Literary Vibes - Edition XC (16-Oct-2020)
(Title : My Angel in Heaven - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 90th edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with some very interesting stories and beautiful poems. Hope you will like them.
Prof. Geetha Nair, one of our regular contributors and an accomplished poet-cum-writer, has just published "Wine, Woman and Wrong", a collection of 33 of her short stories, all of which had first appeared in LiteraryVibes. Similarly Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated officer from Indian Navy and an award-winning poet of international acclaim, has also published his book "More than Meets the Eye" with 25 short stories, which LV had the privilege to publish first. We are indeed proud of their achievements and wish them spectacular success in their writing career. A couple of awards to them will add immense pleasure to our pride!
In today's edition there is a touching article by Dr. Pradip Swain on his personal experience of witnessing a death and persuading the parents of the dead young man to donate his organs so that their son can live through many grateful recipients. Please read it to know how doctors can not only save lives, but can give new life to the needy. Didn't somebody say it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness? And "As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, so nobleness enkindleth nobleness". (James Russell Lowell 1819-1891).
Just came across a beautiful poem of the Anglo-American poet W H Auden (1907-1973). Would love to share it with you.
No Time
W. H. Auden
Clocks cannot tell our time of day
For what event to pray,
Because we have no time until
We know what time we fill,
Why time is other than time was.
Nor can our question satisfy
The answer in the statue's eye.
Only the living ask whose brow
May wear the Roman laurel now:
The dead say only how.
What happens to the living when they die?
Death is not understood by death: nor you, nor I.
...,........................
And who can forget the immortal lines from Auden's famous poem September 1, 1939 written on the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War? I have great pleasure in giving you a few extracts from the same. I feel the lines still have a resonance after so many decades.
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
xxxxxxxx
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
xxxxxxxxx
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
xxxxxxxxx
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
xxxxxxxxxx
(From September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden)
Please share the link for LV90 at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/351 with your friends and contacts. Do remind them that more than a thousand poems and five hundred short stories are available in the previous 89 editions of LV at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes Looking forward to your feedback in the Comments section located at the bottom of the LV page.
Take care, stay safe.
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE CITY OF NO SEASONS
02) Haraprasad Das
OCHRE (GAIRIKA)
03) Geetha Nair G
LOTUS BUDS
04) Dilip Mohapatra
CHOOSING THE NOOSE
05) Sreekumar K
MY STINT AS A SNAKE CATCHER
06) Sreekumar K and Sree Lekha
THE INTRUDERS
07) Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
THE PAYBACK
08) Dr. Pradip Swain
TORTUROUS
09) Debjith Rath
PENGATA KYUN
10) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
BECOMING THE OCEAN
11) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
THE APARTMENT
12) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 12 : A SPIDER'S TALE
13) Madhumathi. H
AM IN FRAGMENTS...
SMITTEN BY NATURE...
14) S. Sundar Rajan
MUSIC AND DANCE
15) V. Varsha Shree
MOTHER EARTH'S PLIGHT
16) Sunil Kumar Biswal
THE PILOT VS. THE ROURKELA EXPRESS
17) Dr. Aniamma Joseph
UNNAO! DID YOU HEAR HER GRIEVANCE?
18) Gita Bharath
THE GODS OF DEMOCRACY
19) Setaluri Padmavathi
THE NATURE’S LAP
20) Sheena Rath
SUNSHINE
21) N. MEERA Raghavendra Rao
MY MOTHER IN LAW SURPRISES ME
22) Ravi Ranganathan
MY FATHER'S SON
23) Dr. S. Padmapriya
HIS EXCELLENCY
24) Mihir Kumar Mishra
SONG OF INNOCENCE
25) Ashok Kumar Ray
WASHINGTON TO LADY LIBERTY
26) Abani Udgata
HARBOUR: A VILLAGE DEITY
27) Sibu Kumar Das
THE STREAM
28) Thirupurasundari C J
ALL-PERVASIVE
29) Pradeep Rath
APPARITIONS
30) Prof Niranjan Barik
PAYING HIM IN HIS WORDS
31) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT
BOOK REVIEWS
01) Wine Woman and Wrong
Geetha Nair G.
This city has no seasons
except days and nights;
no passions
except living and killing.
She waylays all
with sips of her magic potion,
laughs
at their bleating impotence.
In March Gulmohars paints the city.
April burns her to ash.
August washes betel-stained bazars.
Beyond this the seasons have little say
in the city’s affairs.
The days are workaholics,
the nights flirt
in the open.
People bleat
while nestling in her fragrant hair.
They are slaughtered
leashed between her young thighs.
Perennial, poisonous,
her passions never age.
(This poem ‘The City of No Seasons’ has a little history. I started my poetry career in 1985 at a late age of 35. I wrote in English. Though, my first poem published in 1986 in Chandrabhaga, famously edited by the eminent poet Jayanta Mahapatra, was on my icon saint Mahatma Gandhi, yet the next batch of my seven poems that were applauded by Bombay based poets were on Bombay. Those poems got wider audience, and publishing including the anthology of ‘Bombay Poems’ edited by Prof (Dr.) R. Raj Rao, presently heading the Department of English, Pune University. This poem was one of them. This was my first faltering step into an anthology in life around 1986/87 where I rubbed shoulders of Bombay poets including greats like Nissim Ezekiel, Arun Kolhatkar, and Adil Jussawalla, before the poem was published in my first book of poems VIGIL in 1993 by Rupa & Co. in their series of ‘Rupa Creative Writing’, giving me the luminous company of the new voices of the time like Anna Sujatha Mathai, Makarand Paranjape, Sudeep Sen, Sitakant Mahapatra, Ranjit Hoskote, and Bibhu Padhi, to mention a few from that small list of creative writers.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
See, I sit in the first row
among fancy-dreamers,
ready to takeoff and float
among cloud puffs.
Good, you arrived finally;
how lucky not to miss me!
Look, the resplendent afternoon
looms low to anoint me
with ochre for my coronation.
I pick up the lotus bud
lying in dust,
tuck it into my lapel hole.
Had you delayed,
I would have gone
with my flatterers, as always,
to wrench morsels
from crow-beaks,
and in exchange
offer them, the free birds
their freedom, and cloth-lining
to hang and dry their nudity;
lastly depart, saying adieu
with the theatrics
of a thespian.
Good that you came,
sit down,
let me have an eyeful of you,
feel your abject penury and pain
before the opiate of power
overpowers me
and I go into a trance,
start moving my pawns and pieces
in a perverse game
of chess, staking
our land’s Himalayan glory
for an illusory ocean of milk.
I was waiting for you
before launching my grand design,
before smearing my face
with the sunset-saffron,
before going to play a while more
with windblown orphan leaves.
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)”
After the nurse told me to count to twenty and I obeyed her, I could no longer speak. But I could hear, see and smell. I stared back at the huge lights that were boring into me. The Surgeon's voice reached me as a whisper. Into my nostrils crept that distinctive clean aroma that hospitals have; only, it was much stronger here in the operation theatre.
The instrument in the surgeon's hand looked like a hook.
As I felt nothing, I did not realise the hook was lifting and plucking petal after petal of my offending organ until I saw, through the cloth barrier between my face and chest, the blood spurting in little arcs.
My eyes were searching for Akash. I had been sure he would be with me during my most arduous ordeal though it would hurt him terribly. And sure enough, there he was, white-coated, standing just behind the surgeon who had now bent over me, instrument in hand.
How would Akash react to what was being done to me? He had loved my breasts more than any other part of me, calling them twin pink lotus buds, showering them with the dew of his passion. And here I was steadily losing one of his beloved lotus buds.
Akash was now almost behind me, his hand gently stroking my arm that was raised at a ninety degrees angle above my head.
It reminded me of my first meeting with Akash. I had just turned twenty. I was walking back home after a practice session for the upcoming college arts fest. It was drizzling and I quickened my steps though I was enjoying the feel of the raindrops on my face and hair. At the junction just before my house, I was about to cross when a motorbike came hurtling along the road. I jumped back hurriedly, slipped on some wet leaves and landed on my back by the roadside.
The man on the motorbike stopped a few meters away and came swiftly to my aid. I was still sitting on the road, dazed, cradling my left arm which had borne the brunt of my fall.
The man lifted me to my feet and then started feeling my arm. Then he said, reassuringly, " No fracture, I think." He took off his helmet and smiled. I realized that it was a young and pleasant-looking man who was holding my arm.
"I am a doctor," he said; "my name is Akash."
He helped me to my house and my parents thanked him for his timely help.
That was how we met. It was astounding , the speed with which we became friends, more than friends and then, lovers.
His one- bedroom apartment became our haven.
Books sprawled everywhere, in various poses; he was determined to become a surgeon and these were the books he consumed for his PG entrance examination. I remember the thick sharp edges of books boring into my back as we lay together wherever there was a little space. How we talked and of how many things! Ships and shoes and sealing wax and cabbages and kings. And why the world is going mad and whether gods have wings.
" Why are you obsessed with these? " I asked sometimes as he worshipped my lotus buds with his eyes and hands. He never went beyond that though I longed for him to do so.
"Tomorrow," he would murmur in my ear often as his fingers traced delicious patterns all over me.
Once I had spun my parents some story and gone with Akash on a one-day trip to Kanya Kumari.
As we neared Land’s End, I caught sight of fields of translucent pink, shimmering in the rays of the morning sun. Akash parked his vehicle and the two us walked closer to the magical scene. I saw that it was an unending stretch of water brimming with lotus after lotus opening petals to the adoring sky.
At Kanya Kumari the sea was blue, green, blue-green. He laughed when I said in awe that three seas met there. " Three? They are one, the inseparable one that we merely call three. Like the two of us. Are we one or two?” He turned to me.
“Tomorrow,” he said, holding my face in his surgeon’s hands.
When tomorrow did come, it brought with it news of an accident. A speeding car had hit his motorbike which had crashed into a tree. He was very badly- hurt.
When I was wheeled outside, I found Akash near the theatre door.
He kept pace with the gurney and stretched out his hand towards my face.
"Dearest one," he said softly, so softly that the attenders didn't turn around. "Did you think I would let you go through this alone?"
I smiled by way of answer. I still couldn't speak and my eyes were still closed.
With gentle hands he unwrapped the steadily reddening bandage. Then he bent down, and kissed the place where my left breast had been.
I could feel the petals rising, rising, folding themselves into a cup, growing, growing.
This is what love can do.
"It's a lotus bud again," Akash said, smiling as he used to before the accident smashed his face and head and turned him into a rotting vegetable.
Akash lifted me in his arms. Together we moved through the glass door to the vestibule. Then we were in the porch.
As the two of us walked towards the gate, I saw an ambulance. Around it were a few men and women I remembered from a long time back in time.
I could see a body wrapped in a white sheet being wheeled out and loaded into the ambulance. Then Akash held me by the arm and we moved towards the road.
As we reached it, the road turned into an unending lake filled with lotus buds.
We waded in together.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
As I lie on the floor
in my desolate cell
and peep through the
little opening
masquerading as a window
waiting for a known face
to materialise in the mist
I see me in stead
standing on the wooden
plank of the gallows
with the hangman's noose
loose on my neck
the black hood covering my face
the trapdoor below my feet
raring to be jerked open
while I try to scrape
my calcified memories.
Just the other day
I had donned my white uniform
with a bit of gold on my shoulders
that became heavier
with each passing year
and then one day
having served my country
for a couple of decades
I hung my boots
to join the main stream
on the civvie-street
and tried my hands at
setting up my own venture
on the Persian shores.
All was well till
the ominous day loomed
and with my compass awry
and charts soiled
I went adrift to fall into
the waiting hands of
the enemy across
who were looking for
the sacrificial goat
for their negotiation table
and caught in the web
of deceit and deception
I lose my identity
and my name and honour too.
They, who happen to be
my estranged brothers
drape me with the
proverbial attire of
the black cloak
and make me wear the dagger
and put the label on me
of the diabolical spy
fomenting trouble
in their very own oppressed
region
a label as fictional
as that of 007
the naval commander
with a license to kill.
And now I stand here silently
without trial
without a chance to defend
my innocence
waiting for the lever
to be pulled any time
on any day while I
try in vain
to figure out
the value of zero upon zero
or infinity upon infinity.
They claim magnanimity
and allow my mother
and wife to meet me
behind the thick glass partition
my mother’s eager arms
that could have hugged me
perhaps for the last time
hang limply and ache
in helpless agony
while I wait on the death row
on the other side
reciting the oft rehearsed
monologue under coercion
admitting my guilt
and the tears in their eyes
well up but fail to
gravitate for they flow
from stronger hearts.
I know there will be
no last post
neither will the rifles boom
in unison
nor will I have the honour
of the tricolour
covering my limp body
nor will be my pall
be carried by my compatriots
to my funeral pyre.
I know that
I will perhaps be
carelessly flung into a pit
and interred
in some unknown cemetery
without any traces of me left
to remind anyone
of my existence.
But I know that far away
somewhere in some corners
few eyes would be moist
few hearts will bleed
and my last breath
will mingle with the breaths of
the martyrs who
died for the country
and gently blow hope and fortitude
through the days and nights
making the tricolour
flutter till time stands still
and in my uncalled for death
my heart will continue to beat
and I would continue
to live
for ever
adrift yet anchored.
Note: In the wake of the death penalty awarded by a secret Pak court, to Cdr Kulbhushan Jadhav, who in fact happened to be my naval cadet and whom I had trained in NDA.
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
As out of Eden's navel twist the lines
Of snaky generations: let there be snakes!
And snakes there were, are, will be—till yawns
Consume this pipe and he tires of music
And pipes the world back to the simple fabric
Of snake-warp, snake-weft. (Snakecharmer, Sylvia Plath)
I think I have written about this before. But I am sure it was not exactly this. I recalled this incident only because I read a story like this recently.
We, my parents and my five siblings were living at Vaikkom, a town near the backwaters. Snakes were aplenty and the locals were not afraid of them. But where we came from, snakes were a rarity. We were scared of them.
Once an aunt from our own place, Mayyanaadu, visited us. She had this morbid fear of snakes and she had had a really bad time with us at Vaikkom during her sojourn there. On top of that, I decided to give her something she would never forget.
This aunt was very dear to me. Whenever she came for a sleepover, I shunned my studies and even my sleep because she would bring cartloads of stores which she shared only with our parents. We were considered not mature enough to listen to her gory tales. After lunch, she would tell us stories from the epics which were not so bad. We got to listen to enjoy her more sinister art anyway either by pretending to be asleep after dinner or when our father retold them after she left.
Her children, much older than me, were experts at origami. They could also make toys using coconut and jackfruit leaves and I did pick up a few skills from them. In fact, now I realize that the few story-telling skills that I have came from her and my hands-on craft skills came from her children. Thank god, I did not learn anything from her husband, my uncle, a dipso.
I was in seventh standard. The prank I planned to play on her was very simple. I procured a plastic snake from my neighbour whose dad had come from Singapore. I left it in a wooden cupboard in her room. I made the tail stick out of the cupboard, rather obviously. I waited for her to notice it. Two or three days passed. She did not notice it. And then one day I heard the most expected scream from the corner room. I capered into the room laughing out.
God! It was a spectacle. She had backed into the wall opposite the cupboard and looked like she was an animated fresco on that wall. I looked at her and went on laughing at her till I thought she might drop dead.
Still looking at her I moved back and grabbed the decoy by its tail. Now seeing what was hanging from my hand, she stopped screaming.
But soon she passed out. She was lying there all curled up like a heap of laundry. I got the shock.
But my shock was not because of her but because I noticed some movement on my right hand from which the decoy was dangling by its tail.
I was not dangling but swinging wildly.
Yes, snakes do that. Especially kraits.
I shook my hand wildly and the krait flew in a trajectory through the open window, landed on the courtyard and disappeared like a nightmare.
I looked at my aunt and called for help. Some cold water my mother brought revived her but she was still in a daze. Less from what had passed but more from my successful attempt to convince her that it was nothing but her imagination. I took out the plastic snake from the cupboard and gave it to her to examine. She refused to accept it but my very courageous mother took it and examined it and commented that it looked so real. No wonder it scared her sister-in-law.
My aunt had a headache that afternoon. and since there was no story time that day after lunch, I went out to the yard to make sure that the little devil was nowhere.
She passed away recently and since I was out of station, I could not attend her last rites.
(Of course, nothing of this really happened. I was not blessed with an aunt. But we were blessed with a Sylvia Plath)
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.
(Team Poetry - Originally based on a murder, like the one in 'A Time to Kill" by John Grisham, but later an actual crime in Kerala, in which the evil ones were allowed to walk free, this poem has been de-localised for Literary Vibes' readers)
Thought I heard their footsteps
Pulled down my skirt,
In time to hide my thighs.
No time to hide myself
Hardly a house
Hardly a door
Hardly a latch
Hardly did they knock
A full lollipop
For a fistful of silence.
Hunger just got pleased
A peacock flapped itself
On my young mother's old sari
Thinly blocking the window
A storm waited
Outside that window
Another took the door
A tear on my skirt gaped
I sobbed through its mouth
They gave a new school uniform
Just in case, to dry my tears
They tasted the candy stain
Left on my lips, crimson now
Unconscious, I lay
Silently, I screamed
"Don’t cry like a baby
You are a nine year old woman now."
They chuckled at my back
What a strange swing on a single strand of rope
What a strange way to swing
What a strange swing
What a swing!
What!
A swing?
swinging
stops
hanging
begins
The sky said, “Cry out!”
The wind said, “Shout for help!”
It’s a kitchen
Not a fortress
Blue sky.
Moon, a pale white sliver
Many such on my inner thighs
More on my back, all blackish-red
Blood had given me over
For pain to keep and foster
No land to run away to
No arms to run into
Nowhere to hide
A red velvet cave
As my mother rips
Herself open.
Hide.
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.
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.
It is hard to come up with a fitting a descriptor for life of Om Prakash. To casual observers, his life is monotonous. For most people, his work looks repetitive. After all, he is a gardener. For Om Prakash, however, his days are anything but dull. He can’t remember how or when his love affair with gardening started. Working with plants has been the most exciting thing for him. He has spent his entire life doing it and time had not dimmed its charm. He has no qualification of any sort, in horticulture, or otherwise. He is self-taught and had honed his skills on the job. Simply put, he was a natural.
He considered himself a child of the soil and treated all plants as his kin. He was born with a special affinity for plants, who mysteriously reciprocated his affection for them. To him, plants have characters, like people come with individual personalities. Not unlike animal whisperers, he almost knew their language and could read their minds. Some thought, he was simply crazy or was born with an overactive imagination, bordering on pathological. Not deterred by what others thought of him, he was often seen in his own garden, humming or even singing to them, who in return, showed off their colours and wafted their fragrance in his honour.
After many years of working as a gardener, his friends and family thought, Om Prakash would retire. But, he had different ideas: People retire from boring jobs to turn to their hobbies; what would I retire to, when my work is so much fun?
Despite his modest means, his children had done well in life. One son, an accountant, lived in Mumbai. By conventional standards, his second son had garnered even greater success; he became a banker and settled in Dubai. After his wife’s death, he was all alone in the house. Some of his nosy friends were curious as to why he had chosen this lonely life for himself; wondering if he had soured his relationship with his sons, or more likely, with their wives.
They, in fact, had never forgotten their father’s contribution to their success. They would often talk of the sacrifices, he had made, in getting them educated. On several occasions, they had offered him to live with them.
But how little did they understand their father! Om Prakash just could not imagine living in Mumbai or in Dubai. His son’s Mumbai apartment was too cramped for him or his plants. His second son’s house in Dubai was more spacious but the concrete jungle of the city was a far cry from his preferred environ of greenery. So, that settled the longrunning debate on where Om Prakash would spend the rest of his life.
For most things, time and place are two key considerations. Once the question of place was out of the way, all discussions shifted to what Om Prakash should do with his time.
Actually, the reason for him to turn down his children’s offer ran much deeper. As his children were growing up, their mental worlds began to diverge from that of Om Prakash. By the time they started work, their worlds had drifted widely apart. His children’s life was dominated by numbers, figures, and above all money. Om Prakash knew, all this stuff was important, but he could relate much better to things he could touch and feel. His grand-children’s world had drifted even further away, completing his sense of alienation from them.
He had worked all his life; the law of inertia dictated that he would continue to do so, until something intervened. But biology was knocking too. Om Prakash was well past the average retirement age; he was seventy-five. For many years, his sons had been offering to support him financially, so that he did not have to work to earn his living. However, Om Prakash kept shrugging off all such offers. He would say, he would die, if he stopped working, adding half-jokingly, from boredom. Through the eighth decade of his life, his sons fought a losing battle in persuading him to stop working.
On his eightieth birthday, the whole family met for celebrating Om Prakash’s fruitful life. His sons pleaded with him to give up work; he should just hang up his gardening gear to enjoy the twilight years of his life.
Om Prakash was touched by this gesture. He had no doubt that their concern for his welfare and comfort was genuine. Now was his turn to show his appreciation for their generosity. He realised, he could not have everything his way, all the time. As a compromise, he announced that he would stop working for money and anything from now on would be voluntary work.
Om Prakash had heard of Dr Amit Trivedi’s new project in the city. Dr Trivedi, a psychiatrist, had recently returned for good, from America, with the mission to open a
model hospital in India, for people with Alzheimer’s disease. Om Prakash had barely heard of this new condition. Unlike most hospitals, services here were completely free of charge. In fact, this was not a hospital, at least, as he knew it. With a name, The Retreat, this was more like a colony, with a massive garden where patients could wonder freely. For Om Prakash, this charitable hospital was a real godsend. “What better place to do his voluntary work?”, he thought.
He was slightly apprehensive when he went to meet Dr Trivedi, for volunteering as a gardener in The Retreat. He knew little about the kind of patients he would be meeting there. He did not know the requirements for the job nor did he have any idea of the Doctor’s expectations. His work record contained nothing remotely adverse. “But would it be impressive enough for the America-returned doctor?”, he wondered.
Om Prakash was greatly relieved to find Dr Trivedi an amiable man. He looked younger, perhaps, in his early sixties. He had keen eyes and wore a disarming smile. His demeanour exuded energy and confidence. He gave Om Prakash a brief talk on Alzheimer’s disease: It makes people forgetful and gradually they lose their mind, needing help and care for everything, at the end.
Dr Trivedi listened intently, when Om Prakash gave a brief account of his gardening career and voiced his desire for voluntary work. To his delight, after getting some formalities out of the way, he was offered the gardener’s post in The Retreat.
He started his new job with a degree of trepidation. His friends had warned him about working in what was effectively a lunatic asylum. Despite the assurances from Dr Trivedi, the idea of working in a hospital for mad people was worrying enough; the image of them freely roaming around was really a frightening prospect.
At the end, he was pleasantly surprised by the atmosphere of this hospital and to cap it all, he found the patients a gentle lot. Most of them were lost their own worlds, almost oblivious of their surroundings and many talked gibberish. A few of them hardly ever spoke, silently pottering around, as if on a mission, the purpose of which was known only to them. Call them by whatever name, you like; they were anything but scary.
Working in a large garden of several acres, his appreciation for plants grew further. Approaching a giant tree would stir a mixture of wonder and reverence in him. Walking past it was no less than a spiritual experience, like a visit to a temple. He was struck by the humility of trees like the Banyan, which can’t conceal its pride in its height, but lest it forgets its humble origin in a sapling, it sends roots down to the earth.
He never ceased to be amazed at the ability of plants to make the most of their lot in life. Instead of moaning over what they lacked, they revelled in what they had got. The tiny Acer, in stead of lamenting its size, was happy in regaling everyone by their daintiness. While Bougainvilleas dazzle everyone with their bright shades of pink, jasmines steal the heart of all around by the bewitching scent. How he wished, humans can learn to be content!
He also learnt from Dr Trivedi, a lot about Alzheimer’s disease. This nasty disease creeps in stealthily, killing brain cells bit by bit, ultimately making the brain to fail, making us lose our mind.
“Is there no treatment for this disease?”, he asked.
“Yes and no. Medicines do not help a lot and can make matters worse by their side effects. As they tend to wander, they are treated with sedatives, which make them groggy and unsteady. Powerful chemicals, used to treat them, sometimes reduce them to almost zombies. Sadly, there is no cure for this condition” was Dr Trivedi’s concise reply.
That fuelled Om Prakash’s curiosity further; “So, what do you achieve by your method of treatment, allowing them to roam around freely?”
“This, at least, keeps them happy; their quality of life is not snatched away, in the name of treatment”
From his new venture, Om Prakash, actually, got far more than he bargained for. He found a kindred spirit in Dr Trivedi. Here are two people, engaged in voluntary work; working on what is close to their heart, driven by sheer passion.
Dr Trivedi frequently took strolls in the garden and soon their conversations touched on their personal lives. He found out that Dr Trivedi was a bachelor. Om Prakash had been, from the beginning, curious about Dr Trivedi’s unusual mission of setting up The Retreat.
Om Prakash finally managed to catch Dr Trivedi in a friendly mood to ask, “What made you to return from America, to this voluntary work?”
“It’s a strange question, coming from you, who has himself shunned paid jobs, in favour of voluntary work," he said.
“My situation is very different, Doctor Saab. Your qualifications and experience make you almost a celebrity, you can command any fee, you want. I am a mere gardener," he replied.
“We are in the same boat, in a way. Like you I don’t have to work for a living,” Dr Trivedi replied.
“What are you after, then, Doctor Saab, what is your goal in life now?”
“I could have carried on working for money. But all my wealth would die with me on my funeral pyre. This project is my dream; this idea of treating patients in this novel way is my brainchild. If my experiment succeeds, then my idea will live on, long after I am gone. This would be my legacy”.
Om Prakash found this conversation absorbing, until it was interrupted by a phone call for Dr Trivedi. He was to meet a wealthy philanthropist, who might set up an endowment for his hospital. Soon after the call, he had to rush off to the fund raising event, he had organised for The Retreat
One day, Dr Trivedi, came up to Om Prakash, saying, “Let me introduce you to our newest guest”, pointing at the gentleman, who was coming towards him. Om Prakash looked at him expectantly. But he simply walked past them, immersed in his own world. Om Prakash could barely catch a glimpse of his face.
“You will find him interesting" Dr Trivedi added, “his story is really sad. In the prime of his life, he was a successful businessman. But it has ended in tragedy”.
“I thought, most people who turn to charity are destitute. How did he end up here?”
“Well, he was too trusting a man. He had transferred his entire business to his only son, who he believed would look after him in old age. Little did he know that his son would betray him, seize all his assets and made him virtually penniless. After his wife’s death, he was left to languish all alone in a rented flat. Then he developed this condition, which made him forgetful and disorientated. He wandered out of his flat, and lost his way. To his good fortune, somehow, he ended up in The Retreat”
This condensed account of a successful but sad life was too much for Om Prakash to take in, but he was curious as to why Dr Trivedi thought, he would be of particular interest to Om Prakash.
“He is forgetful but he has no idea, what is wrong with him. He can’t recognise people, as his brain can’t process the information, whereby we can read faces of people. Sometimes, he can’t even recognise himself on the mirror. One day, he called the police to report on an intruder in his house, as he failed to recognise his own image in the mirror.”
“It is baffling, however, that he keeps talking to plants, as if they are people”, he added “What does he talk about?”, Om Prakash asked.
It’s not easy to make out everything, but he seems to be sharing with them his day’s events and telling them what to do, as if they are his family, friends or work colleagues”
Over the next few days, Om Prakash followed him in the garden but he was engrossed in his own world. He saw him stopping by some plants and talking to them. He could not make out the details, but he could hear his animated conversations. “One day, I shall succeed in deciphering what he is talking about” Om Prakash thought.
On his way back home, the afternoon sun was playing hide and seek, as the clouds floated past. As evening fell, the sun finally went into hiding behind the tree before calling it a day. The sky hugging the horizon was awash with a bright orange, becoming lighter as it merged imperceptibly with the light blue of the clear sky above. His mind was equally aglow with memory of the past half century. In his long life, he had worked in many gardens and come across a variety of people. Memory of many of them had faded and some had simply vanished. But a few of them were as alive as the bright orange hue, left behind by the departed sun.
When he saw the new patient in The Retreat, he felt, he had met him before. He looked familiar, but he could not easily place him. He was a sprightly man and his gentle face, though shrunken with age and from Alzheimer’s, grabbed his attention. His eyes were innocent , yet mischievous, reminding him of his own grandson, when he was a young boy. As he was imagining his face, suddenly, it clicked. As soon as he could locate him in the recesses of his mind, the flood gates of memory opened up.
Oh, yes, he is Prem Lal Mathur; everybody called him Mathur Saab. He worked as his gardener, almost forty years ago. From the constant flow of contractors and visitors into his bungalow, he guessed that he was into big construction projects. The size of his bungalow with its huge lawns, left no doubt in his mind about his extensive business and substantial wealth.
Occasionally Mathur Saab would come up to him, while he was at work in the garden. One day, he caught him singing to the plants as he was watering them. He remembers the exchange that followed, when he told his surprised master that plants were no different from humans. They respond to music, their bloom becomes more colourful and their fragrance more enticing.
As he imagined Mathur Saab’s face from almost forty years ago, he could no longer deny the truth to himself; he remembered how envious he was of Mathur Saab, at that time. Here is a man, with wealth, status , and a royal life style. The vast garden was probably handed on to him on a plate.
He should be ashamed of it, he thought; Mathur Saab has suffered so much: loss of his fortune and betrayal of trust, and to cap it all, the ignominy of destitution. However, from his face he saw today, he looked blissful. Even the ravages of the dreadful disease have failed to rob him of his inner glow. He has forgotten many things in his life, but, it seems, he has managed to remember how to communicate with plants.
Soon, Om Prakash realised, he was falling in the trap again; he could feel a tinge of envy welling up in him. About forty years ago, he envied his wealth, and now he is almost becoming envious of his peace of mind.
As he relived his past, he wondered what he had accomplished in his long life: An ordinary gardener, who had no other pursuit in his entire life. There are no medals in his house, to boast of his achievement. Nor does he have certificates to attest to his gardening excellence.
Then he remembered something he had read, long back. It said, “If even one life breathed easier because you have lived, then you have succeeded”. As he remembered him from years ago, Mathur Saab was too busy a man to spare any time for gardening. Nor did he show any interest in what Om Prakash was doing , let alone showing any appreciation for his work. But seeing him today, it occurred to him that he must have made an impact on him. He had no inkling of the impression he made on him at the time, but Mathur Saab’s actions now speak of his influence, loud and clear. Saab has forgotten many things from his past, but not Om Prakash’s teaching on how to talk to plants.
His mind then turned to how the world would remember him, after he was dead and gone. He had scarcely given any thought to this, until his conversation on the other day with Dr Trivedi, talking about his legacy.
Dr Trivedi has grand plans for his project; its success would keep his name alive after he is gone. No doubt, his ambitions are noble. He is no longer concerned about his own comfort; his remit is now the welfare of countless unfortunate people, hit by this incurable disease. But he is still chasing achievement. He wants his name to live on beyond his death. His goal post has moved further on, from this life to posterity.
Om Prakash could clearly see Doctor Trivedi’s face, which flashed in his mind. Lurking behind his vigour and enthusiasm were hints of anxiety and doubts over realisation of his dream. In contrast, Mathur Saab’s face was a perfect picture of serenity.
As his past memories coalesced with current events, Om Prakash got overwhelmed, as if he was tossed around by rolling waves of emotions. First, he felt ashamed of his pettiness; then his appreciation of his good fortune for a full life of experience, which had fallen into his lap, grew in him. At the end, he was overcome with gratitude towards Mathur Saab. He had gone beyond paying his dues to his Guru, he was unknowingly reiterating the ultimate lesson from the world of plants, as if to ensure that he never forgets it - Art of contentment.
The emotional ride left him exhilarated. Lately, his sleep had been fitful; turning on bed frequently without any apparent reason, interrupted by dreams, too fuzzy to make any sense. That night, he slept, undisturbed, like a log.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England.
He is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
(Asking for organ donations doctor’s toughest job)
Dr. Pradip K. Swain
The ambulance rolls in. Aboard is a victim of a gunshot wound. We are ready; the trauma team is here, the operating room is waiting -- all ready to go. CAT scanner is warmed up; lab has 10 pints of group “O” negative blood for transfusion.
Victim’s pupils dilated, IVs running wide open, blood transfused at full blast. Drugs pushed into his veins and he is breathing through a tube in his throat. CAT scan shows front half of his brain is wiped out.
It has been three hours trying to put him back together. I ran out of all the chemical games. EEG is flat line for the past hour -- not even a spark of life. It is too late for this young man.
Now! Turn on the mechanical respirator. Suddenly an array of tubes run down his throat and nose. Two pale blue corrugated hoses run from his mouth to the mechanical respirator. They quiver in harmony with the “hiss” and motion of black rubber bellows atop the machine.
He lay with his eyes half closed, absolutely still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His brain is destroyed, but the body hangs in a sort of limbo, sustained with machines and drugs, but never able to be resurrected as a living person.
A plastic hose stands in a bud vase over the nurses station counter. The overhead radio somewhere squawks tinny rock and roll.
Now is the moment of truth, to break the news to the waiting family. The pressure is becoming too intense for me, because there is a brawny, young man who all of a sudden is dead.
I hesitated, rehearsed, and met them. “I am Dr. Swain,” I said. “Your son was brought here three hours ago. Though we did everything that was possible, we were not abe to keep him alive. It is very difficult for me to tell you that he died a few minutes ago.”
The mother crashed to the floor. I watched, horrified, as the father followed his rapid, grief-powered flight from one corner of the room to the other. Dear God! I am left to feel like a voyeur, secretly witnessing someone’s private catastrophe. I watch fearfully their denial, anger, bargaining, depression and ultimately, acceptance.
I began my pitch slowly, speaking gently, “The only good that might come out of this is that a few people can have a new life by using the organs of your son. They could be anybody, a mother with children, a girl getting married. This is the only chance these people have to some sort of life.”
The victim’s mother hardly moves -- totally numb, with an elbow propped on the table and cupping her chin in her palm. The father frequently adjusts his brown-tinted glasses and stares at an empty wall.
There is a long silence. The father seemed to be the strong one, yet the mother was the one who held the key. Finally, they started to ask questions. “Where will the organs go? Are they sold or given to anyone who needs them? When will the body be turned over to the family?”
I explained, “No one can buy an organ -- rich or poor. His heart will be given to a person whose own heart has caused nothing but neverending days of pain. His kidneys will go to someone who has been depending on a dialysis machine to exists from day to day. His eyes will give sight to a many who has never seen the sunrise, a baby’s face or love in the eyes of a woman.
“His liver will save a young man who was pulled out of the wreckage of his car, so that he might live to see his grandchildren play. Regardless of what he did, your son will be remembered as a kind, generous young man who gave a few people a second chance.”
The parents agreed and went for a last look at the victim-turned-donor. There were a few sobs, mut mostly silence. After several minutes they left for the last time. The young man lay still, alone in a silent room.
The respirator hisses -- his chest rises and falls -- an endless line of heartbeats parade across a heart monitor over his head. I headed back to the emergency room to battle with another patient.
My mission is accomplished. As I headed for the door the nurse waves to me, whispering, “Happy hunting, doctor!”
Deaths that make for good organ donors are usually of the unexpected kind -- the result of automobile accidents, shootings or suicides. The brain dies, but the body is being kept alive by a variety of machines and drugs. The body on a machine does not really function.
We, the physicians, must try to persuade the parents or children or spouses in the depths of their grief to donate organs from the deceased.
It is the toughest job to ask family members when they are losing a life, to give someone else a life. But it is the only time it can be done. The job is especially tough due to the lack of public awareness and misinformation from science fiction films and novels.
When they showed the popular film “Coma” in Boston, which was about a hospital that killed patients to get organ donors -- the city went 43 days without a donor.
To get the job done, the physician has to be a diplomat, a psychologist, social worker, and at times, an undertaker.
(This article had appeared in Altoona Mirror, on June 26, 1988 when Dr. Swain was working as an Emergency Care Specialist at the Mercy Hospital, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA)
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
The thousand year old city of Cuttack is a treasure house of rich cultural history. The city witnessed a series of upheavals, under the sway of conquerors of different faiths at different times, as well as the ingress of outsiders. At the end of it there was an amalgamation of culture giving a distinct character to the city. Of its chequered history probably the most pronounced was the era dominated by Muslim invaders. After the defeat of Mukunda Dev, the last Hindu king at the hands of Sulaiman Karrani in 1558 AD, Odisha came under Muslim rule more than two centuries till 1751 AD. During these years Cuttack, being the capital city of the Muslim rulers, was transformed with installation of various shrines, mosques, markets, Madrasas. Interestingly enough these symbols were well assimilated into the culture of this city and after the end of the Muslim era were interwoven with the city’s landscape, where the Hindus and Muslims live with unique amity. The period of Muslim rule witnessed many Muslim religious preachers, generals, followers entering the city and through time they also made the city their home. Till this day one can get a feel of this from the names of different localities in the city – Lal Bagh Palace, Diwan Bazar Mosque, Juma Masjid in Balu Bazar, Mohammadia Bazar Mosque, Fateh Khan Mosque, Quodam Rasool of Cuttack, Sardar Khan Bazar Mosque, Sah Mansoor Mosque and Tomb, Legend of Sayyed Ali Bukhari of Cuttack. Besides this there are numerous market places, educational institutions and other landmarks which remind one of the Islamic history of the city.
My maternal uncle Dr.Bikram Dash was a reputed doctor and was particularly a very popular person with his gift of literary talents. Very sociable in nature, he was a fountain of love and affection. Far more pronounced in his personality was his sense of humour. I was fortunate to spend much time in my formative days with him and in his house. I got the attention, love and affection of both my uncle and aunty.
Dr.Dash studied in Ravenshaw Collegiate School, Cuttack. . Sri Gangadhar Ratha (legendary Advocate ), Sri Pradipta K. Das (former Minister) along with many such luminaries were his cohort. They joined the anti-British movement and Dr.Bikram Das was arrested in 1939, sent to Angul Jail instead of Cuttack jail as Govt. considered him more dangerous a nationalist than others. He was released due to worsening health conditions. He came to his native village and completed Matriculation from Satyabadi High School.
He got admitted to Ravenshaw College, Cuttack for higher education. While in College the Independence movement had gathered momentum. He was an active supporter of the movement. He again joined the movement and when the authorities noticed it, he was expelled. That time there was a movement in Assam protesting atrocities on Coolies. Some revolutionaries had moved to Assam to join that movement. He decided to go to Assam to join them.
Another uncle of mine (His sister’s husband) was working in Kolkata after completing his Electrical Engineering. He, however, prevailed on him to continue his college education. While moving about in Kolkata he noticed a kind of Warehouse in which he found a photo of Bagha Jatin, a great revolutionary. He then found out that the building housed a college and he met the Principal. After he described his story, the Principal said there was no vacant seat, ‘but for revolutionaries we are always open’. Thus he started his education in Bangabashi College, Kolkata.
During that period he was a frequent visitor to his Sister’s place, who was staying in a rented accommodation. The Landlord had two ladies in the house. My uncle’s brother in law and sister were continuously troubled by them. The ladies were quite garrulous. Ultimately his sister and her husband decided to move out of that accommodation. While vacating the house there was an interesting episode.
In order to understand that, we need to fall back on a Sanskrit couplet which describes the household of Lord Jagannath, explaining why the Lord is made of wood.
The meaning of the couplet is as follows.
One wife is loquacious ( Goddess Saraswati, who is store house of knowledge), the other is fickle ( Goddess Lakshmi representing wealth, which moves in and out swiftly), the only son Kama is the conqueror of the world and is unstoppable. His bed is serpent (Sesha Nag). He sleeps in the ocean and his carriage is the enemy of serpent (Garuda). While keeping on thinking over this character of his household Lord Jagannath has turned into wood.
Now coming back to the Landlord’s house, my uncle picked up a piece of coal and wrote on the wall :
The meaning : one lady is quarrelsome and the other fickle. Brooding over this household’s situation the Tenant had turned into wood. Bhadali (????? ) in Odia means Tenant.
We were a big group of children consisting of my numerous cousins and we used to group ourselves as per age. On all vacations we joined together and had lots of fun. It included staging of Drama on various themes. We used to request Uncle to be the judge and he often obliged us. He loved to tell us stories and make us laugh with unique anecdotes.
The incident relates to period not too long after the independence. Dr.Dash had returned after his specialised education in USA in 1955 and was in the process of settling down in Cuttack. By then the city was gradually changing its complexion. Many educated Odias from different parts of the state had started pouring into Cuttack. Many of them were either doctors or lawyers. The High Court in Cuttack and the SCB Medical College besides the old time Ravenshaw College and some other educational institutions like the Ravenshaw Collegiate School, Peary Mohan Academy etc. had grown into centres of a new culture.
After staying in rented accommodations in Alam Chand Bazar and Neemchauri for some time, my uncle could get an information from his friend Gangadhar Rath about a plot on sale in Azam Khan Bazar (Later Teen Konia Bagicha and now Dargha Bazar). The land belonged to a muslim person, who wanted to dispose it and leave for his native place in Bangla Desh. So far things looked fine. But the trouble was that Kifayat Mian, a muslim goon posed himself as the protector of the locality. There was a thatched cottage over the referred piece of land and a lady was living there. It was understood that she continued there with the blessings of Kifayat.
Kifayat was very upset that some doctor was going to acquire the property and the lady residing there will have to move out. As such he was a terror in the locality. He along with another goon Amu Mian controlled corridor. Kifayat came to my uncle and had a discussion. When he learnt that my uncle was going ahead with the deal he was aggressive enough and said no one will be allowed to touch a bit of land there. With this warning he left. But the deal was progressing ahead.
He visited again for the second time and was more threatening in his voice. ‘ye Musalman ra Jaga achhi. Kie ashile rakta ra nadi bahi jiba’ (This land belongs to a muslim. If anyone dares to come here there will be bloodshed). My uncle was calm and listened to him. Then Kifayat got up and was moving out. He was limping very noticeably. My uncle did not hesitate and with a smile asked in his own adulterated Hindi, ‘ Kifayat! Tum Pengata Kyun’ ( Kifayat! Why are you Limping ? ( Pengeiba in Odia means to limp). Kifayat suddenly turned sentimental hearing the sympathetic gesture in the voice. Then he turned back to answer, ‘ Ek bahut bada boil hua he Doctor Saheb. Jata Nahin’ (There is a big boil and it is not getting cured). Promptly my uncle offered to treat and assured to cure it. The notorious goon soon turned to be his patient and the treatment continued for some days. Kifayat was cured.
Kifayat, after few days, came back to my uncle fully fit. There was a complete u-turn in his attitude. ‘Ye Jaga Doctor Babu ra acchi. Kehi mana kale rakta ra nadi bahi jiba’. (This land belongs to Doctor Babu. If anyone else touches it there will be bloodshed). My uncle soon started constructing his house on the plot.
Thus a battle was won and that too in the most charismatic way sprinkled with lots of humour. This is the way I remember my uncle. Every time I meet someone belligerent, I remember Kifayat. I learnt how to endear people with humour and affection.
Debjit Rath retired as Executive Director of Steel Authority of India Limited. Specialised in the skills of communication his motto is to serve the community, live and let live. To him the essence of life is to spread the message of love and kindness. To him every day spent on earth is memorable and has a meaning ordained by destiny.
A drop
In the sea,
Cheerful always
Felt no different
From the entity.
One day,
Wished to visit
Mysterious sky
And the unexplored
Land of natural beauty.
Escaped from home,
Became a cloud.
Floating gleefully
Played with
Celestial beings.
Came down
The hills,
Raining from above
Seeing the landscape
In all its glory.
Slowly,
Turned into a stream,
Flowed down the valley
Moved ahead
On the planes
Enjoying a new life.
Took shape of a river
As others joined along
For the journey towards
The ultimate destination.
Finally,
Face to face
With the ocean,
Waves soaring high
Creating a spooky scene
Fear gripped
Making life uncertain.
She will disappear
Inside the great sea,
For sure.
No going back
From here
Risk worth taking
For the river.
Better jump in
To get over fear
It is not about
Losing the freedom,
Or the ego
Getting extinct.
It is only
Becoming the ocean,
Moment of celebration.
Inspired by Khalil Gibran’s poem ..’Fear’
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
Sudhir was elated when the broker said it was the best deal that had happened in real estate business in the recent times and only a few lucky ones could get such buys. Sudhir concluded that this man was the most trustworthy person he had met and he paid him a bit more than the stipulated brokerage fee.
Sudhir had acquired a small single room apartment in an old building. It was a considerable thing when he only had a small job and when others of his professional strata were running helter-skelter for a shelter in the crowded city of Mumbai. The seller had a cash crunch and he was willing to sell at Sudhir’s price provided he could give it immediately as cash in hand. Sudhir gave the cash he had saved till then and even borrowed the balance amount to be the proud owner of an apartment in the great city of Mumbai.
He had invited his mother along with the some of the tenants in that building for a small house warming ceremony which he had organised. In that way he could befriend his new neighbours and he could show his mother how successful he was and how wrong his late father was.
Sudhir was a poor student in his school days and spent more time loitering around with his friends. Cinema halls were their favourite haunts and he was always there with a cigarette on his lips to announce that he was bold and independent to take his own decisions. His father always used to warn him about jumping into conclusions and decisions after observing that his son trusted his friends more than anybody else. Sudhir was used as a puppet by them. His friends made him believe that he was winner in everything he did and his actions were all wise decisions although he was just following their purpose and needs. As he turned into a young man, Sudhir started one business after the other guided by his friends and he failed in everything one after the other. Finally realising that even his best friends were calling him a born failure, he moved to Mumbai after leaving a note that he would come back home only when he would be successful. His father’s saddened heart soon stopped beating few months after he left. It took almost five years for Sudhir to contact his home again. It was to invite his father and mother to the apartment he had newly bought. He was dejected to learn that his father had passed away because he wanted to flaunt about his success and tell him that his predictions about him were wrong.
Sudhir’s mother Sati always believed that her son had many jealous eyes on him and she kept praying for her son, that he would meet success in life. Finally she heard some good news from his side though his father was not there to appreciate it. Sudhir’s mother proudly told the news of her son’s new possession to all the family members who considered him as a fool to disobey his father’s advises and leave the home. Sudhir’s mother started her train journey so that she could arrive at her son’s new apartment on the morning of the planned ceremony. She had the picture of her expired husband too with her. Sudhir had insisted to her to bring his father’s picture along with her. He was not yet ready to leave the poor old man. He wanted at least the picture of his father to witness his success. His plan was to hang his father’s picture in his house so that the old man could see him climbing the stairs of success henceforth. Sati, a frail old woman could barely carry it and hence it was with her young nephew that she started the train journey to meet her son after these long years and be a part in his success.
It was a joyful moment when the mother met her lost son in his newly bought apartment. Hugs and tears flowed. Once the greetings were over Sudhir tore open the cardboard in which the portrait of his father was packed. It was a framed thirty by twenty inch rectangle portrait of a bald headed old man with long whiskers. Sudhir didn’t like the sneer the old man had on his face which reminded him of his father’s disapproval in all the things he did. He wanted to hang the portrait on the wall before the guests started arriving for the house warming ceremony. He had half an hour to do the job.
Sudhir asked his mother on her preference of the four walls to hang the picture. His mother prayed for a moment as though consulting with her expired husband and then she opted for the right side wall of the apartment. Sudhir immediately agreed and he took out the hammer and the nails which he had kept ready. He found the centre of the wall after visually dividing the wall into four quadrants and marked the centre where he had to drive in the nail with a pencil after climbing on a chair. Then when all was ready, the hammer started to club the nail. A few good blows and the nail got bent. He took the second one and it flew out from his hand on the third blow with hammer just missing his thumb. With the third nail he started getting some progress and it was then that the doorbell chimed imitating the chirping of a lovely bird. It was Mr.Biswas, a retired professor who lived in the next apartment on the right side of Sudhir’s. Sudhir opened the door and invited him in with a smile even as he was thinking as to why this person came early. There was still thirty minutes before the auspicious time of the ceremony.
“What are you doing?”, Mr.Biswas asked in concern, coughing and gasping for breath intermittently, with his right hand held over his chest. Sudhir told the old professor about the picture of his father that he wanted to hang on the wall.
“But you cannot do that”, said Mr,Biswas adamantly.
Sudheer couldn’t understand as to why he couldn’t hang a picture inside his house. Mr. Biswas turned polite and took his own time between his gasps in making Sudhir understand that he was a heart patient who had undergone two heart related surgeries.
“My heart does not have the capacity to withstand such poundings on the wall and my heart is racing now. I might have a heart attack soon and if so you will be held responsible”.
The old man gave a warning and slowly moved back to his apartment. Sudhir had to agree to Mr.Biswas's request and he made his neighbour go in peace since he didn’t want to risk anybody’s life. He looked at his mother and said, “We have another side. We will put it up there”.
So Sudhir calculated the centre of the wall on the left side of the apartment after making a measurement with his eyes in relation to the marking he had already done on the right side wall. Sudhir started his work on the left side wall creating a tremor and hardly had the nail gone in a few millimetres through the old thin wall when the bird at the door squeaked again as though like a warning. The retired police officer whom Sudhir had invited for the ceremony yesterday evening was at the door. It was quite in a stern voice that he asked Sudhir as to what was all this hitting against his wall. Sudhir was taken aback a bit when the man mentioned it as ‘his wall’. Sudhir told him about his plan in placing a nail to the wall so that he could hang the picture of his late father. The police man walked towards the wall and inspected the wall carefully. He found the plaster on the wall had developed some fine linear cracks and the wall had taken some battering.
“Remove it” he ordered with his one finger menacingly pointing at the nail which had gone a quarter distance of its length into the brick. “That wall belongs to me too and you cannot do anything on it without my permission” he said slapping at the wall which separated Sudhir’s apartment from his.
Sudhir tried to explain to him that it was just a two inch nail that he was trying to drive in but the man wouldn’t oblige. “The two inch nail will trespass into my part of this three inch wall and I will not tolerate intrusion into my territory”. The policeman gave a threat and he warned Sudhir in making anymore attempts at the wall with the nail.
Since two walls were taken over, Sudhir comforted his mother by saying that they had two more walls in the north and south and for that they didn’t require anybody’s permission. So he took the hammer, nails and the picture to the back wall which had the window facing the road beyond. The window occupied the centre of the wall and Sati was not happy putting her husband’s picture on one corner of the wall. So their attention turned to the front wall which separated the apartment from the corridor of the floor. There beside the door there was enough space to decorate the wall with the portrait.
It was either Mr. Biswas or the retired police officer who informed the building association secretary about the new tenant who was trying to damage the walls of the building. Sudhir had just made the markings on the front wall to place the nail when the secretary came uninvited into the apartment. He asked Sudhir’s intention with the hammer and nails that he was having in his hand. Sudhir explained it clearly that his only plan was to put up the portrait of his father on to the wall. The secretary inspected the size of the picture and came to the inference that it required a two and a half inch nail to hold the picture on to the wall or required two of those two inch nails. Then after consulting somebody over the phone, the secretary gave his opinion that the thin three inch wall belonged to the company. Sudhir was not supposed to cause any dent on their walls as such holes could weaken the wall and subsequently the building structure itself. Sudhir tried to claim that they were his walls since he bought the apartment along with the walls and he could do anything on his wall. The secretary took out a sketch and clarified it to Sudhir that he had bought only the inner carpet area and the walls still belonged to the company. A squabble started between the two. Hearing the quarrel a few doors of the adjacent apartments opened and Sudhir didn’t want to get embarrassed before them. So he thought it was best to leave the matter there for the time being and discuss it later with a lawyer about his right to the property.
Sudhir’s mother was getting frustrated. She was shocked to know that no wall around her belonged to her son. Her mumblings were quite audible and his father’s portrait was witnessing the happenings around. Sudhir looked up to God maybe for the first time in his life, from where his help could come from. He immediately had an idea, the roof. His idea was to drive a nail vertical up their roof and the let the picture dangle on a thin plastic rope. So with help of his nephew, he pulled the table and placed a chair on top of it and he climbed carefully on it. He made his attempt to drive the nail straight into the roof with his neck fully extended and his fingers barely reaching the roof. The bird at the doorway chirped again. A small crowd was waiting outside as his mother opened the door. The guests had arrived as invited and they found Sudhir on top of a table and a chair trying to drive a long nail straight into the ceiling. Sudhir took the pleasure and pain in inviting his guests into his humble apartment from the top.The visitors stood aghast trying to make out what their new neighbour was trying to do.
A dwarf sized man and his relatively tall wife who stood in the front of the small crowd introduced themselves as the family living in the apartment just above Sudhir’s .The dwarf was eager to know as to what Sudhir was doing on the ceiling. It took Sudhir some balancing act to explain the things to his upstairs neighbour from the top of the chair without toppling. The dwarf was getting agitated hearing Sudhir’s plan of creating a hole and he finally declared that this cannot happen. He claimed that this roof was their floor and asked Sudhir as to what would be the consequence if they who lived above fell down straight through the hole in their floor into Sudhir’sapartment. Sudhir had no answer and he did not want any confrontation with his new neighbours.
By now all the invitees had come and they were having a discussionin the corridor about this weird guy who was trying to make big holes in the walls to put pictures all around. From the crowd a sagely man stepped into the void left by the dwarf as he hastily walked away from the scene with his wife. The sage like person curiously asked as to what Sudhir’s next plan was as though he wanted to help him. By now Sudhir had carefully climbed down from the height he was positioned. He humbly answered that if the walls and roof was not available healways had a floor. The sagely person dressed in a long cloakintroduced himself. He was an astrologer who juggled with people’s stars and uncertainties. He lived downstairs, below Sudhir. The man asked Sudhir about his father’s birth star and his time of death to which Sati answered everything. It seemed as if the man was doing some horoscopic calculations based on the position of the celestial beings and its influence on the living with the thoughts of the dead stillaround. Then the man gave a brief spiritual discourse and refuted the idea of Sudhir keeping his father portrait on the floor as that would invite all the bad luck onto the astrologer’s head. Sudhir couldn’t quite understand as to how his father’s stars would affect the astrologer’s head. The astrologer reminded Sudhir that this apartment’s floor formed the roof of the astrologers dwelling.. Figuratively saying theastrologer didn’t want another person’s father to sit on his head as it would be a bad omen. Sati gave a defeated look at her son in whom she had started to have some expectations. Sudhir had proved again how stupid and dumb he was as his father had always warned about. His mother left the apartment immediately after the so called house warming with her nephew carrying the portrait and so did the crowd.
Sudhir was left alone in an empty space. He apparently had no walls, roof or floor around him to call his own. He was just hanging there in the space. His only solace was that he could find comfort in the old adage his father used to say. “Nothing in this earth belongs to us and we are just tenants occupying it for some time”.
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.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 12 : A SPIDER'S TALE
" Henry, look at that corner," Henry came running into the room.
He was Dennis' elder brother, the man of the house almost seven years old. The protector of his grandma, mamma and younger brother when their father and grandfather were away. Dennis had come to their common bedroom as he was feeling sleepy. Just as he was going to lie down, he saw me.
"Where Dennis?"
"There, in that corner."
"There is nothing there". Henry said coolly.
"Yes, there is.You go and look."
So Henry came nearer to the corner,
"Oh, it's a teeny weeny Spider. Let it be there."
"No, Henry, you must throw it out."
"Why?"
"You know our mamma is scared of it. So throw it out. I am also scared."
"Dennis, this is only a house spider. It is our friend, Denni. He will eat up all the pests in our house if we leave him alone. He will be our pest controller. He will eat the cockroaches, mosquitoes, and the flies, keeping our home free of pests and insects. Didn't Paattie ( grandma in Tamil) tell us the other day?"
But Dennis was adamant. Two small drops of tears formed in his huge eyes.
The elder brother couldn’t resist it.
"Ok Dennis, don't cry. I shall throw him out."
I felt sad. I was sure Henry would throw me out and he did the same. | wished I had made a web elsewhere. But this is a corner I loved. The windows were kept open for fresh air which also brought in mosquitoes. And because they put the fan in highspeed the mosquitoes cowered in the corners and I got plenty of food.
Henry came with a roll of paper and rolled up the web and me and threw me out. I fell 'plop' on the grass. I did not injure myself. Let these boys go to sleep, I shall crawl back. This house had been our home for ages. No one troubled me here and we, the house spiders are notorious for our stubbornness and stealthiness. Once we like a corner, no one can oust us from there.
So when they switched off the light, after the prayers were said and their mamma left them, I crawled back to my corner. But it was tedious weaving the web. But I slowly set it up and waited patiently in the middle. I got enough and more mosquitoes that day.
Day two. Time 8 o'clock. Night
"Henry, Henry, look at that, he has come again. Why didn't you kill him ?" Dennis was only 5 years old, so he had his share of fear of the spider like his mamma. But Henry was more matured for all of his seven years.
"No Dennis, we shouldn't kill the small spiders. They are home spiders and help us a lot."
"But Why should they come into the house? They can get enough outside, can't they?"
"Yes, they can. But most often they would be killed by other creatures."
"But Henry, I am scared. Please throw him out".
So Henry rolled up a paper and threw me out.
But I determined I would go back after Dennis fell asleep. I did go back and spun my web and I had a feisty time in my corner.
Day 3 Time 8 O'clock Night.
Dennis came to sleep. Seeing me he ran out and came back pulling Henry by his hand.
"Look at him, he is sitting in the middle as if he is waiting to jump on me."
Henry threw me out. But somehow that day I felt sad.
I was homeless and exposed to danger. But my tenacity to survive urged me on. I decided to find another place where no one would find me. l was tired of weaving a new web daily. I crawled to the other side of the house. One more window was open. I slid up the wall and looked in. Their grandma was doing something in the kitchen. I slowly jumped down and looked around me. I saw a crawl space under the sink. Yes, I slowly moved towards it and to my joy, I found a corner where I could weave my web. I was sure no one was going to evacuate me from there.
Day 4 Morning:
"Paattie , Pattie" Dennis came to the kitchen.
"What is it my darling?" Paattie lifted him up and he cuddled into her arms.
"I am feeling hungry. "Ok, I shall give you a cup of milk and biscuits, right now." Dennis sat on Paattie's wooden chair while she got his milk ready and then it happened. His sharp eyes saw me sitting in the corner.
"Pattie, look at that. Look under the sink." Paattie looked and saw me. She told him, "Denni, remember what I told you the other day about home spiders? How useful they are to us. They are harmless darling. We need him to eat up all the pests that come into our house so let him be there in that corner. If he comes out from there we will throw him out, ok?"
Dennis shook his head in agreement. I went far back into the corner so Dennis would not see me again. I knew grandma, she loved all living creatures, she would never kill me or throw me away. I had at last found a safe place to live and this is it, I felt, my home for a long time.
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
Mist-clothed solitary nest
Mountains breathing peace
The air I inhale
Dew-kissed, grass-scented
Spreads all over my soul...
Rhythm of solitude, played by the gentle wind
My heart pauses, at the cottony clouds
Skips a beat, as the beautiful blue oozes through
Winding roads, thawed mist
Droplets blooming on the leaves and petals
I capture moments, fragments of the universe
That will always carry a piece of my heart
In all the patterns and colors of the world
There is a piece of my puzzle
I leave behind
Am contented when I am searched
Am complete when I find myself...
Mist-clothed, I become the nest...
"Take me there
A long walk through these surreal roads
I might wander in search of a koel
Or follow the trail of the flowers' fragrance
As the breeze gently pinch their cheeks
Laugh not, if I converse with every leaf, and kiss the dewdrops
I might refuse to move further, at the sight of a stream
Hunt for pebbles
Scream in joy, if the clouds are generous...
As I drench my soul in the rain
If anyone passes by
I might snatch their umbrella Throw it away, and
Ask them to allow the rain
Cascade on their soul
You please handle their anger...
Take me there
A long walk..."
Thus wrote she, and travelled with Him
Through words, as always
In all the unsent letters...
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
Is it the music,
Set by the enchanting flow of the breeze?
Is it the music,
Set by the effervescent flow of the waves?
Is it the music,
Set by the energetic splash of the sea?
Is it the music,
Set by the endearing birds in flight?
Or is it the dance to the music,
Set by the enchanting will of Nature.
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
Mother Earth was very unhappy. Humans were dirtying her elegant coat of air with their silly man-made smoke. She called out to some of the volcanoes on her surface and instructed them to erupt. "Let them know how it feels to get dirtied by smoke", she thought.
Many volcanoes erupted on Mother Earth's cue, but to no avail. The humans were dirtied for a while, but they just released more smoke with their silly technology. Soon, Mother Earth was quite ill, since some of the smoke had entered her nose.
She couldn't bear it anymore. She started gasping for breath, quite often. She was very angry with the humans. The birds and animals were suffering, too. They came to her with their problems but she couldn't help them, being terribly ill.
One day, Wise Owl came to her with a possible solution. He had brought Bat with him. "Your Highness, Bat has a new friend, Corona, with him. Corona can help us heal, Your Majesty. Then Your Majesty, in turn, can heal everyone! Bat will carry Corona to your surface. Do listen to Corona's plan." Mother Earth squinted to see Corona, since he was very tiny. He climbed into Mother Earth's ear and yelled with all his might, which produced a tiny squeaky sound in her ear. "Mother, I am Corona, and I will save the world and punish these humans. Here's what I'll do....."
Mother Earth was delighted. She thought it would be a good punishment for the humans and they would never, ever repeat their mistake again.
We all know what punishment Mother Earth and Corona gave us. Let us never repeat our mistake, ever again.
V. Varsha Shree is an eleven year old budding writer cum poetess. She began writing short stories in English at the age of five and poems in English at the age of seven. Her poems have been published in ‘Writers Editors Critics’ journal, ‘Madras Hues, Myriad Views’, a souvenir book on Madras, ‘Confluence Volume 3’, a book of Collaborative Poetry, ‘Efflorescence’, an annual poetry collection brought out by Chennai Poets’ Circle (in 2019) and in the poetry anthology, ‘Muse of Now Paradigm –An Entry into Poepro’ in 2020. She has also read and shared her poems in various forums like ‘Chennai Poets’ Circle’, ‘Bangalore Poetry Circle’, ‘India Poetry Circle’ and Lit Experia Fest at Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Her short stories have been published in Science Shore magazine and Writers Editors Critics journal.
THE PILOT VS. THE ROURKELA EXPRESS
Badambadi of Cuttack was the largest bus terminus in Odisha. Busses fanned out to every nook and corner of the state and the bus terminus was a world in itself. Passengers, coolies, fruit sellers, vendors peddling unimaginable variety of merchandise, food stuff vendors, ice cream seller, news paper hawkers, balloon wala, toy vendors, book sellers, beggars, pundits with an extended arm to smear tilak on one’s forehead and even ayurvedic medicine vendors all crowded the terminus and perpetually in a state of motion trying to occupy same space at the same time. What made matters worse was the rickshaws and autos, bikes, push carts were either dropping off their loads or picking up or even just stranded due to lack of space to move. The only ones who worked silently were specialists in picking your pocket. The noise from all these activities, the dust laden air reeking of open air urinals was made into a package of experience to be compulsorily experienced by all users of the terminus.
Pintu was travelling to Koraput with his father and he was seated in the bus. His summer vacation was over and he was going back to his father’s place of posting, a small town in the district of Koraput. He looked forward to meeting his friends in school after a long vacation.
A vendor entered into the bus crying out Pen! Pen!! Pen!!! Pen!!!! and he was holding a basket full of pens, pens of many colors, many shapes and sizes. Pintu looked at the basket as if mesmerized and he felt each of those pens calling at him, take me! take me !! take me !!!
Pintu was especially charmed by a yellow color pen, a thick one with a rather large and thick cap with black boarder. Pintu looked at his mother and then his father and at the same time at the basket of pens. Pintu’s father knew his son well and he asked the vendor the cost of the pen. And he paid 1 rupee for two pens and handed over the pens to Pintu. Pintu’s joy knew no bounds as he held the pens in his hand, caressing its curves, marveling at the color, imagining how he will fill it with black-blue ink the moment he reached his home in Koraput and how he would start writing on his notes. Then he remembered that he had completed all his home work long back while he was in his village. All through the journey he kept thinking of his new pen and how he will write in the mathematics class, the Odia and the English class, the history class and how great the writings would look as they would be written by such a magnificent pen resting in his hands now.
So, Pintu went to school with his new pen tucked to the shirt pocket. Time to time Pintu moved his hand over the pen to check if it was still there and not lost along the way. He was looking forward the class to start so that he could take the pen out and uncap it, keep the cap by the side of his note book on the left and start writing.
He always sat on the front bench and shared it with two friends. The school was opening after the vacations and the old friends were meeting after a long gap. The atmosphere was charged with each trying to narrate how he spent his time. As the class bell rang and the teacher came and started taking the lesson, the students opened their note books and started writing. This was the moment Pintu was waiting for, he took his pen out and as he uncapped it and started writing, he looked at Abhisek, his bench mate just to check if Abhisek was taking notice of his new possession, his new shiny pen. And what did he see? Abhisek also had a new pen, and the pen was anything but better than his. The pen had a golden cap that glittered and glittered and the shiny black body of the pen just matched the shiny golden cap, a perfect piece of ornament. As he hurried to take note of what the class teacher was dictating, he read the engraved letters on the golden cap “PILOT”.
After the class was over and before the next teacher came into the class, the children started chatting . "What a beautiful pen you have Abhisek”, Pintu told his friend looking with admiring eyes at the golden pen in Abhisek’s hand. Abhisek looked amused and demonstrated how he no longer needed to pour ink into the pen in the old fashioned way. He opened the pen and showed how a rubber tube held all the ink and when the ink was over, all one needed to do was to press a small metallic strip, dip the pen in ink bottle and the pen would suck in all the ink needed!!!! It was that easy. And the pen was not made in India but came from Japan as it was made by the world famous company Pilot. It is not ordinary pen, said Abhisek.
“Wow!!! Wow!!! So easy and so convenient” exclaimed Pintu. He looked at his new pen to check if it was made by Pilot and found that the name on his pen was “ROURKELA EXPRESS”.
Now Pintu’s pen looked very unattractive and not worth flaunting before his friends. But he could not afford to get a Pilot pen like Abhisek. Abhisek’s father was an Engineer and was somebody important in the small town. And, his own father was only an ordinary peon. Abhisek’s father often was invited as Chief Guest of Annual function of their school. He was treated most courteously and sat on the stage along with head master other teachers. He was treated with reverence, presented flower bouquets. His own father would keep on standing in the crowd around the stage with hundred others.
That evening at home, Pintu was sitting down to comple the home works. As he collected his books and notes from the shelf at home, his attention was drawn to a shiny object lying next to his books. It was a pilot pen. My god, how did it come here? He tried to remember if he had inadvertently taken his friend’s pen or accidentally it was put into his bag. But he could not remember any such thing however hard he tried. He felt ashamed of himself that he had taken away his friend's pen and he was filled with a sense of guilt. He had to return the pen to his friend tomorrow, the first thing to be done. And he sat about thinking how his friend Abhisek may respond. “Will he call me a thief?” Pintu shuddered to think of such a scenario. Since he had decided to return the pen, he felt a little easy and decided to write few passages of his English home work with the pen. It ran smoothly and was a delight to write with.
Next morning Pintu reached school early. He kept the pen in his pocket and waited eagerly for Abhisek to turn up at the class. As Abhisek came and placed his school bag on the table, Pintu tried to notice any facial expression on Abhisek conveying the loss of the pen the earlier day. There was none. Pintu mustered courage and called Abhisek.
“Abhisek, my friend, I think I inadvertently took your pen yesterday. Here, take it back. I am not sure how and when did this pen was put in my bag, I only found it when I was home”, said Pintu.
Abhisek looked puzzled and looked at the pen and then at his friend, however he kept the pen in his bag and with no words of criticism at Pintu, he simply called him to come with him and play in the school field for the few moments before the prayer class started.
Pintu was relieved now.”Abhisek is such a good boy. He has pardoned me. Thank God”, Pintu thought to himself and together, hand in hand, they ran to the school field.
That evening while Pintu was at his study table, completing his home task, his father came and started searching the book shelf for something and asked Pintu if he had seen a new pen, a pen with a golden cap and black polished body, an imported Pilot pen from Japan.
“Was that pen yours papa?”, Pintu asked.
“Yes, I got it for you my child; I know you love pens, don’t you? Have you taken it?” his father told him looking at him affectionately.
Pintu’s heart sank and he could feel his stomach moving with some feeling. How could Abhisek simply accept it knowing well that it was not his pen, and what a fool I was to simply assume that my father could not buy one pilot pen? He felt like running to his friend’s house immediately and get back his pen. He wished they also had a telephone at home like Abhisek had one in his home. The whole night he kept tossing on his bed unable to reconcile to the feeling of immense loss.
The next morning in school he waited eagerly for Abhisek to turn up and on meeting him accosted him with “Abhisek, how could you take my pen knowing fully well that it was not yours?”. Abhisek was taken aback for a moment and then said “Ok let me check, I will get back yours tomorrow. Believe me, I didn’t know if it was yours or it was mine. Since you gave it to me, I thought not much about it. There are a dozen such pens at my home, do not worry, I will get one tomorrow.”
So, the next day Abhisek did return the pilot pen to Pintu and Pintu grabbed it and put it safely in his school bag so that it is not lost again. He was full of gratitude to his father for giving him such a nice gift and cursed himself for almost losing it.
In the evening as he joyously looked forward to write with his prized pen while solving math home work, he took his new pilot pen out of the bag and put it on the mat. Next he took the books and his note book out of the bag. He found all the corners of books and notes soaked with blue-black ink spilled from the pen. Then he took the pen and looked closely at it. The pen had a crack in the nib area and all ink was drained through it spoiling his books and notes.
“Abhisek, here, take your pen, it is cracked and can’t hold the ink. Please return my pen. It was new”, Pintu told Abhisek the next day.
“But my father has given this to me to return to you. He can’t be wrong”, Abhisek protested.
Pintu learnt his first bitter lesson of life and the loss remained un-reconciled for a long time.
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
UNNAO! DID YOU HEAR HER GRIEVANCE?
In her straw-roofed hut
She dreamed of the sky!
A girl on the wings
Flying higher and higher
Sky was the limit!
Artless, she failed to perceive the deception
The guy betrayed her;
She pleaded for mercy,
Which she never got
At sweet seventeen
She fell a prey to brutal lust
The brutes gang-raped her,
Worse than animals, wild, they were!
She knocked at the door of Justice
Justice, blind, banged against her
She appealed for righteousness
It was already dead on them
“I will see all the criminals
Be nabbed!” She wished,
“I want fair play be done!”
Never did she succumb to the threats,
Nor did she stop fighting for justice
Alas! The brutes set her ablaze
Ah…My daughter, how you ran for life
Wasn’t it a firebrand running all along?
She wanted to live to see them punished
Till the last thread was cut
She went on fighting a lost battle
A martyr she was to her cause,
Gifted with a fiery grave,
Unknown, unsung and uncared for!
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.
"Make way for the Minister !" And his escort shouldered us aside:
Six white cars with red roof-lights parted the morning tide
Of schoolkids, office-goers, and commuters waiting for their ride.
I stumbled onto the pavement of old and fractured stone
And- in an alcove on a wall I saw a lamp that shone
A shrine to Ganesha to whom all Hindus pray-
Remover of obstacles, who clears the roughest way ;
He had left His great temple without any pomp or fuss--
To sit by the wayside to bless and comfort us.
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.
The impartial golden sun rays in the dawn,
adorned the earth with a shiny orange blanket
Trees and bushes swayed their wings with joy;
The glittering tides sang melodious musical notes!
The grassy land bathed with dew drops as pearls
I jumped with joy in the beautiful lap of nature;
I gazed at the mesmerising sky that’s pained grey and blue,
I was amazed, staring at the priceless gifts of god!
The protective earth taught me patience and care,
The colourful vast sky preached me spreading wings;
The sun rays illustrated me, bright future ahead,
The tiny leaves of grass instructed me humbleness!
What a blissful world I reside in ever!
The beneficial motherland is my safe home,
The sky is the limit to strive hard and roam
East or west, the lap of nature is the best!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
The bright sunshine
Uplifting my spirits
To march on with new aspirations
That kindle my heart every single moment
The thought of never giving up
No matter how rocky the road lies ahead
Dancing to the tunes of the chirping birds
As flowers bloom in myriad hues of blue
Amidst laughter and smiles that no one ever knew
Spreading the sunshine to illuminate your path too.
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)
Ever since I got married
In my late teens
Just out of college
Not prepared for marriage
Having fears of my mil
Breathing down my neck
And peck, peck and peck!
But lo and behold
She embraced me into her fold.
From day one
Life was fun
To have a friend and guide
Making me look to her with pride.
Empowerment begins at home
When two women understand each other
And feel at home with one another
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.
He wanted to
But he could never become:
Shadows he could never overcome…
Was a tough task
Dealing with, everywhere
They are always there…
He tried to change shadows
Watching them coming from outside
To see them grow alongside…
Could not imbibe high values
Nor could attain spiritual space
Creeping images shadowed his face…
Like soft grass in that green meadow
Even if he did not dwell in shadows of past
So long as there's light, silently it will last…
Do not try to change shadows
Consider them as an eternal hue
Let them grow with and within you…
I heard the Shadow whisper in my ears
Don't attempt to become father or son
In just being you, lies all the glorious fun...
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.
HIS EXCELLENCY
(A tribute to the former President of India, Dr.A.P.J Abdul Kalam)
Dr. S. Padmapriya
The king is the king of all men,
His empire stretches far and wide,
Omnipotent leaving none,
Taking all in his stride.
Kings command armies,
He rules over Hearts,
Playing resplendently the Harp of Humanism,
Seeing India from atop ‘The Raisina’!
He rules with his tremendous intellect,
And sublime gentleness;
A man with a mission,
A developed fearless India is his vision.
His vocation is science and technology,
Intellectual resolution is his methodology;
Poet, writer, scholar, scientist,
He is many men in one,
'Vision 2020’, ‘Wings of Fire’,
His ideas prolific pour strength,
Igniting minds!
How many hurdles,
Must have been crossed,
To reach this zenith?
Undoubtedly, an infinite!
His smiling face bears no tell tale signs,
Of trauma and struggle, every minute!
His words and deeds will forever,
Be etched in our minds,
His countless noble gestures,
In our hearts a place, finds,
Making statesmen out of ordinary men,
With the magical wand of uprightness!
Note: This poem was published in 'Poet', an international poetry journal.
Dr.S. Padmapriya was born in the Salem town of Tamilnadu state in India in 1982. She holds a Doctorate (Ph.D.) degree in Economics from the University of Madras. She possesses Teaching, Research and Administrative experience in addition to over 23 years’ experience as a published writer. Dr.S.Padmapriya has written poems, short stories, essays, general articles, critical articles, research articles, book reviews and forewords and they have been published far and wide including in India, U.K., U.S.A. and South Korea. She has three collections of poetry (‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’, ‘Galaxy’) to her credit. Her Debut Novel, ‘THE FIERY WOMEN’ has been published in India in 2020. Her debut collection of English Short Stories, ‘Fragments’ has been published on Kindle as an e-book in 2020. She has been included in the landmark book, ‘A Critical Survey of Indo- English Poetry’ (2016) and is also one of the 50 women poets writing in English in India, who have been covered in the colossal work, ‘History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry’ (2019). She is also an associate editor of the poetry anthology, ‘Muse of Now Paradigm- An Entry into Poepro’, published in India in 2020.
They say; change is a must
Things changed, I wonder
For better in some respects
Maybe, in some for worst.
The pace, the manner
Turned my fingers crossed
Perplexingly in search of a clue
That is permanently lost.
Why so whimsical Oh! Time
Grieve the planets in my chart
Good old days, good people
So quietly did depart
Turning upside down
My memory-laden apple cart.
Missed their ardent innocence
A gift of time, sparkling within
With all perfections of Tribal Art.
Tila , an old lady visited me
Tapped my crowded memory
Often with her husband, his silly jokes
Radiating a glow on his live zest
For life throbbing within the
Diminutive features at its best.
They personified simplicity
Poor but not complex at the heart
Illiterate but not inhuman
Uncivilized but not hypocrites
Their life, a song of innocence
A symphony of love and care
For every, every particle of dust.
Close to a Brahmin hamlet,
On two decimals of land they lived
A mangy cat as a pet and a swarm
Of visiting bumblebees as host,
Stood their small hut, two coconut trees
With a hanging low roof
Made of collected bamboos, clay
To crawl and store what they owned,
Cowdung cakes, sawdust
Immense humility, pure honesty
Tinged with sweat and towering trust.
Enraged neighbors once
Searched for stolen coconuts
Ravaging the tattered outskirts
Of her frightened lone hut
She did nothing to protest but
Told them not to pull out
The haystack on hanging rooftop.
Coconuts found, the lady with a frown
Asserted her tree bears on both sides
Two varieties; one green and the other brown
The neighbors left with a mirth
They valued the acute dearth
Of common knowledge and raw simplicity
The lady had from her birth.
I wonder, had Tila been schooled
She could have easily fooled
Her neighbors. Foiled their effort
By turning truth deep underneath
To await seven generations to erupt.
Turning the song of innocence
Onto a wrong key, blatantly corrupt.
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many
Our sightseeing in the natural wonders of Death Valley, Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls came to an end. The splendors of majestic heritage buildings, skyscrapers as well as the economy and polity of the USA attracted us. Our next destination was 'Lady Liberty' in New York City, the largest, richest, most populated city of New York State.
Lady Liberty is the symbol of freedom, liberty, justice, emancipation and democracy. We started our journey to New York City via Washington DC that has a bearing on World politics, diplomacy and economy.
On a fine sunny Summer morning after our breakfast in Buffalo, our luxury bus traveled toward our new destination. The thundering roars of plunging water and awesome panorama of crashing waves of Niagara Falls were left behind.
Our American guide said- 'We were entering into the deep woods and dense forests of America'.
My friend told him -'Is it true? You have finished forests by felling trees for making tissue paper for cleaning and personal use. Why do you not use water instead of tissue paper?'
The guide explained - 'Ours is a cold country. When Winter comes and water freezes to ice, we use tissue paper paper for cleaning and beer for drinking. It's not a luxury but a need. Sorry to say - bottles of drinks are consumed by people in hot countries.'
While our bus entered the dense forest, we were dumbfounded to find tall trees and plants laden with beautiful leaves and splendid flowers.Their spectacular scenario was blowing our mind. My friend's misconception was changing while travelling across the rainforest full of luxuriant and vibrant trees. Their forest areas are larger than that of India. Plantations are far greater than felling trees. We had a night halt in Corning.
Next morning, our bus was about to start. As usual the driver opened the bus dicky and went to his seat. I whispered in the ear of the American guide - 'Won't the driver help in keeping the luggages in bus dicky?'
He said - ' It does not come under driver's duty. He gets remuneration for driving only. He will expect tips for extra service. Nothing is free here. Work is work. It's neither small nor big. Payment is required for any work or service. This is the basis of capitalist economy and culture. Accordingly, laws are made by the government. Tips are a type of commission. Tips or commission on goods and services is a part of the culture and law of America. Around 4 - 5 % of the price of goods or services may be expected as commission to the agent or seller or the person concerned. In some countries people are clamouring against commission. But in those nations, investigations and litigations are going on against corruption for decades but to no avail. It is no better than witch hunting. There is no end to corruption. It's a vicious circle. Known commission is far better than unknown corruption. Choosing between commission and corruption is a choice of the nation'.
Hearing his speech, my friend told me secretly -'The guide had parked our bus before the Corning Glass Museum, Hershey's Chocolate World and Walmart stores enroute (from the West to East). Our total purchases of 50 persons might have crossed thousands of dollars so far. Imagine the commission amounts. Thanks to his professionalism in tourism'.
The bus was moving fast in the forest. The landscape was captivating and changing also. By and by the woods were reducing and urban areas were coming to our eyesight. The guide said - 'There are 3 Wasingtons: (1) George Washington, the Founding Father of the USA, (2) Washington DC, the US Capital, (3) Washington state (2670 miles away from DC)',
Amidst gossip and sightseeing, our bus reached Washington DC ( District of Columbia), on the Potomac River. Population is around 7 lakhs. It is the seat of the US federal government. We visited the heritage buildings such as the Capitol (Legislative building), White House (President's residence & office), Supreme Court (Judicial building) and Lincoln Memorial ( Symbol of abolition of slavery). Congress makes law, the President carries it out and the Supreme Court evaluates it. The Federal Government and the US Constitution have implemented, established mixed economy with emphasis on capitalism, competition, free market economy and relevant laws. Polity and economy are both sides of the same coin.
The President is the head of the state, head of the government and commander-in-chief of the armed forces. . He serves a four year term and cannot be elected no more than two terms( maximum period of 8 years). The limited period of the President is the pivotal point of American Constitution, polity and economy that forbids autocracy and dictatorship as well as makes it politically, economically and diplomatically the first and foremost country across the World.
During sightseeing the guide said- 'Whatever you see here are the handiworks and achievements of George Washington, the Military General, Founding Father and first President of the USA (from 1789 to 1797) who led and fought the War of Independence and founded the US Constitution, Federal Government and economy. Washington, the US Capital and Washington, the US State are named after George Washington as a mark of respect, devotion and honour to him. We are proud of him.'
My friend said - 'Our Father of the Nation, Mahatma Gandhi brought independence by nonviolence means without war and bloodshed. He is worshipped all over the World for his principles of nonviolence',
The guide told us in a sorrowful voice - 'But alas ! He was assassinated. The Mahatma who fought for 'nonviolence' across the World was shot dead violently by one Indian. Every drop of blood coming out of the body of the Father of the Nation soaked the Motherland. This is an ominous sign. In spite of all the sincere efforts and devotions, the largest democracy of the World remains underdeveloped.'
America's moderate climate, rich mineral resources, skilled and dedicated manpower, developed science and technology, bi-party system of politics, fertile land, dense forests, long rivers, vast coastlines on the Pacific and the Atlantic leverage a lot to the economy. Capitalist economic dynamics helps in optimum utilization of the Capitals : Human Capital, Natural Capital, Finished Capital (finished products). Capitalism capitalizes the Capitals (resources). These are the driving forces for the highest GDP of America across the World. Production and sale of innovative military weapons, aircrafts, missiles, etc. (unknown to other countries) fetch huge revenue to America. Its GDP is 21. 44 trillion dollars whereas India's GDP is 2.94 trillion dollars. About 40 % of World's billionaires live in the USA.
To my utter surprise and astonishment, I hardly found any beggar or boundary wall across America. This may be indicative of lack of poverty and free access. This is a glaring difference from India. The mushrooming 'BPL' population is indicative of Indian achievements.
After a night halt in New Jersey, we got up early in the morning and traveled to New York City. It is one of the most tourist attractions of the World. Around 65 million people visit it annually. The roadside landscape was fascinating. Statue of Liberty on Liberty Island is a part of New York City in New York Harbor (Bay).
From a long distance we could see the Statue of Liberty. It is popularly called 'Lady Liberty'. We felt, as if, she was welcoming us to the land of freedom and liberty. We reached New York Harbor. While traveling by ferry cutting across the blue water of the New York Bay, we were thrilled to see the skyscrapers of New York City. Our ferry reached the Statue of Liberty National Monument comprising the Statue of Liberty in Liberty Island and Ellis Island Museum. The 305 feet high colossal neoclassical copper Statue of 'Lady Liberty' is a sculptural wonder of the World. Millions of tourists come here every year. The torch in her right hand over her head shows the path of freedom and Liberty to the people of the World at large. The broken shackle and chain on her foot is the symbol of end (abolition) of slavery. The tabula in her left hand - 'July 4, 1776 ' is the date of the U.S. Declaration of Independence. She is the personification of Liberty in the form of a woman. She is the embodiment of freedom and justice. Officially she is called 'Liberty Enlightening the World'.
The Statue of Liberty was a joint effort between the US and France. The French Sculptor Frederick Auguste Bartholdi had built it and sent it to America by ships. It was dedicated to people in 1886. Lady Liberty is a national monument of the USA. It is an architectural beauty, sculptural icon and World tourist attraction.
By ferry we left Liberty Island. The bus started. We were enjoying the skyscrapers, and roadside eye catching view. The guide told us - ' We have traveled in the sky and on land. Now we will go below the land and water '.
The bus entered Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson River. The technological marvel and beauty of the underwater tunnel stunned us for some time while passing through it. We reached New York City, the treasure-trove of wealth. The architectural design and lighting of the 1.5 mile long Lincoln Tunnel was beyond our imagination. This was my first underwater tunnel travel in America which gave me an amazing experience.
New York City is a mindblowing archipelago of over 36 islands. Manhattan is the main island where most of the heritage buildings and landmarks are situated. The Atlantic Ocean, New York Bay and the Hudson, East, Harlem rivers surround it. The city comprises 5 boroughs: Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island, Brooklyn, Bronx. Manhattan is the economic and administrative center and cultural identifier. Three bridges: Manhattan bridge, Brooklyn bridge, Williamsburg bridge and two underwater tunnels: Lincoln tunnel, Holland tunnel connect the Island city to other cities. We were delighted to visit New York's iconic landmarks like the Wall Street, New York Stock Exchange, Ground Zero of the destroyed World Trade Center ( Twin Tower) site and the rebuilt One World Trade Center ( Freedom Tower) - one of the tallest buildings of the World, Madison Square Garden, Times Square, United Nations Building, etc. Their picturesque panorama creates nostalgia.
Due to its limited area of around 300 square miles, large population of around 8 million, thousands of skyscrapers, heavy traffic of vehicles, the city seems congested. Of course there is grandeur in its congestion. It is the city that never sleeps, never stops moving. The decorative light of the city thrilled us at night. It is called the city of lights. The splendor of New York is more spectacular at night than day. Its nightlife is romantic and glamorous.
While our bus was returning on the Manhattan bridge over the Hudson River and on the road to the JFK Airport, the light of the torch of Lady Liberty and One World Trade Center were catching and capturing my attention. Distance between Manhattan to the JFK Airport is around 18 miles.
We left John F.Kennedy International Airport, Queens, New York by Qatar Airways flight at night.The sweet memories of splendid geography, glorious history, sound polity, vibrant economic dynamics, fabulous professionalism and tourism of America overwhelm me even today.
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.
Below the ancient banyan tree
flanked by two deodars like
a palm joined in a namaste
the terracotta eyes soak in
the boundless blues.
Frozen snarl on the face of the lion
defies the ebb and flow.
Faith like petals of hibiscus
swirls in brisk wind incessantly.
The dying rays of evening
suffuse the humble cottages
a little beyond in pilgrim hues.
The churning of day and night
tears and sweat, hope and despair
rock the dwellings in constant flux.
The cottages are small canoes
floating in a restless lake, seeking
their way to the harbour below
the banyan tree.
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.
Nobody can partake a grief.
It is just a mere say:
That sorrows are shared.
Person aggrieved only knows;
the grief is very ensconcedly private,
and where the void pinches
and what the separation snatches away.
No seismograph to scale
the quakes at heart, the quakes
are heavy and come in silent surges.
Long lost memories resurge, some
sweet wounds resurface;
bewailing fingers crawl seekingly
to those vanished scars
to fondle, in a reflex.
Some words ever so sweet
and some not-so-sweet then,
turned sweeter now
seasoned with this pinch of loss,
yearn for the heart that spoke.
The murmur of the dried stream
seems so close, and yet so far !
receding, unreachable as if a mirage;
but for sure,
the trickling stream was once there,
smoothening the rough stones,
caressing the chubby peebles.
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.
The day dawned,
Alarm ticked,
Mobile beeped,
With disoriented movements,
I grasped it hurriedly,
Puzzled to find an unknown number flashing,
No-sooner, the buzz stopped!
Chaotic mind,
Muddled thoughts,
The day goes on!
Yet, those numbers linger in my mind,
My perplexed feel persisted along.
Life without numbers?
Knowledge acquired without math?
Tough to conceptualize,
As I was cooking,
Cooker whistles, recipe measurements,
Oh! Numbers everywhere.
In calendar, clock,
Can we discount?
Never, they are profoundly plunged into,
What a beautiful integration!
A smile flashed, reminiscing,
Our childhood rhyme,
One-two buckle my shoe,
How impressive are these numbers!
Phone numbers, passwords, page numbers,
Counts and figures,
So meaningful aren’t they?
Can we ever underrate zero?
The super hero.
Wow! Numbers, numbers,
Everything around, it corresponds to,
A daily encounter,
Our spending estimates,
Influencing our investments,
Oh! Wired with numbers in unique ways,
Amazing! Numbers are ubiquitous indeed.
Division, multiplication, addition, subtraction,
Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry,
Tremendous! Complicated formulae and calculations,
Nightmare for few,
In addition to understanding,
Practice, patience, persistence and logics,
Are secret tools.
Oh! As my clock ticks,
Organizing a fete,
Fantastic!
How many are expected?
I wear a smile again,
As my forethought indulges numbers,
Numbers always rock!
Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle) is an avid researcher in the field of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology. Her university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively, fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. A doctorate from University of Madras; started her research and teaching experience at Dr A. Ramanchandran’s Diabetes Hospital. She is known amongst her students as somebody who teaches with passion. She took this ethos to a school and also excelled as Assistant Professor in a reputed University, Chennai and then for a brief stint at the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. She has prolific knowledge in the fields of Cancer, Diabetes and Horticulture. The last of which is being put to use currently at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research, Bengaluru. Her other passions include yoga, sudoku, poetry, sketching, gardening and experimenting new cuisines. Besides a science content writer, an editor for “Science Shore” online magazine, she draws inspiration from others and is always cheerful!
Streaks of silence,
flourish in
enclosed spaces.
No longer welcome, yet
pervades. Walls,
doors, windows corroded.
Pale desperation
clings to the pores of mind,
moans in stifled tunes.
Strange apparitions
linger,
even your thoughts disturb.
May be,
there are succulent
dreams outside.
May be, life
goes on
in frenetic rhythms.
I take a long breath
and ignore you and rise,
the sky is bright.
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..
PAYING HIM IN HIS WORDS (GETTING INTO GOOD TROUBLE)
Be at the table
Else you will be the menu or you will be the lunch!
No chair vacant there?
Bring a folding one.
Forget not your ballot
Is it not superior to bullet ?
Why go for revolution ?
When round the corner is the festive occasion, the great election!
Remember Rousseau? Make hay
Seize the day , the only one day in years four or five
That comes your way to say, yes you are free that day
To dump the paper in the box or down the drain
No, do it in the right box
To pull down the chair or make the right one sit on it,
For this day , the bridges had to be crossed ,
Braving the rain of batons and boots
Making sundays black,
Remember, for this day ,the sacred day
Many a battle fought in the past and many a blood shed.
Never consider your age
Age is just a number
Old or young, you can brave the odds
Only young at heart can be the change
Get into good trouble, good amount of it,
With courage and conviction
To get rid of the binaries that mind imposes on colour, making high and low .
Young men, it is worth taking the trouble!
Good Trouble harkens thee
Will you take the call for free?
Change is slow, but you the change-agent, don’t be slow,
You see freedom on the horizon glow,
Jump on your horse and be the minutemen!
Lose your narrowness; widen your heart and the world you win,
Be a lightning bolt to whip the darkness around,
Make noise and find a way to make a way out of no way ,
Miles to go, miles to go, young men
Get up and get into ‘Good Trouble’, ‘Necessary Trouble’ that the world abounds,
Break the stereotypes and make a ‘New Togetherness’!
( A Tribute to John R. Lewis , the Civil Rights Activist of US who died recently. )
Professor Niranjan Barik had his schooling in Okara High School, Arnapal, Bhadrak and graduated as a Political Science major from BJB College,Bhubaneswar after a four years student life there . He had his Masters in Political Science from Utkal University when the legendary Prof Shriram chandra Dash was heading the Department . Barik had his M.Phil in International Relations from the prestigious School of International Studies ,JNU New Delhi. He had hie Ph.D on Fresh Water Diplomacy in South Asia from Utkal under the guidance of eminent IR Professor K.P.Mishra of Jawaharlal Nehru Universitu He has served in different Government Colleges of Odisha , but major part of it in Ravenshaw College ,later Ravenshaw University. Barik was a Visiting Fulbright Professor at Miles College ,Birmingham ,Alabama US . He had worked as a Research Attache for some time at Nanyang Technological University ,Singapore and has chaired panels and presented research papers in major conventions in India , UK ,USA ,Canada & China . Barik was Professor & Head ,Dept of Pol SC , & Principal Khallikote Autonomous College and Professor & Head Dept of Pol Sc ,Ravenshaw University and is currently a Visiting Faculty there . A number of scholars have been awarded Ph.D & M.Phil from different Universities of Odisha under his supervision He occasionally writes short stories and poems in Odiya and loves reading literature among other things .
"You want to hear what happened last night?"
Neeraj looked up from his cards and asked us. Mangu was the first to react,
"No, no, no, please! No! We have heard enough of your absurd tales, your cock and bull stories. No more ghost tales, not about gods and goddesses coming alive at your home! Spare us the pain, my friend, start the game, don't spoil it even before it begins "
Mangu was referring to our game of bridge, a daily evening ritual at his place.
Neeraj looked at me appealingly. Although the four of us were old friends from our college days, he and I shared a special bond, having retired from the same office - of the Accuntant General - five years back. He knew I would come to his rescue. I put down the cards and looked at him,
"Ok, tell us, but be brief. Is it one of your ghost stories?"
Neeraj winced at the insinuation that we were being fed "stories" by him. He had sworn a number of times that he actually went through the para normal experiences he narrated to us. Except that they were so outlandish that we didn't know how to believe them.
He shook his head in denial. Slowly a calm, beautiful smile spread over his face, indicating a kind of joy which comes from a rare, blissful experience,
"No, it's not about ghosts, it is something even I am not sure I will be able to capture in words. It's just out of the world, the stuff of dreams which are not exactly dreams..."
Mangu, still impatient, shouted,
"Stop this long introduction, tell us what happened last night."
Neeraj's face began to shine with a glow as if he were re-living an ecstatic experience,
"You know, last night was Sharad Purnima, when the moon usually shines with a rare glow, like a silver rain drizzling noiselessly on an eager, waiting earth. I felt thirsty and got up around four to drink some water. When I was returning from the kitchen, I just parted the curtains and looked at my courtyard. What I saw made my heart skip a few beats. O my God, I asked myself, am I dreaming? There, in my huge backyard, under the glowing moon, the serene sky and in the silent air I saw a boy and a girl, dressed in white, dancing, wrapped around each other......"
Asutosh, our ex-Banker friend interrupted him, in tune with his old habit of asking for details,
"What do you mean, boy and girl? What was their age?"
Neeraj came out of his trance,
"Age? May be twelve years, thirteen years, they were looking like divine beings who could not be defined by age. They were moving with the fluidity of trapeze artistes in a circus, the same white, shining dress, the slim, supple body. They were looking into each other's eyes, lost in each other, dancing away to the sweet, soft music of a flute. I don't know how long they kept dancing, I lost the sense of time, standing there, mesmerized, like a statue. Suddenly the temple bell rang out, loud and jarring, from the nearby Vishnu temple, I knew it must be four thirty when the first bell rings out in the morning to signal the waking up of the Lord. Startled, the dancing couple stopped in their track, smiled at each other, and before my eyes melted into the moon light like a whiff of mist. I stood transfixed to the spot, refusing to believe I had gone through a divine experience. When I woke up Gowri and told her about this, she suggested we should take an early bath and visit the nearby temple. Like you three, she is also greatly surprised, unable to understand why all these para normal things are happening to me."
We were looking wonderingly at Neeraj, not sure whether to believe him or not. This was not the first time he had narrated such unusual occurences at his home, more unusual than bibhuti dropping from Sai Baba's photos or exotic flowers from Satya Sai appearing under the pillow in the morning. But this story was so mesmerising, so full of joy and bliss that we almost saw the dancing couple before our own eyes! We also felt the temple bell should not have rung when it did, breaking the spell and bringing the dance to an end.
But Mangu, a retired Professor of Physics, an avowed atheist, didn't seem to be impressed,
"Tell me, did you take any bhang at home last night after you left from here?"
I cut him short,
"Mangu, you know Neeraj doesn't touch any of that stuff, no bhang, ganja or alcohol. He doesn't smoke also, unlike you and me. So why are you asking this?"
Neeraj had felt very hurt at Mangu's words. In a choked voice, he said,
"Why are you guys not believing me? We are friends from college days. Have you ever seen me telling a lie? I wish some day you would start believing me!"
There was so much sadness in his words that our mood was spoilt. We played for sometime, but our heart was not in it.
Ever since Mangaraj's wife had died four years back after a brief fight with cancer, we decided to give him company every evening for a few hours through gossip and games of bridge. He had tried to live with his son in the US for a few months but was desperate to return in just a couple of weeks,
"The son and daughter-in-law were busy with their work, the grand children used to roll their eyes and laugh at my 'funny' accent, and the TV programs were all in 'thas thas dhas dhas' English. I missed my friends, my dhobi, the sabji wallah and paan wallah".
We visited him after his return and decided that we would revive our bridge game at his house every evening. His servant boy used to supply us with ginger tea and plates of hot pakodas at regular intervals. At our age that almost worked as dinner. When we returned home from Mangu's place, the wives would still be immersed in TV serials and had no time to enquire if we wanted dinner. We were sure they would have been more concerned if the hero or heroine in the serial went without food. We, old people, were mere appendages at home, like used umbrellas or worn out brooms.
Neeraj was the serious type in our group, always in deep thought and mulling over questions of life and death. For the past three months, he had been experiencing strange feelings and narrated them to us,
"You know, these days I am somehow getting more and more involved with the presence of God in my pooja room at home. I feel as if the gods and goddesses are trying to talk to me, tell me something. Their facial expressions keep changing when I look at them during Pooja - sometimes happy, sometimes sad, angry or amused. I get a shiver when they look angry or upset, and when they are happy I feel a rare bliss!"
Mangu, the atheist shouted at him,
"Nonsense, all nonsense, this must be some kind of hallucination or an auto-suggestive behaviour. Our friend Neeraj is gradually going crazy, he needs to see a psychiatrist!"
Mangu tried to defend himself,
"No, please believe me, one day Maa Saraswati looked very happy, smiling at me all the time. In the afternoon I got a telephone call from our son from Bangalore that he had been selected for a job with a big multinational company. Another time Maa Laxmi kept smiling, I almost saw gold coins falling from her hand in the framed photograph. In a few hours I got the news that my father's elder brother had executed a will leaving me five lakh rupees from the sale proceeds of some land. I had no doubt Maa Laxmi had smiled upon me with some much needed money...."
Asutosh who loves to pull Neeraj's leg, taunted him,
"Tell us Neeraj, do your goddesses cry in your Pooja room also?"
Neeraj nodded, much to our surprise,
"Yes, sometimes they do, not exactly crying but their eyes look like they are brimming with tears. Once I saw Maa Saraswati and Laxmi with their eyes moist, and my mind was seized with an unknown fear. In the evening my nephew called to inform that my cousin sister Baasanti Apa had a heart attack and died a few minutes back. She was my Mama's daughter and very close to me. We were only a few months apart in age and had grown up together in the village, partners in many minor crimes like stealing mangoes and guavas from the neighbours' gardens or murdering stray cats. Gowri and I had visited her many times after our marriage and every time she would insist on gifting us a saree and a shirt, sometimes a small piece of jewellery to Gowri. I cried for two days when I heard about her death. I also saw tears again in the eyes of the Goddesses the day Gowri developed terrible pain in both the knees. Little did I know it would grow so serious that she would need a replacement surgery."
I was surprised,
"When did she undergo surgery? You never told us?"
Neeraj shook his head,
"Not yet, I am trying to get the govt doctor's referral. You will come to know because there will be a break in our evening game of cards."
The talk obviously had taken a different mode. We forgot about the goddesses and went back to our game.
But a fortnight later, the moment we saw Neeraj we knew he had another one of those exotic "experiences". Before he sat down, I smiled and asked him,
"Tell us what happened last night! It's clear from your face, the story is bubbling inside, eager to come out."
He winced, as if stung by a painful memory,
"Not last night, it happened this afternoon. You know how hot it is these days, I usually switch on the AC and take a nap in the afternoon. Gowri sits in the drawing room watching TV and eventually dozes off. Today when I entered the bedroom it was dark, since we close the window in the morning itself to keep it cool. I opened the door and stood frozen to the spot. There was a man sitting on the chair near the bed. He stood up at the sound of the door opening. I was eager to know who he was and how he had got into our bedroom. But just a look at him and I wanted to scream, I was so scared the sound got choked in my throat....."
We somehow felt the terror had seeped into us, in a broken voice, I asked haltingly,
"Wwhy, wwhat was it? What did you see.?
Neeraj swallowed twice, gulped down a glass of water from the table,
"When the man stood up, I was shocked to see there was no head on the body.."
It was my turn to scream,
"What do you mean, no head? What are you talking? Have you gone crazy?"
Neeraj winced again, being called crazy, betrayed by his closest friend,
"Anupam, believe me, I am not telling a lie, above the shoulders there was nothing, the man was
without a head. He stood there for a few seconds and disappeared like a wisp of smoke through the window. I didn't know what to do, I collapsed on the ground and started crawling towards the drawing room with incoherent sounds like Gow...Gow.... She couldn't hear me, but when I saw her I fainted. She sprinkled water on my face and brought me round. When I told her what I had seen in the bedroom, she rushed there trying to look for the mysterious man, but didn't find anyone. She dismissed the whole thing as a hallucination due to the heat outside and the darkness in the room, but I swear my friends, I had seen the headless apparition as clearly as I am seeing you guys now. God knows what is happening to me."
Mangu told him, in his usual harsh way,
"We know what is happening to you. You are losing your mental balance, soon you will be totally mad and sent to a lunatic asylum....."
Neeraj was almost in tears,
"Why don't you all believe me? All that I have told you is exactly as it happened to me."
Asutosh supported Mangu,
"Still no harm in seeing a psychiatrist."
Neeraj of course did not go to a psychiatrist, and a few weeks later came up in the evening and asked us, "You want to hear what happened last night?" That's when he told us about the boy and the girl dancing in his courtyard. Although difficult to believe the story was not as bad as a man without a head. It left a good, sweet taste in the mouth.
A month later Neeraj appeared a little late for our game of cards in the evening. We had got impatient and thought of shouting at him, but one look at his distraught face, we knew something was wrong, as if he had just come running from another ghost. Before we could ask him, he blurted out,
"What has this world come to? Have people lost all sense of humanness? Have they turned into beasts?".
He sat down with his head in his hands, perturbed and broken. I patted him on his back,
"Will you tell us what happened, why are you so disturbed?"
"Disturbed? I wish I could kill the fellows with my bare hands!"
We almost jumped from our seats, which fellows was he talking about? Neeraj looked at us,
"You know Raju, my nephew, the iron rod merchant!"
We nodded, Neeraj had helped all of us in the past by getting iron rods from his nephew's godown at heavily discounted cost. We were curious, about what happened to Raju.
"The poor chap had a big tragedy yesterday. His twenty years old son Ramesh was trying to get into the train, when he slipped and fell under the wheels. The train had started moving and picked up speed. Ramesh was dragged for more than hundred meters before the train stopped. His body was smashed and broke into dozens of pieces. The police called Raju over phone. He went to the station with his wife, his aged parents and other relatives. It took them a few hours to collect all the pieces of the body and bring them to the hospital for a post mortem, which could be done only the next day. The doctor was busy elsewhere and came around one o' clock. There was not much left to do post mortem, they could not even sew the pieces. Raju's wife had fainted many times since last night but insisted on being present at the hospital. Everyone was crying, I myself could not control my tears, it was so tragic to see a young, handsome boy reduced to a few pieces of flesh and bones. Somehow we collected the pieces in a bag and were about to leave when two fellows stopped us. They were the two attendants at the morgue, we looked at them. One of them smiled sheepishly and said, "aapko toh body mil gayi, humko kya mila?" Hearing his son being referred to as a body, Raju collapsed on the ground and started sobbing uncontrollably, his wife also joined him. Her brother took out all the money he had in the pocket and threw it on the ground, shouting, "Dogs, you wretched dogs, take this and get lost from our sight, may God never give you such sorrow in life!" The dogs pounced on the money, collecting them like they were pieces of juicy bones to be devoured with relish. It was a sickening sight and my blood was boiling in anger and frustration! What a country we are living in! Call these heartless bastards by any name, dogs, looters, butchers, thieves, dacoits, it doesn't make any difference to them so long as bones are thrown at them. My heart broke and I swear I was so angry that I felt like taking the knife from the post mortem table and stabbing the two fellows."
We were shocked by the episode. And equally shocked that our friend was capable of such intense anger. It was a revelation to us! There was no question of playing any games of bridge that evening, We sat late into the night talking about the moral degradation in the country wondering whether we had reached the nadir or whether any values were still left to butcher.
In a few days Neeraj seemed to have got over his hallucination phase and we were relieved that he was no longer talking of ghosts or apparitions. But our relief was short-lived. About a month later, he had another of those episodes. When he opened the evening with "You want to hear what happened last night?", we knew from his serious face that something had happened which had frightened him. He recounted it with some trepidation, as if he didn't really want to think of it,
"Last night after dinner Gowri stayed back in the drawing room to watch TV, I was feeling sleepy. So I went to the bedroom. The moment I switched on the light, I screamed. There, on the bed I saw two bodies wrapped in white sheets and lying side by side. The whole bodies were covered so I couldn't see the face but the way they were lying I knew they were face up. I blinked and the next moment the bodies were gone, vanished just like that! Gowri heard the scream and came running. I showed her the spots where the bodies were lying, she just shook her head and holding my hand took me to the drawing room. I refused to go back to the bed room and we slept there on the floor for the night."
This time Mangu didn't shout at him, we knew Neeraj was in deep trouble, some sort of mental problem had probably taken a grip of his mind. Mangu simply asked him,
"Are you sure there were two bodies wrapped in white sheet? They were not pillows or some other things kept by Gowri on the bed?"
Neeraj shook his head. Mangu continued,
"Was the bed cover white in colour? Perhaps they were crumpled up and looked like two bodies?"
Neeraj again shook his head,
"No Mangu, the bed cover was red in colour. I saw the two bodies, but only for a few seconds. When I blinked, they vanished, just like that, I don't know where they went. Later Gowri looked under the bed, there was nothing."
Asutosh suggested that Neeraj must go and see a doctor, a mental doctor, immediately. He thought these were episodes of hallucination and were coming too frequently now.
Neeraj nodded and looked worried. We began the game of cards, Neeraj won the first round with a 5 Spades bid and gradually the tension eased out of him.
A week later Neeraj told us when we finished the evening's game that he could not come next evening as he was to be a part of a wedding function which would go late into the night. Asutosh suggested that we could meet during the day time to play a few rounds of bridge. Mangu offered to get lunch from Kewa, a new restaurant which was rapidly gaining fame for its mutton biriyani and ragan josh. Again Neeraj shook his head,
"Sorry friends, can't come. I have to go and get the doctor's referral for Gowri's knee replacement surgery."
We were surprised, I asked Neeraj
"Why is it taking so much time? You had told us two months back about her surgery? Why is the doctor taking so much time to give you a referral?"
"I don't know, he is playing a hard game, asking me to get this paper, that paper, pension payment order, all previous history of illnesses, Gowri's surgery papers for the past hysterectomy. Half the time the doctor is too busy to meet me, I am fed up, tomorrow I will make a final attempt. Last week I had met him; he looked at the prescription by the doctor from the empanelled hospital and threw it at me, 'Where is the seal?' he shouted at me. I told him the prescription was in the hospital's letter head. But he did not agree and asked me to get the seal. Next day I took the prescription, he got even angrier, he shoved it in my face, 'Are you playing a joke on me? Why are you wasting my time? Which idiot will believe it is the right signature? Look at this, the seal is five inches away, should you not get the seal right below the signature?' So tomorrow morning I will go, get the seal below the signature and take it to the doctor."
Mangu shook his head and smiled at Neeraj,
"You think that will satisfy him? He may find out some other reason to refuse the referral. Don't you know why he is making you run around like a beggar with a broken bowl?"
Neeraj hazarded a guess,
"Because I am retired, a tired horse with wooden legs?"
"NO! It is for public service commission!"
Neeraj didn't understand, Asutosh did and started smiling,
"Public service commission? What has public service commission got to do with the referral for Gowri's surgery?"
"Don't you know what public service commission is? It is the commission charged by people in government for rendering public service. Unless it is paid they will find all sorts of problems in your application, the moment it is paid they will start running like a pig with its backside sprinkled with red chilly powder. That's why such payments are called speed money. In every government office you will find dalals or agents roaming around soliciting business for them and facilitating public service. Tell me how much will the private hospital charge you for the surgery?"
"About five lakhs."
"Then you have to pay five percent as public service commission. You should have handed over twenty five thousand rupees to the agent in the beginning itself, he would have got the referral in a day and delivered it to you at home. No questions asked."
"But I have never taken a bribe nor paid one in my life. How can I do that now?"
Mangu laughed at him derisively,
"Learn it now, it's never too late to learn!"
Neeraj left with a heavy face and probably a heavier weight on his mind.
We didn't meet the next day. On the third morning I was going through the newspapers when a small news in a corner caught my attention - "Government Doctor brutally murdered in his chamber". My heart started pounding, I imagined the worst. There was a description of the murder, it seemed the killer had pressed his fingers so forcefully on the neck that the doctor had stopped breathing, his tongue had protruded and his face had turned blue. People saw a man leaving his chamber, but no one suspected a murder. Some one had seen a man hurriedly leaving in a black Maruti Zen, but he didn't take down the number. Police were on the look out and would soon arrest the killer.
A black Maruti Zen? I knew Neeraj had a car like that. Did Neeraj do something drastic yesterday afternoon? My heart started pounding even louder. I took out my phone to call him, but before I made the call it started ringing. It was Asutosh, his voice was shaking,
"Anupam, have you heard? About Neeraj?"
I screamed,
"No, what happened to Neeraj? Where is he?"
"He is no more Anupam, he and his wife seemed to have committed suicide last night."
"What? What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy? How come you are at his place?"
"I am standing outside his house. I was returning home after collecting some extra packets of milk when I saw a crowd here. So I stopped to check. Neighbours are saying Gowri had bouts of insomnia and kept sleeping tablets at home, they must have consumed lots of them and committed suicide.....You had better come over Anupam, I am feeling so lonely here."
I rushed to Neeraj's place, crying all the way. So Neeraj must be the the doctor's killer! But why did Gowri die? My mind was asking a thousand questions and going into a turmoil.
When I reached his place Asutosh and I went inside. Near the bedroom we stopped short, an involuntary cry escaping our lips. My God, could this be true? Neeraj and Gowri were lying beside each other wrapped in white sheets, on a bed covered with a red bed cover - exactly the way Neeraj had described to us a few days back.
Asutosh broke into a loud sob, joined by me. We folded our hands and prayed for the anguished soul of our departed friend and his devoted wife. The police came soon after. Neeraj's son came from Bangalore and we cremated Neeraj and Gowri in the evening.
After I came home I sat down on my rocking chair, my eyes closed, mind busy with Neeraj and what could have happened to him. The doctor must have created some more problem yesterday, driving Neeraj into a fit of anger. He would have lost control of himself and squeezed the life out of the scoundrel. Broken, Neeraj must have come home and like the simple soul he was, would have sobbed on Gowri's shoulders. They would have consoled each other, waiting for the inevitable foot steps of law. Since the police couldn't find out about the owner of the car they had a reprieve for the night.
Worried and famished, Neeraj would have told Gowri, "This is the end of the world for us, who will look after you, what will happen to you after I go to jail and after I am hanged? How will we get the knee surgery done? No doctor will look at you, no one will give you money." Both would have sobbed endlessly, Gowri, the ever loyal wife, would have told him, "I don't want to live after I am left alone here. Won't they allow me to come with you? Or better still, let me tell the police I killed the doctor. You can live without me, you have your friends who will look after you, I cannot live without you, I will be alone, hopelessly alone." And then both would have probably decided to end their life because they could not live without each other.
My eyes filled with tears thinking of my best friend of many years, incidents from our college days, our office, our celebrations and frustrations moved in my mind like scenes from a movie. Tired, I dozed off to a listless sleep.
And in my sleep I had a dream. I saw the two bodies of Neeraj and Gowri, wrapped in white sheets, lying on a bed with a red bed cover. Suddenly one of them got up and started walking out of the door, slowly, bent, weighed heavily by the worry of an ailing wife bothered by a troubled pair of knees. The next moment the scene changed, I saw the four of us - Neeraj, Mangu, Asutosh and myself - having a game of cards. Suddenly Neeraj looks up and with an infinitely sad smile clouding his face, and muttered,
"You want to hear what happened last night?"
.................................................
Story behind the story:
I got the idea of this story a few years back in Delhi when a very close friend of mine told me about his harassment by a government doctor for referral for his wife's knee replacement surgery. The reason? The doctor wanted him to get the surgery done in a particular hospital, my friend chose another because his son's friend was a doctor there in Orthopaedics department.
The second incident about the morgue attendants saying "Aapko toh body mil gayi, humko kya mila?" is true, unbelievable though it sounds. It was narrated to me in 2010 by a senior service colleague who used work in the Cabinet Secretariat as Secretary Coordination when I was Additional Secretary there.
The rest of the story is a product of my anguished imagination.
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 REVIEWS
Wine Woman and Wrong
Geetha Nair G.
Wine Woman and Wrong (published by HBB Pualishers, Gurgaon) is a collection of 33 short stories. All the stories were written for, and first appeared in, LITERARY VIBES, the excellent emagazine edited by Dr.Mrutyujay Sarangi, IAS.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry -- Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably and also been published in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India), The Punch Magazine Anthology and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is the collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the short stories in this book were written for and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
As the title suggests, 3 major themes run through the stories.
*WINE: Wine stands primarily for alcohol. Alcoholic men stagger through several stories like WINE, WOMAN AND WRONG, SMALL MERCIES, LOVE, ACTION DRAMA and FALLS.
* WINE is also a metaphor for the intoxication of of romantic love (DEEPAVALI, CLOSING DAYS, MISTS, ANOTHER RANI) for the ecstasy of motherhood (BABY), and the sweet comfort of friendship (R.K. TWICE-BORN, SARA'S STORY)
*WOMAN: Women characters dominate the book though several stories are narrated from the male point of view.
*WRONG: The wrongs inflicted by one human being on another or by the mores of society on men and women are central to most of the stories
(WINE WOMAN AND WRONG (where an alcoholic husband is responsible for the death of his wife,) CANIS FAMILIARIS (an imbalanced man makes life hell for his young wife)LINNET IN A CAGE(an orphan girl suffers many kinds of wrong) DEEP GALILEE (sexual exploitation of a young girl) FLOODS (the wrongs inflicted by casteist attitudes) MISTS (religion separating two lovers) ZOO STORY(wrongs inflicted by a father on his son )VRINDAVAN (a delayed decision inflicts wrong on a mother-figure who becomes a widow) FALLS (power and money results in the wronging of a loved one)
SOME REVIEWS AND COMMENTS
“Emerging unshowily from the domestic sphere, the stories here are not unlike the fiction of Anita Brookner & Annie Proulx, written with a piercing observer’s eye but laced through with empathy and quiet humour.” (Jaishree Misra, Novelist)
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