Literary Vibes - Edition LXXXIX (09-Oct-2020)
(Title : I Go on Forever - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear friends,
It's with great pleasure we offer you the 89th edition of LiteraryVibes. Hope you will enjoy the rich fare of delicious poems and wonderful stories at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/350
There is also an interesting article on Group Thinking and Its Impact on Decision Making by Ms. Priya Bharati at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/349
Do share these links with your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
It's great to learn that the voice of an outstanding poet has got recognition by the award of Nobel Prize for Literature this year. We extend our heartiest congratulations to Ms. Louise Gluck for this stupendous achievement. May she inspire many like her, tormented by inner conflicts and finding solace in soul-searching, heart-touching poetry.
We are happy to welcome two new contributors in today's edition. Dr. Niranjan Barik, a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha, has penned two touching poems as tribute to his friends and colleagues both of whom were well known names in Odia literature. Hope you will share the sense of loss and companionship so brilliantly expressed by the poet. Ms. Sree Lekha from Kozhikode, Kerala, is quite a celebrity in Malayalam literature as a poet and a writer. Her cameo in today's edition demonstrates the magic she weaves around her tales. The story has been translated from Malayalam to English by Mr. Sreekumar, who, incidentally is also the translator of Mr. Joseph Abraham's story 'The Chicken Republic' in the 88th edition of LV. We wish Dr. Barik and Ms. Sree Lekha tremendous success in their literary endeavour and look forward to more of their creation to adorn the pages of LiteraryVibes.
Friends, we are passing through bad times, not a day passes when we don't hear a fresh case of Corona around us, among friends, relatives and neighbours. Yet many are picking up broken threads and trying to rebuild life. There is a flicker of hope to guide us through the darkness of despair. I tried to find a poem on hope to offer to you, but then sat down to write one of my own. Hope you will like it and it will warm up your heart:
Long before the day ends
and the evening descends into night
like a grief-laden cloud on a cliff,
My silent procession of hopes
will keep marching
with songs playing
and the eyes shining.
The night will end
the dawn will smile
sweetly like soft petals
opening to the early rays of sun.
The dew drops glowing like pearls
will kiss their goodbye from the flowers
promising to return,
with unfailing certainty
in their determined march
on the path of eternity.
Wish you a happy weekend of reading.
Take care, be safe, we will meet again next week.
With regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table Of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
BHIMASHANKAR
02) Haraprasad Das
LIVING INCOGNITO (AGNYAATAVAASA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
SCARS
04) Sreekumar K
JOHN 15:13
05) Bibhu Padhi
NEGLECTED ABSENCES
06) Ishwar Pati
BRIEF ENCOUNTER
07) Geeta Mathew
CHASED BY A COBRA
08) Dr. Pradip K. Swain
DYING FOR A SMOKE
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 12 : NEW NEST
10) Madhumathi. H
WEATHER REPORT
11) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
RELUCTANT DEATHS
12) Sunil Kumar Biswal
LITTLE KNOWN HIGHLAND OF ODISHA: KORAPUT
13) Gita Bharath
REMINISCENT
14) Hema Ravi
MORNING BLUES
15) Dr.Aniamma Joseph
GARDEN OF EDEN
16) Sheena Rath
WORLD MARITIME DAY
17) Dr. Aparna Ajith
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY RAISON D'ÊTRE
18) Ravi Ranganathan
SINGLENESS
19) Hiya Khurana
SUNFLOWERS
MY MOTHER...
20) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
MY JOB APPLICATION
21) Abani Udgata
A MESSAGE FOR BITTU
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
MAID OF THE MIST
23) Pradeep Rath
BERHAMPUR, YOU ARE A POEM!
24) Babitha George
QUEST FOR HUMANITY
25) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE INVALUABLE
26) Rudra Narayan Mohanty
THE BLACK BERRY TOWN
27) Akankshya Kar
SOLITUDE
28) Sibu Kumar Das
TWO POEMS ON LEAF
29) Suknaya V. Kunju
LIFE'S LESSONS
30) Sree Lekha
TOUCH
31) Prof Niranjan Barik
FREEDOM FROM BONDAGE, AN ODE TO NATURE!
SOLIDARITY!
32) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
CURTAINS
Book Review:
01) Dilip Mohapatra
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE
02) Molly Joseph
WATER SINGS OVER THE STONE - FOREWARD
Turning the pages
with cursive alphabet
has wet-fingered
the brown parchment.
Nothing, the net-age
offers to believers;
myths ride roughshod
in a profane-sacred fog.
The bus struggles up
the hillslope to high grounds,
the Lord beckoning,
his legendary lingam.
The Lord waits
for devotees to arrive,
delaying his afternoon nap,
his priest dozes by the door.
A coop of clucking hens
alight from the bus,
polluting the holy silence
napping in priapic dark.
In Lord’s yard
a cicada sings solo;
a childless woman starts
rubbing butter on the holy lingam.
The awakened tumescent priest
conspiratorially prays, “O’ Lord,
let me bless this childless wretch
on your behalf.”
The woman’s eyes shine up
in the dark, as the priest whispers,
“Lord be praised! Lie down, pray,
take your boon, go back happy.”
(Bhimashankar nestles in hills of Maharashtra, a hallowed abode of Lord Shiva, a pilgrimage housing a Jyoti Lingam. The poem got published in the latest anthology of Indian English Poetry by Indian Sahitya Akademi, the poem has been slightly tweaked since.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
LIVING INCOGNITO (AGNYAATAVAASA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I am not beholden to,
nor do I easily forgive… anyone,
not even my parents
for their overindulgence.
I move with wife
to her secret retreats,
to douse her smouldering embers,
to fill her longing emptiness.
I don’t forgive wife either,
if she drags me from hills
to her plateau.
I give her the slip,
glide down
to the sedate bed,
down in mushy pit,
down the golden steps,
descending to the cradle of creation;
accepting her challenge,
upholding my fort against hers,
her three amorous calls,
not submitting to death,
not being pushed out
of the combat ring
until chime of the final bell.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
You sliced me with your scalpel
and your blade’s invasions
leave the evidence engraved
with your signature affixed to it
and you added one more trophy
to your collections
while my scars dried up in time
as the blood coagulated.
Now that the scars scream
in immortalised agony
you question my silence
all these years
and accuse me of mudslinging
all out to ruin your impeccable and closely guarded public image
while cartoonists give vent
to their creativity
in lampooning my pain in social media
debaters and critics pulling me from all sides mercilessly
like the hyenas and vultures tug at the kill.
My trauma
my torment
so long in hibernation
gnawing my ins and outs
like a maggot thriving in a piece
of decadent meat
is exhumed now
and it has thawed
and found its voice
that was lost to the vagaries
of time and tides.
It’s confession time
come out in the clear
and bury your scalpel for good
for no one really likes to bleed
endlessly
and the scars never die..
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
This was the fifth time I was going to see Gopal.
The last four times it was my need; the senior editor had asked me.
Now Gopal wanted to meet me and that too the night before he was to be hanged to death.
He had been accused of raping and killing a girl in the neighbourhood. She was pretty and they had grown up together; not that these things mattered for the law.
The lower court had awarded him a lifer for, saying that this was not the rarest of the rarest of murders.
(Is there one, my Lord? Murder is murder.)
But the whole nation went ablaze with indignation. The Government was forced to go for appeal to the high court. The upper court had to do something. Even my first interview with him was produced in court. That really moved the court against him. In that interview which I had manged to shoot just after he surrendered, he confesses with no remorse that he was the one who committed the murder.
It was an easy win for the police. He himself produced all the evidences, so perfect and intact that one would think they were made by the police. But at the court, he was as vehement in accepting them as any other murderer would be in denying them.
In the consecutive videos I had taken, whenever he had made it to the press, he had given a different reason each time for his confession. First, he said he felt sorry for the girl. Then he said he was sorry for the parents. The third time he said he wanted to unite with the girl in the other world. That time even I thought the bugger deserved what he got.
And I was going to see him that night. Strangely, that was his last wish. He had something to tell me and he wanted to do that only at night when all the chances of revoking the order were no more.
I was escorted to his cell by two gunmen and I felt intimidated by their presence, let alone the hefty guns they were carrying.
He smiled at me reviving a not so old memory. There were only moments for him to die and all smiles to stop. Where was that last bit from? O, Robert Browning. His Last Duchess.
I thought I was in a graveyard. He was dead for all around him. He was treated like a log of wood. One might think that there was no need to hang him any more.
He came closer to the greasy bars. He was still smiling.
"This is not for the press. This is only for you. The reasons I had given you for my confession weren't the real ones. Those who did it won't be harmed anyway. They are beyond your law. My case is different and it is no small consolation for her parents that the culprit is sent to death."
My whole body went numb. I was breathing hard though there was also some sort of tranquility within me, like what you feel in some ancient temples.
He moved away from the bars and was lost in a shroud of darkness it the corner.
I put my hands together to say good bye.
But it was not just a farewell gesture.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
The burden of things is increasing
until, one day, these sinking hands
will fail to carry them through time.
The pressure of size and shape,
the dumb exactness of weight
in a world in which things rule over
the fugitive departures of the mind.
The lizard on the wall behind me,
alert as ever, says. “It’s true.”
The wife of a lifetime, the children
of our capricious moments,
friends and neighbours, women,
men and beasts walking the street—
where do they turn towards
to confirm their sheer weight on me?
There are times when the overarching sky
shrinks into an invisible sight,
the sun and the moon pay back
their light to another world
in mysterious absence, and even
the stars withdraw into the wish
from which they sprouted long ago.
What slavish belief has kept
the nearer things together, palpable
like these lean fingers, defying
all possibilities of another presence?
The truth of things behind things,
in spite of things, because of things?
The old belief in everything to be where
they are, increasing in weight
through common night and day,
disregarding extraordinary absences,
night-time departures of the mind?
(This poem was earlier published in Poetry Review, London)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
Madhuri watched helplessly as the 5.05 Fast for Borivli glided out of Churchgate station. She cursed herself for wasting five minutes to get change from the cane juice vendor. The next train was only after fifteen minutes. She smiled ruefully. May be that’s what life was all about—missed chances. Distracted, she failed to notice when a stealthy hand crept up on her. Suddenly her shoulder felt light—her bag had been lifted! Panic seized her. In her mind she went through all the items that had been in the bag—purse, mirror, lipstick, handkerchief, comb…She stood on tiptoe and frantically scanned the surging crowd over their heads in all directions. But how could she possibly hope to find her bag in that melee?
Then she spotted a fist high in the air clutching a yellow leather strap. Her bag! The next moment it was flying onto the next platform, where it was expertly caught by a well-dressed man. Her view was blocked when a train rolled into the station between the two platforms. Madhuri jumped into the still moving train, driven by an energy she never knew she possessed, and jumped out onto the next platform. The man holding her bag was just standing there in a daze. What was preventing him from taking to his heels? In any case, she shouted loudly, “Thief! Give me my bag!”
The man looked at her and then at her bag. A curious crowd started gathering around them. “Now, lady, hold on a minute.” The ‘thief’ was cool as a cucumber. “I’m no thief. Do you think I’d be hanging around if I wanted to take your bag?”
“Well, why are you holding my bag then?” Madhuri’s voice was crisp.
“I don’t know. Honestly. I was waiting for my train when the bag sails right into my hands.” Madhuri continued to look at him with suspicion. He went on, “That’s the truth, Madam. If I’d been part of the gang, your bag would have been miles away by now. You should thank your stars someone in the gang missed his aim.”
Madhuri eyed him closely. The tall fellow was certainly a good talker, posing as the ‘good guy’! Madhuri didn’t like to press the issue, now that she had got back her bag. Who wants hassles with the police? But she wanted to make sure all her things were there before she let him go.
When she asked him to hand over the bag, he resisted politely, “Not so fast, Madam. How do we know the bag’s yours? We have only your word for it. For all we know, you could be part of the gang! Not able to catch it, now you’re trying to snatch it!”
Madhuri was aghast. “How dare you accuse a lady like that? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? This is my bag and I can prove it!”
“Mumbai is full of lady thieves, good-looking ones at that,” he remarked, giving her a significant look. “Can you tell me what’s inside the bag?” He asked as he proceeded to open it.
Madhuri pounced on him with sudden fury. “Don’t you know better than to open a lady’s purse in public?”
He quickly closed it. “Sorry, lady, sorry. But how can we find out that it’s yours unless you can tell what things are inside without looking inside? May be you prefer a policeman does it?”
She looked down in confusion. If she resisted police interference, he may think her to be a thief. At the same time, she didn’t want to get involved with the police. She noticed that the few curious hangers-on were keenly eyeing the proceedings.
Then she remembered her identity card. “Let me take out my ID from the bag,” she said. “That should be enough to prove my bonafides.”
“Why, of course,” he gallantly handed the bag over. Quickly she took out her purse and from inside it the identity card issued by her employer with her photograph.
“Wow!” the man exclaimed after looking at the card. “You work for a bookshop, do you?”
“Yes,” she replied curtly, “that’s none of your business!” She literally snatched the card from him and put it back in her purse. She was feeling greatly irritated. On top of missing her train, she had to face the ignominy of a degrading interrogation by a rude stranger. “Can I leave now, if you please?”
“I’m…I’m so sorry for all this,” he muttered softly. Suddenly the arrogance of the interrogator was gone. Gone too were the bystanders with their curiosity doused by the turn of events. Madhuri started towards the platform where her next train was to come. “If you don’t mind, Ma’am,” the stranger tagged her, “can we have a cup of coffee together?”
Madhuri stopped in her tracks. Had she heard right? The overbearing stranger was now offering her a conciliatory cup of coffee! She had to admire his remarkable audacity.
“After all that we have gone through, you know,” he was continuing to dog her, “accusing each other and all that. It won’t be right to part on a bitter note. How about it?”
She turned to him brusquely, but couldn’t help smiling. “All right,” she said.
They had to struggle against the human tide to get out of the platform. Madhuri kept her bag pressed close to her chest. She didn’t know his name, but she had to admire his conduct. He was no thief, nor an ordinary, run-of-the-mill commuter. She felt a pleasant sensation at his presence by her side.
“My name’s Anand,” the tall man extended his hand and she shook it. “What’s yours?”
“Madhuri,” she responded.
“Madhuri Dixit, I presume,” he joked.
“Only if yours is Dev Anand,” she retorted. Laughter again. With the cafeteria jam packed, they had to wait in a corner for their turn.
“Coffee, coffee, everywhere, nor a cup to sip,” Anand quipped.
“Huh?” Madhuri looked baffled.
“A parody on Coleridge. You know Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the romantic poet?”
“Yes, yes. ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ It’s in the course for Higher Secondary. We have…our shop has sold many copies of it.” Madhuri discovered a newfound respect for Anand blossoming within her.
“Oh, how lucky you’re to be working in a bookshop! You can read so many books, and the latest ones too!”
She smiled. “It’s not quite like that. Actually I hardly get any time to read at work. By the way, what do you do? Apart from snatching ladies’ purses, that is!”
He chuckled. “I’m an English teacher, or to state it more correctly, a teacher of English. So you see, this bookshop thing on your identity card tempted me to invite you for coffee. I thought you’d be good company.”
“Well, am I?” She was herself startled by her openness with a person she hardly knew. But she couldn’t help it. He was so interesting, so suave without being brash.
Suddenly he was pulling her hand. “Come, come quickly, there are two empty chairs over there, before somebody else grabs them.” He almost ran to book the chairs, while she followed sedately, ladylike. Her last question to him still hovered in her mind, unresponded to.
He enquired as they sat down, “What will you have with your coffee? The famous Mumbai batatawada?”
“Oh, God, anything but that!” she almost screamed. “I’m sick of them!”
“How can you say that?” he expressed mock shock. “A true Mumbaikar wedded to the local train can’t do without his daily quota of batatawada. It’s part of his evening ritual, just like his morning cuppa tea.”
Madhuri burst out laughing, but folded her hands in mock appeal. “You can say whatever you like, Mr. Anand. But please spare me the batatawada. I’ll have a samosa, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. But I do mind your calling me Mr. Anand. It’s Anand, just Anand for you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, yes, of course…Anand,” she replied, blushing slightly.
“That’s better!” Anand thumped the table and shouted, “Waiter! Samosa and batatawada here with two coffees!”
Before Madhuri could say ‘Anand’, the waiter was at their table with the snacks and the coffee. She ate slowly, stealing furtive glances at him, while he attacked his batatawada with gusto. He looked up only when he was satisfied. “Where do you stay…Madhuri? Can I call you Madhuri?”
Madhuri nodded. “In Borivli,” she said.
“Oh, but that’s a long way off.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I stay near Mahim. Not far by Mumbai standards. You must come to my place one day. Though nothing great, it’s my home.”
“Who else lives with you?” Oops, why did she ask him that? What if he lived alone? What if he invited her home? How could she refuse…would she refuse him?
“I have two brothers, one sister and an old mother. All living under one roof. We get along pretty well, each one busy in his or her own affairs. But we take good care of our mother. She is the bond who binds us.”
Was she relieved to know he wasn’t living alone—or was she disappointed? He must be a considerate person if he thinks so much of his ailing mother. She looked at her watch. “Oh, my God, already six! I must run!”
“I’m so sorry I detained you for so long,” Anand apologised as both of them got up. When Madhuri put her hand in her bag to take out her purse, he restrained her, touching her hand for a fleeting second. A fleeting touch that made the hair on her arm stand on end. She didn’t hear him telling that the treat was on him. For that moment she was lost to the world.
“We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men,” Anand recited, looking at the vast sea of humanity pressing on like ants to be swallowed by trains that came and went like giant caterpillars.
“Huh?” Madhuri again failed to catch on to what he was saying.
“T.S. Eliot’s poem ‘The Hollow Men’. Do you have it in your bookshop?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied, a bit puzzled. “Is it in Higher Secondary course?”
“Of course not! It’s taught in MA, I think,” he said.
“Oh, we don’t stock books for MA. Not many takers.” She seemed to have lost interest, Eliot being an unfamiliar commodity for her.
They plunged into the crowd and became a part of its vast grinding mixture. Jostled from all sides, she still carefully gripped her bag. A hand caught hold of her left hand and locked its fingers around hers. She looked sharply to her left. It was Anand. He had a radiant smile as his fingers gently squeezed hers. She swooned. Her feet seemed to leave the ground. But the moment passed and she found her hand jerked out of his grip. Why on earth did she do that? Her heart yearned for his touch, his closeness to her. Yet her reflexes—conditioned by decades of a middle class, conservative upbringing; an upbringing meant to ‘protect’ her from the evils of seduction—snapped her hand away from his. She stared and found in his eyes a look of dejection, the incomprehensibility of her rejection. Quickly he left her side and lost himself in the sea of humanity from which he had materialised. She remained rooted where she stood, in the midst of the moulting crowd, confused by her own involuntary action. She could have still called out to him, but her voice was gone too. On the late train home, she took a window seat and stared at the darkness. Some birds were still winging their way home, not alone but in a bunch. Countless pairs of lovers were strolling on the roads, hand in hand, lost in their cocoons. And she found her heart filled with yearning. She must go to him tomorrow—and take his hand in hers. They would start afresh. But…where did he work? She didn’t know. She had not bothered to ask him. He lived near Mahim, he had said, but where? In a vast galaxy of stars, how could she possibly locate her own twinkling planet? The gathering darkness reflected her despair.
May be he will contact her himself. If he was so fond of her, he would certainly come for her. He knew where she worked. There was still hope! Eagerly she opened her bag to take out her identity card that his hands had touched. She wanted to touch it, and through it revive the caress of his caring fingers. Where was her purse? She peered into the bag’s corners. She was sure she had put the card back in her purse and then the purse in her bag. Then where had it gone? Stolen? Her heart missed a beat when the thought struck her. No, it can’t be! After a frenzied search she found it lodged at the bottom. Thank God! Her day had been saved. She pressed the card to her lips. But the Mumbai crowd hardly noticed her eyes turning smoky. In her heart she felt Anand would come tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. Or may be next week! Where was the hurry? Better to travel hopefully than…
The local train sped on its way through the lighted cobweb of the sprawling city, its steel wheels echoing the turmoil in her heart.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
(This is a true incident that happened to my mother when she was a small girl, visiting her grandparent’s house in Pattazhy)
The chase took place long ago and was not like any other pursuit. One has heard of tigers hunting deer and other animals. Or a child chasing chickens around a yard. But a snake? And that too a snake chasing Mollykutty? No one had heard of such a thing!
It was a Sunday and it was just like any other weekend. Mollykutty had bathed and changed into a pretty yellow skirt and blouse and admired herself in the long mirror in one of the bedrooms. After breakfasting on idlis and milk with her other cousins, she ran out to play their usual games of ‘robber -police’ and hopscotch. She had just been caught by her sister Thanky, when she spotted the maid, Omana going towards the gates swinging a milk pail and humming a popular song to herself.
Mollykutty asked Omana to wait, while she ran back to the kitchen where her grandmother, was supervising the mid-day meal. She asked her whether she could fetch the milk from Thomachen uncle’s dairy farm. Her grandmother refused saying that her father, would be very angry if he knew that his daughter had been sent to fetch milk. But, Mollykutty pleaded so much that the ‘no’ became a ‘yes.’ Then she ran all the way to the front gate where Omana was waiting and took the milk pail from her. Her cousins stared as she skipped away.
Hugging the milk pail to her chest, Mollykutty carefully walked a little way and then climbed the small fence leading to Thangamma Auntie’s house. Thangamma Aunty was sitting on the kitchen steps dicing carrots and beans. Mollykutty greeted her with a cheery ‘hello’ and walked on. She passed the tiny tea shop where a few men were smoking and drinking tea. Far away in the distance, the majestic mountains glinted against a carpet of green. Mollykutty skirted around ponds and several stretches of land cultivated with paddy, tapioca and rubber trees.
Shading her eyes with her free hand, she could see Thomachen uncle’s farm and hear the cows mooing in their sheds. When Mollykutty reached the farmhouse, Thomachen uncle came out and was very happy to see her. He measured out the milk carefully into her pail, while his wife plied her with ‘etaka appam’ (banana fritters). Mollykutty enjoyed the snack and then went on her way, feeling very grown -up and responsible.
The milk pail was filled up almost to the top and now Mollykutty could no longer swing it about. She held it tightly and thought with delight about the ‘payasam’ (kheer) that her mother had promised to make. Mollykutty liked to spoon up the nuts and raisins from it first and then enjoy the rest of the sweet dish. She had just turned the corner, when she came to a small fence. This she climbed, careful not to spill a single drop of milk. Here, there were no houses and she could not see a soul. Mollykutty thought to herself that she should have worn covered shoes since the track was muddy.
She suddenly spotted something lying across the road. It was black and looked like a thick rope. However, when Mollykutty came closer, she saw to her horror that it was a snake and that too a ‘moorkan’ (cobra) which was highly poisonous. It seemed to be slumbering in the sun. Mollykutty realized that it was better and safer to return to Thomachen uncle’s farm. She had just started off, when she got an idea. If she tiptoed past the snake, she could reach home before her father arrived back. He would get very annoyed if he knew that she had gone to fetch milk.
Mollykutty softly tried to walk past the snake. She was almost sure that she had managed to leave the cobra undisturbed when she heard a loud hiss. She looked back and saw to her horror that the snake was chasing her. Mollykutty ran as fast as she could, fear lending her wings. However, the snake twisted and turned, gaining on her until it was but a short distance from her. Mollykutty let out a loud scream, but there was nobody in sight. She became terrified, imagining how much it would hurt when the snake sank its fangs into her leg. But, she didn’t want to be bitten and maybe lie in hospital for days, or even die. Xmas was just around the corner and she was looking forward to celebrating with her cousins.
She suddenly realized that she had almost reached her grandparent’s home. Omana was outside, spreading red chillies out in the sun to dry. Seeing Mollykutty’s terrified face, she caught hold of her and asked her gently why she was so frightened. Mollykutty looked back, but to her surprise the snake was no longer in sight. It must have slithered away into the bushes when it saw her nearing the house. Mollykutty sank to the ground sobbing in relief.
After that horrifying experience, she was too frightened to go outdoors. For long, she had nightmares about snakes and wild animals chasing her. She decided that if she ever ventured out of the gates in Pattazhy, she would only go in a group with her cousins. And she would definitely never go by herself to buy milk from Thomachen uncle’s farm.
Dr Geeta Mathew holds a Ph.D in English Literature and has been teaching English over the last thirty years in St Angela Sophia School, Mayo College and St Xavier’s in Rajasthan. After relocation to Bangalore, she has been taking classes for Spoken English for ladies. She is the author of a book of personal reminiscences entitled ‘Bijoli’s Patchwork Quilt’ as well as some books on the usage of English for children.
DYING FOR A SMOKE
Dr. Pradip K. Swain
(There’s no glamor in being sick, poor and dead)
It was 2:30 am when the scream of another ambulance’s siren distracted me from my automobile-accident patient. I turned tersely toward the Emergency Room entrance awaiting the arrival of yet another sick patient. Running on caffeine and the promise of a 15-minute nap, I braced myself and returned to my work. Time became a blur, melted into the frame of the long night shift.
Aboard the ambulance was a 42-year-old man who had a hard time breathing. For him, the ambulance was no joy ride. I knew him. He was dying of lung cancer as a result of heavy smoking. He had wasted away from a robust 170 pounds to only 80 pounds, and had a tracheostomy opening in his neck to help him breathe, leaving him unable to speak.
This day, his physical condition had worsened. More surgery was discussed but then ruled out. Both radiation and chemotherapy had been ineffective. Finally a big red “DNR” (Do Not Resuscitate) sticker was placed on the front cover of his chart.
As I examined him, he wrote, “Doctor, did you know? Nothing more can be done.” Nodding silently, I held his hand. A large teardrop rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the pillow as he squeezed my hand tightly.
All of a sudden his breathing got worse. He grabbed a pencil to write, “I hurt bad, need a shot now.” But even as the intravenous morphine eased his pain, blood began to gush from the opening in his neck from a broken artery. I desperately tried to control the bleeding with a pair of hemostats and extra padding but his racing pulse became slower and stopped.
He died in my arms. His blood spattered my starched white coat, seeping deeper, touching my body, my soul, my memory.
He was not the only patient who died from smoking. Tobacco-related illnesses take a terrible toll. Current estimates implicate cigarette smoking in 325,000 premature deaths each year in the United States. This is the equivalent of three fully loaded 747 jumbo jets crashing each day with no survivors.
What are our priorities? Why don’t the American people become as excited and agitated about the epidemic of lung cancer which claims 100,000 lives every year as they did about the Tylenol murders, which claimed less than 10? Because smoking has become fashionable and part of our culture.
We are told, “You have come a long way, baby.” Another brand is “Beige, slender and special.” How can something called Eve or True or Virginia Slims hurt anyone? Aren’t all those bright, young, sexy, slim athletic types in the ads having a good time? The truth is, they only think they are. Rosalind Russell, who promoted Chesterfield cigarettes -- “They treat you right” -- died a premature death due to lung cancer. She did not enjoy the fruits of her labor.
Smoking does not make you glamorous, macho or successful, and certainly not athletic. It makes you sick, poor and dead. Our youngsters ought to be reminded about the yellow teeth and zoo breath caused by smoking “Emphysema Slims.”
Today we are dealing with a widespread, socially accepted, deadly and mostly preventable medical problem We are struggling with a disease which is mainly preventable but poorly treated as in the case of my patient. Disease prevention through lifestyle changes is a new area to many of us. Our hope is that the social pendulum will swing away from cigarette smoking as rapidly as possible.
(This article had first appeared in Altoona Mirror, USA, on Novemeber 13, 1989.)
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Professor, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 12 : NEW NEST
Was it yesterday? Everything seems fresh and new. Girls grow up very fast. Only yesterday she was a tiny LKG girl coming from school in a borrowed frock having spoiled her dress in vomit. Now she stands as a young bride to go to a new house. Her heart beat madly. She had doted on her, watching her hands grow, her legs grow as the saying goes. She never thought that the day would come so soon ... that she would have to see her going to another house. She knew it was the tradition of their society. She should have been given away long back, may be when she was 19, but they had decided they would not. She would be educated and if she proves good in her studies she would be encouraged to become a career woman, who would stand on her own feet and be independent. God answered their prayers both openly begged ones and those repressed in the mind. Now she stood tall as a doctor.
But her heart couldn’t be pacified, it was breaking to smithereens, next dawn she would be the wife of a man and go away to another home. Yes she had to reconcile herself to that.
Once she told her playfully "Mamma I am a 19 years old young woman and not a child. Allow me to live independently."
Then she had replied, "Yes I will the moment you prove you can stand on your own feet"
Now she has proved herself.
New Nest
Dewy-eyed dawn, twittering songsters,
Eagerly awaiting the golden streaks
To lighten up the world
For the early worms to catch.
In a tiny nest, the she-bird’s pride-
Geared up for her first flight,
With mounting excitement.
Wings gathering balance,
The little one circled in the air
With swan like grace
Under the watchful eyes
Of the adoring pair.
The he-bird singing hymns,
Heralding the sun, flew mirthfully,
Cheering the little one, inspiring her to fly
Higher and higher, to race with the wind.
Oblivious of the sorrowful joy, colonizing
The mother-mind; tenderly visualizing
The young one, soon in a nest of her own
Chosen by her beloved for a new life.
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
Those endearing conversations they often have
Never ends, without her updates on the weather
Different continents, different skies
The sun sips coffee here, while the moon weaves dreams there
Missing each other, beyond words
Yet, meeting everyday, holding hands
Walking on the bridge, built by their souls
That lead to the meadows of common evenings
Fragrant with nourishing thoughts
A neutral sky without timezones
The sun churning the crimson pigments of their love
While the crescent moon slowly blossoms
Like a floating tiara...
"Hot! windy...cold! warm..."
The weather fluctuates like mood
Yet she reports in constant joy, her curious voice
Reflects undiscovered seasons, and climates of love
The clear blue sky, and the pink petals of her land
Instantly shovels the gloomy clouds
Chirpy birds, and their magical wings
Helps to take-off, the limping heart...
Ah! A sudden ache! With a pause
From the pleasure of the visuals, her words gift
"Today! Cold, and quivering, the air isn't fair!"
And caged at home, the sky's pamphlets missed...
Wish the sun sends some warm quilts
Through her windows, and chimney
Cuddle her shivers, setting bonfire...
But dear adorable life
Thank you for the nurturing, beautiful love
Thank you for the wings of wool
The souls have
Wings of a myriad fabric
To reach their space
To cherish a million more evenings
whatever the climate is
Over a cup of tea
Serving oceans of love...
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
And the female was born
And frustrated was the midwife.
And she wrung the tender neck
And a reluctant death ensued.
Death of morality.
And the female grew
And the heinous winked.
And she lay there plundered
And a reluctant death ensued.
Death of humanity.
And the female became a bride
And the bridegroom was in greed.
And she was charred forever
And a reluctant death ensued.
Death of mentality.
And the female when fatigued
And the knell echoed,
And she greeted it gleaming
And a willing death ensued.
Death of the flesh.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
LITTLE KNOWN HIGHLAND OF ODISHA: KORAPUT
Mayank looked at the scene outside through his office window. He could see the twin peaks of Mount ‘Deomali’ in the horizon beyond the vast stretch of water of ‘Kolab’ reservoir. The scene was picture perfect. The last time he casually took a selfie and posted on their friends WhatsApp group, everybody thought that he was on vacation to some exotic place. When he explained to them that he took the selfie sitting inside his office, they found it hard to believe.
Mayank’s mind wandered six months back in time, when he was on verge of writing a resignation letter to quit his job.
Mayank and his friend Birendra, two newly recruited Lower Division Clerks in a central government organization, reported for duty at the zonal office in Kolkata. They had become friends during their training days. And their joy knew no bounds when they received their posting orders, both in Odisha, one at ‘Pokhariput’ and the Other at ‘Koraput’. Both the location names ended in “- put” which meant they would be in close proximity of each other.
They called their respective homes and conveyed the good news that the two friends are going to be posted at same place. The family members were relieved that their boys will have each other’s company in an alien land.
So, they took a train in the evening and reached Bhubaneswar the state capital of Odisha. They reached the state HQ office at Pokhariput and Mayank got shock of his life when he came to know that his place of Posting mentioned as ‘Koraput’ is nowhere near ‘Pokahriput’ as they had anticipated, but 550KMs away from the state capital. The story didn’t end there, Mayank also came to know that ‘Koraput’ is in a dark corner of Odisha and people always avoided going there. It was in the news for all the wrong reasons. Lack of education, lack of healthcare, lack of good roads, no train communication, no airport, prone to malaria, Anthrax, diarrhoea and if the list was not enough, it was considered a red zone due to presence of naxals.
Mayank, was almost on verge of tears, how the god could be so cruel to land him in such a situation. His friend Birendra will enjoy city life where as he, is banished to life of misery in a distant place. Will he come back alive from such a god forbidden place with so much going wrong about it? He was sure, he will quit the job and go back to his village in Haryana and join his family in tilling their ancestral land.
He went to the office superintendent and expressed his desire to tender his resignation letter.
Finally after a lot of counseling by the fatherly office superintendent, Mayank reluctantly agreed to go to Koraput.
And today, Mayank was so happy that god was so kind to him in sending him to a place like Koraput. His feelings of loss of city life was compensated In so many ways typical to Koraput that he looked forward to continue his stay for many more years to come.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Koraput is a tribal dominated backward district of Odisha. It is home to two Navaratna Govt PSUs like Hindustan Aeronautics Limited making bleeding edge combat aircrafts like Sukhoi-30MKI and MiG series Aircrafts and National Aluminum Company Limited having Asia’s largest Alumina Refinery having world’s second longest single flight conveyor belt system. Odisha’s tallest peak named Deomali is also located here which is at 1672 mtrs above MSL. It has Odisha’s largest capacity hydropower station at Indravati(undivided Koraput). Koraput is at a railway tri-junction (Koraput-Kotwalsa AP, Koraput-Kirandul CG and Koraput-Rayagada). Jeypore is the main commercial hub of Koraput. Undivided Koraput is home to one of oldest tribe Bonda who still live in the primitive style.
As a tourist destination Koraput offers a diverse itinerary. There are a lot of modern and ancient religious places such as Cave Temple Gupteswar, Jagannath Temple at Koraput popularly known as Sabara Srikhetra, anciemt jain temples of Subai & Kechala, modern Hanuman Temple at Damanjodi with 2nd tallest statue in the world (108 feet 9 inches) & The Sai Mandir appeal to the tourists with a religious leaning.
For the nature lover, Koraput offers marvelous sites such as awe inspiring Duduma falls (175Mtrs plunge type and second biggest in Odisha) along with a number other falls such as Rani Duduma, Galigabdar, Punjisil, Bagra etc. One can go on a nature trail to village Kotiya 9KMs beyond Deomali , the highest peak of Odisha, innumerable coffee plantations, Dams, hill tops , valleys etc.
Kotiya Village isbeyond the famed Deomali mountain range and is a delight to travel to.
Deomali offers excellent natural scenery, camping site. One can travel upto 80% of it’s height by vehicle. There are many viewpoints constructed by the Govt Tourism Department and one can enjoy the beauty of Eastern Ghats from these view points.
Overall, Koraput is a virgin tourist destination waiting to be explored. It is well connected to state capital Bhubaneswar, Kolkata, Raipur, Vishakhapatnam, Rourkela by daily express trains that pass through meandering valleys , tunnels and bridges. It has a number of Air-conditioned luxury busses including Volvo busses to Bhubaneswar, Vishakhapatnam. It is hoped that people do visit Koraput before it becomes crowded ,polluted like other famous tourist destinations.
All the tourist spots in Koraput were largely unknown and unexplored. One will find the extra joy of visiting a virgin land as the places are still not crowded. If one loves such desolate places to visit, then he should visit Koraput now, before it becomes crowded like most hill stations.
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
'There is a sorrow that lingers in old parks'
The old man said, looking around wistfully.
How many loves and hopes and fears
Have budded and bloomed and died
How many old men have lost their friends
And cried.
I see ghosts everyday
How I used to shout and run and play
With them.
The big tree with its low branches
Just right for climbing is gone
The pond with carp is now a sand pit
And I sit alone
The evening shadows stretch long fingers
Beckoning him to the shadow land
But suddenly, loud and shrill, he hears
"Grandad! There you are! "
And from the far past
He's jerked back
To the vital, living present
Full of light and joy for he's
Necessary to the next generation
And now his face lights up as he says
"There are also memories of fun, enjoyment,
Excitement that echo in old parks."
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
From the verandah of the sky rise structure
images of the canvas come to life
slow motion-the spectacle eye catching
urgent, fast forward
reel out of a film.
Angry drivers honking, docile ones waiting
cars being towed, caught in the vicious circle
ducking through traffic
garbage on road, flying out of windows
Slush, potholes, anything but amusing.
Human resources interacting
stuck in the mangle, unable to disentangle
to uninvolved bystander setting fascinating,
for partaker
negativity, misery resulting.
Litmus test wading and maneuvering
adverse impact reverberating
what sheath of armour to wear
at the milieu not swear?
Elusive calm for find in the daily grind.
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.
Shall I tell you an old, familiar story
of the Garden, God planted in Eden,
the epitome of prosperity and bliss?
Trees and fruits of all kinds ,
pleasant to see; tasty to eat.
Two trees, of life and of
the knowledge of good and evil,
Majestic it stood in the middle.
A river with four water courses
flowed keeping the land ever fertile and rich.
God placed Adam and Eve as the caretakers.
There was ‘God’s plenty.’
Only one command, simple, He put
“Do not eat the fruit of the tree
of the knowledge of good and evil.”
They disobeyed and it unsettled their life,
They were expelled from the Garden of Eden;
The curse came in the form
of toil, labour and death!
Don’t we still persist in our disobedience?
We run a mad inhuman race
We hoard things for ourselves,
Stooping from the level of the stewards
To that of the exploiters!
Give to others their due
Live in harmony, not in discord, with Nature
There will be primordial peace and happiness!
It will be our Paradise, our dreamland!
Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 32 books of the members so far.
Yesterday the 24th of September was World Maritime Day. Eighty percent of the world trade is through maritime.
I happen to be part of this journey due to my better half Capt. Rath a Master Mariner,and i sailed along with him on board for eleven months at a stretch on every voyage, that used to be the contract period way back in 1993.You always knew the date of joining ship but would never know the date of coming down the gangway until you saw your reliever. During that time only the higher ranks could carry their family on board. Family could join only two months later after the employee joined.
He was working for an Italian company hence our usual home port of joining was Monfalcone in Italy.Our usual ports were in Italy, France, Spain and the Western coast of Africa.The entire trip back to Monfalcone would take us two months with a complete ten days sailing from the last port of Spain,Barcelona to the first port of Africa Point Noire. During this entire period as we are crossing different time zones we would be advancing and retarding.
A vessel functions twenty-four seven,even on a Sunday, it's only during anchorage they get a little rest time, as the vessel is preparing to go alongside the jetty once the pilot arrives, with a staff of around 22-25 depending on the life boat capacity,is self sufficient and fully equipped to face any kind of challenge.Never experienced too much of sea sickness but rolling and pitching was part of each voyage as we sailed out of port due to rough weather.
Those days I remember communication was tough and one would do that by writing letters to reach out to your family back at home but to put everything in short as for this post there is too much to write about , have enjoyed my sailing trips on various container vessels for almost a period of eight years. Rahul too got a chance to sail on ships until his Autism was diagnosed and everything came to a stand still.
Always proud to be a sailors wife. Cheers to the Maritime Fraternity.
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)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY RAISON D'ÊTRE
A very Happy Birthday to my one and only Mike November Sujeeth, the raison d'être of my life!
A tsunami of thoughts began stirring in the shadow lane of my memories on this very special day, my Jeeth!
Oh, one more October 09 has reached our door steps and we are all set to bid adieu to our love land of Ezhimala, the haven of Seven Hills. A myriad of memories slowly and steadily unleash in my amygdala on this extraordinary occasion.
Was it a love in the land of Zamorins or in the land of Seven Hills? You have bewitched my soul and heart, from the very first day, whereas no other handsome or smart, tall and calm cutie pie could win me in any way. Whatever, things started making and taking an O. Henry turn in a tsunami’s spell. The sea fever has captured our romantic veins….. We started weaving novel patterns to our love for each other!
A love that can flourish even in a simple Samosa gift, watching a heartwarming 96 kaadhal, mounting Bekal Fort in pursuit of a Miley Cyrus, falling for the waterfalls of Alakapuri, trekking the talking paths of Paithalmala, riding together to relish our ruminating Taste Buds, sipping the serene ‘Elneer’ for our tranquil thoughts,….. My new visa and the new attire’s tenure ended within a wink’s time. And, my Darcy with a weeping heart bid me an adieu with that parting gift: A ship on course! Wow. It took me only a handful of months to realize that he is there in the twilight of my memory with our memories of togetherness.
It’s time to build another tower in the sky. Yes, Lord Krishna from his abode has showered his benedictions upon us. And, we started sailing through our marital ship!
Thanks a ton for the warmth, love and affection you have lavished on me ever since we met each other. I appreciate you for the immense and incredible patience you possess in possessing an ‘often unbearable’ wife like me. It means a lot to have you in my life. To me, your birthday is the most exquisite day as it is a matter of enormous joy for me in every way. I cherish it for my entire life time. My whole universe revolves in, around and within. Without you, the strength of my entity tends to diminish. You have touched my life and without you, I don’t know what my life would be? Even in the darkness and storms of our marital odyssey, you ended up making me view a bright star somewhere far somewhere near. I could not resist myself from the brightness you thrust on all the ways I traverse.
My marital life has translated me to an alternative realm of realities and Ezhimala has witnessed all the remarkable phases and faces of my life. The lively movements and the lovely moments we relished at our love land will remain eternally auspicious for Jeeth and me. It’s time to drift apart to another hemisphere of life and I am all set to taste the novel flavors that the providence has in store along with your absolutely fabulous companionship. Time, the subtle chief of youth has made you old and let me cheer you up by bestowing an exceptional crown of adoration for the way we get along despite all our disagreements. You deserve the whole credit for that and nobody can fill your shoes in my being, my sweet best half.
I dedicate this token of love with all my heart to the unwavering support system of my life.
Once again, many many happy returns of the day, my darling Darcy!!!!
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.
Bird alone
Alone me
but not lonely...
if you are,
you are not
in good company !
lode star,
lone zealot,
solitary tree,
candle light,
maverick monk,
idealistic iconoclast;
all want space ,
all want peace,
all want freedom
to gloat in their fiefdom!
It's like a Stoic
tasting ambrosia
after traversing
a vast and lonesome path..
What a sweet aftermath !
In quest of merging
with Oneness,
effulgent in my
aloneness
I am enjoying my nothingness...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
One evening I saw a lane,
Filled with dull sunflowers on its frame,
The sunflowers looked very ordinary,
Just like other plants in the conservatory,
The gardener loved them like his son,
But I thought that their beauty was none.
The other morning the sunrays fell upon the earth,
With the singing of the bees and the dancing of the wind,
As the rays touched the flowers on the ground,
The sunflowers looked like gold all around,
Even the beggar on the road,
Could walk on a path filled with gold......
Oh! My mother, so adoring and sweet,
Who gives me to eat a tasty treat,
You are so gentle and calm,
On my wound, who puts a balm,
The observer also has no clue,
As the pain would be mine but tears would be in the eyes of you....
You are just like a petal of rose,
Which gives its fragrance in every pose,
But just as the flower is nothing without its tuber,
One's success is always supported by a mother,
The roots are hidden from the outer earth,
But the flower's beauty and fragrance is a result of the mother's effort beneath the earth.....
Hiya Khurana is 13 yrs old and is studying in 9th Standard. She developed an interest in writing since a very young age. She enjoys writing essays and poems. She started writing poems at the age of 10. She likes reading short stories and poems. She won an essay writing competition at the age of 8. She has also won many school level speech competitions in English as well as in Hindi. She represented her school and backed a position in the Top 10 in a national Hindi speech competition held last month - Aug'2020. She is also interested in painting and crafting. She has won many school level drawing competitions. She also enjoys playing chess and has participated in an inter school chess competition as well. She has won chess awards at the school level.
You must be really on to something serious, observed my husband seeing me engaged with my system.
Please, please don't disturb me, it's something very important, I said without turning my head.
Aye, what's so important that I am not aware of, he said.
Don't distract me, I want to complete this before the deadline, I said.
Deadline for what, he said.
Can't you wait for once, do I have to tell you everything that I do, I snapped.
O.K. Even if you don't tell me, I can make a guess, he said not appearing least provoked at my reaction.
Are you applying for a job, he asked.
May be I am, I said wondering how he was able to guess.
Is it for a consultant's post because I thought I saw an advertisement for a Family Relationships Consultant in the paper this morning, he said.
Thanks for the information, but I am not interested in it, I said, still continuing with my typing.
Looks like you are updating your CV, he said trying to read what I had written.
Don't you know it's bad manners to peep into other's work, I accused.
I know that, I am only trying to help you in case you have forgotten to include something worth mentioning, he said.
Thanks for that, but I think I know my achievements and have remembered to mention all of them in my CV, I retorted getting more and more annoyed as the deadline was nearing and I had to send my application.
Thank God it's over, I said quite relieved that I was able to finish the job notwithstanding the frequent interruptions/distractions.
I will be back in a jiffy, I said rushing out to send the document through the courier.
It's no use because the deadline for receiving applications for the post you applied are over and for all you know the candidate would have already been chosen even before the advertisement was released, said my husband laughing!
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.
Bittu, when you come home from school,
leave the bag and bottle on the table
by the side of the front door because
the rest of the house will be in darkness
and no familiar steps will be up and around.
Look out of the open window at the sky,
unkempt garden, drooping flowers and
imagine the rustle of the absent breeze.
See how the sky is so wide yet vacant, hollow.
Grandma and you went to the sea-shore.
It was the last time both saw sea and sky mingle.
The skyscrapers of clouds arching over the blues
reminded you of the unfurled white locks of grandma.
Her locks gathered the foam, heat and smell of waves
of years and years and held up to you to inhale.
While returning, it rained so hard the parasol gave up.
You clasped her in playful acceptance of the continuity.
She wrapped her aanchal on your head that she carried
with her over the years, stained with the merciless footfalls.
She saw a bit of her sky in your fun-filled eyes.
Bittu, sea-shore is the place where perhaps god speaks
but sand, water and flesh are reality that never changes.
When you go to school, shut the door gently behind.
Let the light filter in, sit on the carpet and wait.
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.
On a fine sunny Summer morning our journey started. We left for San Francisco. The spectacle of the Grand Canyon in the state of Arizona (our previous destination) was left behind. Our luxury Ac bus moved at a great speed. The arid and barren area of Arizona, Nevada, California was reducing, diminishing and vanishing. The landscape was changing its color and hue. Greenery was appearing with its bounty beauty.
We asked our guide - 'Where are we going?'
He replied smiling - 'You have seen the stunning beauty of the Death Valley in between Los Angeles and Las Vegas and the awesome panorama of the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Now we are approaching the green beauty of central California. Is it not amusing you?'
'Of course we are fascinated by the magnificent landscape with beautiful trees and plants full of lovely flowers, fruits and crops. There is flavour and fragrance in the air. But you should speak about it for our knowledge' - we told him.
He started saying - 'We are in the midst of Fresno county. It is famous for its agricultural bounty and home to 188 million acres of the World's most productive land in an area covering around 22500 square miles. People call it the Agricultural Capital of the World producing 350 crops worth 7 billion dollars (approx.) annually. Its largest crop is grapes which produce award winning wines'.
Our bus halted at a hotel in Fresno city at night. After dinner we slept. In the early morning we got up to see the rising Sun in its reddish-yellow hue in the transparent blue sky. The natural ambience was captivating. After breakfast our bus plied towards San Francisco. The picturesque view from the bus was mind-blowing.
After covering a distance of around 800 miles from the Grand Canyon, we reached San Francisco - the cultural, commercial and financial centre of Northern California. While our bus was going over the Golden Gate Bridge we enjoyed the spectacle of the San Francisco Bay, a part of the Pacific Ocean. The Golden Gate Bridge is a suspension bridge spanning the Golden Gate which is a one-mile-wide strait connecting San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. It is the longest and tallest suspension Bridge and one of the wonders of the modern World. Our cruise to Alcatraz Island cutting across the blue water of the bay from the San Francisco Ferry Building was magnificent. We enjoyed the panoramic view over the city and San Francisco Bay from Coit Tower. San Francisco is around 27 miles away from Silicon Valley, the global centre for high technology and innovation.
Our tour in the West Coast on the Pacific Ocean came to an end. We wished goodbye.
Next morning, we flew onto the East Coast of the USA on the Atlantic Ocean. Flight distance was around 2300 miles. In the afternoon, we arrived at Buffalo, the second largest city in the U.S. state of New York. Buffalo is in Erie County and is the gateway for commerce and travel between America and Canada across the border. It is a part of the bi-national Buffalo Niagara Region and Buffalo-Niagara Falls area. It is on Lake Erie's eastern end, opposite to Ontario, Canada. Water from Lake Erie flows to Niagara River and then to Niagara Falls 16 miles away. Lake Erie's water comes from upper lakes via the Detroit River. It is also called 'The City of Light' for production of hydroelectric power.
We were traveling in our luxury AC bus and enjoying the landscape of the area. On-board the bus, our guide told us - 'We are approaching one of the most magnificent tourist attractions in the World. Around 30 million tourists visit it annually. It is also called the Honeymoon capital of the World. Millions of honeymooners come here every year. It is the iconic Niagara Falls. It is a must-see tourist destination.You will be astonished to feel thundering downpouring of dazzling water and stunning light, music, fireworks which will finish and vanish the darkness of night'.
When the Sun went down the horizon and darkness covered the blue sky of the day, we reached Niagara Falls, one of the iconic wonders of the Natural World. Its nightly illumination transformed the captivating water into a kaleidoscopic cascades of colors. The fireworks display with over 100 shows streaking across the night sky mesmerized us. The sweet musical concerts thrilled our ears, heart and soul. What an awesome spectacle ! Its beauty is beyond description. It is once in a lifetime experience.
I was standing in the faint darkness of night at a corner and enjoying the spectacular nightly view of Niagara Falls. To my utter surprise and astonishment, I saw a beautiful mermaid flashing and surfing on the dazzling Falls. I was gazing at her. Some of my lady friends came to me and asked - 'What are you doing here alone in the darkness?'
I said - 'I am enjoying the surfing mermaid'.
They burst into laughter. One of them jokingly said smiling - 'I have seen the mermaid hugging and kissing you ! '
Being disturbed and annoyed, I told them -' I cannot disbelieve my eyes and senses. Do you think I am lying?'
Another lady friend said in her smiling lips - 'My mad friend ! Do you know - There is no mermaid now a days. The question of the surfing mermaid on the Niagara Falls does not arise. A lady ghost might have dumbfounded you finding you alone. Do you understand ?'
Hearing the laughter and cutting of words among us, all other friends including the American guide came to me and heard about the mermaid. Our guide solved the issue saying - 'He is lucky enough to see the spirit of Lelawala, the original Maid of the Mist roaming here since long. I will tell the story tomorrow'.
Being spellbound, we requested our guide to speak about Niagara Falls.
He enlightened us - Before 15000 years ago, there was no waterfall nor water in the ice age. The entire area was covered with ice which began to melt around 11500 years ago and new landscapes, rivers and lakes were formed. About 10000 years ago Lake Erie, Niagara River, Niagara Falls and Lake Ontario were born. Niagara Falls is in the middle of the U.S. state of New York and Canadian province of Ontario. Tourists can visit it from both the countries.
The water flowing in the Niagara River is famous for its beautiful greenish-blue color. Organisms like algae work together with sunlight on the surface of the water contributing to such astonishing hue. The thundering water plunging down the Falls from a height of 170 feet creates the perpetual mist. It is not unusual to see rainbows or solar bows over the mists. Rainbows are most frequently seen on the late afternoons of sunny days.
Niagara Falls is a breathtaking geological wonder of the World. It is on the Niagara River between Lake Erie in the USA and Lake Ontario in Canada. Niagara Falls State Park was established in 1885 as the Niagara Reservation. About 7000000 gallons of water dives down every minute in Summer. It is made up of 3 separate waterfalls : American Falls, Bridal Veil Falls in the U.S. state of New York and Canadian Falls or Horseshoe Falls in Ontario province of Canada which is the largest among them. The Niagara River is a 36-mile channel connecting Lake Erie (in America) down to Lake Ontario ( in Canada ) and separates New York from Ontario. The difference in elevation between the two lakes is about 325 feet. It forms a part of the border between the U .S state of New York and Ontario in Canada. Lake Erie touches 4 US States : New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and the Canadian province of Ontario. Buffalo and New York are on the eastern end of Niagara Falls. Water from Lake Erie flows into Lake Ontario via the Niagara River, then into the St. Lawrence River and to the Atlantic Ocean (in Canada).
Beauty of Niagara Falls is captivating in Winter also. It turns into an icy winter wonderland when the water freezes.Its frozen landscape amazes the tourists. Its icy ambience is also beautiful. But the number of tourists declines in Winter. (Since we had gone in Summer, we could not feel its wintry beauty. )
We stayed in a hotel in Buffalo at night.
Next morning we went again to Niagara Falls to enjoy the 'Maid of the Mist'. It is the most popular attraction. It is a pleasant boat trip (cruise) to Niagara Falls to feel its roaring water and mist. The name of the boat was also 'Maid of the Mist'. We put on the polythene mistcoat ( like a raincoat) covering our body from head to toe to save us from soaking mist on the boat ride in the Falls. We moved into the mist formed by the cascading water plunging from a height of 170 feet. The thundering roar of falling water and crashing waves was awesome and breathtaking. We felt the mighty rush of powerful spray of drops of mist over our face and body in the boat ride. It was the only way to feel and experience one of the most iconic natural wonders of the world. We took our shelfies. The 'Maid of the Mist' was a mind-blowing
We visited Goat Island in the middle of the Niagara River. It splits Niagara River before it roars over the American Falls and Canadian Falls. This wooded island is a part of Niagara Falls State Park and connected to the U.S. mainland by two bridges. It has no goats nor residents. People say - 'It is called Goat Island, since its previous owner had goats over 200 years ago'. A visit to Niagara Falls is incomplete without a stop at Goat island.
I asked about the history of the Maid of the Mist.
Our guide highlighted its history - Ferry service was going on between the U.S. state of New York and Canadian province of Ontario for commerce and transport since 1846. But it was discontinued after construction and opening of International Rainbow Bridge in 1848 on the Niagara River around 500 meters downstream Niagara Falls. The boat journey was suspended between New York and Ontario and the boats remained unused. The owners of the boats utilized the boats for pleasure trips of tourists into the Mist of Niagara Falls. They popularized the cruise by telling the stories of Lelawala, the Maid of the Mist which attracted thousands of tourists. Many legends on the Maid of the Mist were told during the cruise trips to the Falls. The present day Maid of the Mist service has been run by the Maid of the Mist Corporation since 1885 in commemoration of Lelawala, the original Maid of the Mist.
I asked our guide to tell the legendary stories on the 'Maid of the Mist.
He told one of the legends - 'Once upon a time, a beautiful tribal maid ( young girl) named Lelawala was living in a village near the Niagara River. She was married off by her father to an old ugly king. She despised him. She longed to be with her true love Heno (He-No), the god of thunder, who was living in a cave beneath the Niagara Falls. Lelawala could not like her ugly husband and also left him. She decided to find Heno at any risk. One day in search of him, she paddled her canoe ( small boat ) in the Niagara River. The rushing water swept her off along with her canoe to the edge where water was plunging down, she fell down the roaring Niagara Falls and was lost in the crashing water and mist. Her lover Heno was watching her from the cave and saved her while dying. Thus they were reunited and lived together happily there. They were boating merrily down-stream Niagara Falls. When they died is unknown. In the meantime many centuries have elapsed. People say- After her death, the spirit of Lelawala has been roaming and boating in the mists of the Falls in the form of a beautiful girl. Lelawala is the real Maid of the Mist.'
The guide finished the story and we reached the shore. We thanked him for his knowledge, cooperation and professionalism.
The sweet memory of Lelawala, the real Maid of the Mist and Niagara Falls has been haunting 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.
Berhampur,
you are a poem,
a charming enchantress,
who paint young men
yellow and white
in tiger poses and goad them to dance nonstop
in wild frenzy in sultry noons of Chaitra with
children whispering in fright,
a silk saree
in exquisite hues
draped on Budhi Thakurani with wreaths of jasmines,
narrow streets
of Badabazar melting in mirth
under a scorching sun,
you are a sleeping beauty
where winds glisten
and dreams moan in languid charm and
beckon every loving heart, give unsolicited boons.
I miss you,
your aroma,
serene mornings and drowsy evenings,
idlis, vadas, upma,
crowds, noise, markets,
tender love, sweetness.
You shaped me,
gave me every thing, education, work, friends, personal epiphany,
the great guru taught Sophocles and Eliot
in your college classroom and guided my faltering steps,
an ocean of affection.
You filled me,
I am eternally grateful.
You play
hide and seek,
surge when I doze off,
haunt me in every waking hours,
I miss you Berhampur,
you are me,
affectionate, unfulfilled.
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 wake up seeing dreadful news
Of horrendous crimes and violence against women
No matter people are educated or uneducated
The brutality to her remains the same
And there is nothing showcased as humanity.
Aren’t we at this vantage point of realisation
That we have come a long way as a nation
A country of pride built by our forefathers Gandhi, Tagore and Ambedkar
Fighting for freedom, injustice and indiscrimination
And ushering us to the path of non-violence, justice and compassion.
We are liberated and independent now
But aren’t we caged in our own dogmatic beliefs and perceptions?
When we look through our eyes, aren’t we seeing humanity?
If not, we fail as a community and as a nation.
Whom should we educate?
Where should we go?
Let the blind perceptions and prerogative attitude be wiped out
From the minds of those who wear the masks of humanity.
Standing up for our own rights,
And fighting for a human being’s plight are the basics of humanity.
But what’s happening to our society?
Who is to be blamed?
Is it us, the society or the wrong conviction that has been passed on to the generations?
There are shades of darkness everywhere
Though we look for a brighter tomorrow.
We celebrate the pride and history of our nation
We celebrate women everywhere
Let us bring justice and righteousness to women
And not judge anyone based on caste, creed and religion
As the world soar towards progression and modernity
Let’s not forget that we need humanity for our survival
I keep my spirits high and hope that I would find it
My quest for the long lost humanity.
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
It was a warm summer afternoon. The sandy beach of the river had not cooled off yet, although the sun was about to hide in the mountains. The evening breeze was pleasant and soothing. The golden rays of the setting sun reflected on the flowing waters were looking magnificent and scintillating. Two friends, close from their childhood, were together, seated on the sands, busy in collecting the pebbles of their memories in that serene atmosphere. Both had retired from their respective jobs and were slowly heading towards the “Uttarayan” of their lives. Nevertheless, their affection-laden bonding since childhood had kept them bound through the years.
“How the children must be enjoying their dives from the sandy beach to the flowing waters of the river?” remarked Prasant looking at the boys jumping into the river from a distance.
“Yes, we too had enjoyed our childhood in a better way, arranging picnics , playing Kabadi on the sands, jumping into the river from the elevated sandy beach, swimming down to the other part of the river and returning back”, replied Charan, who retired few years back from his teaching job in a local primary school.
For Prasant, these memories of his childhood days were deep rooted in his heart with mountains of emotions. After he had left the village, he had missed the luxury of sitting on the sandy beach and recollecting his past days. His job took away his sentimental pleasures keeping him away from the village and he had come to the river bed almost after thirty years.
“How are you Charan? How is your post retirement life?” asked Prasant. “Tell me about your children, since we are meeting after a long time”.
“I am just pulling on, thriving on tuitions as I did not get any retirement benefit. Unlike our time, the teachers, doing the same duty, are now divided into multiple groups, like govt teachers, aided teachers, block grant teachers, siksha sahayaks etc. etc.You know that I was a teacher under block grant. We do the same work but Govt kept us deprived of our dues by seggregating teachers in different cadres. My daughter is married to a businessman of our locality. Son is an ITI pass out, recently joined the Indian Railways as a trainee locomotive driver. He has come home now on leave. What about yours? How long will you stay here?” Charan candidly informed about his small world .
“ My only son is at Bangalore doing a job in a private company. After retirement, I have no work, no tension and am enjoying the evening in a nearby park. I get pleasure in recollecting the nostalgic moments of our school days. How we were playing football in the picturesque hill side play ground! How we were gathering at the Gopinathjew temple for offering prayers! We had enjoyed each and every moment of our childhood days. But the kids now suddenly become adult without experiencing a childhood. Tomorrow morning I will go back to Bhubaneswar as my wife is alone there.” Prasant unburdened his feelings before Charan.
“Usually my wife does not allow me to remain for days in the village alone. But this time she has sent me with a specific work”, without revealing much Prasant confided him. “Let us go back as darkness is descending fast. I have to offer prayers in the temple after returning to the village now.” He added.
Prasant had his dinner and retired for the day, but he could not get sleep as he did not carry out the instructions of Padma, his wife. Padma had sent him to the village to sell off the ancestral home and the adjoining property. She was trying to pursuade him not to keep any problem for their son, who was not conversant with the village life. Any property at the village was not an asset but a liability for their son. Since Prasant had retired, Padma insisted that he should foreclose all the likely problems without delay.
For Prasant it was a very difficult task. The more he thought of disposing the ancestral home, the more the picture of his father reciting Hanuman Chalisa in the evening came to his mind. The scene of his mother keeping awake the whole night, preparing and packing his food parcels, before his departure to college hostel, was flashing in his mind all the time. Whenever he looked at the empty halls of the house he was feeling their presence at each and every corner.
Wherever he looked he was confronted with their footprints as if they were blissfully blessing him He was engrossed with the childhood thoughts - how his mother never slept in the night, keeping herself busy in putting cold packs on his forehead, when he had a bad attack of typhoid, how his father used to pluck flowers from the backyards and made garlands for Gopinathjew, the village presiding deity. Such sundry memories clouded his mind and he had no clue how to arrive at a proper valuation of the property and dispose off the same.
”How can I sell my parents’ house?” reverberated in his mind and he could not get sleep.
“But how can I convince Padma? She is very adamant on the issue. Neither I can sell the house nor I can face her”, he was hovering around a dilemma.
Next day morning, Padma telephoned to him and asked about the developments on the sale of the property. Prasant suddenly responded that some willing buyers were scheduled to visit the house in next two days after which a decision could be arrived at. He was embarassed to tell a lie to her but he had no other escape.
In the mean time, Prasant could not reconcile to the idea of selling the house as this property was built on the sweat and sacrifice of his parents who were not well off economically, but managed to bear the cost of his education as well. “Whether such sacrifice can be quantified, can the valuation include the sentiments, emotions and his indelible memory involving his parents? Prasant could not get any answer to these questions.
Charan , with baskets of vegetables, greeted him and asked him to take the same while returning to Bhubaneswar. He found Prasant very much disturbed and asked him the reason. The heavy load of emotions compressed at heart suddenly burst into a downpour of tears and Prasant was not in a position to open up the matter. Charan was perplexed but advised him to leave all his problems to Gopinathjew for solution.
In order to unwind their internal turbulence , both the friends went to the temple and silently spent some time before the deity. The evening had set in and the priest conducted the evening “Arati” amidst the play of bells and conch. Prasant returned home with prasad after unloading his tensions at the altar of the deity. He had a nice sleep that night as he had almost decided not to sell the house at any cost.
Padma was suspicious at the delay in Prasant’s decision on disposing the property and could feel his dilemma. Next day, she suddenly telephoned Prasant and enquired about the sale. When Prasant repeated the same reason for the delay in making a proper deal, she abruptly told him to return home without waiting further. “Our son has telephonically said that he disapproves the idea of selling the parental house, and he is ready to look after it as the house has been built up by the extreme sacrifice made by his grand father and it contains the emotions and sentiments of his father. It is priceless and invaluable”. She also resorted to a lie about son’s call realizing the predicaments faced by Prasant.
On hearing this from Padma , Prasant felt so much relaxed that he wished to leave the village the same day but not before having a darshan of Gopinathjew.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
It was a small little town, a town in which morning rushed through the day with its quiet sunlight, the afternoon yawned and stretched itself a bit, the evening, however, flicked past you like a movie on the silver screen. The night felt silent and non-existent, just like the non-descript provincial warmth. Ram’s family had moved from a very chaotic place to this serene land which seemed to be caught up in a time warp. Going from Cuttack to Balasore back in the 80s was like moving from one hemisphere to another. Ram’s father who had a long stint in Cuttack, the biggest urban centre in the whole state, had returned to the province after a while. The paradigm had shifted. The family lived in a cozy bungalow with a nice, spacious garden that ran wide and long through the backyard and encircled the house. Just from its blue, wooden gate, across the nicely levelled dirt road, one could see the big, green ground gleaming under the afternoon sun. To Ram, it looked like the field of dream.
The parade ground as it was popularly known turned into a la Red Fort albeit sans the high walls, on August 15 and January 26. It looked like a giant carnival site on those occasions. On ordinary days, the big ground which stretched in all sides and connected itself to the highway on which buses and trucks sped away to their new destinations, came back to its usual rhythm with a dozen of school and college kids who came every afternoon for a game of cricket and another dozen or so, mostly policemen, who played volleyball every afternoon at one extreme end of the ground. Between them, the vast expanse of green, grass court remained untouched. The cricket team was present on the ground all around the year. When at times monsoon rains turned fierce, they took shelter under the big, black berry tree that stood at a far corner in the ground. And like English county cricket, if the rain stopped after a short burst, they would rush back to their turf and resume their cricket. Ram became an integral part of the cricket team and sealed his pact with the big, grassy ground.
In fact, there was another big and empty meadow but for a few small, government quarters on its fringe, just behind their bungalow. In a sense, his house was sandwiched between two big playgrounds. Scores of blackberry trees cast a strange shadow over the vicinity. The berries generously fell down on the ground and when they split open, they left a purple patch on mother earth. Ram liked the inside of the berries, they looked so different once you split them open. Their inside looked gorgeously different from black or blue, or both of them put together. The colour always reminded him of the girl in his school. Her name was Lisa and she often wore a purple coloured frock to the school. Her doe eyes intently studied the surroundings. She smiled to herself with some pristine peace, but it was a sensual smile. She loved to sense her way around while keeping her aura and self-pride intact. Lisa held Ram in some interest. Her elder brother was a good cricketer and played in Ram’s cricket team. Cricket was a fantastic addition to one’s daily schedule in a place like Balasore where Ram enjoyed looking at nature in his spare time. He reveled in its very composite form. But he also missed the buzz of Cuttack. He missed his street smart school mates and the noisy streets, the street food vendors, and their delicious, spicy and crunchy snacks. But the new town more than compensated for it with its gentle, pastoral landscape and when he sometimes stood near the gate and gazed at outside, the faraway hills felt like a part of the human settlement, it was just that they had moved away a bit too far. The human settlement, nature and myths all co-existed in sanguine harmony in that quaint little town.
Ram’s father held an important government post in the town and moved around in his parrot green fiber bodied jeep. In the middle of summer, the inside of the jeep felt like a blast furnace, but on more pleasant days driving around the little town in that green, closed jeep, gave an exhilarating feeling. Even their driver felt it. He was a jolly, overweight guy with a wry sense of humour, and now and then he would look out condescendingly at the folks on the road and make a cryptic remark. There was something seriously shady about the driver. Out of nowhere, he would pull a mask of seriousness over his face and stand like a statue in the presence of his father. The bugger overdid it at times. But the wily fellow was for sure in his boss’s good book. Ram loved the drive through the main bazaar which had two cinema halls facing each other from across the busy road. From garments to sports accessories, all kinds of utility goods and services were available on that illuminated L-shaped stretch. He never failed to appreciate the way the driver negotiated with the narrow lanes of the over-crowded market, it was pure dexterity.
Nature had been kind to this northern Odisha town. Vegetables grew in plenty. Their garden, thanks to a gritty gardener, was perpetually in bloom. The gardener hardly spoke unless he needed money for some seeds or fertilisers. That was the only time he came inside the bungalow to take money from the lady of the house, or else Ram usually spotted him sitting on the ground with his spade lying beside him and looking at the distant horizon with the detachment of a lone ranger. But the reticent man expressed himself thoroughly on that fertile soil. His canvass was wide and it showcased a wide variety of vegetables, nuts and flowers. Cauliflowers, brinjal, tomatoes, green peas, cabbages stared you straight in the face. The yellow Delilah flowers made a huge rash and left their loud mark on that green patch of fecundity. While rushing out for a game of cricket, he would often see the gardener resting in a corner in the ground, dressed in a white vest and khaki shorts. Probably he was contemplating over new opportunities for further collaboration between man and nature. He looked ageless and timeless like the tall Casuarina trees that lined the big ground on one side. There were times when he seemed as if he had become one with the nature and was just waiting for the apocalypse to arrive. Unlike the witty driver, who always tried to cajole him, the gardener never ever spared a look at Ram.
Munna bhai was their captain cum coach on the cricket field. He was a student of English literature and had some lucid idea about story-telling. Ram just waited for him to come up with some saucy tidbits about the big names of world cricket; Viv Richards, Sunny Gavaskar, Geoff Boycott. Munna bhai never disappointed him. He loved to talk about cricket and its great personalities. Himself a good cricketer who represented the district, he taught them the nuances of the game. Munna Bhai had the build of a cricketer, lanky and long-legged, he bowled and batted well. His friendly aura lit up the cricket ground. When he came back from Calcutta after witnessing a historic Test match at Eden Gardens, he regaled Ram with his tales about Gavaskar, Alvin Kallicharan, the visiting West Indies team’s captain, Viswanath and his sublime square -cuts that just scorched through the grassy surface. His descriptions were so vivid about the Calcutta Test that they made Ram travel to Eden in his mind. It was like he too watched the match with him, sitting side by side in the jam packed Eden Gardens. Munna bhai could penetrate his subconscious with exotic cricket tales.
On some evenings his father entertained guests at home when he came back a bit early from work. One of the regular visitors at their home during those quiet provincial evenings, was an army gentleman, Major Kanungo. Both he and his father discussed food over tea and hot snacks. The major was a charmer and flashed his sugar cube smile generously. They avidly discussed hilsa. The town was famous for hilsa and prawns. Ram failed to understand why hilsa evoked such strong passions in these grown-up folks. Why people made so much of fuss over Subaranarekha hilsa, after all it was just a fish, he often wondered. His mother usually served mutton cutlets with copious potato coating. The family procured very good quality goat meat from a nearby village that probably was a paradise for grazing as for as these herbivorous animals were concerned. The major exuded good energy and often spurred up the mood with his `Oh I see, I see,’ exclamations. The mutton chops used to taste divine but still the major and his father could not resist the fishy topic of hilsa. Like intrepid explorers they sometimes went beyond the borders and raved about hilsa in river Padma in the neighbouring Bangladesh. No wonder, the Bangladeshis considered Padma hilsa as their national treasure.
On one fine morning, the whole town woke up to the strong flavor of hilsa. Its distinct odour lingered in the air for the good part of the day. Overnight, the local market had got flooded with hilsa. Because of a logistic problem, large quantities of hilsa could not reach their distant markets. That meant everything had to be consumed locally. For a change, it became a buyer’s market and by lunch time most of households in the town had come under the grip of this hilsa fever. And when normalcy returned the next day, the town had its biggest ever fill of this oily delicacy. Ram remembered it as a one-off incident that never got repeated during their stay. But that eventful day brought Balasore closest to its Persian meaning. During the Moghul times, the town incidentally derived its name from the Persian word Bal-e-Shor, which meant `a town in the sea’. But ironically, the shore was a good 20 kilometers away from the town. The gentle waves in Chandipur beach drenched the shoreline and quietly deposited the corals and shells from the deep sea on the wet sands. Myriad varieties of shells with extremely intricate pattern lay scattered on that lonely beach. The dining space of the nearby government guesthouse also often smelled of hilsa and stoked your appetite persuasively.
In that cosy, little town, Ram felt his life had hit a purple patch. It was a feel-good atmosphere and everything seemed to be in perfect equilibrium. Then life probably was not meant to be a fairytale forever. His father got a promotion and the family had to move on. Everything happened so randomly, he could not even bid a proper farewell to the idyllic world he had unwittingly stumbled upon. The family left the town on a dusky evening for their new destination. They drove past few of the prominent English style government bungalows and houses in the town. The usual landmarks seemed vague and unfamiliar under the glow of yellow electric rays. Life had already moved away and even the big, grassy ground looked blurry when Ram cast a final look at it before he got into the waiting car. For a moment he felt he saw the silhouetted figure of Muna bhai in that growing darkness. His father’s brand new light green Ambassador took them to the new town through the rows and rows of Sal trees that stood like sentinels on both sides of the road in stoic silence. The town in the sea slowly withered away with the arrival of new vistas. The shade of life had changed from deep green to pale green. Their new bungalow had a huge compound where scores of mango trees grew tall and bore fruits prodigiously. The long rows of football lilies caught one’s eyes the moment one slid through the big, iron gate But he missed the serenity of Balasore and also the compactness of its social harmony.
Suddenly his mobile rang and his train of thoughts about Balasore came to a jolting halt. While speaking on phone, he was still in a state of reverie A friend from his Sunday walking group had called up to inform him about a cocktail party in the evening. It was a short notice, but he must go. The big city felt heavy like an iron sheet in the evening. It asked too many questions, created far too many unwarranted doubts in the mind. It was always a better idea to get out of your four walls to be able to breathe a little more freely, because you could face your loneliness along with others, collectively, and deal with it over a glass of premium whisky amidst loud laughter resulting from some bawdy jokes. As described in a popular rock song, he too had got used to sharing the drink of loneliness because it was better than drinking alone. It was drizzling outside. He caught a slice of the gray sky through the balcony grill. The black berries must be blooming with raindrops shining on them like silver dots. The red velvet bugs would be crawling on a dry patch of some empty meadow. His thoughts had again gone back to the faraway town, the Black Berry town. He let out a deep sigh and began to get ready for the restless night and its chaotic thrills, cocktails, loud music and plastic humour, and slowly the memory of that serene, provincial world, separated by unfathomable time and space, retreated to his dormant subconscious.
Rudra Narayan Mohanty is a free lancing writer and independent researcher based out of Hyderabad. Mr Mohanty after his post graduation in political science in Odisha, moved to Hyderabad and pursued academics in Central University of Hyderabad . Later, he started his career as a print media journalist and worked in papers like Newsrtime, Eenadu group, Economic Times and Times of India before moving into corporate sector. Currently, he divides his time between freelancing and research
Come home dear, thy nest awaits thee.
Come home dear, these eyes wish no more to see.
Of late have thine memories deceived
And promises perished that my soul perceived.
Long lost in the mire doth my solitude weep
My thoughts buried in my soul- so dense, so deep.
Unmeasurable are these perils, oh Lord!
Which thy being has planted in this tiny life’s pod.
Happiness I have asked for none, for peace did I crave,
When will thy blessings blossom, only on my grave?
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.
I
With you was the beginning;
the trunk and the branches,
the foliage, the flowers, the fruits
followed in nature's promise.
With your fall, the demise.
But the tree waits for you
and
with you only is a fresh beginning !
Leaf, you are life.
II
There was a leaf
and there was a pond
and they thought
they could meet.
The sky thought
they could never meet.
The leaf stretched
the pond swelled
in secret measures
the sky could not fathom.
And in one moment finally
they met.....
The leaf had a shiver
and the pond had ripples!!
Sibu Kumar Das has a post graduate degree in English Literature from Utkal University (1976-78) and after a few years' teaching job in degree colleges in Odisha, joined a Public Sector Bank in 1983 and remained a career banker till retirement in 2016 as head of one of its training establishments. Occasional writings have been published in Odia newspapers and journals.
We went a long way
along the paths of life,
with expectations of care.
Life is like a cycle,
passengers will disembark -
when they reach their stop,
those who see today may not see tomorrow.
The path of life is hard,
with our life experience,
we make it easier.
Lessons learned from life,
"Good things don't come true".
Situations will keep repeating
themselves until we learn
our lessons in life.
Our life has no clear definition,
but it has a meaningful conclusion.
Let's live our life free with happy abandon.
Sukanya.V.Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Michael's college, cherthala
Translated by Sreekumar K
"Could you please touch me once?"
I didn't know her. I had never seen her before.
I knew her only from the moment, which was a few minutes ago, when I sat down next to her chair outside the main operation theatre at the city hospital.
I could not guess her age but look-wise she might be in her forties.
Her sobs were inaudible but her long fingers were echoing them.
"Just once." She repeated and then grabbed my arms. I felt the chill of death on her fingers.
"Hug me," she mumbled.
She then hugged me for a while and broke down, her tears wetting my cream coloured blouse.
"He never hugged me. He never loved me," she was saying to herself.
The she walked away with the stretcher which had just come out from the operation theatre.
A young doctor stood outside the glass door of the operation theatre, holding a sigh.
Sree Lekha, a computer teacher from Kozhikkode, Kerala, is more of a poet than a story writer. She has been writing profusely for long in Malayalam. . She lives at Kozhikude with her husband Udayakumar, VP at Govt College Madappalli, and daughter Parvana, a 10th grader.
FREEDOM FROM BONDAGE, AN ODE TO NATURE!
When I was in bondage
I asked why the breeze didn’t blow close to my heart
The bird not comes to my courtyard to sing for me
When I was in bondage
I would demand why not the peacock dance on my terrace
That multi coloured scarlet macaw
Never cease crossing my view
When I was in bondage
I would demand the stream to always stop a while and ripple and trickle for me as I watch
And the moon?
To show its full-moon face every now and then!
As the bondage has loosened,
I know I have no control over those that make the world around me
I know I have no control over the forces
That make up the nature
The ultimate master!
Let the brook meander the way it likes and take its time and course
The bird choose its path and rhyme
Choose to sing or not in my courtyard
To sit or not sit on my house-vanguard!
They are free to do what they like
They are not in bondage
Bind them to your cage
And see their tears and feel the fuelling of their rage
They are not meant for bondage
Not even that of God
The realization frees me from bondage.
Nature, O Nature !
I am a small creature
Can’t be your master,
Allow me just to be an onlooker,
A beholder of the marvel that you are!
(Dedicated to my friend and former colleague Dr Kapileswar Gahan, Professor of Odiya, writer and critic, who passed away recently).
They were of same feathers, flocking together
Morning they rise to wake up the world
Duty bound, they never bothered about their looks
They had a duty to do and they would do it in cold or rain or hot summer,
Every morning, very early morning
They are on their job
Mothers would tell their little ones,
Make haste, don't idle,
You hear their voice, they have started the day .
Sure, they are the most innocent flocks in the world!
After their morning chores, they get lost for almost the whole day,
They go unnoticed; where they wander no one remembers,
Though they do the service here and there
As the evening descends they ritually return to their homes, sweet homes,
To rest the nerves in their open nests,
They descend with sounds of joy
On the big banyan trees, say, near the railways station,
Where you hear the whistles of train engines blowing so often, again and again,
That way these people don't disturb you much, don’t rupture your slumber!
They have the right to their homes, right to their joy !
But on the broad day-light, on the broad high-way, why do they now cry?
Parallel run the high tension wires
A sibling learning to fly got stuck up on the positives and negatives
On a pole that the baby mistook to be a safe pedestal,
The baby fell to the ground and who among them noticed it first one does not know
Sound traveled in the speed of light
Swarming came hundreds of thousands, the kith and kin, the whole tribe!
They touched the earth and then took off to the sky to dive down again
Their cries were tearing the sky, piercing the earth,
They were mourning the loss, the loss of a dear one
A bolt from the blue, the tragedy had struck,
It was a mourning no less than that of humans,
Mourning in togetherness!
In solidarity with one another!
They were solacing each other!l
(Dedicated to our wonderful friend Professor Bauribandhu Kar, who suddenly left for his heavenly abode a few days back. Prof. Kar is an icon of Odiya Literature)
Former Professor & Head, Dept of Pol.Sc, Ravenshaw University, & Former Professor & Head, Dept of Pol.Sc & Principal, Khallikote College, Formerly Visiting Fulbright Professor at Miles College ,AL, Birmingahm, USA 2007-08. An occasional writer of poems & short stories in Odiya.
Surabhi, my wife came to me with a naughty smile on her lips, the kind of smile which would have set me on fire twenty years back. Now, on the wrong side of the wilting sixties it only aroused a mild curiosity. I looked at her with a frown, slightly miffed by her distraction from my crossword puzzle. She put a finger on her lips and beckoned me to follow her to the window.
In a moment I could understand the coy, conspiratorial smile. Through the slightly open curtains we could see the youngish couple in the neighbouring house locked in an amorous embrace. The wife whispered something to her husband and put her face on his chest, he started stoking her hair, a loving look lighting up his face like a house lit up by a radiant moon. He said something to her, which we interpreted through the twenty odd meters separating us as spontaneous outpourings of pure love expressed in beatific tranquility. She smiled in abject surrender and again hid her face on his broad, manly chest.
As he led her to the sofa, I closed the curtains, much to Surabhi's chagrin. She wanted to continue observing the amorous adventure! I whispered in her ears,
"Why be satisfied with seeing it? We can do it ourselves!"
She laughed out so loudly, I am sure, the amorous couple in the neighbouring apartment must have been startled,
"Look at their age and ours! They must be in their cyclonic thirties and we are in our whimpering sixties! With all your knee pain, muscle pain, ankle pain, you think you can do any of these?"
"I don't mind trying!"
"At eleven in the morning! When I have to hurry and cook your lunch! And my Lord and Master, the Chief Engineer saheb, will not even come to the lunch table without the smell of fish curry enticing him!"
"You ladies are experts in inventing excuses for avoiding what is called a physical contact of intimate nature. And you Surabhi, you have at least a dozen of them, should I reel off the list?"
"Why do you want to feed my own laddoos to me? All men are the same, they are after the same thing, my mom had told me."
"Your mom? She told you dirty things?"
Surabhi let out another very, very naughty smile,
"What dirty things? My mom had told me all men are after a hot, cooked meal. Give it to them, they become your slave for life! Let me go and start making a hot, cooked meal for you."
I protested, a sort of last ditch effort for a cuddly embrace,
"But just a few minutes back you were keen on seeing what the young couple was doing on the sofa, it was I who dragged you back, because my mom had told me not to see such things!"
Surabhi cried out in mock anger,
"You think I would get carried away by their amorous hugs! Chhi, chhi, I was curious because this couple is one of the weirdest pairs I have seen in my life! Haven't we seen how they fight with each other all the time, like two wild cats, tearing into each other, shouting and screaming like enemy soldiers at the border? I just wanted to know how long this peace of the hug would last before they relapse into their normal quarrelling self."
She was right. The couple was indeed weird and a source of constant irritation ever since we moved to this beautiful apartment four days back. After serving in the Bhillai Steel Plant for thirty nine years and retiring as a Chief Engineer I decided to settle in Bhubaneswar, our home town. We wanted to live close to our relatives since the two kids had decided to work abroad and possibly settle there, the elder son in Germany and the younger one in the U.S. We were thinking of building a house at Laxmi Sagar and had taken this apartment on rent close by so that it would be easier for me to supervise the construction.
It was an excellent apartment on the fourth floor, within a gated community and we were very happy to be a part of it. Surabhi liked the big airy rooms, the spacious kitchen and the clean, tiled bathrooms. But on the first evening itself we got the shock of our life when we heard loud shouts from the neighbouring apartment. Shrieks and shouts like thunder pierced through the air and shattered our peace. We rushed to the window and slightly parted the curtains and saw the most astonishing scene through the neighbour's window. The young couple was obviously at the highest pitch of their anger, shouting in a loud voice and screaming at each other. Their faces had become red and at one point the husband raised his hand to give a slap to his wife. She in turn caught hold of his hand and pushed him away. She ran towards the sofa and sat there, sobbing while the husband glowered at her, threatening and challenging her.
We had seen enough. Neither of us had ever fought like this and we just couldn't imagine someone raising a hand to beat his wife. They looked like an educated couple, we didn't understand how they could stoop to the level of screaming at each other and resorting to physical violence. We had a restless night, I for one couldn't reconcile with the scene of wife-beating. The soft, sobbing face of the wife came to my mind repeatedly and I couldn't sleep.
The next morning we went to the window many times to check if they had reconciled or the previous night's tension between the couple still persisted. They were in a hurry to leave for office. Nothing much was being said and by nine they had gone off. There was total peace in the neighbour's apartment. We wondered where the children were.Surabhi told me, it's good they didn't have children, when they were fighting like slum dwellers what would the children learn from them?
In the evening we were not aware when they returned, but got wind of their presence when the fight resumed. I had no stomach for violence, so I didn't want to peep through the curtains again. But the screams and the sobs made me insane with rage. O my God, what kind of cheap people? How could they fight like this, so savagely and be so insensitive to the neighbours? I was boiling inside at the uncivilised behaviour of the husband. The scoundrel! I felt like rushing into their apartment and saving the damsel in distress, after giving a few blows to the devil. Surabhi restrained me,
"We have no business getting involved. There must be some reason, may be they have problems at their office and take out their frustration at home. Moreover, none of the other neighbours protest; why are you getting so worked up?"
"Look at the poor lady, so soft and innocent, and this rascal is treating her so savagely, I feel like breaking his neck."
Surabhi gave me one of those piercing, penetrating, shearing looks, which women bring with them as a part of their built in weapons when they step into a poor sucker's life as a wife,
"Oh, so your heart has started melting for the soft, innocent girl? How do you know she is soft and innocent? The way she is screaming at the young man, she is anything but soft and innocent. I admit she is beautiful, but all beautiful girls are not necessarily soft and innocent. So stop being soft towards her. Come and have dinner."
That sort of ended the argument, as it always did in the thirty eight years of our marriage. She always had the last word. And I being the "peace at any cost" kind of person, I had the second but last word! A sort of bleating apology of a meow!
Next morning again peace reigned in the neighbour's apartment. Since retired persons had nothing better to do, we often talked about people. We fell into speculating what could be the cause of their discord. A number of possibilities were discussed, piling up like discarded newspapers. Suddenly Surabhi had a brainwave,
"Tell me, how many times, we have fought like this? In our thirty eight years of marriage?"
I smiled,
"How do I know? You are the one who was making entries in the diary, the places we visited, the people we met, all our daily activities!"
Surabhi put her hand on my mouth, to shut me up, remembering some delicate moments. She persisted,
"But, tell me honestly, did we fight at all?"
"Well, technically not....but.."
"I know, I know, the dressing down I have given you all these years rankles in your mind, but you deserved it every time!"
Like a seemingly repentant student recovering from a stern teacher's caning, I nodded. She continued,
"Remember the number of times you landed up with unexpected guests at lunch time asking me to prepare a couple of dishes quickly! You men, do you ever know how difficult it is to cook "a couple of dishes quickly"? And so many times you would ask visitors to stay back for dinner when I would be itching to go and switch on the TV?"
I tried to defend the indefensible,
"Oh, that I did absent mindedly, this dinner thing. But the blighters should have declined the offer, civility answered by civility, same to same, you know. What to do, your cooking is so wonderful, so out of the world, they must have been tempted irresistibly!"
Although visibly happy to be praised, Surabhi snorted,
"Tempted, my foot! All free loaders, particularly the bachelors. And do you remember Rakhal Sen?"
"Oh yes, of course! The moron!"
"Moron, for sure. But you were a bigger moron inviting him every time he visited Bhillai from Durgapur. I used to make mustard fish for him so diligently! And when we visited Durgapur, Rakhal the Rascal did not invite us home even for a cup of tea, in fact the shameless fellow had the temerity to stay back for dinner with us at the hotel! Next time he came to Bhillai and you asked me if we should invite him for dinner, I refused, I threatened to leave home and stay in the guest house. Tell me, was I not right?"
Again the repentant student and the stern teacher act, but I brightened immediately, remembering Bidhu, a malodorous wind that blew no one any good and that pervaded our home for full three weeks! I smiled and told her,
"You remember Bidhu, the stinker?"
Surabhi made a face like a garbage truck had just passed by, leaving a trail of tell tale smell!
"Oh my God, don't remind me of him, I won't be able eat anything for the whole day! How can somebody be so dirty, so dirty that even a pig would run away from him? I had really pitied you at the time!"
"My bad luck! I had gone to the railway station to receive a senior official from SAIL and saw this boy, my cousin's friend get down from the train. He had come to join the State Bank of India as a clerk. The bugger told me he would look for a hotel for the night, so I asked him to come home with me for one night and leave for some accommodation the next day. The bastard stayed for three weeks, filling our home with stink, stink and more stink. Oh, yuck, I can't believe it!"
"Yes, he was a champion stinker, never used to wash his clothes, probably took bath once in a month and when he took out his socks the whole house used to smell of rotten eggs! And the son of a skunk would sit bare bodied on the sofa with a thin towel wrapped around his waist, watching TV and peeling off the dirt from his unwashed body!"
"And do you remember how he made a big face when I arranged a one room apartment for him and asked him to leave after three weeks? He was so miffed he didn't even say bye to you, let alone a thank you!"
She wrinkled her nose,
"Good that he didn't come near me to take leave, I had got sick of his stink. But still the award for the stinkiest would go to your uncle who changed into a lungi in the drawing room, took out his underwear from under that and wiped his sweaty face with it! I ran to the bathroom and puked! My God! What memories you have brought back today! Let me go and take a bath and wash off some of these thoughts with my Pears soap."
Surabhi rushed to the bathroom and I opened the Crossword puzzle. Next two hours I would be left alone, stimulating my rapidly shrinking brain. She would be busy cooking.
Nothing happened in the evening, no fight, no shrieks and screams. The neighbour's apartment was in darkness till late night. And this morning the happy hugs! Something must have happened last night to make the couple happy and romantic!
But Surabhi was right. The weird couple went back to fighting in the evening. Against our better judgment we opened the curtains to see her at his feet begging for mercy and he just lifted her and threw her on the sofa. We could hear his angry voice asking her to get out of the house and she was grovelling before him "to give her one more chance."
I could not restrain myself. I sat on a chair and picked up the mobile to call the police and report this dastardly act of domestic violence. My hands were shaking, I was insanely angry! Surabhi's face had also lost colour, she was distinctly uncomfortable to have a neighbour who asked his wife to get out of the house at nine in the night! I kept trying, the police helpline number was continuously busy for half an hour. I cursed the police and stopped trying. We sat and tried not to listen to the shoutings and shriekings but they just came floating through the window and piercing our curtains like rays of sun through a mist.
We finished our dinner and went off to sleep. Again I had a restless night, unable to sleep, the grovelling wife and the menacing husband came back to me like some dark scenes from a movie. I made up my mind to collect the telephone number of the local police station and call them if the scene got repeated in the night.
The next morning around eleven I had finished my bath and was coming out of the bathroom when the door bell rang. Surabhi opened the door and came running to me. Her face was pale, she was panting, like she had seen a ghost. I looked at her,
"It's that man!"
"Which man?" I asked her, trying to get dressed in a hurry.
"The neighbour!"
I raised my voice,
"Why did you allow the scoundrel to come into my house? Such people are not fit to lick the dust off my shoes!"
"He just said Namaskar and got in, before I could say anything to him, he sat on the sofa".
"Let me go and give him a piece of my mind, the bloody wife-beater! I won't be surprised if I give him a slap or two!"
"Please don't do anything like that. If such nuisance continues we will shift to some other apartment. Let's not interfere with their life."
I was in no mood to listen. I stomped into the living room. The man got up from the sofa and folded his hands to greet me. I ignored it and asked him gruffly,
"Yes, what do you want?"
"I am your your neighbour next door. Sorry we should have come and welcomed you as soon as you came. But we have been very busy for the past few days."
I raised my eye brows disapprovingly. So, busy people have no time for retired old men like me, what's new about that?
He could sense my anger, I had not asked him to sit. He smiled, much to my irritation,
"You are new to Bhubaneswar, aren't you? Someone told me you have spent your entire working life in Bhillai. That's why probably you don't know me and my wife."
I dismissed the statement with a wave of my hand. Know them? Why, did they think they were Einstein and Madame Curie that everyone would know them? He smiled again,
"I am Byomkesh Das and my wife is Chhanda Samantray. Both of us are famous stage artistes, critics say we are the best in our field."
It did not immediately register in my mind,
"Stage artistes? What do you mean stage artistes?"
"We are actors, we stage dramas all over Odisha, some of them have got President's award."
I felt as if the floor sank from under my feet. Actors? Our neighbours were actors? Was it possible that they were rehearsing some drama all these days? I asked him to take a seat. He shook his head,
"No Sir, I am in a hurry, I came to invite you for tonight's drama premiere at Rabindra Mandap. It's an interesting theme, just between a husband and a wife from different communities, their struggle to seek an identity in a hostile world, their misunderstandings and reconciliations. I am sure you will like it. Chhanda and myself have been rehearsing it at our home for more than a month."
Surabhi had joined me. She stammered,
"Rehearsing at home? So all the shoutings and screamings were a part of your rehearsal?"
"Yes, since the story revolves around the two of us, and the drama is being directed by me, we rehearsed at home. We sometimes do that. That's why we have left our son of twelve years in a boarding school at Ooty."
Surabhi was excited,
"Oh my God! We thought you were really fighting with each other! Last night my husband was..."
I interrupted her, I didn't want her to spill the beans about calling the police!
"I was about to knock at your door to check if everything was alright!"
Byomkesh laughed,
"As you can see, everything is indeed alright. Please do come in the evening to see the drama. When the curtains go up on the stage, you should be in the first row cheering us! Once the drama is staged you won't be disturbed by the rehearsal at our home. Sorry about that."
He turned to leave. I couldn't resist a parting shot,
"So sad, the rehearsal will stop and we will miss the glimpse of your intimate life through our curtains! Life will be so dull from now on!"
Byomkesh flashed a million dollar smile at us, in a way only an award-winning actor can do!
...............................................................
Story Behind the Story
The idea of a drama rehearsal behind curtains in the neighbouring apartment has been in my mind for a long time. The story is of course a figment of my imagination. But the tncidents about the three obnoxious guests are from real life.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
BOOK REVIEW
More than Meets the Eye is the author’s first ever attempt at writing fiction, in its short story format. While poetry remains his first love, he thought of having a go at it to check if he was equally comfortable with prose. He says that the worldwide pandemic induced Lockdown provided him the opportunity to try out and wander into the wonderful realm of story telling. He also acknowledges that Literary Vibes had been a source of inspiration too. The encouragement and support he received from the Literary Vibes community almost egged him on to write these stories during the last six months.
The book features a total of twenty five stories, some short and some long. He has tried to cover a wide spectrum of genres which include fables, satires, mystery, paranormal, crime, anecdotal, legend, historical, and the like. The stories are simply amalgamation of his personal experience, observations, and imagination artistically blended and are meant for pure reading pleasure. There are few stories which have been triggered by true events, situations and persons. But they have been used only as grains of sands around which the pearls of fantasy have been cultured and strung together to create the final ensemble. He has paid special attention to plausibility of the plots and authenticity of the characters, as well as the dynamics of the flow against the chosen backdrops in terms of context and timeline.
The stories in More than Meets the Eye, may appear to have the traditional three components, the beginning, the build up and the end, but actually they have neither a beginning nor an end. Each one starts with a moment within a time continuum from which to look backwards or look ahead, sometimes moving back and forth as the story progresses. Each one tells a tale that is unique in terms of its genre, its plot and its characterisation. The intrigues, the twists and turns and the in-depth research that has gone into each of them make them unique.
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WATER SINGS OVER THE STONE - FOREWARD
Dr. Selvin Vedamanickam M.A., M.Phil., PhD.,
Professor of English
St. Joseph University, Nagaland.
23-Aug-2020.
Writing ‘Foreword’ for a book of poems is a privilege indeed. The privilege to read the poems before the book goes to the press! Yet there lies the responsibility of suggesting the juice/essence of a bunch of poems not on the press but before the press. A strange responsibility, in fact.
“The violation of the norm of the standard, its systematic violation, is what makes possible the poetic utilization of language; without this possibility there would be no poetry” (Muka?ovský, 1964, p.18). From a stylistic perspective, punctuations have syntactic and semantic significance with their own pre-assigned uses and meanings. Any unconventional use of punctuation serves a writer to convey a different meaning rather than the established one. Dr. Molly’s style is something unique: elliptical . . . full of ellipsis . . . something that has been left out . . . signifying not only those that are present on the page but also the most signifying ones that cannot be re-presented in words . . . left incomplete . . . directing towards infinity . . . can only be comprehended through acts of imaginative faculty of the reader . . . ultimately these things cannot be punctuated by a full-stop . . . she has the final laugh on period.
The poems on Coronavirus or COVID-19 are simply fresh reflections on life with critical refractions. The poet captures the dubious play of mask that is intended to defeat the virus but, in reality, it cheats the eye in the poem “Quarantined . . . Masked . . .” The poem “Ecce Homo . . . Behold the Man” is suggestive of strong contradiction right from its titular semantic plane to the final line, where the man is in fact “the fallen man” with all his vulnerabilities and has new visions merged, forcibly or voluntarily, into the old existing ones. The celebration of these so-called new-normal visions takes a royal beating in the next poem “My Cataract Vision”, where cries of the suffering goes muted and uncared for in the world of masked, forgotten Good Samaritan spirit. The poems “Awareness” and “You Emerge” shine bright with hope pinned on mankind requesting everyone to be patient and having faith installed at the right place.
The collection of love poems tries to express what love is from experience and thought processes of the poet. The poem “Children” depicts the tendency to play back-foot game and uninvolved coiled-back attachment to children when they become grown-ups, which is well metaphorized by the distinction between ownership and mortgage of fields, the sadness intensified by watching the losing grip on what was once thought to be a permanent one that was always already the same was the case but forgetting the fact that it was one’s own sweet self-seduction resulting in numbness to truth. There are few poems of personal relationship, penned openly with recollections, reflections and refractions.
There are few poems that primarily deal with nature but the redemption of mankind remains the underlying thread. In “Planetary Crisis”, the poet laments the deteriorated state of the planet in which we live but also beckons us to return to a state where everything such as political, economic, cultural systems can be rebuilt. In the poem “Fire” too, the poet captures the evils of mankind and invokes fire to burn all evils, which looks like an apocalyptic purgation.
I think the Foreword should not become a review or a critical assessment of the book. It is better to enjoy poems without any introduction. I want all the sensitive souls to endeavour among these poems. If you are one who is reading this Foreword after having read all the poems, then you are the best reader who is blessed.
Better is the reader who rushes to the poems violating all structural hegemony of book production!
Blessed is the reader who reads text as text!
Happy Reading!
REFERENCE
Muka?ovský, Jan., “Standard language and poetic language." in P. L. Garvin, ed. A Prague School Reader on Esthetics, Literary Structure and Style. Washington D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 1964, pp.17–30.
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