Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXVIII (02-Oct-2020)
(Title : Homeward Bound - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Happy to offer you the 88th edition of LiteraryVibes. We have returned to you with some wonderful poems and delightful short stories.
In today's edition we welcome five new poets and authors, all highly accomplished and talented. Dr. C. K. Mathew, from the IAS, is a retired bureaucrat who already has four books to his credit. His blog is eagerly followed by thousands of admirers all over the world. We are indeed lucky to have a piece of his brilliant write up covering important aspects of life. Dr. Thirupurasundari, an academic of repute from Chennai is an ardent fan of the musical maestro Shri S. P. Balasubramaniam. Her tribute to the genius is indeed touching. Mr. Joseph Abraham, a well published writer, has sent a beautiful story from the distant shores of the United States for the LiteraryVibes. We do hope his golden touch will take our eMagazine to readers in the famed land currently caught in an election frenzy. Ms. Akankshya Kar, a young Financial Analyst and Investment Banker from Delhi, writes beautiful poetry and has published lots of them in international journals. Ms. Sukanya V. Kunju, a Post Graduate student from St. Michael's College, Cherthala, Kerala, writes poems from her heart, simple and beautiful. We wish these creative artists tremendous success in their literary and professional career. We do hope to host their writings in our future editions.
Also on offer today is a brilliant philosophical musing on "The Idea of God" by Dr. Avaya Chandra Mohapatra, former Professor of Geography at the North Eastern Hill University, Shillong. The interesting article can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/346
Dear Readers, our greetings to you on Gandhi Jayanti, the memorable birthday of the father of our nation. In these terribly trying times when our country is but a pale shadow of what the venerable Mahatma had envisioned, the heart cries out in anguish, even on a birthday, traditionally meant for celebrations. Close on the heels of a brutal, gruesome, barbaric gangrape leading to the tortuous death of a minor girl, comes the news of another gangrape, another death, on the holy land where a temple is being built for Lord Rama, who crossed the mighty ocean to fight for the honour of his wife. A country which cannot ensure safety of its women, a land where criminals and hooligans break the law with impunity, and persons loot banks of thousands of crores and manage to flee the country to live in luxurious comfort in cooler climates, is indeed doomed to be a third rate place, irrespective of the promise of becoming the third, fourth or fifth largest economy in the world. What will the trillion dollars buy if it cannot give safety, dignity and justice for the weak, the oppressed and the deprived - the very people for whom the Mahatma went to jail and sacrificed his life? Will we think in these lines on Bapu's birthday? And for the rest of the year?
In today's LV there is a poem by Prof. Molly Joseph and a story by me to remind ourselves of some of these questions. There is also a very informative, erudite article on "The Enduring Legacy of Mahatma Gandhi in the Context of COVID Pandemic" by the famous Gandhian scholar Dr. S. N. Sahu at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/348. Hope you will enjoy these and all the other fare offered in the 88th edition of LV which can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/347. Please forward the links to all your friends and contacts along with http://www.positivevibes.today/positivevibes where the previous 87 editions of LV are available.
Take care, stay safe and keep smiling.
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
KATHJODI REVISITED
02) Haraprasad Das
JASMINES (MALLI MAALA) - 45
03) Geetha Nair G
SWAN SONG
04) Dilip Mohapatra
TRACES
05) Krupasagar Sahoo
TAMASHA AT TAMANDO
06) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSING 11: WALK
07) Sunil Kumar Biswal
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
08) C.K. Mathew
BEHIND THE VEIL
09) Thirupurasundari C J
A MUSICAL BREEZE THAT WILL ALWAYS FLOURISH
10) Joseph Abraham
THE CHICKEN REPUBLIC
11) Akankshya Kar
LOVE LETTER TO SELF
METAMORPHOSIS
12) Sukanya. V. Kunju
FRIENDSHIP
13) Madhumathi. H
CROCKERY OF LIFE...
WATER'S VOICE...
14) Dr. Molly Joseph M
BAPU !
15) COLLABORATIVE (Sundar, Padmini, Gita, Zia & Anju)
MOTHER EARTH
16) Hema Ravi
AS THE CROW FLIES...
17) Sheena Rath
ME
18) Dr. Aparna Ajith
LOCKDOWN VISITORS
19) Parvathy Salil
REFRAME
20) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
THE (MISSING) FUNNY BONE!
21) Ashok Kumar Ray
DEATH VALLEY TO SKYWALK
22) Abani Udgata
KALIJAI
23) Pradeep Rath
PLACE DE LA CONCORDE, PARIS
24) Babitha George
A VAGABOND FROM THE ABYSS
25) Anand Kumar
LIFE
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
LOONEY OF THE TOWN
(For Jayanta, Sir)
Kathjodi passes by Cuttack,
an outsider.
Along her reptile rush
to the sea
she won't see anything
stranger than ‘he’.
A plain Jane of the soil,
appalled and dazzled
by the city’s Love-in-Tokyo,
Evening-in-Paris, she gurgles
by Cuttack’s smart Alec-drains
and rinses their dirty mouths.
Her bubble-blue stream
holds a fractured mirror
to the macho city Cuttack
to preen himself, the narcissist.
She wonders, “Why does he
let me go, and our dreams?”
(River Kathjodi branches out of her mother river Mahanadi, and both hug the city of Cuttack in their cusp.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
O’ my dance queen,
place the jasmines
at the Blue Lord’s feet;
the fragrance left in your palms
would be enough
to hold me in thrall.
Before leaving
for my lonesome dwelling,
let me wish you well,
to your other patrons as well
gathered here
to steal an hour of joy.
My house in my absence
would be lying orphaned,
its floor flooded from open taps,
clean laundry stacked on the floor
soaked soggy. The very thought
gives me goose-bumps.
Unwashed dishes in the sink
will whet my hunger,
the grubby cockroaches
on kitchen wall will be walking
in circles around the old aerial rod,
Ursa Major around the Polestar.
The rod obstructing
my roach-swatter,
delaying the moksha
of the roach-party
from the misery
of their roach-life.
These are the grim realities
of life, o’ queen extraordinaire
of the ubiquitous dance flour
that bring us here
for a few hours of cameo,
and leave this forum with joy.
I take home,
a dream, infuse it
into my household drudgery.
They turn into fresh jasmines,
suffuse my home, stolen from
your floor, a garden sweetness.
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)”
When Jahanara phoned to say she would be coming to spend a day with me, I was elated. It had been a long time since I had seen my dearest friend, my companion all through our childhood and youth. “But I won’t be lunching with you, May,” she had said, “I have a lunch appointment with someone.” The tone of her voice, that blend of elation and secrecy, had given the game away. I knew that tone very well. She was smitten.
Jay, as I took to calling her when she shortened my long name to May, had been my neighbour for more than twenty years. Our respective parents had been such firm friends from their college days that they had bought adjacent plots and built similar houses when we were toddlers. Jay and I were nearly the same age and we grew up together, almost like a pair of twins. Both of us liked outdoor games and reading. We attended the same school, went by the same car, kept running in and out of each other’s houses and were-of course- the best of friends. I cannot recollect even a single quarrel between us. Maybe this was because I gave in, always. I left for Mumbai soon after I graduated from Law school; she stayed on in our home town awhile, then moved to Pune Though we were physically apart, our closeness continued. We kept in touch and met whenever we could.
I had seen her through four affairs of the heart. There had been four men with whom she had fancied herself in love. Number One had been an adolescent crush; an established writer who had been my neighbour on the other side. She would peep over the wall or drag me to my terrace from where there was a view of the writer's room. A couple of times his wife had come to the window and sent glares in her direction. One day, the writer moved house and that was the end of her passion. She recovered fast. But she had managed to bore me stiff by reading out from his great works, evening after evening. Number Two had been a poet. Number Four had been a journalist whom she had written out of her life in a few months’ time.
Number Three, a swanky businessman whom she had interviewed in her brief avatar of reporter, she had married, with disastrous consequences. Luckily, there had been no offspring and the divorce had gone smoothly.
After this, Jay had plunged herself into social work. I would get posts about charity drives, health camps and messages about clothes for the needy, food packets for indigent cancer patients and so on. If all this kept her feeling good, good for her, was my attitude. Unlike me, she didn't have to work for a living. She had inherited considerable wealth. In fact, this wealth had been the target of her ex-husband.
" How lucky you are, May !" she had exclaimed during her "poet-ic " phase, "you are like a mountain.”
"Yes, a mountain , " I agreed.” But what makes you think mountains don't feel? All mountains have hearts deep within, molten, hot.”
"Terrific geology, " she giggled :” What am I, May ?"
"You? You are an open book. Ok. Ok. Don’t clobber me. You are a lake, lovely and placid. And then, suddenly, a gale blows and you are whipped into choppy waves, stormy crests".
" Let me steal that from you !" she exclaimed, grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling furiously on it.“You have given me an idea for a poem. May, you of all people! But seriously, you are lucky to miss the heartache, the sleepless nights, the pain of it all. You, I am sure, will settle for an arranged marriage and live mountain-like all your life."
" I am not so sure about that, O Jehanara , you who live, you who flower," I replied. I was alluding to the meanings of her lovely name.
Jay was a creative writer, in a modest way. She attended those Literary Fests which kept springing up like huge ugly toadstools here and there. In some places, she read her poems. I had attended one such event at her request. I share a love for reading with Jay, but poetry I am uneasy about. I am no judge of poetry; I am a prosaic, hard working lawyer who relaxes with fiction when free. All I know is that she looked lovely, standing on stage, her face lifted to the mike, the sun illuminating her creamy skin and pink sari. Most of the men were riveted to their seats. I wonder if they heard what she was reading .
I remembered the beginning of her literary phase very well. We had been freshers in college. There had been a rather handsome young teacher with a resonant voice who was something of a poet as well. "I am in love, May," she confided to me one evening. I had known,of course, that this was coming. " He is poetry incarnate... ." Her beautiful eyes were deep pools of desire. That had been Number Two She had hungered for months. It had almost broken her and the dejection had taken nearly two years to disappear.
But her love for poetry remained alive.
Now both of us had turned fifty and there were streaks of grey in my long hair which I did not bother to dye.
I had hoped she would remarry but she hadn't. And now, rather late in life, this luncheon appointment… .
After I had washed the breakfast dishes, I picked up my mobile. 25 messages from Jay ! O yes; she was being driven down to my place by a hired driver. This must have been her entertainment during the journey.
I had taken a day off in her honour. Having nothing to do until Jay arrived, I sat down and started reading her messages... .
Suraj. That was his name. He was a musician of repute. Theirs had been a virtual meeting. She had requested him to sing at a fund-raising concert for one of her charities. He had agreed. Unfortunately, he had come down with viral fever a few days before the day of the concert. He had written at length to her about his predicament. She had replied. Thus began a communication that grew branches leaves and finally a bud.
He was about her age. He had sent her a black and white photo of himself as a boy. It showed a charming, sensitive face, eyes full of a promise, a reined-in yearning. She had fallen in love with that photo.
“I know you are rolling with laughter, May. But such things have happened.”
That was Jay’s anticipatory bail.
His photos and videos showed him to be a good-looking man, tall and lean, with a balding head. He sang wonderfully, of course.
Jay had wanted to share all this with me, blow by blow, but I had been busy with a very challenging case the whole of the previous month. I had been more or less incommunicado. This seemed to have been the time when their romance had budded.
It had been rather swift. They took to chatting for long hours whenever Suraj was free. “I really think, May, that our old baby Cupid with his arrow should be replaced with a mobile phone with a huge whatsapp icon in its middle!”
One of her messages ended with this comment. And a magnified whatsapp icon, the white receiver in a white circle on the green background. I agreed with her on that; it was the fitting symbol of love today.
He had asked for her poems; she had sent several.
“Why did he reach out like this to me, across the distances; he has so many friends and fans.
And I? Why did I respond like a shivering bird to warmth? Why did I feel I had come home ?” she wrote. At fifteen she had voiced similar sentiments. At fifty, she was just the same. My dear, impulsive Jahanara.
On his birthday, a couple of weeks ago, she had sent him her newest poem.
Gently fall the petals
Patterning pink
the waiting earth.
Gently your words lie;
Ashes on a cooling hearth... .
I sift them, the grey shapes;
An ember glints,
It glows
I breathe on it
It bursts into flame.
The darkness goes...
How bright, how warm
This room within!
These words came from the heart of a lonely woman who was falling deeply in love. Undoubtedly. I only hoped this passion at least would come to fruition. I wanted it to be her swan song.
In return, he sang for her, in a voice message, late at night.
Raag Megh Malhar. As his mesmerising voice reverberated in her room, lightning flashed and thunder crashed in the skies. Rain poured down in torrents drenching her heart, her very being.
That very night, the bud of their love blossomed.
So after impassioned exchanges via Cupid and a sealing of their virtual love, they had decided to meet. A real meeting. To see what they had never seen - each other. He had had a concert at Mumbai the previous day and was staying on to meet her before returning to his native Bhopal.
I remembered a brochure relating to this very concert that someone had sent me. There had been a blown-up photo of the singer on the front page it. I found it on my desk and put it on the drawing-room table. It would be good to greet Jay with.
The last two messages, however, were unexpected; anguished.
"May, there is a fear within me. I have sent him only my carefully-edited photos or those in which I look good. I never agreed to a video chat with him. May , I am almost a hag; I am fifty years old and I look it. Suppose he finds me unattractive. Suppose the picture of me that he has painted on his heart is not anything like what he sees today. Do I want to meet him? I wonder if I will have the courage to keep the appointment. O May, I am torn in two. I don't know what to do. Isn’t it better to continue this way?
I love him; I love him so. If I lose him... ."
The second message was even longer, expressing her dilemma in stronger terms.
The heart is a wild animal; that is why it is in a cage.
When I heard the car at the gate, I opened the front door. She was already out of the car, leaping up the steps that led to my house.
"You look delectable!" I told her. I was being sincere. She had dyed hair. Her skin was beginning to wrinkle and sag a little but she was still beautiful. She pinched my arm playfully, saying , "Liar; friends are supposed to be truthful".
"You know what Marquez says about friends?"
"O give me something cool to drink; Marquez can wait,"she replied, flopping into a chair.
I fed her cutlets, orange juice, advice and encouragement. I gave her the usual pep talk about true love being far beyond mere appearance, about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder and so on. She didn't look exactly convinced, though.
At 12, she emerged from the guest bedroom, all dressed up and ready to leave. A golden yellow sari was draped elegantly over her still- lissome body. A black blouse with golden work on it and a black and gold chain completed her outfit. She glowed like a sunflower.
" How do I look?"she asked anxiously.
" Your Suraj will burst into "Aafreen Aafreen!" the moment he sees you!" I assured her. But there was still a shadow of irresolution on her face as she got into her car. I was disturbed.
It would take her much less than half an hour to reach the restaurant they had chosen for their first meeting. It was a short distance from the quiet, still-wooded area I stayed in.
After she had left, I went back to my drawing room. I had one or two things to attend to. After they were done, I lay back on the armchair.
My thoughts dwelt on the words of Marquez who, when asked about his romantic passions had replied that everyone has three lives; a public life, a private life and a secret life and that he would never allow anyone access to the last of the three. He had closed the subject as firmly as a coffin lid is closed.
At 12.45 I heard a car pull up at my gate. Someone rang the bell. I opened it to find Jahanara standing outside. " I couldn't; I just couldn't, May," she cried out; "I reached the hotel and then I lost my nerve. I asked the driver to bring me back here." She dashed into the bedroom from where she had emerged just 45 minutes back.
I saw her sprawled face down on the bed.
Another car pulled up at around 1 o'clock. I looked out of the window. Yes; it was Suraj alright.
I called out to Jay. "You have a visitor. " I waited until she came out. Her hair was loose , her sari awry. There were question marks in her eyes. Suraj had rung the bell and was waiting at the door. I opened it slowly and stood silent for a few seconds as they took in each other, my Jay and her husband-to-be.
" Let me get you a drink" I said and retreated to the kitchen. I don’t think they even saw me.
Jay had never ever considered me as a lover. To her, I was a friend, her dearest friend. I had once made a feeble attempt to open my heart to her. She had merely laughed as if I were clowning. Many a time, I had wanted to confess my love but I knew it would not be reciprocated; also, it would alter our seamless relationship. So, I had never told her how deeply I loved her, how I could never consider marrying anyone but her. Yet I had lived in hope for years; I still did.
When I entered the drawing room with the glasses several minutes later, the two were in animated talk. Jay was glowing again.
"I am sorry, Suraj; I didn't introduce this funny guy with the Abdul Kalam hairstyle to you. May, he says you called him soon after I left and sent him a location map to this place. Suraj, I’ve told you, haven’t I, that he knows me very, very well?
Suraj, meet Mahendra Kumar. Brilliant lawyer. Chronic bachelor. My dearest friend !"
I held the musician's hand in a firm handshake .
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
Everything that existed once
leaves its traces behind
a bit of my fear of the ghosts
that still haunts me once a while
a bit of your loathing
that lurks behind your affable smile
a bit of my sweat
still sticking to the inside of my hat
a bit of the fresh fragrance
wafting in the wilted roses in your vase.
A little remains of your nose
in the nose of your daughter
a strand of hair and a smudge of red
on your sleeve
a little tenderness and compassion
behind the cruel eyes of the assassin
a few buttons ripped off
your ravaged blouse
strains of nicotine
unwilling to leave your ashtrays
brown tea stains
at the bottom of your porcelain cup
a few grains of beach sands
that hide between your toes
and in handfuls of ash
from your funeral pyre
a little always remains.
Everything leaves behind
its telltale marks
some make into the books of history
some fade into
our translucent memories
some appear as epitaphs
on your tombstones
some appear as reflections
on water sometimes calm
sometimes agitated
some strains of old music
reappear in the new compositions
some silences linger
amidst a riotous cacophony
a little remains of everything
the residues never die
and eternally pulsate.
Since everything leaves
its residues
why shouldn't I leave mine
in the heat of the summer
in the cold of the winter
in the drizzles
in the breezes
in the breakers
beating against the beach
in your tears
in your sighs
and in my garlanded portrait
hung on the wall
and in as well as
between the lines
of my writings
that I leave behind?
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
Translated from Odia by Ms. Priya Bharati
Scene-1
Place-1st Class Coupe of the Rajdhani Express.
Time- Pre-dawn hour
A Member of Parliament from Gondwana State was sleeping in the upper berth. His wife was sleeping in the lower berth. In the dim blue bed lamp, the rhythmic rising and falling of his tummy gave a clear signal that the MP (Member of Parliament) was in deep slumber after a sumptuous dinner no less than a five-star hotel. His fellow passengers and train attendants too were sleeping soundly. The train sped through the night towards the state capital, making a (dhin dhina dhin) staccato rhythmic sound.
Suddenly there was some scratching noise heard from under the berth. The MP’s wife, who was a light sleeper sat up on her berth and switched on the light. Acting from her experience of such noises at home, she shifted the bag kept under the table. Immediately, a small mouse jumped out and ran below the berth. She gave such a loud shriek; it seemed as if a terrorist had infiltrated the coupe. Her husband, his snoring interrupted, jumped down from his berth shouting ‘What happened, what happened?’ He could immediately gauge the gravity of the situation and thought who the culprit could be, from the face of his terrified wife pointing towards the two holes in the bag and the condition of the dry snacks packets kept in it. He stooped low and craned his neck under the berth and found a mouse wiping the crumbs of the dry snacks clinging to his moustache. He threw a shoe at it. The mouse ran up to the upper berth using the ladder; he pulled the bedroll down, and soon the mouse jumped onto the table. The MP’s constituency is notorious for its guns and their use at the drop of a hat. So without wasting time on this futile exercise, he bent down to take out his revolver from his suitcase. The mouse taking advantage of the situation probably thought the M.P.’s pajama to be a safe hiding tunnel and made his entry into it and moved towards the delicate organs just like a person using the intricacies of judo to save himself from an armed assault. The MP instantly threw his gun and howled loudly in fear. His howl penetrated the sound of the moving train and reached the other passengers and attendants. Immediately a large crowd gathered in front of the coupe door. The armed commandos dosing in the pantry car also rushed to this place pointing their guns. ‘Sir, please open the door immediately’, they shouted. The MP was in no condition to open the door, he was trembling all over. His wife by then had got back her composure, asked him to remove his pajama. Seeing his plight, she took the initiative, removed his pajama, opened the door, and threw it out into the corridor. The sight of a mouse coming out and scurrying away gave the all-clear signal that there were no terrorists and dacoits holed inside. The commandos lowered their guns, somehow suppressed their smiles, and returned. The railway staff including the train superintendent, conductor, and attendants were soon found standing with folded hands to pacify the MP who was raving with the choicest of foul words. Morning tea and breakfast also could not pacify him a bit. He was heard shouting “It is said that Rajdhani Express is the Prima Donna amongst all trains - my foot! Henceforth, instead of passengers, mice, mosquitoes, and other insects and pests should be traveling because humans will be stricken by the plague, meningitis, and other infections. You all are a pack of useless people and should be hanged on the electric poles. I will not let anyone of you go after the way I have been humiliated before my wife and fellow passengers.”
Scene - 2
Place- Tamando Division Conference Hall.
Hanging on the wall are the Gondwana Railway map and Tomando Railway map. In between is a banner written “Safety, Security & Punctuality is our Motto”. At the head of the round table was seated the Divisional Railway Manager (DRM). Surrounding him were seated the heads of various Depts.
That the DRM was very pensive could be visible from the lines on his forehead. His large reddened eyes clearly indicated that he had spent a sleepless night. Everyone around understood that the DRM had received a good dose from the headquarters on some grave matter and that it was soon going to be handed down to the subordinates present.
The DRM first gave a brief description of the incident; how the MP had made a hue and cry of the incident and had sent a written complaint to the Minister. An order had come from higher authorities for an explanation for this incident and to punish the persons responsible. The order further said that in the future such an incident related to rodents should never happen again. Hence, a program for rodent elimination should be carried out immediately. “Our motto to make the railways clean and healthy should not only be in words but also be visible in action”, he added. Hearing all that was said regarding the incident the ADRM (Additional Divisional Railway Manager) quipped, “There is no place on earth where one will not find mice. They are also found living inside the Parliament building”. The DRM wrinkled his nose showing his disapproval and replied that this complaint had not come from any ordinary passenger but an MP, with an order from the highest authority to take action. Just like two animals growling at each other within the same territory, these two officers belonging to the same Department were mostly found at loggerheads. Amongst the subordinates who took advantage of this was a Civil Engineer. He immediately supported the DRM and said that “It is a fact Sir; the rodent menace is a cause for danger to the fishplates, fish bolts and tie bars. So this issue has to be taken with utmost seriousness.” The Accounts Officer followed suit and said, “If we do not control this rodent menace, soon our railways will become bankrupt. Last year’s audit report of the store's department says, nearly twenty-five percent materials have been squandered by the mice.” The Commercial Officer who did not want to be left behind in the race to please the boss said, “Please direct us as to what is to be done, Sir. I will depute all Ticket Checkers and Hamaals in this work”. Hearing this, the Security Commandant stroking his moustache said “The Ticket Checkers will not be able to do this work effectively. With your green signal, I will depute all my Constables for killing the mice instead of catching thieves for the present.” The ADRM, hearing all this talk, thought that every other day there are mishaps, train looting, derailments, but instead of discussing such important issues, these people were busy with the issue of the mice menace. But he realized that it would be wiser to keep mum like a cuckoo in a conference of croaking frogs.
The Mechanical Engineer was sitting quietly. He was more than fifty years of age and had a reputation not only of efficiency but also of not mincing foul words on work shirkers. He was held squarely responsible for this mouse fiasco on the train. So he defensively replied, “The passengers are solely responsible for this type of incident. Through advertisements and announcements we keep on telling them to travel light but instead of listening to us, they carry huge bundles with varieties of food. This attracts cockroaches and mice. This problem becomes more acute in Rajdhani Express since food is included in the price of the ticket. Passengers keep on eating from morning to night. They also waste more than they eat. So the quantum of garbage is increasing on the train. Luggage and garbage are the two main reasons for the rise in the rodent population. So we should ban food on trains. Since food is regulated in airplanes, mice do not travel in them. The priority of the Railways Department is safety. Instead of seeing to its maintenance, if we divert all our attention on eliminating mice and cockroaches, then only God can save us”. Thinking that he had given an emotional speech, he looked at everybody before taking his seat. Before the DRM could find befitting words to reply, all other officers present pounced on him. One of them said, “What an absurd idea! How can passengers travel long distances without food? How will they pass their time? Our trains are not like foreign trains with T.V. Here eating during journeys is the only source of entertainment.” Another officer replied in the same lines saying, “What a useless suggestion. Do you have any idea regarding the cost of food sold in the stalls on the platform? How can the common man afford them? I have seen with my own eyes how you carry large tiffin carriers filled with curd rice, sambar rice and charupani rice(typical staple food of the southern part of India) and keep eating them for three days. To cover your own mistake, why do you want to shift the blame on to the passengers? Who has prevented you to work for safety and has anyone prevented you from keeping the train clean?”. “I am ashamed of you,” said the DRM. The moment, the DRM shot his words towards the Mechanical Engineer, all others who had a grudge against him immediately made use of this opportunity to describe how many times they had encountered mice, mosquitoes, flies, cockroaches during their journey. Even some promote officers who had never dared to say anything previously, did not hesitate to join in this discussion. Their words were no less than Brutus’ treachery towards Julius Caesar.Just then the bearers entered with a plateful of sweets and snacks which diverted all their attention from the topic. The DRM looked somewhat satisfied and urged everyone to unite in finding a solution instead of faultfinding. The food was devoured as cold and hot beverages were served to the officers. It was way past the office hours. The Personal assistant (PA), Stenographer, and other staff were kept in waiting. Their urgency to go home was more because of empty stomachs deprived of these snacks and beverages. Just then the DRM received a call from his home enquiring about his delay. To this, the DRM replied that he was busy solving a critical problem even more so, than an accident. After satisfying their hunger and thirst, the DRM said it was time to find a solution to this problem.
The Mechanical Engineer who wanted to counter all the allegations that he had just received, stated that the rat poison that they were getting from the stores, was of inferior quality and the accounts section was not passing the bill to procure better ones from outside. The DRM got irritated. “Stop giving lame excuses for your failure and forget those old outdated procedures and find out new and innovative solutions.”
Till then the Personnel Officer was sitting without having said a word. Now he stood up. “Sir, if we appoint some snake charmers, they will not only entertain the passengers but will also help eliminate the mice population. The foreign tourists will get attracted to traveling by our trains.” This out of the box thinking created a hilarious environment. He further continued, “You must have all read the famous story of The Pied Piper of Hamelin who was successful in bringing all kinds of mice out of their holes and lead them to a river. Similarly, our snake charmers with their musical pipes will take out all rodents from the hosepipes, generator, air conditioners, pantry car, and store and drive them straight into the mouth of the snakes”.
The Personnel Officer had the reputation of being slightly mentally derailed due to excessive reading. So his impractical idea was taken in light humor and outrightly rejected without any further discussion. The DRM replying to this strange idea said “Nobody is going to listen to someone who is influenced only by literature and music. This is the consumer age. You may find followers if you offer pizzas, hamburgers, hotdogs to them.” The Medical Officer wanted to make the environment more jovial. He added that as the rat poison was proving ineffective, adding infertility pills to their food would ensure that at least their numbers would not increase. To this, the DRM replied, “It seems that you probably want to achieve your family planning target with this idea of yours.” Finally, after a lot of deliberation, the blueprint for Operation Rat Elimination was chalked out. It was decided that on the coming Sunday, the DRM would not only inaugurate this operation but would be present to direct the whole operation. The ADRM would be camping in the control room to monitor the train’s movement. The operating officer would position himself at the footplate and using a cordless phone would coordinate amongst the staff. The Mechanical Engineer, the foremen, and fitters would position themselves in every bogey. The train would cross the Kuakhai Bridge and then halt for two minutes. The Civil Engineer would board the train along with his PWI (Permanent Way Inspector) and few selected Gang men. The Commercial Department would make arrangements for food for all staff involved in this operation. That the whole expenditure would be made from the Government fund was also approved by the Accounts Section. The medical team comprising of doctors and nurses would be there to give first aid in case of any emergencies. The Mahila Samiti (Women’s Organization)was readily included in this operation as they were more acquainted with the rodent population at home. So they would have a better idea of their movements. There was also a proposal to include the kids who would be agile enough to run after the rodents and crawl under the berth. The Commercial Officer also suggested including some journalists to record such good work done in the public interest. The Public Relations officer was advised to arrange for hard drinks for the journalists lest they make a farce of the whole operation. This proposal too was approved. The Personnel Officer was given the task of giving a running commentary of the whole event. Finally, it was also decided to give two awards to the persons who would catch the maximum number of mice and the biggest mouse.
Scene-3
Place- Kuakhai Bridge.
The Rajdhani Express was stopped in the pre-decided place. Headed by the Mechanical Engineer, his soldiers comprising of engineers, foremen, fitters, holding spanners, scissors, hacksaws, gas cutters, got into the train. Two cats tied in a chain with their mouths gagged were also brought into the train. The doctor and nurses wearing white uniforms also went in next, followed by a band of the Mahila Samiti members with brooms and rolling pins and the kids’ group holding lathis. In the two-tier AC coach, sat the journalists with their still cameras and handy cams. The DRM’s saloon was attached to the end of the train. After giving all-clear signals with the green flag, he sat there surrounded by his faithful subordinates and security guards. The train was stopped for two minutes on the bridge. Chairs, tables were taken out from the saloon and placed on the bridge. An applique canopy was put up. The DRM sat there surrounded by some selected officers. Then the bugle blew and Operation Rat Elimination started. Many passengers got down from the train to see the event with great enthusiasm. The DRM got carried away and started narrating a story on how the river Kuakhai got its name. “There was a huge banyan tree where lived a colony of crows. Once during a flood, this tree got uprooted. All crows fell into the river. This is the reason why this river is called Kuakhai. Today all mice will get drowned in this river. So I will give it a new name Musakhai (musa means rats).” He roared with laughter at his joke and his subordinates joined in.
Operation Rat Elimination was not going on as expected. The moment the gags of the cats were removed, they smelled the chicken and fish and ran towards the pantry car. Probably some of the mice population had got down from the train sensing disaster. Just then a mole was spotted. Though on any other day it would have been left, today it was caught immediately as an award had been declared. In the guard’s bogey were found a dozen newborn mice pups. These were placed on the table. Their eyes were closed and their skin looked like petals of an orange flower.
Soon mice of all sizes were caught and brought before DRM. First, the length of the mouse was measured and then DRM himself threw them one by one into the river. The whole scene of happenings was captured on camera and the loud clap of the audience reverberated in the whole atmosphere.
In the meantime, the two cats were found in combat over the possession of a fish head. The employees were too busy with the food and refreshment and the press with the drinks, to be bothered about the catfight. Meanwhile, the chief of the mice was taking a rest in the pantry car in the cabin manager’s room. He woke up with a start hearing all this commotion caused by the two fighting cats. He immediately ran in search of all his brother mice from one bogey to another using the vestibule door. Had his empire been vanquished during his one hour sleep?
In front of the pantry car door was waiting for Kanduri. He was the casual staff of the pantry car. He was there as a replacement when any pantry car employee was on leave. The senior officers could not distinguish him from others due to the color of the uniform similar to that of pantry car employees. He had waited all these years to get a job in the railways. Just then he saw the biggest mouse right in front. He had heard the prize announcement. He realized that this was the opportunity to catch the largest mouse and plead for a job to the Bada Sahib. Till today he was getting work once in a while in return for massaging the legs of the pantry manager.
Kanduri ran after the mouse. The mouse ran ahead of him from one bogey to another sometimes at arm’s length and sometimes at whisker’s length. The cats were busy with their fight over the fish head. The employees were busy catching mice and moles and taking them to the meeting place. Press people were too busy with their drinks. Meanwhile, Kanduri and the mouse were busy with their cat and mouse game. The mouse ran into the bathroom. Kanduri feeling that victory was imminent shut the bathroom door from inside. He closed the lid of the toilet commode. The mouse desperate to save its life ran inside a crack in the pipe on the wall. Kanduri remembered some folklore that if an ant enters one’s ears it can be removed by pouring water in the ear. Similarly, the fox puts his tail into the hole to take out crabs. On hearing the snake charmers song, the snake comes out of the anthill. Kanduri suddenly hit upon an idea and ran towards the pantry car.
In the control room sat the ADRM. Just like the blind king Dhritarashtra, (who had to be narrated the incidents of the great war of Mahabharata, by Sanjaya) he was eager to hear the mouse-saga. He called the Personnel Officer to know the latest. The Personnel Officer recounted the turn of events while describing the last part of operation rodent killing.
“Sir, the DRM is looking damn pleased with the whole operation.
All rats caught have been measured lengthwise and girth wise. The Operating officer is calling everybody to assemble under the canopy. The DRM’s wife is getting ready to distribute the prizes. She has arranged her saree and worn her goggles”. The ADRM enquired “how many mice were caught in this operation?”
The Personnel Officer said “they were yet to reach the final figure. But just then, a unique scene is unfolding before my eyes. Some staff has used a Stone Age method to pull out the rest of the mice. “I can see fumes rising towards the sky. Then was heard a commotion and shout of “Fire!! Fire!! ” could be heard from the direction of the train. The passengers sleeping inside were now jumping out of the train like mice. The DRM turned away from the prize distribution ceremony and looked towards the train. He realized that he was witnessing a strange scene. A small anaconda was being devoured by the fiery anaconda.
N.B – The image has been taken from Google and the copyright is with the owner.
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
"Thank you dear," kanaka hugged him as soon as they entered the house. "Yeah, I came because I didn't want you to be bitten by snakes." Kanaka burst out laughing. " Oh, my! What an anticlimax, I thought your heart had melted after all."
Chuckling to herself, she entered the kitchen to continue her chores. It was as if her heart had lightened, as if a weight had been removed from her chest.
Kanaka had no more confusion now, until she left for her mother's house, she would look after them. By then they would be sturdy and those two brothers Appu and Achu would take up the task.
Walk , walk, walk, everyone who loved her had only that word to tell her and finally kanaka decided to walk for one hour with her neighbourhood friends. The first two days' walking was quite entertaining, catching up with neighbourhood gossip and stories. But the third day was a day of adventure. It was getting late and they had almost decided to stop when Appu came running.
" Aunty do you want kittens? "No", Kanaka blurted out. But the look of disappointment made her relent and ask him more about the kittens. By now Achu joined him. They had found six kittens inside a plastic bag on the colony road. They had taken it home only to be shooed off by their mother. So they put the kittens in a discarded shed which was impenetrably surrounded by grass and shrubs, a favourite rendezvous for snakes.
"Come aunty", they pulled her hand and ran towards the shed. Kanaka turned to follow them, and one of her friends detained her. "What are you going to do with them"?
"Let me see", she replied and joined the kids. The grass had been flattened by the two boys and so walking through it was not tough but rather frightening. But the child in Kanaka egged her on. They entered the shed, in the fading light, she counted five kittens, three black, one grey and one black and white. They had hardly opened their eyes. They were crying their hearts out. She was sure they were crying for their mother. She picked them up and placed them in the plastic cover and walked back to the road.
All her friends were waiting there. But none wanted to touch them or take them. Kanaka announced that she was taking them home. Amidst laughter and teasing they hurried off as it was getting dark. Achu on his cycle and Appu hanging onto Kanaka they trooped into Kanaka's yard.
As they reached the car shed they heard the sharp question. Kanaka did not pause, leaving the kids to answer, ran to the kitchen. She made milk out of the nan powder which was left behind by her daughter. Pulling out a large piece of cloth she wrapped the kittens and made them comfortable. Then she picked up the kittens one by one and spooned the milk into their mouths. She could feel their tummies filling up and they stopped crying. It was growing dark. The kids were waiting. Kanaka turned to him, "Shall I keep them in the shed? "No". He was firm. They were supposed to go home for a wedding, and no one would be there to look after them. There was a lady who came to look after the dogs when they went off to places. But she would not look after the stray kittens.
"Leave them where you found them." That was a command. "Aunty come," the boys ran towards the gate picking up the cover. The kittens had cuddled down to sleep inside the plastic cover. It was quite dark by then, Kanaka grabbed a torch and ran after them. By the time they reached the shed the kittens had slept. She bid goodnight to the boys and assured them that she would feed them until she left for the wedding and they should feed them after that. The pact was made.
But a dull ache tormented her throughout the night. In the morning when he returned after his walk Kanaka was ready with milk for the kittens. She was sure the place would be safer during the day. She chased the fear of snakes away and closed the door. "Wait, I shall come with you". He said.
The kittens were fast asleep. She woke them up and fed them. Leaving behind some milk in a vessel they walked home in silence.
There was joy in her heart, so he too had softened.
But only to be disappointed by his comment that triggered off her thoughts on the previous day's evening walk. He was too practical and down to earth she consoled herself...But then she was reminded of her friend, another cat lover, telling her. It was always a war trying to keep cats as pets when your partner did not accept them...
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
“So good, so good, Hamlet is no doubt an excellent story. And who did you say wrote it? Ah!, Shakespeare! I never heard of him and never knew English is also such a beautiful language!" Tribikrama Deba, King of Bijayapur exclaimed.
It was only natural that officials of his royal court simulated same expression as their royal master to the best of their abilities.
And the source of the royal amusement, Jaya Singh was son of Sri Bhanupratap Singh, Minister of Bijayapur Kingdom. Jaya Singh had accompanied his father to the court. His father had introduced him to the King “Oh King, here is my son Jaya, and he has passed M.A from Thiruvalluvar University with first class.” The King was a scholar in Sanskrit and enjoyed engrossing discussions on literature.
“Did you say M.A in English? Tell us what you have studied about English Literature”, the King asked.
And it was then that Jaya Singh had gone on to narrate the epic Hamlet before the King.
The British resident sitting to the right of the throne on as high a chair as the King’s throne looked amused and his face lit up with a little pride. But he could do little other than a feeling of pride as he himself was totally unaware about such finer aspects. As the resident collector of the British Government his principal motto was to squeeze as much tax as possible from the estate and occasionally preside over disputes or criminal cases as arbiter.
“Oh king!!! Many professors of English are having a different explanation to the soliloquy “To be or not to be”. I have heard not less than a dozen such interpretations. They still are coming up with more and more interpretations.” Said Jaya Singh adding more amusement to the already amused King.
Jaya Singh looked forward to fit into his father’s shoes in due course of time as the Minister as was the tradition of those days. He was aware of the King’s fondness for literature and had requested his father, his desire to see how the court functioned. So, Bhanupratap had taken his son to the court of the Maharaja. Bijayapur was one of the many princely states in British India.
The king looked at the British resident sitting beside him to his right and said “You have never discussed English literature with me in the last two years you have been here”.
The British Resident’s face flushed and he tried to change the topic as he himself was not aware much about the English Literature. He was a Scotsman and had proved a total failure in his native land. His passage to India was a god sent opportunity for him and after being in minor administrative duties in several places, he was sent to Bijayapur in December of 1932, as the Resident agent to oversee British interests in Bijayapur.
“Your highness, you are a great scholar and it is beyond my intellectual ability to engage with you on such discussions. But, sir, you must look at today’s agenda as we have to send our armed sepoys to your old capital Anandagada since the tribal lord there is refusing to pay the revenue. I have received a letter from the commissioner to decimate any resistance and collect the state dues”. The resident had little interest in a unscheduled discussion of literature and he was hell bent on forcing the King to depute the army to collect pending taxes from the King’s old capital at Anandagada where an acrimonious tribe resisted payment of state dues since last many years.
Minister Sri Bhanupratap was unhappy that the moment of glory for his son’s first ever attendance at the King’s court was to be so abruptly swept aside by the shrewd firangee who was a monomaniac and never thought beyond tax and more tax. That, the king was political head of the Bijayapur kingdom was only a half truth. The firangee was the one who was in total control and he interfered, meddled in every affair of the royalty. But he could do little even being a minister, as the continuation of his position could also be terminated at will by the British Government who was represented by this Resident.
There was one more dissenting voice amongst the courtiers of Bijayapur. The Raj-Guru of the Royal family, Pandit Abhaya Sharma was visibly irked by the King’s sudden fancy with a foreign language and he considered it his bounden duty to protest and uphold the dignity of the divine language that he not only mastered but also shared with the king.
“Your highness, just because scholars are coming up with a dozen different explanations for a literary work does not prove English is a superior language.It will pale before Sanskrit that is language of the Gods” Raj-Guru addressed the king.
Unlike the Minister, Raj-Guru had liberty to speak at any time he wished, took little notice of the firnagee and held more influence on the royal family.
King Tribikrama Deba did’nt wish to offend his Raj-Guru and tried to placate him by asking a leading question “Do you have any composition in Sanskrit that can be interpreted in so many ways, oh Raja-Guru?”
“There are many and many such texts oh King, but if you permit me, I shall compose a book of a hundred slokas and each sloka can be interpreted in more than hundred different ways” declared the Raj-Guru.
“But I need to go to a secluded place and not to be disturbed for three months. I shall go to Lupteswar Cave Temple” The Raj-Guru upgraded his demand.
The whole darbar now looked at the Raj-Guru, his command over the Sanskrit language was well known to everyone, but claiming what he did now, was stretching things a bit too far, every one present thought.
The king looked at his Raj-Guru for some time and then said “Then so be it Raj-Guru, I am instructing the Minister to grant you three months time and allot sufficient funds to you so that you can proceed with your mission.
X X X
The Lupteswar Cave Temple was abode of Shiba, the destroyer God. The Cave was on top of a steep hill and nobody ever had explored the cave fully. It was believed that if someone venture too deep into the cave, he may not return. News of people who were seen entering the cave and not returning back made the rounds in nearby villages. A perennial jungle stream flowed at foot of the hill. The dense forest around the cave for miles together ensured solitude.
The Raj-Guru had chosen this place to ensure that no-one disturbed him. He had few helping hands to cook, clean and be on beck and call. He spent all his time reading piles of palm-leaf manuscripts and recording his own composition on paper.
X X X
Three months later the Raj-Guru appeared at the court and was carrying a voluminous book covered in red cloth with him. As the court of the King commenced the activity for the day, Raj-Guru opened his book and started reciting a sloka and its interpretations in a hundred different ways. Each interpretation was corroborated by appropriate citations with supporting scriptures. The discussions with the King who himself was a scholar in Sanskrit made the situation lively. The monomaniac firangee Resident who was watching the ongoing scene with intently made a laconic comment “One can’t and shouldn’t be the writer and the judge especially when any work is pitted against another work. You should send it for review by an independent scholar”.
And that’s what the king did. The writings of the Raj-Guru along with all the supporting scriptures were sent to one University considered to be the top most citadel of learning in the British India.
One month passed then two and then three. The Raj-Guru was restless and often pestered the King to send reminders to the University authorities to come out with their opinion. The King asked the British Resident to use his contacts and check from the University status of the evaluation of the work sent to them.
Then, one fine morning, as the court started it’s work for the day, a letter from the university addressed to the King was delivered. It read:-
“Your Highness…. We have gone through the writing sent by you and it took us a while to complete the assessment in most through manner. … We are of opinion that the claims made by the learned Author are true and correct. ….with this we seek permission from the author to use this great writing as a text book in our post graduate syllabus…..Kindly convey our utmost regards to the Author… Signed by Vice Chancellor”.
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
Somewhere behind a hidden curtain, there is a world we never see, but one we know is always there. What separates us from that place may just be a thin veil of muslin, or the eyelids over our eyes. Perhaps we have not learnt to use our sight as it should be.
In the old days, when there was less of skepticism and doubt, when questioning was not in fashion, that other world would enter ours with more felicity. And then we were able to see the creatures of our imagination, to view the landscape of our dreams, to hear the fables and rhymes of our tradition. Yakshis would dangle their limbs from the trees or wander through desolate spaces in white robes. Minor gods and goddesses from our beloved pantheon, walked with us, or often whispered a tale or a poem to us, perhaps a puzzle to tease our imagination. Vikram and Betal appeared and told us their stories; flying dragons spewed fire into the air; ghosts and sprites disturbed our sleep; kindly spirits would pray for us and keep us safe.
We all remember a phase of our collective consciousness when parables and improbable tales enriched our everyday lives. Whether it was the stories of Scheherazade and her thousand and one nights, or the Panchatantra’s fables, or the journeys of Ulysses, or the Jataka tales, there was a large space in our memories where these fantastic characters of our collective imagination dwelled. In our youth, when the veils over our sight were thinner, more translucent, we all eagerly loved to revel in the improbable and the fantastic, and, in its playing out, to learn the morals and truths that they conveyed.
I see these old traditions not merely as vessels that convey some truth or value, but as the reflection of our capacity for wonder and astonishment. As a young child, they were as real to me as the food upon the table, or a game of kho-kho: they enriched my life, gave me delightful dreams at night and were a part of our life. But those days have all entirely vanished from our current consciousness. Just ask yourself, how often are you really surprised or astonished these days. Everything has the sheen of jaded déjà vu. Children massacred by gun toting madmen in schools, or the rising number of covid-19 cases, a plane crash, an earthquake killing hundreds of people: we shake our heads and mutter something and turn the pages of our newspaper, or swipe the screen to move on. When the number of covid cases were in the hundreds, there was panic and consternation. Now that the tally in India has crossed 5 million and deaths number more than 85,000, there is a strange sense of unreality and a stupefying nonchalance. Perhaps we cannot take in the enormity of these figures. Stalin knew the truth of it when he said macabrely ‘A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.’
Instead the smart phone absorbs our attention; we turn from one post to another, seeking something new, something surprising that will make us take notice. But that doesn’t happen, does it? We have become a species of screen swipers, finding no satisfaction in anything. We are stuck at home, especially the children and the elderly, while the rest of us strive the find the new normal, imprisoned before glowing lapstop screens or watching one desultory movie after another on the many streaming platforms. In our cities, young men and women, in the prime of their lives, sit for hours on end, speaking into microphones and taking orders from a disembodied voice droning in their headphones, typing incessantly, looking at images appearing and disappearing from their screens.
Today, for days on end, we are like cars idling in neutral. How can we get out of the pit we have dug ourselves into? Can we, like the young children we once were, learn again to be enthralled and astonished; will we ever again allow our jaws to fall open? or feel the joy of an unexpected surprise that fills our life with amazement? It is time to tap into our capacity for wonder; it is still there, let me assure you.
It is a wonderful time to seek out the old masters, to open the pages of our great works of literature, native and foreign; time to gaze at the artistic splendour of the old geniuses and lose ourselves in their magic. I have just bought myself a leather bound edition of the works of William Shakespeare, and am browsing over the words strewn in those pages with such elegance and breathtaking brilliance. He reminds us: ‘There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ He touches a chord somewhere when he writes that his love is like a red, red rose or compares her to a summer’s day.
Or from a different continent in a different age hear Kabir as he says ‘Chalti chakki dekh kar, Diya kabira roye, Dui paatan ke beech main, sabit bacha na koye.’ (The grinding of stones makes Kabir lament, how in the duel of the wheels, nothing stays intact.’) Gaze at David by Michelangelo, the immortal paintings of the Sistine Chapel, or Husain’s Horses and the Pujarins of Jamini Roy. Let logic and reason lie low for a moment, allow yourself to dive into imagination and magic. There is a universe out there that will yield magnificent treasures: we only have to be willing to pull back the curtain and step outside, away from the prison of our closed-in rooms. There the glorious world of art and literature and music and song will sweep you away with its irresistible siren call. Hear Subbulakshmi or Bismallah Khan, Chaurasia or Zakir Husssain, Chopin or Mozart, or Thelonious Monk or Duke Ellington, or Eric Clapton or Adele: what a world awaits us there! And who knows, there we may meet up once again with the favourite friends of our childhood: Superman, or Humpty Dumpty or Feluda or the characters of Panchatantra.
It is all there for us to reach out and grab: 4G and wifi makes this all possible; no need to go to the mall or a multiplex theatre, no need to visit libraries or museums. Let the corona burn itself out – for one day it will. Until then, live among the stirring characters of the Mahabharat, play with the Lilliputians, chant your nursery rhymes, delve into memories, and be a child again.
C K Mathew, is a retired IAS officer of the 1977 batch, who was Chief Secretary to the Government of Rajasthan. He has wide experience in governance and public policy, having held several important assignments such as District Collector, Commissioner, Commercial Taxes, as well as Secretary/ Principal Secretary of Departments including Mining, Energy, Irrigation, Education, Information Technology as well as a long association with the Finance Department in various capacities. He has also held the post of Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister. An author of four books and an avid blogger, he has been awarded the Ph. D in English Literature.
His books are
A: The Mustard Flower: A novel on a young woman’s growth to independence and self-fulfillment.
B: The Best is Yet to Be: This is a novel describing the loneliness of old age.
C: Emily Dickinson and the Search for Meaning which explores symbolism in the works of the poet
D: The historical evolution of the District Officer which examines the unbroken line of the office of the District Collector (or Deputy Commissioner) from the days of the East India Company, the British Empire and the start of the Independence.
His blog at www.mathewspeak.wordpress.com features about 175 essays on diverse subjects, some personal recollections, some philosophical ramblings as well as reflections drawn from his personal experience on the Indian Administrative Service.
He has also been awarded the Ph. D for his doctoral thesis on the subject of “Circumference and Beyond: Symbolism in the Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson.”
A MUSICAL BREEZE THAT WILL ALWAYS FLOURISH
Cordial, sociable, genial,
What not! Innumerable adjectives describing cheerfulness,
Defines this legend- SPB.
An ardent cricket lover,
An actor, a music director, a producer,
A dubbing artist, an all rounder is he!
Had his magical touch on harmonium and flute too.
Any occasion you name it,
This legend is there, with his fitting melody or melancholy,
An institution by himself,
No waning career graphs.
Affection, enthusiasm, excitement, drama,
Positive or negative emotions, you name!
His songs flash,
Connecting us,
Romantic songs or songs of awareness,
In varied languages, his voice,
No doubt, always rejuvenate our souls!
His euphoric expressions as a judge,
His sweet gentle chiding coupled with tutoring,
His impact on reality shows,
Adoringly remembered,
A perfect nexus across all generations!
Devotional renditions or film songs,
His voice modulations,
Perfectly ruled the audience,
With his indomitable style and technique,
Be it a choke with laughter or a tone of agony,
He mastered swaras and ragas with his prowess!
Void, is the music world,
Every soul shell-shocked,
Grieving families around,
Loss, in comparison with our family member.
Battalion of fans,
Fall for his versatility, humility, charity,
A shear darling of the masses,
A musical God!
Flooded is the social media,
Heart touching tributes,
To this mentor par excellence,
To any novice or a thespian, he rendered his voice,
His euphonious magical notes,
Engraved recognition to many actors.
A singing moon,
As he is fondly remembered,
A discomfort had embraced and conquered him,
Warmly welcomed by the paradise,
For an eternal rest and peace!
Captivating deep voice of our cinema,
May lay silent!
No replacement though!
On a positive note,
His musical fragrance,
Is permanently diffused in air,
He resides as long as we breathe!
Through his voice and his fans,
What more we want!
Dr. Thirupurasundari is an avid researcher in the field of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology. Her university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively, fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. A doctorate from University of Madras; started her research and teaching experience at Dr A. Ramanchandran’s Diabetes Hospital. She is known amongst her students as somebody who teaches with passion. She took this ethos to a school and also excelled as Assistant Professor in a reputed University, Chennai and then for a brief stint at the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. She has prolific knowledge in the fields of Cancer, Diabetes and Horticulture. The last of which is being put to use currently at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research, Bengaluru. Her other passions include Yoga, Sudoku, Poetry (pen name, Dazzle), sketching, gardening and experimenting new cuisines. Besides an artist, a poet, a free lancer (a science content writer), an editor for an online magazine, she draws inspiration from others and is always cheerful!
Translated by Sreekumar K
Lilliana had said she would be able to leave work by 4:30 in the evening and that we should be able to meet at 5 p.m. I arrived about five o'clock near the restaurant that we had picked up for our meeting. Dining inside the restaurant was not allowed as it was the time of corona reign. Customers were carrying away their food. The restaurant owner, a Nigerian immigrant, had named his small shop after a local restaurant chain in his country ‘The Chicken Republic’. As the name suggested, all the main dishes in the shop were made with chicken.
“Hello Amigo, Como puedo ayudarte?”
The man at the counter greeted me in Spanish, as I walked into the shop The small town is inhabited mostly by the low-income African- Americans and Spanish speaking immigrants. Maybe when he saw my Indian face he might have thought that I was a Spanish speaking man.
After buying a coffee I ambled out of the restaurant. The summer sun in July was still shining. It was to take at least another two to three hours for the pall of darkness to spread. I walked to the foot of a large tree that stood near the parking lot, a maple blessing the earth with its outstretched arms like the Christ statue that Paul Landoski had built on the top of the Corcovado Mountain. There was some good shade and a little breeze. I sat at the end of a picnic table under the tree. A group of people were marching down the streets with placards and banners showing ‘Black Lives Matter'. The rally, which was participated in by some
blacks and several Latin Americans, was accompanied by a few white youths expressing their accord with the protesters.
“You Indians seem to cherish and savour the supremacy of the others. But ignoring the fact that you are here because of our struggle too, is an injustice to history. ”
It reminded me of the words Daryl Johnson, a school teacher and a friend of mine, had said in a conversation. He was pointing out the general lack of empathy among the Indians with the struggle against the blacks. While the struggles of black were a matter of their own defense, it was also a movement that benefited the immigrants. Their protest precipitated the immigrant resistance too. He was reminding me of the historical fact that the ban on immigration to the big American dream land, imposed on the colored people including Indians, had been lifted as a result of the "civil rights uprising" by black Americans.
The protesters marched to another street and out of my sight. The company where Liliana worked was a little farther. Liliana had left her homeland and immigrated to the United States from Mexico to escape from the hard life in her homeland. She was one among a group of people who crossed the border on foot through jungles, deserts and mountains to come to the United States. There were many perils waiting for her along the way. They occasionally appeared in the form of coyotes, sharp-horned deer, and rattlesnakes. Along the way, she was robbed, she was molested. In addition to these hazards they had to hoodwink the Border Patrol, waiting with their radars and surveillance cameras along the border. Not even for a minute, during her weeks-long solo exodus, had she thought that the dreamland of America would be waiting for her with the nightmares of misfortune and bitter morsels of misery.
The meat factories operating in the border towns were becoming a haven for the fortune seekers like Lilliana who had neither a significant education, nor any English. No immigration documents either. Like many others, Lilliana also had come over as this was an easy place to get a job. She began her life in America by putting up in an old low-rent apartment, sharing a room with other hapless people who had crossed the border with her
An old Chevrolet, whirring rather loudly, came into the parking lot.
“Holla, senor!” She always liked to address me ‘Senor’
Lilliana looked at me and greeted me. Slamming the door of her moribund car with its paint peeled off from all over its weather beaten body, she walked down to the table where I am sitting. When she saw the coffee cup in my hand, she yelled to me she wanted to buy a coffee and scurried into the restaurant.
I had once visited the company where she was working. It was there that I first ran into her, just by chance. When I was out of one job and wandering in search of another, some acquaintances suggested that I should try a chicken factory, where jobs were easily available. I went straight to such a company and filled out a job application. The HR at the desk read my application, gazed at my face for a few minutes and asked me.
“Mr. Joe, do you think you can do this job?”
“Yes, Miss. Stock”I replied, in a hurry to grab the job anyhow. Miss. Stock took a hair net from the table to put on her head and gave me one too..
"Okay Mr. Joe ... come with me," she ordered as if we were on a mission.
Miss. Stock and I walked to the shop floor of the factory. Following her, I went in and looked around. A long line of chickens hooked on a wire was moving past us at the eye level. Hung upside down, they were silently traveling to their scheduled death. A quiet journey, with no wild lapping of wings or harrowing crows they usually make on their death row. Those who took them off the coup and hung them upside down on the hook massaged their breast rather hard, a gesture which the hapless birds took for an expression of the milk of human kindness and it reassured them and calmed them down. No gleam of light to alert their mind was allowed on their way to death. After all, no light would have shown them what they were about to face. Their life hung in balance only for another minute within which time they were to reach the 'stunning cabinet' where their sense was deactivated using a small application of electric current, a predator's concession to the prey which was to spare them the sharp bluntness of death. Then came the murky killing chamber, where the chopping of heads was an unemotional technical finality for both the prey and the predator.
The sight of fresh warm sticky blood splattering the killer chamber and the the rolling heads flowing down one of the smaller canals to the main canal that drained out somewhere else was horrifying and deeply disturbing. Outside, there was a man holding a sharp knife ready in his hand, layers and layers of blackish red blood coloring the plastic wrap which covered him almost completely . ‘Stand by Killer’, that was his position and job. His mission was to chop off heads like the Queen in Alice's Wonderland, the heads which were missed by the machine. In other words he added the 'finishing touch' to the killing spree. The chickens or most of what was left of them moved to the next phase, headless and heedless.
By this time, I felt sick, my mouth tasted of frothy bile. Miss. Stoke was waiting for me at the exit door. I walked carefully through the floor, which was wet and slippery with blood and gore. Ms. Stock, with an all knowing smile on her face, opened the door for me. She seemed happy that her gut feeling about me was, after all, right.
I Came out of the factory building and walked towards my car. Nagging thoughts about the apartment rent and the house expenses began to scratch me from the inside. Totally hopeless, I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled and whirled around my head like the thoughts within my head.
"Holla, Senor"
I saw a woman walking towards me.
“Hello” I greeted back in English
"Puedo Consiguir Un Cigarillo"
Although I did not understand her Spanish, I understood her need as she was eyeing my cigarette.
"You, need a cigarette?"
“See”
I gave her a cigarette. She took a lighter from her pocket and hurriedly lit it. She smiled at me, a mouthful puff now slithering out through her nostrils.
“Gracias”
Then she asked, “Eres Espanyol?"
"No, ma'am," I answered.
When she realized that I was not Spanish, she chose to converse in English which was one of her hardships in this alien country into which she had invited herself. She was lean but young and good looking. I twitched my nose unknowingly and moved a little away from her since from every pore on her body she was emitting a strong sultry stench of raw chicken meat and fresh blood.
When it was time to say goodbye to me, she pointed her finger at the factory building and said as a warning note.
"This company ...,no, not good"
Our first meeting.
That had been years ago.
Lilliana returned with a cup of coffee. She was sitting in a corner at a picnic table, keeping the Covid protocol of physical distance.
"How was your job today?"
Before she could answer, she drank two sips of hot coffee to quench her thirst. She put the cup on the table and looked at her sweat-soaked pants. Then she raised her face and said with a murky laugh
"I still urinate in my pants."
More than an observation or a confession, that was also her answer to my questions.
When she said that, she burst out laughing. I didn't feel like laughing. Her laughter was her way of looking in the face of her own misery. It was also a mockery of the whole world which called itself a civilization. Unable to face her, I stared into the street. Many suns blazed angrily through the glass windows of the shops along the street.
That day, Lilliana had a heavier workload than usual. A few did not turn up to work because they were unwell (she thought they were down with Covid). Lilliana's job was to cut off the left wing of each chicken that passed over the conveyor belt at the rate of one hundred and forty units per minute. The worker on the opposite side was to cut off the right wing. When the carcass moved to the next section the legs would also be severed. Then the other parts too were chopped categorically, and each part would reach the packing area separately. Since it is not a fully automated factory, all was manually done by the workers.
She often had the urge to urinate while at work but wasn't expected to step away from the Chaplinesque conveyor belt just like that unless the machines stopped for a break. If one felt like going to the bathroom she should gesture to call the attention of the supervisor standing somewhere there. Only when another worker is brought in to replace her for the moment was she allowed to leave her spot at the conveyor belt. Such replacements weren't easy to find especially when they were short of hands. Furthermore, a good part of the thirty minutes of lunch break was lost in the long queue outside the bathroom. At that age, her urge to urinate seldom listened to her, with her lower abdomen churning with pain which would make her feel like her whole body was swelling and about to burst like a kid's balloon. Very often, she would suddenly sense relief only to realize that she had urinated in her work clothes. She would take minute to notice that since her clothes and her body under the plastic apron was always drenched in sweat because on those factory shop floors the temperatures usually kept above forty degree Celsius to control the growth of pathogens and other microorganisms. But her urine was warmer than her sweat and she would sense it as it flowed down her thighs wetting her, soaking her underwear, sweat pants and socks. Some avoid drinking water lest they should feel the urge to piss too often. Pregnant women, wanting to urinate more often, suffered the most.
"Senor, you know what? Everybody's going to have to piss in their pants."
She laughed again. What stood out in that laugh was the pain of her helplessness. The government had given permission to speed up the production line from 140 to i75 units per minute. That’s what she was talking about.
" Will there be a pay rise also?"
“No. The 'Covid Allowance' was increased by one dollar. A month later it was discontinued. However,t the boss contributed $ 2 million for the presidential election. So what are we, animals?”
She looked into my eyes. I picked up the empty cup of coffee and turned it over to look at it.
"Look here senor!”
She called my attention to her hand. Doing the same thing with such intense frequency could make one's hands hurt and swell. She held out her swollen hand towards me. They reminded me off the skinned chicken wings she had been chopping off the whole day, more by their stench than by their looks. The disinfectant used on the conveyor belt burnt one's nostrils and inflamed the lungs. The extra time spent in the toilet queue counted as minus points which attracted a cut on wages. If the points increased, workers were fired.
"Senor, we do protest, but what can we do? We can only keep everything in our heart?"
Most of the workers are immigrants. The company is looking for such people for hiring. Not many hands are willing to take up such a low paying job. There are a few black folks from very poor backgrounds. The rest are refugees and undocumented Latin Americans. The company knows that the documents they provide for the job are not genuine. Sometimes those bogus documents are provided by the HR for a good amount. If anyone grumbled or grunted about the working conditions or someone was injured in an accident, the HR would switch sides. The hapless victim would be dismissed on the grounds that their documents were forged. This would cow the others and silence further dissent. Those pathetic conditions she described have not changed a bit even now.
Lilliana's lips began to quiver and her words were about to be sobs. When she got a chance to tell her feelings, her self-pity of having had to smear her body with her own excrement, she began lost her hold on herself; her eyes were red and moist. I thought she would break down and burst into tears if our conversation went any further.
I went and bought two more cups of coffee. We sat quietly, drank our coffee, and smoked. After a short pause she resumed.
“Senor, you know, they are not going to finish the wall. Or even if it is completed, they will definitely leave gaps for people like us to cross over, because their country needs us more than we need their country. ”
She explained in a very simple way the politics behind never ending wall building on the Mexican border.
“Senor, this is nothing but slavery. They need slaves for their work. We are slaves here”
“It is written on the factory gate “We believe in God” But can they do this to us in this time of Pandemic if they did so?
"It is not anyone's business how many are succumbing to this viral infection. Many are not reporting to work now. The company is keeping quiet about the depleting workforce. Lilliana’s friend, the elderly ‘Lee’, suddenly disappeared from work one day.
"Everything here is a top secret. I am supposed to do my work and not look at anything else. The other day, Lee's son, Sue rand up and told me that Mr. Lee had died due to Covid. Mrs. Lee is now in ventilator. ”
Lilliana’s eyes were welling up as she spoke about Lee.
"The management is silent about the hands lost. Not a single picture is displayed in the company to commemorate the workers who had worked for them for so long. Nothing is done for their survivors since that might unearth the death toll.
"Senor, do you think the company has any sympathy for the workers who are dying in this hell?"
"Then why don't you just go to the damn job?"
"Senor, what else can I do? I have three children at home
When the disease broke out, first the government decided to close down the factory. In that case, she would have got the benefit for those who lost their jobs and stayed safe at home. The company owners advertised all over the country that there would be bedlam in the US if people ran short of meat when the meat butcheries were shut down. Panicked, the government changed its mind.
“The President signed order declaring that the meat processing centers are essential service. That left us with two options, kill ourselves or starve to death.”
"Didn't you hear the president say that we would be a better country if we made more chicken?"
Liliana said this sarcastically,laughing contemptuously. The newspapers had said that the company owners were lying about the food situation. The companies wanted to profit from the crisis by hiring more hands.
“The union guys say the companies are now exporting more meat than last year,” Lilliana said
Workers are being scapegoats for making more money for the company. As the production increases more and more people are being forced to work at the flying conveyor belts, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, risking their life and losing it to the virus. They know that if these workers do leave their jobs they will not be able to get another job now.
“We know that many of us are sick. But their weapon to kill us is the fucking law of privacy. Senor, it is not a tiny virus, it is their gigantic greed that kills us.”
Another friend of Lilliana, an immigrant from Guatemala, one day said she was not feeling well while she was at work and the supervisor sent her to the company nurse. The nurse said she was OK and sent her back to work. The next day and the following days, she did not turn up. A week later Lilliana heard that she was on ventilator in some hospital. She had been working close to Lilliana.
“Let that fucking bitch go to the fucking hell. She was conspiring to kill us all. Is this what a nurse should do?” Lilliana fumed with anger and frustration.
When another woman became ill, she had to spend two weeks in a bathroom which didn't even have a window. That was how the others in her house protected themselves. The company paid two weeks' partial pay. She did not get anything for the rest of the month she had to take rest to recuperate.
“Senor, this is a chicken republic. The place is ruled by the owners of a chicken company. Our death is not an issue for anyone. We are just machines to bring chicken to their table. What they don't see is, it is not chicken anymore. It is us.”
Lilliana started laughing again. Her eyes said that her laughter was a way to suppress her tears.
"Before killing chickens and animals, it is mandatory to effect 'stunning' to avoid pain. No one does anything to take away our pain. Are we inferior to animals, Senor? ”
It was getting dark. She was in a hurry to leave. She had to cook dinner for the children. She started walking towards the car.
"Senor, will you write all this in a newspaper? They shouldn't write my full name. As it is, there is no chance of getting another job now. And senor, I forgot, today we got our annual bonus. I was late to meet you because there was a queue to collect it.”
“Wow! So, you got a good chunk today. Ha, ha I should have made you pay for the coffee!"
“Let the fucking folks go to the burning hell. You know what we got, Senor, two chickens and a bag of potatoes. This is the bonus I have been getting for the last ten years, that too only once in a year. ”
She walked away, cursing the whole world. She did not even say bye to me. I stood there looking at her car till it disappeared from my view.
As I got into the car, my eyes fell on the big sign board above the Nigerian's shop. Chicken Republic. In the glow of those LED lights, the big letters in blood red seemed to be flowing as if from the holy wounds of a crucified woman.
On the way back home, Lillian's question "Can they do this to us in this time of pandemic?” began to burn my eyes, inflame my nostrils, clog my lungs and make my heart bleed.
Poor Lilliana! Life is nothing but suffering for her, no matter where she is, in her own Mexico or my United States. Even though the tangible boundaries put up by man on God's earth can be crossed, the invisible walls between classes cannot be surmounted .
Some protesters remained in the square near the main street. Despite the efforts to prevent people from congregating, desperate crowds were still raging in the streets, convinced that losing one's life is not as bad as losing one's dignity. The humiliating scars of slavery yet unhealed and indelible in their memory still haunt them. Those memorials that commemorate their inglorious past evoke in them an urge to piss on the idols of darker age.
The words ‘Black Lives Matter' were echoing everywhere like a tribal war cry. Some passing cars slowed down and honked their long horns in solidarity with the protesters. As I passed the square, my right foot involuntarily came down heavily on the brakes, and my right hand danced on the horn.
The chicken roll I had bought to munch on the way, left untouched, had gone cold long back.
Joseph Abraham, born in Kerala, now with the US government has been writing stories mostly for the print media. He has brought out a collection and has a good number of enjoyable stories to his credit
Oozing fragrance of lavender
My hair cascading down my face;
Flipping away my locks in wonder
Stand I staring the sky in amaze.
Resplendent: have I ever felt so!
Fear I not of being lovelorn.
My moon silver and sun yellow
Gazing at the beauty I adorn.
Altruistic love: Me for Myself,
Ever shall I dare to cheat.
A heap of billets-doux up my shelf-
Love for no other: be so neat.
Born into mere larva from egg,
Eyes half closed half open:
I crawled through the trunk
Down into a world unknown.
I wandered in the wilderness,
Lost myself in the darkness.
My faint little sagging steps
Led me to a mighty tree.
Many boughs, many leaves
Dense like there were treasures hidden within.
I clambered up the colossal bark
In awe of its sheer beauty.
Majestic it was: in size and deed.
Leaves and boughs: my home, my need.
Dense: for treasures to unveil
And vast: enough to nurture me within.
I hung to the branch as a ‘pupa’
Invincibly held by the leaves,
Nourishing me with its sun-fed warmth
Stood the noble canopy.
Turning me into a butterfly,
Knowing well that I was meant to fly.
But when do reminisces seize
When home is where the heart is!
Ms Akankshya Kar primarily works as a sales trader in the Indian debt market with a reputed Primary Dealer. After completing her B.A(H) in Economics from Miranda House( University of Delhi), she did her PGDM(Banking and Finance) from National Institute of Bank Management, Pune. She has been extremely passionate about poems as a genre and has been writing for a long time now. Some of her poems have been published in the refereed international Journal, the Contemporary Vibes and have been discussed at international forums as well. She is also a trained Indian classical singer and a professionally trained belly dancer.
A friend is like a star that
twinkles and glows
Or may be like the Ocean that
gently flows like the river
A friend is like gold that you
should treasure,
and take care forever and ever.
A friend is like an angel who
is there to guide you.
Oh what a joy it is
to have a friend like you
For giving me strength
the way you do.
For lifting me up
When I feel down
And putting a smile on my face,
that makes me happy.
When I were frown you make me cool.
Thanks for being there
and helping me like a gentle breeze.
Your friendship means a lot
this I 'd like you to know
you' re such a pleasure in my life;
I hope that you can see
How meaningful your friendship is;
you are a total joy to me.
Our friendship does not end if we
Write two lines of gold in a
book of remembrance;
" Good friends are God's favor and
it never ends."
Sukanya.V.Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Michael's college, cherthala
Some coffee cups
Are meant to be held
For hours and hours
The aroma inhaled by the wind
While conversations are drunk
Sip by sip
Tasting timelessness...
Some coffee cups
Are meant to be stared at
In cold silence
Ripples of caffeine
At the drop of a tear
Turn into Tsunami
Tasting curdled destiny...
Some coffee cups
Are meant to be
Empty
To be filled with the clouds' espresso
Stirred with a steaming lightning
Adding thunder cubes
Tasting the death of loneliness...
And
Some coffee cups
Are better off at the shelves
Than at the table
Never to be filled
Ever to be still
Tasting insipid nihility
Clink! Crash! Sweep.
Only the boatman can understand
What the oars conversed with the waters...
Beneath the ripples, and waters voice
Silences are shared too, in depths
As love rows...
There are poems hidden
Within silences too...
Words are fished when love is a pond
Silence is the pearl
When love is an ocean...
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
More than ever
we need you, need you
in these turbulent times
your lifeblood, sedimented in our DNA
flows through the veins
of India, its teeming millions,
celebrating oneness amidst the cacophony
of the diverse, that divides..
You taught us, love
kindness, tolerance
the success mantra
of any rising nation...
Your Godhead lay in seeking God in each..
you hugged the ordinary
calling them, " God"s own children, "
who sweat over the storm swept paddy fields
feeding the nation,
or toil hard their way out to eke out a living.
How you taught us
to start from the simple
from villages, panchayats
for growth, going back to the lap of nature pristibe, serene..
these days of pandemic
open our eyes
more to your world view
to look at life pure and simple
with kindness and tolerance for all..
Bapu, inspire us
to erase the evil of greed, divisive fight,
to uphold the dignity of man
sans race, caste and creed...
Let winds of justice blow all over the world
floating over, hills, dales and plains
to usher in an era
of togetherness and world peace. the gentle wind blowing,
with brushes soft
to cleanse and cool...
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).
MOTHER EARTH
S. Sundar Rajan
Padmini Janardhanan
Gita Bharath
Zia Marshall
Anju Kishore
United in our respect for Mother Earth!
We are of the soil; the soil sings in us,
In earnest endeavour; our land, our hearth!
To beginnings, the dawn has given birth.
Tender shoots are aflutter as life's pulse
United in our respect for Mother Earth.
Rich soil flushed with crops - true wealth of our earth.
We protect, we cherish, priceless treasures,
In earnest endeavour; our land, our hearth.
We milk the cows singing in joyous mirth,
They graze on green grass, mooing in chorus,
United in our respect for Mother Earth.
Thro' floods and drought we channelise our worth,
Harvesting our labour without a fuss,
In earnest endeavour; our land our hearth.
Careful labour, nature's bounty unearth,
Gently nurture the soil; not pernicious,
United in our respect for Mother Earth,
In earnest endeavour; our land, our hearth.
Structure of a Villanelle
A villanelle is a nineteen line fixed form poem comprising of five tercets ending with a quatrain. The villanelle uses a highly structured repititive form with a repeated rhyme scheme of a-b-a used in all the tercets and two refrains from stanza one used alternatively in the second, third, fourth and fifth tercets. The last quatrain uses a rhyme scheme of a-b-a-a including both the refrains from stanza one.
The overall effect is lyrical lending the villanelle an almost ballad-like quality. The early forms of this poem used pastoral themes although later poets focused on themes of obsession such as love and loss.
In this villanelle, Mother Earth, we have used a pastoral theme showing how individuals engaged in agricultural activities respect the land, take pride in their labour and share a close bond with Mother Earth.
COLLABORATIVE CREATIVITY
Photographs as muse for poetry is not new. Nor is collaboration of creative people. But, the magic that emerges out of every collaboration, is always new.
Such was the magic when five poets inspired by S Sundar Rajan's photographs, got together. The theme chosen was Mother Earth. The form, broad content of the poem and the syllable count was agreed upon to ensure its logical flow. Each poet was assigned a stanza which was reviewed at each stage to maintain the parameters set for the poem.
And thus the Villanelle unfolded with effortless ease.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer.
Padmini Janardhanan is a psychologist focusing on personal effectiveness, a poet and writer.
Gita Bharath is a retired banker, a published poet and writer.
Zia Marshall is a Learning Designer focusing on personal and professional growth, a poet and writer.
Anju Kishore is a poet and editor whose work has been featured in many anthologies and journals.
Morning walk by the stream dispels all gloom,
from the humdrum of life, a quick release.
Watching butterflies’ flit, wildflowers bloom,
familiar feathered friends… fills with peace.
Zephyr moves leaves, brings a whiff of perfume,
May time stand still, such moments never cease!
Drenched in the bright firmament, my heart will
throb, until the last breath when Life can fill.
Past the concrete jungle, each morn I stray
Watch the Eastern jungle crows fly past streams.
In human habitat, they’ve found their way,
I wish to talk to them about their dreams
when torpor beckons at the end of day.
If feeding ancestors through them redeems,
then, to the darkest cloud, my psyche will cling,
for it will soon bring back the joys of Spring.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
I will always be me
With time that's all that I can be
You will find me amidst love and laughter
After all his proud daughter
Love to spread sunshine
Offering prayers for all in shrine
Hate to be engulfed by negative vibes
Which is common in today's tribe
My family my treasured gift
I fall, I rise, and uplift
A happy go lucky person
For unknown reasons
I seldom sulk
Shower upon me your blessings in bulk
In chocolates, love to indulge
Many a times don't divulge
Let me touch your lives
And heal your soul, not once, nor twice but thrice.
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)
Life is terribly shattering
Heart is heavily battering.
The forlorn days of present and past
Traversing through the corridors of mind in an angst.
Life became slow and so low
As I’ve nowhere to go.
Everything turned upside down
With a sudden unforeseen lockdown.
Seeing my lockdown visitors, I get into a trigger
My being senses the beckoning of a new vigor
Umpteen empty thoughts and drooling desires double
Spectacular hopes and dazzling aspirations bubble.
They burgeon a smile in me
My crimson face fancied in glee
He set out to capture those unparalleled instants
Forever remain sporadic and unwelcome instance!
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.
(Edited by Dr. Ampat Koshy)
Sitting beside Professor Chaubey
on the dank floor,
observing him
skilfully seize liveliness
on his canvas leaning
lightly against the white wall;
I repainted
thought circles on the
last lines of a Yeats’s poem I’d
heard him read ardently in class:
“how can we know the dancer
from the dance?”
On my mind’s easel,
I now redraw the smudged
pencil-sketch of a question :
can’t we know the teacher
from the pupil?
* This poem is dedicated to my dear Professor, Dr. Anunaya Chaubey
Parvathy Salil is the author of : "The One I Never Knew" (AuthorsPress, Delhi, 2019), which features a blurb by Dr.Shashi Tharoor, MP), and "Rhapsody" (Self-published,2016). Her poems have been published in the Kendra Sahitya Akademi journal, Indian Literature; Deccan Chronicle etc. Currently, she is pursuing her second master’s degree in Gender Studies at SOAS University of London. A former Young India Fellow at Ashoka University (2019), she has recited her poems for the All India Radio’s Yuvavani, as well as for the : South India Poetry Festival 2017, Krithi International Literature Festival 2018, Mathrubhumi International Festival Of Letters 2019 etc. She is the winner of several literary competitions including the Poetry competition held during the Darshana International Book Fair 2016. She was also a participant of the National Championship and had secured the second rank in the Inter-school Oral and State-level Written Championship of MaRRS International Spelling Bee (2013-14).
How did your Felicitation function go ? asked my husband even as he was unwrapping the memento they had given me.
O.K. I said in a lackluster manner.
You don’t seem to sound very happy .What’s the matter? He inquired.
Well, there were many surprises , I said.
What were they? He was obviously curious.
First let me talk about the pleasant ones .I was introduced to the audience as a “specialist” in humour writing and that the function was got up to felicitating me on the completion of my 150th. Column on a popular web site (read Chennaionline).
Then you should be overwhelmed with the label attached to you and feel flattered that even in these days of tension filled life, you find there are still some people who not only appreciate humourous writing but also think of felicitating the writer , he observed.
It was heartening to hear a few readers say they have to wear their thinking caps in order to comprehend what the writer was getting at, I said.
Is that supposed to be a compliment or a complaint? Teased my husband.
I would rather take it as a compliment, I averred.
Then there were a few who wanted me to offer them some tips to appreciate and develop a sense of humour . They even asked me if I knew of any course which would help them to do so or suggest some books for them to go through.
Quite a dicey question. I wonder how you replied it , said my husband.
I had to be frank . I said if the “Funny bone” happens to be missing in some , it can’t be “ transplanted .”
They must have laughed at your answer, quipped my husband laughing.
No, they didn’t see through my sarcasm. On the other hand they appeared very serious and disappointed, I chuckled.
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.
During our tour in California, Nevada and Arizona on the West Coast of America, we felt the real geographical diversity made by God. We were traveling by one luxury AC bus (with restroom on-board), since the tourist attractions were at distant places and unknown to us. Our smart smiling guide was narrating about the history, geography, heritage and culture of the places. Our journey started from Los Angeles. We enjoyed different panoramic views enroute.
At 8 am our bus started. The new and unseen landscape was so entertaining that some of us sang in pleasure. After some time the greenery was reducing and at last the beautiful trees vanished from our eyesight. Vast stretches of sand, small desert plants and sand dunes came to our notice.
Our guide told us - 'We are approaching the Death Valley. It is around noon. It is too hot outside. You cannot feel the heat inside the AC bus. It is a nice tourist destination. Please enjoy it from the AC bus. You cannot tolerate the outside heat above 40 degree Celsius'.
We were so enamoured by the beauty of Death Valley that we stopped the bus, got down and walked around 100 feet on the desert sand to feel its environment. In the meantime one of our lady tourists was unable to walk, sat down and was about to faint due to mild heat stroke. Our wisdom failed. We carried her to the bus. First-aid treatment by our doctor friend healed her. Her smile filled our heart. From the AC bus we were amazed to see the magnificent beauty of the Death Valley National Park and its Ghost Towns.
Our guide clarified - The Death Valley is an American National Park in California and Nevada. It is a desolate stretch of arid and barren land in the Mojave Desert with average rainfall of around 2 inches annually, whereas in other deserts it is 10 inches. It is a long narrow basin around 280 feet below the sea level and walled by high and steep mountain ranges. Its distance from Las Vegas is around 150 miles and 260 miles from Los Angeles. Its area is around 3000 square miles. It is almost unsuitable for human settlement. The land was presumed to be rich in copper, silver and gold 150 years ago. People came here for the mining endeavors and towns were built. The industries dried up and the working people abandoned the towns and the houses. The extreme climatic conditions with temperatures ranging from 49 degree to minus 30 degree celsius frustrated their plan and purpose. People say - Some people died, became ghosts and others left the towns which are now called the 'Ghost Towns'. People do not live in the forbidden towns.The ghosts may be enjoying their life in extreme heat and cold. But we had no time to wait and see the ghosts. As per the legend / folktale - Death valley was given its forbidding name by a group of pioneers lost here in the Winter of 1849-1850. Only one person of the group died and all others assumed that the Valley would be their graveyard. They left it saying - 'Goodbye, Death Valley'. Since then it is called 'Death Valley'. People seldom live there. The incredible beauty of desert plants and flowers, sand, sand rivers and sand dunes overwhelmed our imagination and mind. After a while we left the 'Ghost Town' and the 'Death Valley'.
After sightseeing in Death Valley, we stayed in Las Vegas.
On another morning at about 8 am, our bus left for the Grand Canyon and Skywalk in Arizona which is around 130 miles away from Las Vegas. The landscape between Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon was quite arid. But it was enchanting. Enroute we enjoyed Lake Mead and concrete arch-gravity Hoover Dam on the Black Canyon in the Colorado river. Its distance from Las Vegas is around 40 miles. The Hoover Dam has created Lake Mead which is one of the most tourist attractions. The dam was constructed between 1931 and 1936. The lake has flooded a large area of Mojave Desert. The scenery of the blue water of the dam and lake was fascinating.
We reached the Eagle Point of the Grand Canyon National Park at about 11.30 am. The Eagle Point is the decent view point over the Canyon. From here we took photos, saw the Grand Canyon and the Skywalk. The magnificent view of the Grand Canyon and Skywalk amazed us. The Colorado River has carved the Grand Canyon. The length of the Grand Canyon is 277 miles out 1450 miles of the Colorado River. The depth of the Colorado River at the deepest point is 6000 feet, but under the Skywalk it is 4000 feet. The Grand Canyon is a part of the Colorado River.
Our guide described - 'The Grand Canyon is an American National Park and one of the 7 wonders of the Natural World. The construction of the Grand Canyon skywalk began in 2004. Hundreds of highly skilled workers were engaged to build this spectacular engineering marvel at a cost of 30 million dollars. It was opened in 2007. It is a 10 feet wide horseshoe-shaped transparent glass bridge which extends 70 feet out over the rim of the Grand Canyon. The floor of the Grand Canyon is 4000 feet below the skywalk. From the transparent glass floor one can see the water in the Grand Canyon. The Skywalk is strong enough to hold 120 people (maximum ) at a time. It is open from 9 am to 5.30 pm for visitors. Photography is not allowed on the Skywalk'.
I asked - ' Who is the owner of the Grand Canyon Skywalk ?'
Our guide explained -'The Hualapai Indian Tribe is the owner of the Grand Canyon Skywalk and Grand Canyon National Park. It manages and maintains the skywalk. The Hualapai reservation is established by an executive order. It encompasses about one million acres of area along 108 miles of the Grand Canyon. The population of the Hualapai Tribe is about 1300 in the reservation. They were the native aboriginals of the area. Their culture, traditions, habits, heritage and language are protected by the Government'.
We enjoyed the panoramic view of the Grand Canyon and also took photos and selfies, since it was once in a lifetime experience. But no one was conscious of the dangers on the edges / rims of the Grand Canyon. There were barriers, railings and written warnings for protection of the tourists. The tour guides, operators and Hualapai officials were also instructing us not to go to the edges. Our luck was favourable and none of us slipped into the Grand Canyon on that day.
Our guide warned us saying - 'The fascinating beauty of the Grand Canyon allures the tourists to the edge which is very risky. Some tourists have slipped into the Canyon and died while taking their photos and selfies. Death is unpredictable here, since the edge (rim) is closer than it looks. The cuts, juts, zigs and zags follow no particular path under feet of the tourists. Due to the invisible line between the solid ground and emptiness as well as the magnetic pull and push, there were instances of tourists falling down the edge without their awareness resulting in their death while enjoying the beauty of Grand Canyon'.
One Hualapai official was also making us conscious of the grave situations (happening occasionally) killing unknown tourists coming there from all over the World to feel its fabulous beauty.
I asked him - 'Is it a Death Canyon?'
He said - ' No. It's not at all a Death Canyon. If you commit suicide by jumping into the Canyon from the Skywalk or sidewalk and die by slipping into it while taking selfies / photos carelessly on the edges or rims, who will save you from the utter death ? But the number of deaths is negligible in comparison to the millions of tourists coming here. Due to carelessness and unawareness some tourists die. Life is more precious than beauty. One wrong / bad step will finish your life in a few seconds. Life lost, never returns. Enjoy the panoramic view and take your photo / selfie with much care and caution. Don't go to the rim please'.
After some time I saw a young man taking his selfie on the sidewalk. He went to another point on the edge. Without his awareness he slipped slowly. I heard the slipping sound of his shoes. There was no railing to save him. His young wife was gasping to see him slipping down. She was almost collapsing. Our hearts were melting in fear of their plight. A shadow of sadness prevailed over the Eagle Point of the Grand Canyon. All the unknown tourists present there prayed for him - 'O God ! Save the innocent life'. Miraculously God's mercy was bestowed upon the dying tourist and a pothole of dust stopped him from slipping and the imminent disaster. We made a human chain by joining hands and pulled him up. His life was saved. His wife got back her beloved husband. We were happy to see them kissing and hugging each other in peace and pleasure. I felt the power of God in helping the innocent, helpless and hapless.
Then we left that place for our lunch in a Hualapai restaurant. The Hualapai song and dance fascinated us for half an hour. But we could not understand their language. In the meantime, our guide bought our tickets for the skywalk and we stood on the queue to enter the building of the Skywalk. We kept our cell phones in the lockers there and put on the shoe-cover not to scratch the glass floor. We entered the transparent glass floor of the Skywalk.
I walked on the Skywalk. Its glass floor was so transparent that everything was clearly visible. I saw the blue water 4000 feet below the transparent glass floor and also the unlimited blue sky above. I felt as if I was walking in the sky. The magnificent view thrilled me. It was a heavenly feeling which is beyond any description. I walked there for about 10 minutes and gazed at the beauty of the Nature made by God. The glimpses of blue water of the Grand Canyon and the blue sky from the Skywalk were mindblowing. I was so much submerged in the spectacular view that I could not know when I reached the exit.
The Skywalk is the best view point for watching the majestic beauty of the Grand Canyon. It is worthy of its name and fame for which millions of tourists across the World come here at the risk of their life and money. It is one of the most beautiful tourist destinations of the World.
We returned from the Skywalk, collected our cell phones and came outside. The guide welcomed us for our safe skywalk. We came back to our bus and left the Grand Canyon as well as the Skywalk.
This is the memorable story of my travel from the Death Valley to the Grand Canyon Skywalk. I was amazed to feel the depth, vastness and wildness of God's creation.The thrilling and breathtaking beauty of the Death Valley, the Grand Canyon and the Skywalk have been mesmerizing me ever since.
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.
Jai.
A pair of bangles,
and a vial for sindoor
- all that remained.
Wind had regained its breath.
It was heavy with
the sighs of her father.
Rolling drums of thunder
had retreated to the dark sky
like a pack of hounds after
the kill.
The placid face of the lake
a monk beyond daily tears.
Her father went home with
the ashes on his lips and
the mist in his eyes that leapt
on to the eyes of the village.
Egrets, herons, flamingoes,
other migrant feathery visitors
spread the message of a wailing maid.
Like black rain, her wails entered
the village in the dead of night.
Boatmen saw the tiny waves tinged
with red tears.
And then, that hour came for
a goddess to descend.
When a shard of light enters
a block of coal boiling in tears
deep in the womb of the earth.
When pure bliss splits the chrysalis.
She came from the valley of tears
in a rite of rains, of tears and bliss.
(PostScript: The famous Kalijai temple situated in the Chilka Lake is a tourist attraction. Legend has it that Jai, a newly wedded bride, was being ferried in a boat with her father to an island in the lake to her in-laws’ house for the first time. The boat ran into a tropical storm and was sunk. Though her father and the sailor survived, Jai could not be found. The island dwellers reported sighting her wailing. Gradually she came to be regarded as a goddess who protected the sailors from the ravages of nature.)
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English.
At Concorde
silence hangs heavy
in the air,
time looms large aloft the vast square,
Luxor obelisk gleams bright under the sun at the centre,
I stood stupefied.
History swirls fast here
with guillotines,
the severed heads of
Louis XVI and Mary Antoinette
creep into my memories,
emotions sweep strong,
floods of grief and despair.
A whiff of fresh air from the Seine,
Champs Elysses shines bright at a distance,
ghost of Napoleon sighs at golden La Invalides,
fine statues erected on large pedestals smile.
Listless tide
of passion swelled here once,
swept every thing in giant hurricanes,
parallels scarcely found elsewhere,
I bowed here to Time
in deep reverence and left.
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 am a vagabond in the solemn space
Travelling beyond the depth of cosmic place
Enrapturing my mind and soul
And not knowing what’s my goal.
My heart rejoices to the tunes of solitude
There is nothing but quietude
It’s riveting and never ending
As I search the meaning of my life.
Oh! My path filled with the fragments of unspoken words
Of long cherished dreams and untravelled roads—
I walk along, picking up the pieces;
Putting together one by one
Realising that it can be done only by one.
What a solemn bliss!
When I fathom what I missed
Made my heart not go amiss—
Enlightening my mind and soul
And now knowing that there is a goal.
The darkness taught me how to live life
By letting things go and nothing with strife.
Rising up like a phoenix, brave and courageous;
With my eyes wide opened
And seeing things from the new perspective
I mustered the courage and went ahead.
Discovering untravelled roads and chasing my dreams
Of all the salvaged moments I have to live
My inner voice whispered to myself
As I create my place in the eternal space.
You are a vagabond who came out from the abyss
And nothing can break your mind and soul.
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
In this world our life is like a drama.
At times it becomes a confusing enigma.
In this, we face many ups and downs
and choose to become laughing clowns.
Life becomes a tragic or comic play,
where we all become dolls of clay.
Here, some become heroes,
some become miserably zeros.
Our life has no clear definition,
but it has a meaningful conclusion.
Live a life full of love and peace,
then our live will become a masterpiece.
In life, at times things may go wrong
To face them you must become strong.
When our thoughts and deeds become one,
prize of happiness can easily be won.
Anand Kumar is a Retire Bank Manager who has thirty years of service in Banking Industry. He is an ardent lover of reading and writing. His is a regular contributor to a magazine "Dignity Dialogue" published by an NGO from Mumbai. He regularly writes in Muse India and Poemhunters.com. He lives in Chennai.
LOONEY OF THE TOWN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Anjali grabbed the finger of her Grandpa and pointed to the crazy old man, "Look there, Grandpa, our town's famous looney. You know what he did yesterday?"
Ashish Narayan looked at his bubbly, vivacious fourteen year old grand daughter and smiled, "What's it now? You have already told me about his standing in the traffic island and trying to regulate traffic, bending in a corner of the road and doling out water to thirsty souls, and his sitting in the middle of the road to sing Raghupati Raghav Rajaram. So what's new? What did he do yesterday?"
"You know, yesterday I was going to school with a group of girls. The old man saw us at the Kutcheri Chowk, came running to us, made us stand in a single row and march towards the school doing Left, Right, Left; Left, Right, Left. He went up to the school gate, saluted the watchman who could hardly control his laughter, seeing all of us giggling. But he also saluted back, opened the gate for all of us and we ran for our lives!"
"Why?"
She rolled her eyes, the way usually grand daughters do with their grandpas, "Why what?"
"Why did you run for your lives?"
"Because we almost died laughing, silly!"
"O, I didn't know anyone could die laughing!"
"You can, Grandpa, if you march half a kilometer on the road led by a crazy old man shouting slogans and with people stopping and staring at you."
Ashish Narayan knew the slogans, but wanted his darling Anjali to tell him, "What slogans?"
"Absurd slogans, like 'British Sarkar, Bharat Chhodo,' 'Inquilab Zindabad', 'Humey Azadi Do!' Grandpa, isn't he crazy, asking the British to leave the country? Doesn't he know India had got her freedom from the British since 1950?"
Ashish Narayan stopped in his track.
"Say that again, my darling Anjali? When did India get her freedom?"
"1950, don't you know?"
Grandpa slapped his forehead with his hands, "O my God, save me from this young generation of dim wits, India became a republic in 1950, she became independent in 1947! Do you know what a Republic is?"
Anjali looked at her grandpa, hurt. Why this quizzing? But she was game, "Republic is when you have your flag hoisted by a minister finister, a march past by school and college students and some old, boring, moth eaten songs playing in loudspeaker. That is what a republic is. We have a holiday for that day, don't we?"
"My half-wit angel, what you have said is celebration of Republic Day, but we are a Republic because we are sovereign and democratic. Tell me who was the first Prime Minister of India?"
Prompt came the reply,
"Mahatma Gandhi!"
"Mahatma Gandhi? And who was the first President?"
A little hesitation,
"Chacha Nehru, may be? No, no, it is that Pagadiwallah, Radhakrishnan, yes, Radhakrishnan, because on Teachers day our Head Sir tells us Radhakrishnan was the President of India."
"O my little donkey, Mahatma Gandhi was never President or Prime Minister. It was Jawaharlal Nehru who was our first Prime Minister and Rajendra Prasad was our first President. Hasn't your Civics teacher taught you all this?"
Anjali smiled mischievously,
"He might have, but who listens to him? He is an old man, totally hard of hearing. So in his class we tell jokes to each other and laugh. He thinks his lecture is interesting, so we are laughing. That's how he is happy, we are happy, India's history jumps out of the class room window, breaking its legs in a free fall!"
Ashish Narayan laughed at the scenario. Anjali continued, "But Grandpa, this Arjun Sir, our Civics teacher, is a funny man, terribly funny, he says he had joined the freedom struggle and gone to jail when he was seventeen years old. Some days he makes us write Bharat Mata ki Jai hundred times in our note book, other days he asks us to close our eyes and meditate by chanting Gayatri Mantra. He is so boring! You know what he did one day?"
Ashish Narayyan looked at his grand daughter indulgently, "What?"
"He was teaching in the class, the students were talking, there was lot of noise, but being hard of hearing, he didn't know about it. Suddenly one of the boys took out a whistle from his pocket and blew it. Somehow Arjun Sir could hear it, the sound was so piercing. He stopped lecturing, looked at the class and asked what was that sound. No one answered, every one wanted to protect the class mate who had blown the whistle. Arjun Sir guessed it was the sound of a whistle. He got very angry, kept on asking who blew the whistle when he was teaching. After a few minutes he sqatted on the floor, and started singing Raghupati Raghav Rajaram and other bhajans. When the bell rang at the end of class period, he refused to get up. He didn't allow the next teacher to come in. He said he was sitting in Satyagraha, to make the student who had blown the whistle confess."
"And what were the students doing?"
"We got scared, the boy who had blown the whistle told us not to disclose his name and we all sat silently, wondering what would happen next. The Head Sir came and requested Arjun Sir to get up, but he refused. Head Sir enquired who blew the whistle, no one came forward to tell him. The school ended in one hour and we left for home. Next day when we came to our class room to leave our school bags before going for prayer, we were shocked to see Arjun Sir still sitting there, he had not left the place, had not eaten anything and had announced that he had launched a fast unto death to promote truth and honesty among students. After the prayer the Head Sir asked our class to stay back. The boy who had blown the whistle started crying and went to him to confess. We were scared that the Head Sir would beat him black and blue, to our amazement he also started crying. Seeing the Head Sir cry, we all burst into tears. Led by the Head Sir we went to the class room and all of us fell at Arjun Sir's feet and begged for his forgiveness. Head Sir gave him a glass of fruit juice and Arjun Sir broke his fast. After that for a few days we did not disturb Arjun Sir's class, but we considered him a funny man who went on a fast to catch a wrong doer."
Ashish Narayan was surprised,
"Why, what do you think he should have done?".
"Done? Nothing! Why make an issue of such a small thing? And why fast? God has given us only one life, we should eat and enjoy."
"But thanks to his Satyagraha you learnt a valuable lesson."
"Lesson? What lesson? Only for a few days students were quiet in the class, after a week or so we were back again to talking in his class, exchanging jokes and gossip. Grandpa, I don't think this Satyagraha thing works any more. If the Head sir had caned that boy and every one else in the class that day and warned the students against disturbing Arjun Sir's class, we would have been scared and behaved. The language of the cane is the only one students understand. Rest is all farce, innocent entertainment."
Grandpa looked at his teen aged pet. And wondered what kind of society the young generation was growing into.
Anjali paused for a moment and continued, "You know Grandpa, most of my friends think we became a weak nation because we got our freedom through nonviolence, if we had fought bloody battles and won our freedom, if every family had sacrificed a son or a daughter in the Independence war, our country would have been much stronger. What do you think Grandpa, are they right?"
Grandpa was shocked, did the young generation think like that? Had Gandhi really died in the hearts of these kids? Had he been shot again by those who thought nonviolence was irrelevant? He looked at Anjali, "No, dear, the whole world thinks nonviolence is a potent weapon, an eye for an eye will leave every one blind. Gandhiji is a Mahatma for the entire world, he set an example for others by winning freedom for India through truth and nonviolence".
Anjali nodded. She was not finished about the old looney on the street, "See, see Grandpa, he has got under the traffic umbrella and is trying to regulate the traffic. But you know what happened yesterday, I had a big shock during lunch hour. After we finished our lunch we were going to wash our hands in the common row of taps. We had to pass through the Head Sir's room and glanced there. To our shock we found this old man squatting on the verandah outside the Head Sir's room and taking his lunch. The Head Sir was also sitting there, along with two teachers and they were urging him to eat. We wondered why they were fawning over this crazy man. Do you know why? Who is he, Grandpa? He must be your age or older to you. Do you know him?"
Ashish Narayan smiled. Know him? Know Birabhadra Bhanjdeo? Who in the town of Rairangpur didn't know him? He remembered a hot, rainy summer morning fifty two years back, he standing before Birabhadra Babu, hands folded, eyes brimming with hope. And Birabhadra Babu, getting up from his chair, patting him on the head and assuring him he shouldn't worry, should proceed to Patna to pursue his B.Sc. and handed over fifty rupees, promising to give more when required. But that was enough to launch Ashish Narayan's studies; once in Patna he started giving tuition to high school students and earned enough to finish his B.Sc and M.Sc.
That was two years before India won her freedom from British rule. By the time Ashish Narayan had returned after six years to take up a job as a Lecturer in Physics, things were different. Birabhadra Bhanjdeo himself was a changed man. No longer a freedom fighter, he had become a social crusader.
He wondered if his grand daughter would ever realise in what way life changed in the few years before and after independence. But he realised the time had come to unravel the mystery of the looney of the town, the once celebrated Birabhadra Bhanjdeo, the toast of the town in the pre-independence days.
They were passing along the road abutting the hospital. He stopped and asked her to read out the signboard of the arched gateway. She read it aloud, "Birabhadra Bhanjadeo General Hospital". On the other side of the road was the Government college, "Birabhadra Bhanjadeo Degree College", he pointed it out to her.
"Do you know why they were named after Birabhadra Bhanjadeo? There are half a dozen other buildings also, the Orphanage, the ITI, a few government buildings."
Anjali had no idea.
"Because the land for all these buildings was donated by Birabhadra Bhanjadeo. Do you know who he is?"
She again shook her head.
Grandpa pointed to the old man busy directing the traffic standing under the stone umbrella, as if that was his assigned job and his life depended on it.
Anjali gasped, her hand went to her mouth, eyes bulged out like she was going to have a fit!
"This crazy man, the famous looney of the town? He is such a big man? You say he donated hundreds of acres of land to the government? How much land did he have? A thousand acres?"
"More than that, much, much more. He had inherited all that land. He didn't have any children because he never married. At a young age he had joined the freedom movement, became a disciple of Gandhiji. When India became independent, he gave away all his land to the government. As a high school student......."
Anjali interrupted him,
"Which school was he in? The same school as mine?"
"Yes I was also a student in that school; your school is more than eighty years old. Even as a high school student Birabhadra babu was quite daring. He used to lead processions of students, burn the mill clothes and stage demonstrations against the government. When you pass through the Kutchery road, you will see the national flag on top of that building..."
"Yes, I have seen it. In winter when the wind is strong it flutters like crazy, as if it will tear itself from the flag pole and fly away."
"It used to be like that even when we were students in the High school except that the flag was different. There was a British flag flying there. Can you imagine a British flag there? Close your eyes and try.."
Anjali closed her eyes and tried but she didn't know what a British flag looked like. She gave up.
"Leave it naa Grandpa, tell me about that uncle!"
Ashish Narayan chuckled. Children in modern times called everyone uncle! Even someone older than her grandpa is also an uncle!
"This uncle, as you call him, was so daring that one night he, along with two of his friends, climbed the sloping roof of the Kutchery building and tore out the Bristish flag and replaced it with an Indian flag. When they were getting down, one of them slipped on the tile and fell. The sentry who was guarding the treasury came running, fired in the air and stopped the three in their tracks. In no time half a dozen other police men came running. They arrested the three young men, took them to the police station and beat them up. Next day they were taken to the British magistrate who sentenced them to three months imprisonment."
Anjali was shocked, it looked like this was a day of shocks for her!
"Grandpa, this uncle went to jail? And the police beat him up? Ah, poor uncle!"
Ashish Narayan nodded, memories of the golden days of freedom struggle flooding his mind, "That was not the only time he went to jail. After that incident, Birabhadra Babu got beaten by the police many times, mostly in a brutal way, but he never gave up, going back to his protests, demonstrations and subversive acts. In four years he went to jail five times and his final release from jail was just a few days before we got our freedom. I was twenty years old in 1947, studying in Patna. And you know, it is Birabhadra Babu who had given me money to buy my ticket to Patna and pay the first year's fees. I can never thank him enough!"
Anjali looked at the old man at the traffic stand indulgently, a new spark of love and respect for him lighted up her eyes, "So this uncle was a good man, how did he become crazy, the undisputed looney of the town?"
"That is another long story. After India won freedom, there was celebration for many, many days. Every one was happy, everyone wanted a piece of the pie which would come in the form of power and loaves of office. Not our Birabhadra Babu, he transferred almost all his land to the government to build hospitals, colleges, old age homes, orphanages. He wanted to be a social worker, going from village to village, telling people to be self- reliant, to produce their own crops, vegetables, and to maintain cleanliness. And you know what, he was obsessed with family planning, whoever he met he would preach the values of a small family. People would often laugh at him, snidely remarking that once he got married he would forget about family planning and produce ten children. But Birabhadra Babu had no plans of marrying. He had a motor cycle, he would leave every morning moving from village to village, door to door and return in the evening".
Anjali had a doubt,
"How did he survive? Was he doing a job?"
"No, he didn't have to. He still had enough income from his left over land. During this time he also started writing a lot, about the country, agriculture, sanitation and all kinds of things. Whatever he used to talk to the people he put down his words on paper and got them printed as pamphlets. He was proud to tell the world that he was a freedom fighter as if it was a badge of honour. So all his pamphlets ended with his name Shri Birabhadra Bhanjdeo, followed by FREEDOM FIGHTER in capital letters and below that "Went to Jail Five Times" in brackets. See how proud he was to announce that he had been in jail to fight for the freedom of our country!"
Anjali was getting impatient. Young girls didn't have a stomach for so much detail, they wanted to know what happened at the end. Given a choice they would like to see a movie starting with the end and rewinding!
"Yes, yes, but tell me how did he become crazy?"
"It happened on one of his trips to Jamshedpur. You know the steel city is the nearest big city for us. Those days our town didn't have many facilities, so Birabhadra babu used to drive to Jamshedpur in his motorbike to print his pamphlets. There were a couple of presses there for printing in Odia also. The incident that changed his life took place three years after our independence. He had parked his motor cycle and gone inside the press. It was already evening when he came out. He found a police constable leaning on the motorbike. Somehow with the number of beatings he had received form the police Birabhadra babu had an aversion for them, although he knew that the police no longer worked for the British. But he was tired, hungry and eager to return home. He must have burnt a fuse seeing the police man leaning on his motor bike and smoking a bidi. No one knows what kind of arguments took place between the two. In our Rairangpur town Birabhadra babu is a legend, no policeman would have touched him, but in Jamshedpur hardly anyone knew him. The police man who was probably drunk took him to the police station and started abusing him. Birabhadra Babu being a freedom fighter had a dreamy vision of the free India in which police atrocity had no place. He got so angry that he slapped the policeman. In independent India slapping a policeman is like kicking a cobra. The police man tied him up inside the lock up and gagged him. Then he drank some more liquor and beat up Birabhadra Babu like he was a dreaded dacoit. The brutal attack left him traumatised, his nose was broken, his eyes were swollen, elbow was shattered, his brain had concussions. Next morning the duty officer found him unconscious. He searched the bag and from the photo and the name he knew the police had bitten more than they could chew. But even in those early days of inedependent India our policemen were very smart. They tied him to the pillion of the motor bike and the duty officer drove it into the forest and left it there. He made it appear like an accident, pushing the bike to the ground and laid the unconscious body of Birabhadra babu at a distance. The bike and the famous freedom fighter were found by some local men and somehow he was brought to Rairangpur. But enough damage had been done to the brain of the hero of our town."
Anjali was ghast to hear this, she raised her eyebrows, "How did you come to know all this?."
"A week later, the same police man bragged about it in a liquor shop after he was drunk and that is how the story came out and spread. Birabhadra babu recovered after a month but he had gone insane. Somehow the severe beating and torture in the police station at Jamshedpur gave him the idea that he was brutalised by the British police, that India was still under British rule, fighting for freedom. Birabhadra babu jumped into the freedom struggle again, against all that the British rule stood for; injustice, oppression, insane brutalities and inhuman treatment. He is still fighting for it........"
Ashish Narayan fell silent, his voice choked. He remembered life had not been kind to him either. He also stood for principles, honesty and justice. Things had changed rapidly in free India, as if freedom was a licence to perpetrate all kinds of irregularities. Promotions, transfers in jobs were bought by paying bribes, red tape killed initiative for academic excellence and students were more interested in passing exams than acquiring knowledge. Teachers like Ashish Narayan had become increasingly irrelevant, often objects of ridicule and pity.
Anjali sensed something had gone wrong, Grandpa was probably communicating with his old friend, the freedom fighter and reliving his good old days with him, when the uncle was sane and the world was saner.
......................................................................
Story behind the story: Written for Gandhi Jayanti.
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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