. Second option sounded more rational.
A frightful, unpleasant silence in the air! Principal, a great personality, had repeatedly urged the students to go back. However there was no sign of budge for a prolonged duration although the situation was showing sign of slipping out of control. Lastly he was able to convince giving emphasis on our Institute’s reputation. All obeyed with due reverence to the RESPECTED SIR.
We escaped an imminent Lathicharge!
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
AMBARISH, MY ATHEIST FRIEND
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The phone call had brought my dull day alive. When one is past sixty years of age, retired, jobless and addicted to huge mounds of food, moments of wakefulness and sleep tend to merge with each other in a seamless pattern. And a phone call is a welcome diversion. It was Ambarish, my friend from the college days. Whenever he comes visiting, in thought or in person, the mind gets alert, he is certainly not one of the hoipollloi who can be taken lightly.
And it has been like that ever since we met on a July evening forty six years back, at the entrance of East Hostel, Ravenshaw College. We got down from our rickshaws at the same time, nodded to each other, and carried our bedding and trunk to the dimly lit entrance hall. I extended my hand and introduced myself, Pitambar Mishra from Jajpur. He took my hand and smiled, Ambarish Gadnayak from Khandapara.
We went in search of the watchman and having found him sound asleep in the store room, asked him to open a room. We promptly grabbed the two window side beds. We dusted the wooden cots, the table and spread our bedding. The mess was to start operating from the next day only. So we went out of the college campus in search of an eating place. There was the famous South Indian Hotel across the road and we rushed in for their famous one and half rupee meal. It was a princely sum those days - the one and half rupees - and being a gluttonous Brahmin I sat down to do justice to the meal, determined to make it last in the stomach for at least one and half days. Ambarish, I found to my surprise, was a small eater, and completely indifferent to food. In fact he gave away some of the more delicious 'fixed quantity' items like the Vada and the Mysore Pak to me and was content with a few spoons of kheer.
Amabarish carried many more surprises for me. Imagine my shock when next morning around ten I found him without a bath and in no hurry to amble into the hostel mess for the first of the many meals we would be destined to eat in that infamous semilighted dungeon for the next four years. He was looking curiously at me, bathed and with sandal paste on my forehead, chanting mantras before an array of benign looking gods smiling from brand new, framed photographs. He waited patiently till I finished my Pooja. I asked him anxiously when he was going to take a bath and perform his Pooja since the dining hall would close business by ten thirty.
I almost collapsed in shock when Ambarish replied that he took bath only in the evening and he did no Pooja because he didn't believe in God! I looked above and almost shrieked in horror, Ye God, this frail, chit of a boy didn't believe in you, what Ballyhoo was this? And he had told me last evening that he had got a high first division in the High School exam? Was I looking at the eighth wonder of the world - someone who can score seventy four percent marks without assistance from God? And look at me, half an hour chanting of mantras in the morning and half an hour in the evening, yet I was given only a high second division with fifty eight percent marks by God? What justice was this?
Somehow this sense of injustice continued with me throughout my life, the list of grievances against God grew in number as the years rolled by. I almost died in shock when the son of our office Superintendent Rahman Sahab got a job as an engineer in NTPC whereas my son could manage only a clerical job in a bank. I suspected that in the assembly of Gods, Rahman Mian's Allah was capable of giving better rewards than all the numerous Gods and goddesses I worshipped every day.
And Ambarish's son? There was nothing that God could give him, simply because there was no such thing as Ambarish's son. Ambarish never married. Like his disbelief in God he also held that marriage was a useless shackle on one's freedom and he didn't believe in such artificial social institutions. Like he was indifferent to food, Ambarish was also totally uninterested in girls. He was unlike us, the perpetually hungry Romeos with raging hormones, waiting for the girls in the class to ask us for our notes for the exams. We were always ready with the notes in one hand and our throbbing heart on the other to give them away in promise of our eternal love. The girls, smart cookies as they were, used to take the notes and ignore the hearts, yet hope always burnt in shameless embers.
Ambarish was an extraordinary specimen. There was no one in the hostel like him. He and I used to go to the class together. When we got out of the room, I would remove my chappal, fold my hands and make a silent prayer to God. Ambarish would laugh at me,
"Why are you disturbing your Gods all the time? Isn't it enough if you say your prayers just once in the morning, after your bath?"
If a cat crossed our path I would be in a hurry to retrace the steps, Ambarish would drag me back, his lean hands showing surprising strength, standing guarantee for anything untoward happening. When we got into a rickshaw, if there was another friend with us I would walk a little distance so that three persons did not set out on a journey. Ambarish would shout at me, pointing out that including the rickshaw puller there would be four people, but I never took a chance.
And to add to all this bravado, Ambarish's pet fetish was to chase the lizards on the walls of our room and kill them. This horrified others, convinced as they were, of the evil consequences of such action. Someone used to tell Ambarish that killing lizards was certain to bring the wrath of Goddess Laxmi. Ambarish would have nothing of it, pointing out the hundreds of lizards all over the hostel, which should be enough to make the Goddess happy, if there was any such Goddess. The sheer blasphemy of this statement used to scandalise us so much that we preferred to drop the argument.
But Ambarish was brilliant, unbelievably brilliant. He hardly used to read the text books, but by God, the kind of books he used to buy and borrow from the library was mind boggling. His friends, including me, didn't know ninety percent of the authors, but Ambarish had a lot of patience with us, he would explain most of the stuff in the simplest terms, moving with effortless ease from Marx's Classless Society to Simone de Beauvoir's Feminism and Kafka's Existentialism.
After our post graduation Ambarish joined the Indian Economic Service and spent his entire career in Delhi, except for a five years' posting in the Nairobi office of the African Development Bank. After retirement he chose to return to Bhubaneswar and some of our old classmates kept meeting regularly over lunch or dinner. Ambarish's acceptance among the wives was a mixed affair. The ladies usually harboured a curiosity for a confirmed, diehard bachelor, but they were shocked when Amabrish started talking, moving from Columbia in one moment to Sierra Leone the next, finally landing up at Nepal via Ethoipia, Cambodia, Nabarangpur and Kalahandi! After the first such get together my wife whispered to me,
"This one is weird! Good that he didn't get married, some poor lady has been saved from a lifelong punishment of boredom!"
When we were students at Vani Vihar, our Post Graduate University in Bhubaneswar, we used to frequent a small eating joint, a thatched hut, named Annapurna Bhojanalaya for our evening tea and plates of piping hot vadas and pancakes called Kakara. Surprisingly, even after forty years, the shop still survived, the thatched hut had given place to a pucca structure, the shop keeper Jadu Sahoo had retired and his son Madhav managed it, calling himself the Proprietor of Annapurna Restaurant. Yes, the name had persisted, as did the piping hot vadas and sweet Kakaras. We enjoyed the snacks there, the ginger tea had retained its superb taste through all these years. The ladies, our perfumed, painted and chiffon-draped wives, would have wrinkled their nose at the joint, but memory is memory! Made the snacks tastier and tea sweeter!
Today I was shocked to see the unkempt appearance of Amabarish when I met him at the restaurant. His hair was disheveled, face unshaven, obviously he had not taken a bath and his dress was crumpled. He sat down and ordered vada, samosa and kakara. He told me he had not eaten anything since morning.
Just then a poor beggar appeared outside and kept looking at the snacks and sweets in the shelves longingly. Our Ambarish was always a friend of beggars, the hungry and the tattered. He got up, went outside and held the hand of the beggar, virtually dragging him inside. He made the beggar sit on a chair and ordered snacks and tea for him. The poor chap was stunned, he kept on whining that he just wanted a few rupees. Ambarish gave him a tenner, but insisted that he must eat. The moment Ambarish turned his back to return to his seat, Madhav, the proprietor gave the beggar such a hard, murderous glare that the poor fellow got up and ran away like a frightened deer.
Amabarish looked at the fleeing fellow and sighed,
"Poor chap, looks so hungry. May God protect him!"
I jumped up a few inches from my seat and looked at him in utter disbelief. When the brief spell broke, I asked him,
"Ambarish, can you repeat what you said just now? Let me hear it again!"
He repeated like a small child reciting lessons from his Miss,
"The poor beggar looks so hungry, may God protect him."
"Since when have you started taking the name of God, Ambarish? You are the world's original diehard atheist!"
He looked at me wistfully,
"Pitambar, ever since Corona has stated terrorising us, so many of my friends and close relatives have got it. My elder sister, her husband, their daughter, her son, my cousin brother's entire family, every one was attacked by Corona, but they all came back from the grip of death. You know what each of them said, 'It is God's will. He alone can save, he alone can end life like breaking a matchstick, as simple as that'. It's like, I have myself stared at death so many times and looked away, chastised."
I tried to console him,
"Nothing will happen to you Ambarish, relax."
"I am not talking about me, idiot, I am talking about the pattern. Look at the number of deaths, the developed countries like America, Italy, France bearing all the brunt, despite their riches and high level of education. Small countries, underdeveloped, hungry, malnourished, from Africa, Asia, Latin America, escape with minor casualties. Isn't this God's way of saying that riches and plenty are nothing before God's will? How do you explain all this? And Pitambar, how do you explain what happened at the time of Fani last year? The entire Puri town was devastated by the super cyclone, but not a brick fell from the temple of Jagannath, Lord of the Universe?"
I was listening to Ambarish, to the pent up feelings he had kept bottled up all these days. I was wondering what triggered the implosion within him today.
He answered my question even before I asked him,
"You know Pitambar, before I retired I was the MD of National Cooperative Development Corporation in Delhi. When I joined there I found there was an Odia PS, Keshav Charan Sahoo, an exceptionally competent, honest, hard working fellow, highly recommended by my predecessor who had him as his PS. I was hesitant, I didn't want two Odias to work together, lest tongues started wagging. But when I met Keshav, the fifty year old PS, I knew no one could be as good as him. So I kept him and I never had an occasion to regret my decision. He was a perfect PS, good in dictation, typing, confidentiality and keeping secrets. And there was nothing he could not get done. He remained a loyal subordinate till my last day in office and when I retired he confessed that I was the best boss he ever had."
"Were you in touch with him from here?"
"Yes, in fact I had spoken to him last month, asking him for some help in my pension matter. He had got it done. And you know what? I saw him last night."
"Last night? How could you see him last night when you are in Bhubaneswar and he is in Delhi?"
"I swear Pitambar, I saw him as clearly as I am seeing you now. In my dreams. He appeared from nowhere and stood before me, the same Keshav, prim and proper, smartly dressed. I asked him in my dream to sit down and take a dictation. He shook his head, 'Sir, I am under orders of transfer.' I was aghast, 'How can you be transferred, you have not spent much time here?' 'I know Sir, I don't want to go, but I am told my services are required in the new place'. 'What new place, where?' He smiled in a very sad, meaningful way and the next moment he was gone! Just like that! The dream was so real I got up, trembling. I think I was also disturbed by some fluttering noise at the window. I looked up and Pitambar, believe me, I saw a small white bird flying away into the dark sky".
Ambarish had started crying silently, his voice had become heavy,
"I could not go back to sleep. As soon as the dawn broke I called his number. After a few rings his son answered. He was sobbing, 'Our father passed away one hour back Sir, he left us suddenly.' I was stunned, I asked him how it happened. It seems Keshav had fever and cough for the past one week. He took paracetamol and cough syrup and refused to go for a Corona checkup, thinking he was alright. Last night around eleven he developed severe breathing problem and by four in the morning he was no more! Life is so fleeting Pitambar! Here now and gone in a few hours! I remembered what he had told me in the dream. That his services were required at his new place of posting! I am sure God needed a competent PS to handle all the extra workload due to Corona. And he selected the best among the Private Secretaries!"
Ambarish sat there broken, devastated. The snacks and the cup of tea lay there untouched. Somewhere, up above, God was probably smiling at a new believer.
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Story behind the story:
Last week on Saturday I got a message at seven in the morning that my former PS at Cuttack Bench of CAT died suddenly of Corona. He was a gem of a person - very competent and scrupulously honest. He was suffering from cough and fever for a week but refused to go for a Corona test, claiming that paracetamol and cough syrup would be enough to cure him. Corona devoured him, breaking my heart and that of many others who had known him.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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