Literary Vibes - Edition XCI
(Title - Summer Blooms - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
In this festive season let me first wish all of you a Happy Dussehra. May the mighty Goddess Durga dispel evil and usher in goodness everywhere.
We are back with some scintillating poems and entertaining stories in this 91st edition of LiteraryVibes available at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/352 As you are aware, all the previous 90 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes. Hope you will enjoy them and share the links with all your friends and contacts.
We have two new poets in today's edition. Ms. Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan from Kerala is a well known name in English literature both as a poet and a critic of repute. We are indeed lucky to have her with us. Dr. Sowmya Srinivasan from Chennai is a poet of great sensitivity. Her poem in today's edition is a rare combination of stark reality with philosophical depth. We welcome them to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them tons of success in their literary endeavour.
It's a great pleasure to note that Ms. Padmapriya Karthik, a regular contributor to LiteraryVibes, has received the 'Certificate of Excellence' in the 3rd Asian Literary Society's Sagar Memorial Award 2020, for her story titiled 'The Casket of Love'. We wish her many more laurels in future.
Goddess Durga is the symbol of Shakti, the ultimate, all-consuming power. Women all over the world have historically struggled to find their identity and assert their role. Although in the Western societies, with high level of education, awareness and economic independence, women have been able to wrest a certain degree of empowerment, it is still a far cry in much of Asia and Africa. Disrespect and dishonour of women in the society at large, discrimination at work place and domestic violence are still rampant. We in India wake up almost every morning to the news of a new gang rape or an old story getting botched up. Yet hope lingers on, waiting for a new social order with respect and honour for women.
Two poems of women power, one dating back to the 19th century and the other more recent, symbolise the journey of women's voice against subjugation and their celebration of liberation respectively. In the backdrop of these poems, here is to wish more power to women, and a greater unleashing of forces of equity and justice.
They shut me up in Prose -
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet -
Because they liked me "still" -
Still! Could themself have peeped -
And seen my Brain - go round -
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason - in the Pound -
Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Look down opon Captivity -
And laugh - No more have I -
(They shut me up in Prose - Emily Dickinson (1830-1886))
.........................
Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.
I seek no favor
untouched by blood
unrelenting as the curse of love
permanent as my errors
or my pride
I do not mix
love with pity
nor hate with scorn
and if you would know me
look into the entrails of Uranus
where the restless oceans pound.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
(Excerpt from A Woman Speaks (1997) by Audre Lorde)
.........................................
And as a canopy to embrace the sentiments of inter-compatibility in a palm-full of ember, a short, incendiary poem by Rupi Kaur, a young Indian-Canadian poet:
I do not want to have you
To fill the empty parts of me.
I want to be full on my own.
I want to be so complete
I could light a whole city
And then
I want to have you
Cause the two of us combined
Could set it on fire.
(Being Independent (2018) - Rupi Kaur)
...........................................
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in LV91 and share them with your friends and contacts.
Take care, stay safe and keep smiling, till we meet next week.
Warm regards and best wishes for a happy festive season.
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K Mishra
ROOF-TOP, TAJ INTERNATIONAL
02) Haraprasad Das
MIDAS TOUCH OF THE OTHER KIND (AISHWARYA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
SALVATION
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE CAPTIVE HAND
05) Ishwar Pati
GOOD-BYE, MY SON
06) Dr. Geeta Mathew
TREE
07) Dr. C. K. Mathew
THE OLD WOMAN
08) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
AFFLATUS
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA 'S MUSINGS 13: THE DISCOMFORT OF EVENING
10) SUNIL BISWAL
BLESSINGS OF AN UNKNOWN GOD
11) Gita Bharath
VITAL GREEN
12) Hema Ravi
THE ASTUTE
13) Supriya Pattanayak
THE JOURNEY OF AN IDOL
14) Sheena Rath
AUTISM POEM
15) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
FOUR PEOPLE
16) Pradeep Rath
RAIN DROPS
17) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
HE LIVES ON
18) Abani Udgata
A BOAT-RIDE IN THE AFTERNOON
19) Mihir Kumar Mishra
THE SONG OF DECADENCE
20) Ravi Ranganathan
ENTRAPMENT
21) Priya Karthik
LOST AND FOUND.
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
CURSED KOHINOOR
23) Dr. Niranjan Barik
LIBERATED: WORLD IS MY HOME, SKY IS MY ROOF
24) Sibu Kumar Das
LOVESONG OF WRIBHU
25) Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan
THE FLUTE ARTISTE
26) Dr. Sowmya Srinivasan
WAS… IS... ?...
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
ME IN THE MIRROR
Beyond the parapet the city grows
like a giant cypress
where fire-flies pyre;
neon and wine mix well in her eyes,
her nights are piano wires I will play
bars of Bach or Beethoven with.
A crystal gazer’s ball
she reveals her crouching volcanoes,
my entrails are on fire as hers;
she will erupt into the dreams
of this night and die
on palms of darkness.
(I wrote it in 1986.)
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
MIDAS TOUCH OF THE OTHER KIND (AISHWARYA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
From this distance in time,
his changes do not appear
as strange as they
used to those days.
He seemed to have come
to some sort of wealth.
Earlier, like us
regular at the prayers,
coming early, leaving late,
like all going to God’s house
to unburden their souls;
he was no exception.
What bothered, unlike us
he stayed jolly all hours;
telling us, his plans
to buy a flat at Rishikesh.
One of us even
grumbled at his happiness,
“Why is he so cheerful
without a bother in the world
though his son sits idle
after graduation,
his sickly wife lies in bed,
he hasn’t a house of his own?”
“What legacy has he inherited
that emboldens him
to kind of tease us
by buying a flat at Rishikesh?”
All felt baffled by
the immensity of his inheritance.
To settle our doubts
we accosted him
on his way home.
He remained enigmatic,
maintained his peace,
smiling even to the worst jibes.
A nag among us
kept pestering, “Tell me dude,
why are you so cool?
Have you landed a fortune,
a pot of Amrit, a big loot;
or found ‘Midas Touch’?”
He didn’t reply, but his calm
was enough of an indicator –
We sensed a city of mirages
buried in each of our hearts,
in a corner of each city,
dwelt desires to enrich the soul.
We sensed: harsher the sun
of that realization, brighter would glow
the lamps of evening oblation
consigned to Ganga,
overlooking the windows
of his flat at Rishikesh.
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)”
Sentenced to solitude
I merge myself in you
the master mariner
and you envelop me
and absorb me in you
and I know it's after all
tested waters
known territory
that is engraved in my memory
and I don't need a compass
nor a chart to mark my position
from time to time
and safely sailing within you
one day surely I will find myself.
I rest for a while
on the uncertain shores
and look back to count the footprints
that I left behind inadvertently
on the sands of time
but before I could arrive at a figure
they get obliterated
by one sudden sweep of
an unexpected wave
of consciousness
leaving in the wake a complete chasm
an unfathomable black hole.
I open my haversack
and take out my half finished bottle
of wine
and pour it over the receding wave
and throw few bread crumbs for the fish
soaked in few drops of blood
from my veins
in an act of propitiation
and cascade myself
into the opening arms of the eternal sea
taking with me the hook
line and sinker
all of it in one go
never to be caught again
and then I see no sea
no ship
not even you at the helm
and surely there is
no need
to triangulate and fix my location
and find out who I maybe
and where I could be.
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
Today we shall talk of the small things.
Of how, yesterday, the hand failed to write
the line it had kept deferring
every time it wanted to write.
Of the new line, shadowed by
the ghosts of past words, teased by
their incandescence and pride.
Of how one small defeat can shatter
this brittle health of the heart and the mind.
The defeat that you had only spoken
to yourself about when, elsewhere,
the strong had been ransacking
the gates of human speech.
Of the defeat about which no one knew;
it was your very own, holding you
in incredible captivity.
Today we shall talk of the small things.
Of your steadily failing hold
on the modest words in your hands,
in your small hands. Of how,
yesterday, the hand failed to write.
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
Small is beautiful; but not when it comes to smallpox. The repulsive disease leaves behind ugly scars for life. It leaves behind ugly memories too, when it claims a loved one as its victim. I had a close friend, Deepak, who had lost his younger brother in an epidemic during the fag end of British Raj. Though he had been a small boy at the time, the traumatic experience had left him with an emotional vacuum and a sense of guilt.
‘But why should you feel responsible for an act of God?’ I broached to him.
‘What God?’ he burst out. ‘That day there was no God!’
I was taken aback by his agitated outburst.
‘Yes, I was small when smallpox swept our small town and I could do nothing. But why punish my innocent little brother Amar for not being vaccinated?’
‘Not vaccinated?’ I asked.
‘Amar had a phobia of needles. He started screaming the moment the needle touched his skin. No amount of bribing with sweets could dissuade him from shouting his head off. My indulgent parents finally gave in to their spoilt child. What a costly surrender it proved to be!
‘I vaguely remember,’ Deepak continued, ‘the long nights my parents spent with Amar after smallpox entered our house. I was forbidden from going anywhere near his room, though I had been vaccinated. Every once in a while, there would be loud wailing, when someone in the neighbourhood died, and my feeling of despair would deepen. I was fast asleep, in the late hours of the night, when our turn to mourn came. My dear brother left on his last journey without a good-bye from me. I saw my mother crying constantly, while my father sat like a stone. Neither of them mentioned Amar, though his presence could be felt everywhere. I was packed off to school since I could do very little at home. My thoughts were diverted by arithmetic in the classroom and football in the playground. But as soon as I returned home, Amar’s absence filled me with a sense of utter vacuum—an uncanny feeling of dread.
‘Suddenly there was loud banging on the door. “Police! Open up!” a booming voice demanded. I jumped up in fright. My father muttered under his breath, “What? Why Police…at this hour?” Another knock, more forceful this time. Nervously Dad went to the door and opened it. A police inspector stomped in, followed by a constable on his heels. “Has anyone died in your family today?” he asked bluntly. Policemen are rarely gentle, even in the presence of death. Father told the truth. “Yes…yes,” he mumbled.
“You left your dead son floating in a basket in the river!” he accused my father menacingly. “Do you know the punishment for polluting the river with a smallpox corpse?”
“I did no such thing, Officer, honestly,” my father pleaded. The inspector flashed out a photograph from his pocket, showing a cane basket covered with a piece of cloth. The pale head of a tiny boy was sticking out from under the cloth. His eyes were closed in eternal sleep.
‘My father recoiled on seeing the photo,’ Deepak continued, ‘and the inspector quickly pounced on him, “Take a good look at your dead son you threw away in the river! Don’t you know that the law clearly states he has to be buried?”
“But, but…” my father tried to interrupt him. My mother sat like a statue, her sari covering her face.
“You are under arrest for endangering public health!” the ruthless policeman pressed on.
“But…but…”
“What but but? Thought you could get away with it, huh?” I crept behind my mother and held on to her tightly. Her hand on my head was trembling madly, like the bell in a silent alarm clock.
“But, Officer, it’s not my son!” my father suddenly blurted out. I could hardly believe my ears. The inspector’s booming voice too stopped in its tracks. He looked closely at my father, then at my mother. Her teeth were fiercely biting the end of her sari and her palm squeezed me so hard that I almost cried out in pain. A desolate cry barely escaped her lips, “My Amar!”
‘Abruptly, the police officer put the photo back in his pocket, turned around and marched out as stiffly as he had come, with the constable dutifully on his heels. All my Dad could do was stare after them. Then, like a rock, he fell into a chair. His eyes were vacant and lifeless. Mother’s loud howl disturbed the tragic silence of the room. “My Amar! Poor Amar!” she screamed, again and again. “What did you do to deserve such fate? Why didn’t the Lord take me away in your place?” But there was no one to console her since I too started crying.
‘The sense of guilt at betraying their innocent son never left my parents—and me. Like the innocent Albatross hanging round the neck of the Ancient Mariner, the picture of their dead son, whom they had lost not once but twice in one day, continued to haunt them. Dad died a few years later, carrying his own burden silently to his grave. But my mother never tired of narrating her tragedy. It seems when Amar died, there was no one by our side except Pranab Uncle, Dad’s best friend. None of the neighbours could spare anyone. To give Amar a decent burial, Dad and Pranab Uncle had to walk two miles in pitch darkness in lashing rain, that too with no lantern that could withstand nature’s fury. How we wished for God’s magic wand to freeze the relentless storm for only a couple of hours! But God was engaged elsewhere that night—if there is a God. With dawn fast approaching, they had to do something. Reluctantly Dad gave in to Pranab Uncle’s idea. They put the dead body in a cane basket and walked down to the river below our house. The swollen river was hissing menacingly. They dared not go in too far. Cautiously, Dad went down a few steps and left the basket in the current, to be carried away to the earth’s end where gurgling streams held communion with forests and hills.
‘But the b…body didn’t go far. The basket got stuck in the rocks at the lower end of the town. Someone informed the police, who promptly came and seized the body. So many bodies were being thrown up by the pestilence that they couldn’t tell from where the body had come. The police made a house-to-house enquiry, without any result. It belonged to no one. Unclaimed and disowned, my brother was buried at some unknown spot.
‘Amar had been a handsome child,’ Deepak reminisced. How many times mother had pleaded to have his photograph taken! But somehow Dad never found the time to contact the only photographer in our town—till it was too late. Ironically, the same photographer took Amar’s photo after his demise, only for it to be paraded around the town as an ‘exhibit’!
‘The only time mother had seen Amar’s picture was as a corpse in the inspector’s hand. She had so wanted to reach out and snatch the picture from the policeman! It was her only lasting memory of her son, even if he was a dead son. But the cruel man in the uniform had taken it away when Dad denied it was his child. For years she goaded father to find the spot where Amar lay buried, so that his funeral rites could be conducted properly. He tried his best, and wore himself out in the process. But it was like looking for a needle in a gigantic haystack. When he failed, mother started deriding him. How could he have disowned his own son? She forgot that she had been a silent accomplice to save all of us from the Police! Dad’s tortured soul found release in an early death. She was made of sterner stuff though and absorbed the shock to live long. Never a day went by when she would not shed tears for the son she had lost twice in one day.
‘You know,’ Deepak concluded with a long sigh, ‘I often think of the stern police inspector. How could such a tough fellow readily accept Dad’s statement that it was not his son? Was he a novice in the police force who failed to see through my father, or was he so overworked and tired that the truth escaped his notice? What I’d like to believe is that God came to Dad’s aid at a delicate dilemma. Behind the cold British uniform beat a warm Indian heart that understood the predicament of another Indian father at such a tragic moment.’
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
The mango tree was in Georgekutty’s backyard, right in front of his parent’s bedroom. It shaded the whole western side of the house from the bright sunshine, its long leafy branches hanging over the tiled roof. Birds often called to one another, hidden in the thick foliage.
In April, the mango tree would be filled with tiny white flowers which scented the countryside for miles around. As a small boy, Georgekutty would squat under the tree and inhale it’s delicious fragrance deeply, almost as if he wanted to store it within him for a short while. While wrestling with geometrical shapes and learning long Malayalam poems at school, Georgekutty would shut his eyes for a moment and gently breathe in. He was sure that he could still smell that wonderful scent. His mind would clear at once and he would be ready to wrestle with whatever the world threw at him.
By mid-May, the tree would be full of tiny mangoes which were called ‘pacha manga’ in Malayalam. Georgekutty and his siblings would be asked to pluck as many as possible with the help of Lalachen uncle, the gardener. Lalachen would shake the tree vigorously. Yelling and screaming in excitement, the children would hold huge sheets under the tree so that the mangoes would not hit the ground and be quashed. The fruit would then be carried into the kitchen. In a few hours, hordes of young girls supervised by Georgekutty’s mother, Mariamma, would core, dice and pickle the raw mangoes. It would then be kept in the sun in big ‘bharanis’ (mud pots) till it was ready. The finished product was hidden away in the storeroom to be only brought out at mealtimes when everybody was given a spoonful or two. The raw mango also added a tangy taste to chutneys, curries and ‘pachadies’ (a type of salad made with curd.)
The mango tree had other uses too. Often, a swing was hung up from it’s branches and the children took turns to fly high up into the air. Georgekutty’s father would read his newspaper every morning under the tree, reclining on his armchair in between visitors who would come to discuss day to day happenings. On hot summer days, the children would be allowed to sleep under the mango tree, gazing at the stars and inhaling the mesmerizing fragrance of mango blossoms.
In a storm, the lashing rain would beat against the tree and some mangoes would drop down. The tree would groan, its branches flailing against the storm. The children would hear the repeated thud thud as the mangoes fell down, loosened by the whipping wind. At times, in a great storm, the mangoes fell like a shower. As the squall abated and the wind quietened, Georgekutty and his siblings would rush outdoors to gather the felled fruit. Squatting on the kitchen floor, they would feast on the mangoes, sinking their teeth into the succulent flesh, juice dribbling down their chins and hands.
Those mangoes left on the tree would grow riper and bigger every day, and by June they would turn a rich golden yellow, full of juice and sweetness. Lalachen uncle would pull them down with a long, hooked stick. Then with his helper Varun, he would climb up the tree and pluck any fruit which still remained. It was the children’s task to gather them up in baskets which were taken into the house. Everyone including the crows, feasted on the ripe mangoes.
Georgekutty’s mother would be busy again, getting the fruit peeled and cut into bits. Some of the mangoes would be made into mango jam, and kept away in jars neatly labeled. The children were given delicious jam sandwiches for their snacks. Mariamma also extracted juice from some of the fruit and filled up bottles of sweet juice. The children would refresh themselves with the delicious drink which their mother would keep ready as soon as they returned from school. Even after the mango season was over, and the tree did not have a single fruit on it, the foliage was so luxuriant that Georgekutty would often hide in it’s branches wanting to escape his mother who would be calling him into the house to study. He would sit for hours, dangling his legs and trying to see the bits of sky visible through the latticework of branches. Often, he would break off a twig and watch the white milk trickling down his palm like a tiny rivulet. If he climbed right up to the top of the mango tree, he was able to see the sun glinting on the stream outside the front gates. He would then think of how cool and refreshing the water would be and quickly slither down to have a refreshing dip in it.
Now, the tree had outlived its time. It was ancient and bent with age and gnarled and misshapen like a really old man. If anyone happened to touch any of the branches, they would snap off like dried twigs. Georgekutty’s father had mentioned many times that the mango tree ought to be cut down. But Georgekutty felt that it was just like a family member who happened to live outside their house. He and his siblings had taken it for granted. Once upon a time, it had stood majestically against a deep blue sky, its branches bursting with ripe fruit ready to be plucked. One did not cut down a friend just because he was old and had lost his usefulness. And there was something Georgekutty could do for it. He could definitely ease its pain by perhaps watering it, till it dropped of its own accord in one of the big storms lashing its way across the Vembanad Lake.
Dr Geeta Mathew holds a Ph.D in English Literature and has been teaching English over the last thirty years in St Angela Sophia School, Mayo College and St Xavier’s in Rajasthan. After relocation to Bangalore, she has been taking classes for Spoken English for ladies. She is the author of a book of personal reminiscences entitled ‘Bijoli’s Patchwork Quilt’ as well as some books on the usage of English for children.
I was District Collector of Bhilwara, in Rajasthan in the mid 1980s, about thirty-five years ago. One of the sacred duties of the Collector is to listen to, and resolve, the grievances of the people who complain to him, mostly about apathy and alleged corruption of officials in the government system.
A frequent visitor then to the durbar of the Collector was a simple-minded old woman, about seventy-five years old: she was barely articulate and muttered inaudibly about some land she had once owned, now forcibly occupied by an influential neighbour. She had been visiting the Collector’s office for years, and everyone used to dismiss her off as slightly cracked but harmless, with nothing to do but make vague complaints. On each visit she would thrust a paper at me, which I used to dutifully mark down to the Revenue section “for necessary action”. The Collectorate staff did show pity on her and would ply her with tea and biscuits. I was told she would spend the night at the local mandir, where she would be given a place to sleep and a couple of rotis for dinner, before going back to her village the next day.
One day she decided she had had enough and took things into her own hands. It was late evening and I had left my office to get into the car to go home. She suddenly appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of the car, refusing to let me and the car pass unless I had heard her out. A small grinning crowd gathered and I was so embarrassed I had to get out of the car and invite her back into the office room. This time I realised I had to do something or lose face. She had forced me to act. I thought it better to nail her lies rather than postpone matters further. I asked the Sub-Divisional Officer to visit her village, some thirty kilometres away and report to me the real facts within a couple of days. I also directed that the District Women’s Development Officer should accompany her, so that she had someone to confide in and interpret her odd dialect.
Two days later, the truth came out: I was astounded to know that her story was indeed correct. She had been the owner of some fine agricultural land, which had been forcibly taken over some years earlier by the village landlord, in connivance with the local Patwari. And for the last seven years she had been complaining to all the powers that be, but to no avail. Things moved fast thereafter: the encroacher was evicted, and the land formally handed over back to her, the patwari punished.
She came back to see me a week later. She was wearing a broad toothless smile and new clothes and looked radiant in her joy. But that’s not the end of the story. I was told that she requested for an audience with the Panchayat and announced that as she had no one at all in her near family, she would, after her days were over, donate the land she had fought for so fiercely and for so long, to the village Mahila Mandal so that other helpless women like her would have some succour in future.
She was true to her word. Some months thereafter, I moved on from Bhilwara to other assignments. I got word later that she too had passed away to a better place and had left behind the land for the Mahila Mandal. The women folk in the village constructed a small building on the land and vowed to keep her memory alive, by providing help to neglected women like her in the village.
I realised then that this simple woman had taught me a lesson: that those in authority have to heed those who have none, who have no voice. It is a simple lesson, but one we so casually ignore every moment of our pampered lives.
Picture extracted on 20/10/20 from https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/nation
C K Mathew, is a retired IAS officer of the 1977 batch, who was Chief Secretary to the Government of Rajasthan. He has wide experience in governance and public policy, having held several important assignments such as District Collector, Commissioner, Commercial Taxes, as well as Secretary/ Principal Secretary of Departments including Mining, Energy, Irrigation, Education, Information Technology as well as a long association with the Finance Department in various capacities. He has also held the post of Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister. An author of four books and an avid blogger, he has been awarded the Ph. D in English Literature.
His books are
A: The Mustard Flower: A novel on a young woman’s growth to independence and self-fulfillment.
B: The Best is Yet to Be: This is a novel describing the loneliness of old age.
C: Emily Dickinson and the Search for Meaning which explores symbolism in the works of the poet
D: The historical evolution of the District Officer which examines the unbroken line of the office of the District Collector (or Deputy Commissioner) from the days of the East India Company, the British Empire and the start of the Independence.
His blog at www.mathewspeak.wordpress.com features about 175 essays on diverse subjects, some personal recollections, some philosophical ramblings as well as reflections drawn from his personal experience on the Indian Administrative Service.
He has also been awarded the Ph. D for his doctoral thesis on the subject of “Circumference and Beyond: Symbolism in the Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson.”
Virgin mist of the lush mountains,
Aromatic steam from the coffee tumbler,
Adulterated smoke from the cig,
Dust kicked up from a herd of hoofs.
Conjunctly they conjured up a cloud of fist size.
Cloudy, rudimentary but abounding
Over my figment head,
Which might soon turn into an overcast
To burst open a downpour
Of afflatus onto a quire of paper.
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 13: THE DISCOMFORT OF EVENING
"The Discomfort of Evening" by Marieke Lucas Rijniveld
A debut novel and a bestseller in Holland is the winner of this year’s International Booker Prize. The novel titled 'The Discomfort of Evening’ by Marieke Lucas Rijneveld was published in Dutch ' DE AVOND IS ONGEMAK in 2018 and has been translated into English by Michele Hutchinson.
Set in rural Netherlands of the early 2000s, 'The Discomfort of Evening' follows the story of a young girl Jas (aged 10) as she loses her older brother in an accident. The grief of the sudden death is so brutal that her family slowly disintegrates. While her parents become distant and depressed, Jas and her other siblings are left on their own to explore life and sexuality as they approach puberty
The story, starting just before Christmas 2000, is told by Jas Mulder, a ten year old. The word 'discomfort' in the title is an apt one because it reflects the miseries and struggles of a dairy farming family like the one they ( Rijneveld preferred to use the ' pronouns, they and them when referring to them (Rijneveld) instead of she and her) grew up. It is seen through the eyes of Jas, the 10 year old girl who is the narrator. The theme of the novel is grief as experienced by Jas and her family. How they wade through the loss of a loved one. For Jas it is the hollow of a brother’s body in the middle of the mattress.
“It’s the shape left by death and whichever way I turn it or flip it over, the hollow stays a hollow that I try not to end up in,” she says.
The story follows Jas trying to come to terms with her brother Matthies death. He was the oldest of the four siblings, who died in a skating incident, a day before Christmas. Jas was tormented by the fact that it was her prayer that he should die in the place of her pet rabbit that was being fattened for christmas celebration and she is filled with guilt. Through Jas's eyes they( MLR ) vividly delineate how each member of the family comes to terms with loss.
When someone you love dies, unexpectedly you don't lose them altogether, you lose them in bits and pieces say Nawaid Anjum. Matthies’s family too loses him in pieces, one image at a time. They are also worried as Jas says that his images may fade away from their memory. So it is aso a struggle in them to keep his images from fading away. This conflict is brought out vividly by Jas when she says,
“There isn’t a photo of him anywhere in the house…I try to picture him every evening like an important history test, to learn his features by heart – just like I learned the slogan ‘liberté, égalité, fraternité’ which I repeat constantly, especially at grown-up parties to show off what I’ve learned – afraid of the moment other boys might get into my head and let my brother slip out from between them...”
She worries that just like her red coat which is fading, her memories of her brother too would fade away. And so she refuses to take off her grubby red anorak to which she refers to as her "coat of anxiety," in which she pockets keepsakes, like toads and broken toy cows. But both, the parents and children are devastated by the death of Matthies and they sink in the vortex of grief struggling to surface only half heartedly.
They ( MLR) had succeeded in delineating the grief of the parents and children so authentically making it universal. The parents, paralysed by their griefs, ignore the children Obbe, Jas and Hanna. The children deprived of comfort, love and understanding drift to their own world which is full of cruelty and sexuality and gradually they drift into their private internal world.
"The kids invent their own worlds, discover sexuality and act out dangerous rituals, involving sexual abuse and violence to animals, to cope with grief. Rijneveld quotes the Flemish writer and poet Maurice Gilliams (1900-1982) in the epigraph (“restlessness gives wings to imagination”)." Nawaid Anjum. And it is true the whole book is filled with "restlessness"
To Jas, the young and restless narrator nothing including the scriptures can bring comfort and peace. The Bible which guided their family in all their action and was recited frequently could give them no succour. And it leads to the questioning of the faith as Jas says :
“I’ve discovered that there are two ways of losing your belief: some people lose God when they find themselves; some people lose God when they lose themselves.” ...
“Just like the weather, God can never get it right. If a swan is rescued somewhere in the village, in a different place a parishioner dies.” In some other place in the novel, for Jas heaven is no more a wishing well it is only a "mass grave".
"Every star is a dead child, and the most beautiful star is Matthies – Mum taught us that. That was why I was afraid on some days that he would fall and end up in someone else’s garden, and that we wouldn’t notice".
Elsewhere, she states: “Matthies will never come back, just like Jesus will never descend on a cloud.”
"Just like the sound of the early morning mooing, the feed concentrate mixers, the milk tank’s cooling system turning on, the cooing of the wood pigeons attracted by the corn feed that build nests in the rafters of the barn, everything will ultimately fade into something we only recall on birthdays or when we can’t get to sleep at night, and everything will be empty: the cows’ stalls, the cheese shed, the feed silos,..."
The novel also deals with the crises of farming in the lives of the Dutch farming community as Rijneveld was brought up in a farm and knew about the hazards of farming life. They vividly describe the misery of the farming communities and the tragedies that strike them on and off by delving at length on an infection of the cattle - the mouth and foot disease that ravages Jas's farm, killing their herd and their struggle to get over the crises.
Kanaka mulled over the various reviews she had read and they made her so uncomfortable that she decided not to read the book and create discomfort in her mind reading about the discomfort etched so vividly by them (MLR). She knew she would never be able to shut her mind against the raw life delineated in it. But for those who can read and forget the details will find it a real treat, a startling and downright honest interpretation of life. The novel is in the great tradition of 'onluisterend realisme' meaning shocking realism, especially in its sexual candour. It has an unflinching gaze as Rijniveld says, on religion, sexuality and " the filth of existence". The English translation by Hutchinson does to the reader everything it intends to do, through its relentless “raw, visceral and surreal” images and abject similes, giving the reader a “radical reading experience”.
Marieke Lucas Rijiniveld is a 29-year-old author born in Nieuwendijk, in the Netherlands in the year 1991. Rijneveld grew up in a dairy farming family that is a part of the strict religious community in a rural area of the Netherlands. Rijneveld who prefers pronouns they/them is considered as the rising star of contemporary literature. Their collection of poetry was publisted in 2015 kalfvlies ( Calf's Caul) which made them the national literary talent of the year. Their second collection of poems titled 'Fantoommerrie,' was translated as ‘Phantom Mare, 2019. They now live in Utrecht where they work part time on a dairy farm besides writing.
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
It was one of those mundane afternoons when I took my lunch and was planning to lie flat on the bed to enjoy a nap. Usually I try to read a book and keep my radio tuned to Vividh Bharati by my side. This combination has worked well for me since my retirement. It was on such an afternoon that my intercom phone on my 14th storied apartment rang.
“Sir, someone from your village has come to see you” It was the security man from gate.
“What’s the name?” I asked. I tried to hide the displeasure at the prospect of spoiling of the afternoon. Once upon a time, when my father was a Government employee and we were residing in a Govt allotted quarter, there was an endless stream of close relatives, not so close relatives and absolute strangers claiming to be related to us, to our small home. They all came to get some of their works in various Government departments done through the help of my father. But, now that my father is no more and I have retired and moved to my own apartment, the number of such unwelcome visitors has dwindled and no such visitors normally disturbed us.
“Sir, he says he is your relative", said the security man and handed over the phone to the visitor.
“is it Madana? Hello is it Madana??" The caller seemed excited and was shouting at the top of his voice. I could immediately place who the caller was, it was my childhood friend Nilamani, whom we called "Nila”
“Nila!!!! My goodness, after so many years! Hold on, hold on, give the phone to the security man” I asked Nila.
Minutes later Nila turned up at my already opened door. He was accompanied by a stranger. Nila hugged me as we were meeting after a gap of many years and introduced me to the gentleman who was accompanying him.
“He is Mahesh babu from Jeypore, this is my friend Madana, who you wanted to meet.” Nila told me that Mahesh went to my village looking for me and met him. Nila informed him that we are now residing in Bhubaneswar and on request of Mahesh accompanied him to my place.
Mahesh babu shook my hands in a firm grip and kept shaking it smiling from ear to ear. He was doing this so enthusiastically that I started worrying that my arm may come off the shoulder joint.
“Wow, you have done the impossible sir, you have done the absolutely impossible, I thought such things only took place in story books”, Mahesh went on shaking my hands while looking at me with wide eyes.
“Let’s go inside to sit and discuss everything over a cup of tea”, Nila pitched in. He was enjoying the scene. He played the savior for me, otherwise my hands were a gone case.
It was my turn to be curious. What on earth have I done to invite such enthusiastic outpouring from Mahesh and how Nila is linked to him? I was dying to unravel the mystery. But I had to first attend to these two guests who had come to me.
“Please come in, please come in”, I said and made them sit on the sofa in drawing room, handed them two water bottles and entered the kitchen.
Nila loved to gulp cups and cups of tea throughout the day. He was my classmate and his house is close to mine in my native village. I had left my village after schooling and was an irregular visitor to my village. But villages are our roots and no matter whether one lived in or out of a village, the connections are always rock solid. Nila was my own, almost like my family. When I went for short trips to my village, Nila was my constant companion.
As Nila relished the hot masala tea with some home baked biscuits, I focused on Mahesh who maintained his smile he has been donning since he entered my house. He opened his bag and laid before me photo copies of few documents and asked me to have a look at them.
The first photo showed Mahesh standing alongside a stranger inside a shopping mall, both of them posing for the camera grinning from ear to ear. The next photo showed Mahesh with the same person standing outside an impressive looking building carrying a sign board that read “Lord’s Blessings” and sported a photo of Lord Jagannath as logo. The ambience looked very up market and urbane, most likely a foreign country, seeing from the crowd and the vehicles parked.
I looked at Mahesh and he was watching me keenly. Seeing my blank look he asked me, “Please see the next photo”.
The next photo was of an old writing, a hand written text, and seeing it my heart skipped a bit. I quickly turned over to the next page and it was a photo of Lord Jagannath and a photo of a young boy throwing a bottle into the sea. The young boy was me when I was just over nineteen. I was holding a bottle containing something inside, which was hazy and not clear.
“Wh.. what is this, from where you got this?” I was feeling a bottlenecking of emotions not sure if I should be jumping with joy, or ask Mahesh about how he got hold of the photos he was showing me or to enquire about the link between Mahesh, the other stranger in the photo and rest of it carrying my handiwork from a lost and by-gone time. Both Mahesh and Nila were watching and enjoying my predicament.
“Relax Madana babu, relax, you are the last part of this exotic journey of mine and we shall celebrate this ‘once in a life time’ event never to be forgotten. I am as eager as you to narrate my part of the story".
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Mahesh took a few sips of the masala tea and was lost in deep thought. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said: "I do not know how to begin and where to begin, this is so very strange, so much a topic out of the story book” Mahesh said and took a few more sips of the tea. “The tea is really good”, he added.
“Well, let me put it this way, I am from Jeypore and am a lecturer in Political Science there. My elder daughter is working for a multinational company in Malaysia. Often I visit her and now that the cost of flight has become so affordable, I fly to Kuala lumpur very often. I have seen length and breadth of the mainland and during my last visit I decided to have a look at the Penang Island. Little did I know that such a big surprise is awaiting for me there. As I was walking around on the narrow colonial streets of Penang, I came across a corner shop and was astonished to see the photo of Lord Jagannath on the sign board which said “Lord’s Blessings”. It was not a shop but a medium sized shopping mall. It had a very up market ambience and I was curious to know more about the place as it was carrying the photo of Lord Jagannath. I requested to meet the manager or the owner of the mall and came to know that “Lord’s Blessings” is a chain of stores across the Penang Island and to meet the owner I have to visit their head office in George Town area. I was dying with curiosity to know more about the store and expected to see a man whose forefathers had probably migrated to Penang. So I hired a taxi and visited their George Town head office where I finally could meet the owner of the store".
Mahesh took the Jagannath pendant hanging from his neck and let it hang on his shirt telling me, “I kept this locket of Jagannath like this so that they could see it”. When I was ushered into the cabin of the owner, he looked at me quizzically as he had no idea why I, a stranger, wanted to meet him. He must be in his late sixties; but was very fit and smartly dressed. He was looking at me head to toe trying to assess the reason for my visit. And when he saw my Lord Jagannath pendant, his eyes became wide and he looked up at me, with a look of surprise and happiness. Before I could open my mouth, he came around his desk and embraced me tightly and I could instantly feel a bond being established with him without even one word being exchanged between us. Then as we sat down and I introduced myself to him, and I told him how I saw the sign board with the photo of Lord Jagannath and that was the reason I wanted to see him. Zikri, the owner of the store cancelled all his engagements for the day and sat down to spend time with me. He told me that he inherited a small business from his father and was leading a life of contentment earning enough to sustain his family. But, when he was about 40 years of age, he lost everything due to a fire in his store. He was a penniless person and misfortune after misfortune hit him in succession. His condition was so wretched that he had to sell off his family house and move to a rented accommodation. He became depressed and started taking drugs. One day he decided to end his life and went to the sea at a secluded area. It was the last day of the year 1999 and while the world was readying to welcome the new millennium, he was going to end his life. He sat contemplating his past life and justified that ending his life was the best option for him. As he was about to take the final steps by jumping into the sea and drown there to die, something was swept ashore by the waves of the sea and was deposited near his feet. It was a bottle, a sealed bottle with some papers inside. There was a coin too. He opened the seal and checked the contents. The first one was a message and a picture of a strange god on top, a photo of a boy with address and a date written on back side as 02.03.1980 and finally a coin of 25 paise denomination. As per the date the bottle and the contents were in the sea for close to twenty years. Despite that the contents inside were unaffected as the sealing was done in a deft manner. The address said it was from India and a place called Odisha. He read the hand written message “Nothing is permanent in this world, your happiness and your sorrows, they are temporary. The blessings are with you; soon your times will change. When you receive this message, send a reply to the address given at back of the photo. The 25 paise coin is for buying the postage stamp”
He read the message again and again. The message made such a powerful impact on him that he accepted it to be an act of God and decided to give a fresh try at his crumbling life. He kept the bottle and the contents close to his heart and accorded it the status of a holy belonging. He worked hard for next several years and slowly his fortune smiled at him. The store he had started afresh was named “Lord’s Blessings” and the strange picture of an unknown god became their family religion. They made it their insignia. Today they have about ten stores under name “Lord’s Blessings” and at all places they have proudly displayed the unknown god who has turned round their hard times. He gives all credit for his second lease of life to you and the strange God.
Mahesh went on “Madana babu, for next few hours, I had to tell him about Lord Jagannath, about Puri temple, about Kalinga Sadhabas who once upon a time sailed from coast of Odisha to Java, Sumatra, Bali islands. He got me videotaped as a family documentary. The whole family converged at his head office and paid me honors befitting a king. And believe me, Madana Babu, I had to literally argue with him citing one reason after another to let me get away from him that day. He took me around to all his stores and his employees gave me almost a guard of honor. He agreed to let me leave him only when I promised that on my return to India, I shall search for you and meet you in person. Should I succeed in meeting you, I am to connect you to him on video call and hand over this gift to you. This gift was delivered at my daughter's address two days after my meeting with him.” Saying this Mahesh opened his bag and took out a gift pack and placed on the center table.
Mahesh shook his head side to side and kept muttering to himself and also for us “it all sounds so unreal to me. But this is how it is. I, Mahesh from Jeypore and Zikri, from Malayasia, and you Madan babu here in Bhubaneswar, and something that happened a good forty years ago has brought us all together!!! Oh! Aren’t these stuffs movies are made off? isn’t it so Nila Babu?” Mahesh pointed his question at Nila while handing me the gift wrapped packet.
OOOOOOOOOO
O God! Is it for real! Is it truly happening before me or am I dreaming! I pinched myself to ascertain that I was actually sitting in my drawing room with my childhood friend Nila and Mahesh, the guest from Jeypore. Who can think of a small incident which took place nearly four decades ago suddenly manifest into such a climax as today? I looked at Nila in bewilderment asking “Nila, can you recall the day we made that bottle with message?”
“Recall? I remember it like it happened yesterday! I was the one who drew the picture of Jagannath on that letter on your request.” Nila said enthusiastically.
My mind went back to 1980 when we were around 20 years of age and lived on a staple diet of reading books of all sorts. Once, I read a story, how a bottled message by a soldier thrown into the English Channel reached the shores of a far off land after 40 years. The story was so inspiring that I planned to send a similar bottled message through the sea. I had discussed the idea with my uncle who proposed that instead of tossing a bottle with only a photo and an address, we should include a message, a dramatic message of hope, a message with some profound meaning. My uncle wrote down a dozen such messages and after reading them all, I found one to my liking and selected that. I had asked Nila to draw the picture of Lord Jagannath on top of the letter which he did really well. Then I visited the local studio and took a photo of myself holding the bottle up, kept the photo in the bottle with my name, address, and date written on the back of the photo. I had kept a 25 paise coin also in the bottle, foolishly believing that no matter where the bottle went, the person who finds it can buy postage stamp and write me back. It was all done in a youthful indulgence. The next time we had a family trip to Puri, I took the bottle and chanting a small prayer, I tossed it into the sea as far as possible. For next few days I imagined the bottle to be floating in open sea under the hot sun, under the open sky with twinkling stars, floating by the side of gigantic whales, brushing against side of gigantic merchant ships. I would think day in and day out expecting a reply from an unknown land, from an unknown overseas friend. Time changed, so did I. I went out of my village for higher studies and then a job and just forgot about the episode of the bottled message. Who knew that my bottle kept travelling all these years and made such a dramatic impact on a person who now was reaching out to me. I folded my hands at Lord Jagannath. “All these are your handiwork Jaga!!!” I thought to myself.
OOOOOOOOOO
Mahesh took out his cell phone and rang a number to a far off land. After two rings, someone picked up the phone and politely requested to wait for 5 minutes and hung up. Five minutes later Mahesh’s phone buzzed for a live video call and Mahesh received the phone. I could see a smartly dressed man who thanked Mahesh profusely and requested Mahesh to connect me. As the phone was facing me, I could see the man in midst of his family members who were holding a brass plate and about to perform arati to me.
I folded my hands and pleaded to them to refrain from doing so. The man on the other side said “You are no less than God for me; Mr. Mahesh might have narrated my story to you. I was almost dead that day. It was by providence that I was saved by your act. So, what I am today is because of you, dear friend and because of Lord Jagannath. I sent many letters to your given address but no response had ever come. Thanks to Mr.Mahesh who connected me to you Mr.Madan, I am coming to India, to Odisha with my family to see you and visit Lord Jagannath, who we have been worshipping all these years without knowing much about. And do me a favour, please accept that token of my gratitude I have sent through Mr.Mahesh.”
Zikri went on introducing his family members one by one and it felt heavenly to live that moment. Zikri kept requesting me to accept the gift.
OOOOOOOOOO
Nila and Mahesh babu left me. Mahesh kept on mumbling and exclaiming, "Oh God!, such things still happen!!! And I am being made to be a witness to it. Thank God, thank God."
I opened the gift pack that lay on my table and found a sparkling golden pendant, one like Mahesh was wearing, but made of gold with photo of Lord Jagannath in it. Then there was an album of Zikri depicting his travel in time. Zikri as a businessman opening branches of his store , Zikri as a family man posing with his large family, Zikri as a social man getting honored. It was apparent that Zikri was a successful businessman and a philanthropist.
But, then the thought struck me, what if Zikri comes visiting me and asks me to take him to Puri and visit the temple. What shall I tell him? That, the Lord’s Blessings are better enjoyed across the sea?
OOOOOOOOOOO
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
The forest boasts a million greens
That cannot be aped by our machines:
The green gold sunshine filtered through leaves
The ominous olive shadows under tall dark trees
The elegant emerald green of smooth grassy glades
The living evergreens' canopy that never fades
The malachite- green moss, the turquoise gleam
Of the blue sky mirrored in the reed filled stream.
The lively parrot -green of a wing-filled sky
As a pandemonium of parrots whiz and streak by.
Life may have risen in the primordial seas
But evolved and was nourished on land by the trees
Without green, the world would become barren and bare
For it's the chlorophyll green that provides food, water and air!
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.
Choices made - loss for one,
another cashes in the process.
Mass indulgence in the decision,
the digression horrifying for many
bringing in thoughts of
guns, bloodshed and societal divide.
For the downtrodden
a Messiah come
who'd bring in radical changes;
Reality hits hard,
Bully Pulpit
often, a double-edged sword!
Every battle lost and won
a turning point in history.
political ideologies fractured,
the resultant slump in values
eventually yields to upswing.
Until then, power struggles continue.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Straws, rope, mud, colour,
Crafted with passion and fervour,
Born to rule the hearts and soul,
I gloried, basked in the new role.
The adulation was but short lived,
Time never stops, away it creeped,
With ceremony, carried through the streets,
Dumped in the ocean, vast and deep.
Loving work of my creator,
Eroded away slowly, forever,
A relentless sea, no respite,
Dissolved the core, bit by bite.
Finally, everything just ends,
Buried in watery grave, I remain,
Identity lost, just madness and pain,
A mere thought, in another plane.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
You our cherry plum
Full of radiance shining like the sun
Streaks of affection you potray
An abundance of euphoria you spray
Anything for that infectious smile you flaunt
Will shower on you all that you want
Nothing to worry at all
Everything will be in place after all and fall
All will be okay
Every thought cliched
Need to work harder
You will always be surrounded by your father
What people say don't even bother
You the most alluring bouquet
As we sip away our lemonade
A striking array of all the vibrant colours
A whole lot of love that your heart pours
As you walk your space silently along the seashore
Each wave tickles your feet
Like a thin covering sheet
You can hardly tolerate the sweltering heat
But look up to when people greet
Your world will change
It may sound so strange
Everyone will be sensitized
As time goes by...... realize
Children are all the same
All that they need is a little fame
With a touch of... Love, Acceptance and Inclusion
In the life's journey..... The moving train
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)
I wonder why the number four seems to be so important, I almost spoke the words aloud.
My husband, who was watching the IPL intently on TV, chuckled with dislike which was a hint to me to shut up and not distract him.
But as I was bent on sharing the nuggets from the book 'How You Can Make All Pepole Like You All the Time' I began reading them loudly.
The tips given ran as follows:
You can divide people into four broad categories:
The Self-centered, The Grumblers; the Fault Finders and the Cynics.
Don't keep away from them because they are like the four directions - East, West, North and South - which are important in their own way. Take care not to be influenced by them.
Do whatever you like if you have the courage of conviction. Don't worry about what "four people" will say.
Have at least four good friends whom you can trust and rely upon and use them as your sounding board.
Try to think beyond the four walls of your home.
Try to practice four values in life, i.e. truth, honesty, sincerity and uprightness. They are like the four legs of a chair. All the four are equally important if you have to sit on it without falling down.
Who is this impractical person who wrote the book? I heard my husband asking me all of a sudden.
It's a woman, I said happy that he was listening albeit reluctantly.
I thought as much. Looks like she is aspiring to be some kind of An idealist and out of tune with the changing times. Leave alone making all people to like you all the time, if she can make four people read her book and practise what she says, it would be a great achievement for her, he remarked without taking his eyes off the TV.
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.
Drip, drop, drip,
sounds of rainfall on hard tiles,
slight drizzles, soothing,
nonstop
bounties of heaven for earth's benefit.
How the rains
beat on the window panes,
on tin shed cast to cover the scooter!
Loved to get drenched in all sorts of rain,
Dress, school bag, text books, mind wilfully wet,
ah! that time is long past, not to return.
Listening to rainfall is pleasant,
a subdued experience
which embalms,
lifts the soul to rare space
to mingle with ether,
water.
Listening to rainfall
is like hearing the music of the soul,
melodies of breath,
the lilting songs of heart throbs,
rhythms of boundless grace,
rhymes of pulsating life,
unceasing ripples of sea,
of quivering passions,
never of death.
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..
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
(an ode to Rabindranath Tagore)
They say the poet is no more.
But I hear his songs and poems on every shore.
He lives on in every home and heart.
His creations expressing every emotion and thoughts.
He has written about every season.
We quote him for every reason.
With simple words he has expressed,
The meaning of life.
The meaning of love.
The meaning of feelings.
The trick to stop all strife.
For more than a hundred years he is alive.
We will celebrate his life for years and years.
Yes the poet lives on.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist by education, educationist by profession and an author and poet by passion. She has published five books and has received several awards for her poetry including the Golden Rose from Argentina for promoting literature and culture. Some of her poems have been translated into 31 languages and her poems have been published in more than 250 national and international journals. Paramita has started and is the President of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) Mumbai Chapter. She also writes travelogues which are published regularly in e-magazines. She lives in Mumbai, India with her husband and daughter.
These camel-hump hills frolic in water
Like bare-bodied urchins .
The boat pushes its way through
the milling crowd of waves after waves,
leaving in its wake furrows of hot desire.
My fingers in your palms melt away.
I straighten your fluttering strand of hair
only to withdraw my fingers from the cheek
You remind that the last bus leaves
in an hour.
Bus journey began through
the fresh scent of a flower.
Slow fire of intimacy sparking
glints of desire. Wheels grinding
on the flesh of the road.
Unsure, hesitant of its destination
neither for the first time nor
will it be the last.
The hour flies off
on the silent wings
of the birds gliding
towards the evening
horizon.
Sunlight lingers on the bald hills, while the bus moves in the fledgling shadow of early evening.
In parallel lines
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.
COVID-19 taught a lesson
A lesson, too precious
Safety has a high cost
But mere identity not.
To shun vulnerability
You may mask your face
Relationship counts lot
But physical proximity less.
Distance mattered much
In sensitive psychic sphere
A bear hug may bear
The seed of new bred fear
That multiplies, costs dear.
The poetry of life cynically mock
All rhyme and rhythmic forms
When your small world is on lock
Activities, even the morning stroll
Fail to defy the shutdown syndrome
When the ghost of death marches
In tune with a deadly band
On the insidious haunted dock.
My world withers, I am not clear
Know not what I think or feel
In an urge to spend some good time,
A lovely evening with you
Before the reel rolls off in a flash
Before I slip into the tunnel, relapse.
What have I got to think now, my dear!
Of London Bridge and its collapse!
How long is my day!
When will end the night !!
Hopes swing on a rocking cradle
Endlessly, goes slowly out of sight
Like a stingless, detached kite.
Nothing do we own, nor the sorrow
No relations, besides some regrets
Some intimate time today to borrow
To mourn the butchered dreams
Cascading often on the etherized sense
When loving nature muses
A monotonous jarring note,
The song of decadence.
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
'This is the latest' said the old man
Swaggering In his late eighties
'this is perhaps the saving grace, the new brace
I began wearing on my body lately'
He said despondently.
What to do? Back is aching!
Knee caps on both his knees
Are holding his legs, hardly at ease.
Tall, straight, light-eyed and handsome
Was he, once upon a time
and almost louche in his bearing.
Now, shoulders drooping and wearing,
With bags below his sunken eyes
He is a pale shadow of his former self.
Even his memory frequently switches on and off..
He habitually places his hands on his neck
To check if his neck band is in place
Walking stick is his third leg to balance the base!
His 'denture set' is wearing thin and needs a change
His powered eye glasses with smudges on edges
Shifting on his nose bridge have surely seen better days.
He is not certain if his voice has become harsh
It may not sound hoarse but is surely more than coarse!
His friend of long standing ,but much younger than him
Made bold to ask him one day
'Which of your entrapments is most troublesome'?
The old man replied with a rare nonchalance
"My Age" of course!
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.
Pic Courtesy: Unsplash.(Kazua Ota)
Gathering her full strength,the teenage girl raced at great pace away from 2 furious,blood thirsty hunters.Unaware of the destination,she boarded the safety zone successfully.
Her heart pounded so fast that it might explode.Beads of sweat trickled down from her face.Her dehydrated lips,fear soaked eyes and trembling legs conveyed a lot,but left unnoticed by the 'gadget 'crowd.
A selfless woman noticed,offered her seat to the girl.
Their eyes met.In that moment,the girl found her warmth and real safety.
Padmapriya Karthik is an enthusiastic story writer for children and a poet.She has secured eighth place in Rabindranath Tagore international poetry Contest 2020.Her works have featured in various anthologies published by 'The Impish Lass Publishing House’.She contributes poems to Efflorescence anthology(2018,2019),Muse India an online journal.Her short stories for children have found place in The PCM,Children's Magazine.She has won 5th place in the National story writing contest 2019 conducted by The PCM,Children's Magazine.
We reached Heathrow Airport, London on a fine sunny morning in April some years back. One of the main attractions of London is the glittering Kohinoor diamond. It is one of the most famous, priceless gems of the World. Though formed from pure carbon, it's not black, but colorless and dazzling like a star. It reflects the entire light that falls on it. That's its specialty.
After immigration, we came outside. The British guide received us. He was a learned man. He took us to a hotel in Kensington, London by a luxury vehicle. We stayed there during our sojourn in London.
On the way to the hotel, we told the guide - 'First please take us to the legendary Kohinoor diamond.'
He said - 'It is open for public display on Sunday (10 am to 4 pm) and Tuesday (9 am to 4pm) in the Tower of London ( Old Palace) on the Thames River near Tower Bridge. It is a must-see destination. Rest assured you will see the heritage site and the captivating diamond. But tell me- why do you take so much interest in the Kohinoor?'
I told him - 'The Kohinoor is not only a gem, it is our cultural heritage and legacy since time immemorial. From our Bhagavad Purana (mythology), we know it is the beautiful 'Syamantaka' gem. It was not mined but found from a dry river bed in South India and it was gifted to Lord Krishna during his marriage. As per folktales, It had adorned the 'Battishi Singhasan' (Throne) of our most popular Maharaja Vikramaditya. It was the throne of justice. Anyone sitting on it delivers justice to the people. In course of time, it came to the Kakatiya dynasty of South India. Passing through so many kings, countries and dynasties it was handed over to Queen Victoria of Great Britain in 1850. It originated in India. So it is an Indian property only and exclusively. No one can claim it. Of course, the facts are shrouded in mystery and not available in history.'
The guide became happy to hear the facts which were not known to him.
We were traveling in the city to see its beauty. It was Springtime in London. Everything was in its best. Blooming flowers and colourful leaves of plants and trees adorned the beautified London City, its streets, roads and the landscape. The natural ambience was fascinating. Mild rain had kept the sky dustless and transparent blue. The weather was fine. The cold was not so severe. In a nutshell, the queen nature was welcoming us with her spectacular beauty.
In the afternoon we went to Kensington Gardens, Kensington Palace and Hyde Park. The captivating flowers, colorful leaves, greenish-blue lakes, chirping birds and the dispersed reddish-yellow hue of the setting sun were creating a heavenly spectacle.
We enquired about the weather.
He said - 'There are four seasons in the United Kingdom - Spring : March to May, Summer : June to August, Autumn : September to November, Winter : December to February. You have come here in April. The Spring is continuing. It is the best time to visit London. Daylight is longer. Climate is mild. Temperature ranges from 11 to 15 degree Celsius. London is the capital city. Its population is about 9 millions. Its area is around 600 square miles.'
We visited heritage museums including Victoria Museum, Albert Museum, National History Museum. We were astonished to see Indian sculptures, idols, armor and weaponry, handicrafts, etc. Those were the rare items of India. We felt sorry not to find them in India.
We told him - 'The British had taken away forcibly or stolen our rare sculptures, idols, valuables and Indian properties worth billions of dollars to enrich their country during their two centuries of colonial rule in India.'
He told us- 'Of course, the items were taken from India but not forcibly. Those were gifted to the British by the Muslim rulers during their six centuries of reign in India since they were agaisnt Hindu sculptures and idols. Had we not come to your country and not abolished the Muslim misrule, your secular India would have been a Muslim country and Hindus would have been converted to Islam. We saved you. We have preserved your heritage items in our museums for display of their sculptural magnificence to the World at large. The East India Company had taken the profit of business.The British government had unified over 550 princely states and given an integrated, independent India to Indians with development in infrastructures, railways, land, water and air transport systems, educational institutions, factories, industries. Our English language is the medium for development in education, science and technology. We had introduced the Parliamentary system of Government and Executive as well as the Judicial system, laws, rules and regulations. But after our departure, Indian is using the same legal and administrative systems without any alteration. There is hardly any change.'
My friend told him - 'Really your reply is funny. Thanks to the British cunningness, they would say something, write another thing, do the opposite and prove it cunningly. In the case of the Kohinoor, India made its claim for the legendary gem. The United Kingdom rejected the claim of India, since it is claimed by Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan and it was gifted to them by Duleep Singh, the king and legal heir of Maharaja Ranjit Singh of Punjab. Actually the minor son of Ranjit Singh had no option other than signing the Treaty of Lahore and handing it over to the British after defeat in the second Anglo-Sikh War in 1849. The vanquished minor (child) king was forced to do so on the point of bayonet. The matter went to the Supreme Court of the UK. The apex court observed that it cannot force the United Kingdom to return the Kohinoor diamond to India, since it was neither taken forcibly nor stolen by the British, rather gifted to the British. Thanks to the jugglery of words'.
Of course, the British guide thanked my friend for his wisdom.
Next day we visited the heritage buildings and landmarks of London. Buckingham Palace (in the City of Westminster) has been serving as the Royal Home and administrative headquarters of the monarch since Queen Victoria's reign (1837). The City of Westminster on the River Thames is the location of the national government of the United Kingdom. Westminster Abbey is the royal church. The Palace of Westminster is the Parliament (House of Commons and House of Lords) and the Big Ben is on a tower on it. We moved on the London Eye, a colossal cantilevered observation wheel on the Thames River and enjoyed the spectacular view of London city from a height of 135 meters (443 feet).
The United Kingdom is made up of 136 islands. It comprises England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. It is bordered by the English Channel, North Sea, Irish Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. The English Channel separates it from continental Europe. Its population is 67 millions. Now, India is 13 times larger than the UK in area. Great Britain ( geographical term ) comprises England, Wales, Scotland.
Next morning we went to the Thames Barrier, London (65 miles away from the estuary). It protects London from being flooded by high tides and storm surge moving up from the North Sea. It is a movable barrier and can be closed during high tide and raised at low tide to restore flow of water to the sea. The length of the Thames River is 205 miles (330 km)
We had gone to the University of Oxford and on the way we came across the London School of Economics. Oxford University is around 55 miles away from London. It is the oldest English-speaking University of the World since1096. It is a collegiate research university with 39 semi-autonomous constituent colleges in the University town. Its unique heritage buildings and architectural marvels thrilled us.
On the way to Oxford University, We enjoyed the natural beauty of the corn fields on both sides of the road. Greenery was covering the land. No one was allowed to keep the land barren and uncultivated. Frequent mild rains keep the air and sky dustless and give water and natural fertilizer to the corn fields. So the beauty of the transparent blue sky and green landscape was captivating. In the cold climate, the sunshine was very much pleasing and charming.
We felt proud to see the statue of Mahatma Gandhi on Parliament Square, London.The guide said - 'In spite of frequent arrests and imprisonments, when Gandhi was produced or coming to the court, the judge himself and all others present there would stand up in honour of the Mahatma.'
Next morning we entered the Tower of London. It is the home to royal family possessions, valuables, treasures, the Crown jewels including the Kohinoor (Koh-i-Noor) diamond and 24000 gems. The Kohinoor adorning the Crown was on display. I was amazed to see the dazzling diamond. Like me thousands of tourists had made beeline to enjoy it. It allures millions of tourists across the World. I felt proud of the 'Star of India ' and 'Mountain of lights'. I gazed at it and other items for some time. One could neither stay at any particular item (place ) for more time nor touch anything. It was under tight security and camera surveillance. Photography, selfie, smartphone and touch were strictly prohibited and forbidden in Jewel House of Tower of London. It is protected as a World Heritage Site.
Originally weighing 793 carats, subsequently Kohinoor's weight was reduced to 186 carats and then to around 105 carats ( 21 grams) over the centuries after it was cut several times to enhance its luster. It had the shape and size of a small hen's egg. Now it occupies the place of pride on the British Queen's Crown. I was stunned to see its glittering shine. It was better than a twinkling star. I watched it to my heart's content and returned.
Having a glance at the legendary Kohinoor, I was mesmerized. Yearning for it overwhelmed me.
Sorrowfully I said- 'It was a colonial loot. After Independence, the Kohinoor ought to have been returned to its Motherland, India'.
The guide said - 'Today, the diamond is on display to captivate tourists.'
I told him - 'The United Kingdom is lucky enough to have the priceless dazzling diamond of India. It is unmatched, unrivalled and unique in view of its size, value, beauty and luster. It is now a part of the British Queen's Crown and the British Royal Family claims ownership over it.'
He said - 'The Kohinoor diamond carries with it a curse of the weeping souls of dying persons and the bloodstained history of murder, treachery and treason. Wherever the sinister stone has gone, it has brought downfall and misfortune. Its history is shrouded in mystery. None knows its exact origin - who, when, how and where it was discovered. As known from folktales - around 1000 years ago it was found in Kollur Mine on the bank of Krishna River in Golconda, now in Guntur district of Andhra Pradesh, India. It is a curse to the country and man who possesses or owns it. It is auspicious to a God or the woman who wears it. Downfall of India began with the discovery of the terrible stone. India became weak year by year. Muslim incursions, occupations began and India lost its Independence. During its passage, it had harmed all those who possessed it. After owning it, Alaudin Khilji was murdered. From the Khilji dynasty the cursed Kohinoor came to Mughal dynasty. Humayun tumbled down from stairs and died. Shah Jahan placed it on the famous Peacock Throne and was imprisoned by his own son Aurangzeb and died in agony. Nadir Shah of Persia (Now Iran) got it from Mughals by plundering Delhi in 1739 and gave its name 'Koh-i-Noor.' He became a victim of its curse and was assassinated. His successor was dethroned and it passed to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Lion of Lahore and ruler of Punjab. The curse of Kohinoor acted upon him and he was attacked by a stroke. He came to know - its curse is ineffective on God. On his weak and feeble days he wished to handover it to God Jagannath in Puri, Odisha, India. But due to some conspiracy, it could not be handed over to the Jagannath Temple, Puri. His last wish remained unfulfilled and he died. After the second Anglo-Sikh War in 1849 and the Treaty of Lahore, the sinister, terrible stone started its voyage to the United Kingdom. Cholera broke out among the sailors and people in the ship which was also attacked by the pirates on the high sea. However, the ship reached the shore and Queen Victoria got the priceless diamond in 1850, but she was also attacked. The Prime Minister fell down from the horse. Ever since its arrival, the downfall of the vast British Empire began.The cursed Kohinoor adorned the Crown of the Queen Mary in 1911 and Queen Elizabeth's Crown in 1937. The British Queens became happy. But the curse of Kohinoor started acting upon the vast territory of the British empire across the World. The same Queen Elizabeth is the Head of the State but her state has reduced almost to the size of Andhra Pradesh (undivided) where the Kohinoor was discovered 1000 years back. Now the area and size of our country is less than that of Madhya Pradesh or Uttar Pradesh or Maharashtra or Rajasthan of India.
The mysterious, mystical, terrible stone bears the curse of the dying, killed and deceased kings, soldiers and innocent people of India, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, Great Britain. The mystique diamond is of no use to the British except the Queen. We are fed up with it. Please take the cursed Kohinoor to India so that the British may get back its previous glory and the vast empire where the Sun never set.'
We were dumbfounded hearing the sorrowful, terrible effects of the Cursed Kohinoor. Next day, we left for France by a bullet train under the English Channel.
Now I am questioning myself - Is the Kohinoor really cursed and its absence in India is a blessing in disguise? It has remained mysterious and mystical ever since I saw it during my visit to London.
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.
LIBERATED: WORLD IS MY HOME, SKY IS MY ROOF
Dr. Niranjan Barik
My dog unchained had barked, almost barged into the stranger
The visitor to the adjacent house of the neighbor
The visitor had given a yell, a shriek, a scream, whatever you call
The host waiting for the guest responds faster,
Otherwise a good sympathetic understanding neighbor!
The neigbour reprimanded me to reign in the dog
To tighten the chain.
House was mine, the dog was mine
I know the law,
Dog shouts at unwelcome guest
Loyal to the master
Will not allow any outsider inside the fence without the nod from an insider,
Inside the laxman rekha, the invisible fence
Will never ever put the master into the lurch, into a position defenselessness.
Is it not the privilege of the neighbour, neigbour’s envy ?
As people say neigbour and envy go together
My front garden is more precious than theirs with better flowers with better colours
My wife who dazzles without decoration is the best decorator of the interior
(Acknowledged by ladies of the neighborhood in kiti-parties held at least four times a year)
My dog alerts me, theirs’ the hidden alarm
I have not seen a dog with them all these years!
I am the son of the soil and you are a hyphen-American
My house is mine, so also my way, please interfere nay!
I will dance with music with my wife tonight, our dog giving company
We are enjoying our life now, enjoying our house
No plan now for a new member
It may happen only some years after!
Yes I play violin and guitar; I am a musician, a merry-go man
My violin, my music gave me money
Money enough to earn the trust of the bank for the instant house loan
To earn the trust of my date to take care of the interior,
To be the home maker, my shadow, my soul-sister!
But that year winter did linger, so did my fever
I could not play with my guitar
Snows remained on rooftops and trees unreasonably longer
Sun was not shining and snow was not softening
But money was losing shines,
And it was being talked to be great melt-down, unkown since Thirties down,
Leaves and flowers not seen to appear
Then came the compadre, the great musketeer to say nearer,
'Honey! I need a change.
Going with a gentleman, who loves me no less than you can!
Don’t forget to take your care!
All medicines in the vault there!'
Winter lingers not the banks
My soul-sister on her own had driven my car there in intervals regular
But bank said, I was dear to them no longer, I was a long defaulter
No time, no mercy, you get out of our house, sooner the better
In ill health and no support, where will I wander?
So I linger
But one evening bank comes with force and staffer
In no time, I am out of the house in the darkness cover,
This fact now not known to my neighbor,
He may be in slumber deeper
He will not shout at me any more
At me for my dog barking at any stranger
He will have good undisturbed sleep hereafter.
I go out with my dog
With my guitar,
Not with any money, not even the plastic ones
To a place or places I don’t know where
Sky would be my roof
The whole country my house
Yet I will remember Glow Glen,
The lane I stayed down with a roof over my head
And envy my neighbor
His courtyard, his less colourful flowers !
For the house is theirs.
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
In love, she calls me Wribhu.
I wonder why,
I have no godly attributes to justify.
Omar wrote and sang like a minstrel
to his mistress, what a marvel !
But alas ! as I hold her in my arms
my sticky lips falter, words wither.
Her being, sequinned,
a verity beyond the veils,
resplendent in her charms;
her lithe arms entwined at my neck
cast a snare.
Nothing I see, nothing I think, nothing
except her in the bliss of intimacy.
Love I reify, she the only truth,
with smell of our union hung in languid air.
As she leaves our rendezvous,
her languorous feet receding into
the squintly lit path and vanished,
pangs of my separation slowly morphs
to an unsung serenade.
Love has its own singular ways
to celebrate and to conceal too.
She didn't hide her ways,
her love she had appliqued
on my life for the world to see;
I took the other way; timid,
afraid of the world, decided to flee.
She was not wrong
for calling me Wribhu.
She believed,
I was her God, so dear !
Only her god failed her, ever.
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 seashore wakes from its trance
I sit leisurely , feeling the touch of wet sands
I hear music endless
From the distant skies
I listen -
and I hear it reverberating over the vast seas …
when with awe I look into the sky
I see him all clad in blue,
Dancing and running
Hither and thither
In the infinitude of the Blue !
Again amazed I find him
Playing the flute attuned to rhythms
Rhythms in thousands !
Rhythms having no end…!
I hear
The rhythm of infinity !
Fascinated and intoxicated,
I listen to the music
The all – enchanting music
With
The
Very
Touch
Of
His
Pink lips
On the flute
The music celestial flows in endless notes …
With rhythms unparalleled
With ragas unheard
Exotic and ensnaring !
I
Hear
The
Music
Of love !
I
hear
The
love song of eternity !
And …
And I vanish and vanish into the solitude of eternal vastness …
(Footnote : *raga - a piece of music (Indian) based on a pattern of notes;
"Flute Artiste" was 1st published in Woman's Era in 2012. )
Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan writes poems and reviews poetry. Many of her poems and reviews have been published in renowned magazines and journals. Her poems have been included in anthologies like "The Ballads of Our Lives “, “Earth Song”, “Mbifl 2019" etc. She is from Kerala.
As myriad fragrances fill the airy space around me
I take in (a) smell after smell
To smell the past.
To smell the present.
To smell the ‘future’?
My lusty senses birling in the smell of the past,
an escapade of sorts from the ogling Mr. Present.
Waddling, I reach the present moment.
Wonder do I, where is the fragrance of Mr. Future?
Oh the evasive one? My inquisitive senses cried.
Only to realise
The moment in the present was the future a moment ago!
Mr. Present, the conqueror!
Consuming the future,
Moment after moment
Conquering it, merging into one
The present remains forever... forever.
The present is omnipresent.
I begin to live in the presence of its omnipresence.
Every moment
Embracing the omnipresence
Breathing its elusive musk scent
Feeling its cold hands run through
I breathe the air
Of the omnipresence.
Oh! But it has
The bruit of the past, running in my aching veins
The fear of the past, leaving me aghast
The guilt of the past, shimmering in the shards of my broken self
Oh! There is no escape!
It lingers around
In the present
Spilling the truth.
“Past is past”
The present readies to strike the future
Demolishing its presence,
Depriving it of its mystery
Devouring its every pulse
So prompt, yet creepy.
So slow, yet sure.
Making it its own
Like a licentious addict
Savouring a glass of muscatel.
The present remains forever…forever.
Dr. Sowmya Srinivasan hails from Chennai. Born in an orthodox Hindu family, Sowmya had always savored a fresh fondness for multiple ethnicities which was supplemented by her interactions with diversified groups during school and college days. She graduated from Sri Sathya Sai Institute of Higher Learning which was the grooming yard for her poetic and creative capabilities in the form of poetry and short narratives. She is a gold medalist in both B.A and M.A in English Language and Literature.
Her poems deal with a variety of themes ranging from nature’s bounty to her own evolution as an individual. After her short initial stint with the KPO (Knowledge Process Outsourcing) sector, she found her passion in teaching young minds, the intricacies of life through English literature. She has a good record of research papers published in journals of repute indexed in Scopus and Web of Science. Her favourite areas of research are Indian writing in English and Arab women writings in English. The twentieth century Arab women writings have always been her special interest. She works as Assistant Professor in the Department of English, SRM Institute of Science and Technology, Chennai.
Music and dance have always been her most cherished paths to seek inner peace. She is proficient in Carnatic music, devotional bhajans and songs. She considers herself a spiritual seeker in this sojourn of life.
ME IN THE MIRROR
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I looked at my other self,
the one who resides in my old mirror,
He fixed me with a stern gaze,
how can you smile in these mournful days, the crying, dying, days,
I ran away from him,
In search of a place
where there will be no tears,
no mourning, no strings of sobs
no smoke from pyre darkening the sky.
But I saw men and women in hordes
silently leaving their mortal bodies
melting into a somber nothingness,
and bells ringing with a dull, droning sound,
long lost friends refused to hold hands,
the fear of life walked into the life of death.
That's when I returned to the mirror
and told my other self
this is where I want to be
here nothing will touch me,
nothing will move me,
I no more want to run away,
nor do I want you to come with me,
I would rather be
where shadows will leave the trees
and silhouette against the sky
clouds will wonder in awe
at the dreams woven by wandering beings.
I will take a walk in the garden,
checking where the flowers go,
to temples or to the cemetery.
whether they go to lovers or mourners.
I will collect them all and make a path.
of random symmetry.
That's where I will walk
looking for the soft fragrance
that will make me wonder
which side of life I would be,
which flowers will come
with me in this path, the path to eternity.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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