Literary Vibes - Edition XCII (30-Oct-2020)
(Title - Autumn Spirit - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
I am delighted to offer you the 92nd edition of LiteraryVibes, filled with beautiful poems and interesting stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
In this edition we have two new contributors. Ms. Revathi Shankar from Baroda, Gujarat, is an accomplished educationist who revels in opening up new vistas of knowledge and in exploring novel ideas to educate and inspire. Her article on Kolam throws light on a very popular art of South India. We welcome her and the two young poets Ms. Subhechha Biswal and Mr. Subrat Pattnaik from Odisha. They are passionate about poetry and their joint poem bears the stamp of great sensitivity. I wish Ms. Shankar and the two budding poets the very best in their literary adventure.
You will be happy to note that Ms. Vidya Shankar, one of our regular contributors, has been conferred the Certificate of Excellence by the Asian Literary Society in their Wordsmith Award Contest (English Poetry), 2020. She is exceptionally talented and is destined to achieve many more laurels in life. LV wishes her a great literary future.
The past week has been mainly spent by me on following two interesting electoral battles - one in Bihar and the other in the United States. The likelihood of a nail biting finish adds extraordinary verve to the story in both the places. What warms the heart for Bihar, long dubbed as a Bimaru state, is the maturity the voters are displaying, questioning promises and performances and holding politicians accountable for their past deeds and misdeeds. The verdict, when it comes, will undoubtedly be a product of informed choices. And the most satisfying aspect is the apparent marginalisation of caste and community considerations in electoral politics in Bihar.
The US, on the other hand, presents a cacophony of noises, screams, grunts and shouting which belie the image of an educated, mature democracy. Political intolerance, racial hatred, social dissensions and electoral skulduggery have marred the present narrative like never before. But what surprises me is the uncertainty and fragility of the electoral system in the most powerful democracy in the world. As happened with Ms. Hillary Clinton in 2016, a candidate may get more number of popular votes (she had got three million more than Donald J. Trump) but the challenger wins, like an interloper, by virtue of majority in the Electoral College. Each state has its own electoral procedures which are totally confusing, some states allow mail-in ballots to be received up to a week after the poll is over if post-marked before the election date, and some states stop receipts with the day of polling. This morning it came as a surprise to me that Maine and Nebraska, two small states, allow proportional division of Electoral College on the basis of popular votes polled whereas the other forty eight states follow "winner takes all" principle. Compared to the U.S., the Indian electoral laws and procedures are much more simple and straight forward. I wonder if the unprecedented confusion and melee in the present elections will drive the Americans to attempt some much needed electoral reforms.
But standing at the cross roads, both in Bihar and the U.S., one looks forward with a hope that democracy will eventually triumph and good days will prevail. I picked up a few excerpts from poems of political hope to cheer up the spirit in these days of election fever:
I know there is something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
(Praise Song for the Day - Elizabeth Alexander)
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny.
(On the Pulse of Morning - Mary Angelou)
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found that it was ourselves
(The Gift Outright - Robert Frost)
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
(Of History and Hope - Miller Williams)
Wish you a weekend of happy reading. Please do share the 92nd edition of LiteraryVibes with your friends and contacts through the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/353. All the previous 91 editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Enjoy, please take care, stay safe from Corona. Keep smiling till we meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K Mishra
CORONA TIME, ROMANCE IN LOUVRE
02) Haraprasad Das
KABIR
03) Geetha Nair
STARRY STARRY NIGHT
04) Dilip Mohapatra
THE DIVINER
05) Dr. Pradip Swain
TAKE TIME TO ENJOY LIFE
06) Avaya Mohapatra
BABA YAGA, THE TYRANNOSAURUS REX AND THE SNOLLYGOSTER
07) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
STORY OF A BRIGHT MORNING
08) Nikhil M Kurien
COWS
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA 'S MUSINGS 14: LONELINESS
10) Madhumathi. H
PIGMENTS OF MY SOUL...
UNANSWERABLE...
11) Sunil Biswal
JACK’S DIAMOND
12) Padmini Janardhanan
ME WITHIN THE US
13) Vidya Shankar
THE MILK SHOULD’VE KNOWN
14) Sulochana Ram Mohan
IMMORTELLE
15) Sheena Rath
AZUL
16) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
SMITHA'S HOUSEMATE
17) Priya Karthik
LOVE CONCERT
18) Akankshya Kar
OBLIVION
19) Akshaya Kumar Das
IN A MOMENTARY FRENZIED MOOD...
THE ENIGMATIC JOURNEY....
20) Pradeep Rath
ASTRIDE THE GREAT WHEEL
21) Abani Udgata
A LONESOME STREET
22) Mihir Kumar Mishra
SONG OF CONFIDENCE
23) Ashok Kumar Ray
TUNNEL TO TOWER
24) Subheccha Biswal and Subrat Pattnaik
EMPTY ROAD ???
25) Srikant Mishra
AUTUMN
26) Revathi Shankar
KOLAMS: CONNECTING DOTS - CONNECTING HEARTS - CONNECTING CULTURES
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WAITING
CORONA TIME, ROMANCE IN LOUVRE
(For Dr. Ajay Upadhyay)
Paris hides indoors,
cooped up in her rooms,
not moving out to operas,
to parties, or to socialize.
Corridors of Louvre
register few footfalls,
silence quavers dust-free,
solitude takes tentative rounds.
Leisure worn as anklets,
the rare collections,
invaluable or ancient,
relax, nose in the air.
The museum caretakers stand guard
expecting a visitor, now and then,
to justify their bread, if not butter.
But they return home, thumbs down.
Mona Lisa, in a tomboy avatar,
smiling, lips stretched from ear to ear,
imitating a Salvador Dali surreal,
puts out a leg
over her Leonardo-frame, wearing
a kaftan-negligee, followed by the other leg.
She loosens her stately posturing,
leans back with hair undone, bouncing.
Inside Louvre, doors, closed and sealed,
after the museum’s newest sculpture
received and mounted in its
sealed glass-case, the Corona goddess.
The beauties and knights
showing their artistry and heroics
climb down from mountings,
legging it down to the central hall.
Gathering around the new inmate,
they offer ‘welcome’ and greetings,
ending with ‘amen’. Wait, who is
this laughing fairy, standing behind,
craning a pretty neck,
a little vain, a bit vague,
a lot proud, and loaded with mystery,
clueless about herself? Oh, it’s Mona Lisa!
Overwhelmed with joy, the gathered hosts
fall into steps, shake a leg, go tizzy,
dance in singles, doubles, in her honour,
as she takes a Dervish whir, Corona forgotten.
A sight for gods – Leonardo dancing
a foxtrot with his Mona Lisa, Venus
doing a salsa with Cupid. Madam Victory
dances away with mademoiselle Liberty.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I don’t have much to say.
The little
I want to….,
freezes on my tongue.
O’ my kid, ’am weaving
this wrap on my loom
out of the sun’s rays
to cover your nudity
when denuded by the hands
of the moral keepers, but you
seem to have no trust in me.
You, rather, smile ruefully;
hiding your privacy
with bare palms.
’Am also not sure, if this piece
from my loom
would be of much help
for your universal stripping,
its opacity inadequate to protect
your vulnerability
from the prying eyes.
So, you may or may not
cover yourself with it, but this wrap
on my loom is only for you,
to fend you from evil eyes.
I must complete my task
before it is too late, before
the dark swallows up the light.
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)”
What I was and what I have become
I must read in you;
In those firefly words
That spangled your heart
To make a glowing nest.
I must trace , I must trace
How those words grew to birds
That roosted in throbbing silence
On the dull grey hairs
Of your sad breast
Then turned bright stars
To soar into the old sky.
So I walk the tightrope you stretch,
Swaying this way, that,
Seeking to read the answer
As fireflies blink their light;
On one side, the aviaries of silence
On the other, starry starry night.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
Let me lead you to the end of the jetty
in the small hours of the night
and let us sit on the rusted bench
between the weather beaten stag horn
and the cleat
and look at the forlorn moon
veiled in saline clouds of silence.
The boats have gone away to the mainland
and will not return till the first light
the wayward jellyfish saddle the ripples
under the pier and playing sea saw
amidst the maze of the barnacle laden pillars.
You rest your chin gently on my shoulder
and let me run my fingers
through the terrain of your face
exploring the dunes and furrows
that have now deepened
and feel like trenches.
Let me look into your limpid eyes
as dry as ever
and which never had shed a drop of tear.
And I wonder what happened to all the
passion and pain
all the angst and agony that you had suffered
and that you have
so adroitly absorbed and soaked in?
All that I could do now
perhaps is to awaken and summon
the diviner in me
who would wave his wand
and let us know the depths at which
we may probe and stir
so that you may finally be able
to release and let out
all those time-frozen tears
that had been buried for years.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India
I enjoy medicine very much, but recently I became so fatigued, both physically and even more so, emotionally, that I took a day off. Not the kind of day off that we usually have, which means seeing just a few patients rather than a full day’s worth and still filling the day with phone calls and paper, but a real day off like real people have with absolutely no work at all. I learned a very good lesson. And I also had a very good time.
First of all, I slept until 8:00 am instead of 5:00 am. I next enjoyed a very special pleasure of not shaving. I had a spirited breakfast with Asha and my three children then sat down to read the newspaper over a cup of coffee while Asha drove the children to school and went off to her office. I looked around and realized that I was alone in my own house probably for the first time in 12 years. Very interesting.
I cleaned up a bit in the kitchen, wandered into the living room, and rearranged the cassette tapes. I walked out into the backyard in my pajamas and reminded myself of what a pretty place we live in. I went into the garage and cleaned out the accumulated papers, coffee cups, and other various items from my car. I found a perfect place for the banana tree Dr. Janakiraman gave us a year ago. Then I went through a pile of journals I had been saving but would never read and managed to discard a few. I paid some bills and went through the family photo albums. If you think you are not getting old fast, try that tonight. It was 1:00 pm, then I took a nap (oh how wonderful a nap is!)
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Asha came home early. We went to the back porch. We talked together at a more leisurely pace than our usual during-the-week encounters. At three o’clock we picked up the kids from school and took them out for ice cream at Meadow’s. Although the prices were higher and the people behind the counter much younger, everything else was much the same as it has been when I frequented the place on a regular basis. We sat down with our sundaes and had some serious “man talk” with our son, Tooshar. We stayed away from HMOs, DRGs, ICUs, ERs, and concentrated on the really important stuff. We talked about football, baseball, basketball, and arts. We spoke of Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Joe Montana, and Babe Ruth, and sports cars. We got through Disney World, the Super Bowl, the World Series and what it is like to go to college. I was frankly amazed how worldly they had become and told them how much we care about them. They said that they were having a good time and wanted to do it again. We absolutely loved it.
(Written in 1989 at Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA)
Dr. Pradip K. Swain, a medical graduate from SCB Medical College, Cuttack in 1965, moved to the U.S. In the seventies after a six years stint in the University of Glasgow, Scotland. He was Director and Chairman of Mercy Regional Health System, Altoona, Pennsylvania, USA, from 1981-1998. An Emergency Care Specialist he also worked as a Professor, Instructor and Perceptor at the Saint Francis College, Pennsylvania (1980-1998). Among many distinguished positions held by him, his stint as a Director in the Board of Directors of American Heart Association (1980-1984) and Instructor, Basic Life Support, American Heart Association (1979-1998), Regional Medical Director, Southern Alleghenies Emergency Care (1980-1998) are noteworthy. Recipient of numerous awards for exemplary service in the field of medicine and emergency care, he was a familiar face in American television in the eighties and nineties of the last century, talking about Trauma, Lifeline, Advanced Cardiac Life Support, Toxicology, Heat Emergencies, Frostbite, Hypothermia etc. He has also published dozens of articles on these topics in newspapers and journals. After his retirement from active medical services he lives in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, along with his wife, Dr. Asha L. Swain, who is also a Physician with a distinguished service record. They can be reached at alswainmd@aol.com
BABA YAGA, THE TYRANNOSAURUS REX AND THE SNOLLYGOSTER
These three names possibly are templates for three generations, my childhood in the early fifties, my daughter’s in early eighties and of my grandsons, now. Let me explain. All three represent unusual encounters with larger than life figures of a kind the children are both attracted to and are advised to be wary about.
Let me start with my childhood, It was usual, not too dramatic rural upbringing, except that being youngest of my siblings, did not have much occasion or time to interact, particularly listen to stories from grandparents--never saw my maternal side, my mother being youngest of her siblings and my paternal grandfather was gone a young man of 21 to a raging river leaving my widowed grandmother with a year old baby boy, my father and she left when I was just four. The only thing I remember of her of a story of the cart-man’s encounter with a tiger and the wood cutters story of the python. So my father who was a brilliant Mission School (Cuttack) graduate and a polyglot, voracious reader, doubled in telling stories for my grandparents and helping in Maths and English as our tutor and he was outstanding, However, it were the stories that mattered the most in the beginning. They spanned from the Arabian Nights, the Sindbad, Basra to Tabriz, of Harun al-Rashid of 8th century and the Puskin, Gogol, Chekhov and Tolstoy and about Baba Yaga, the Russian Witch but not much of Kipling. He of course knew the “Ba Ba Black Sheep”-man, but was not one of his favourites. Guess the dislike was mutual. Kipling being born and having lived a considerable amount of time of his youth here in India (returning to England only after becoming famous as a writer) and was overtly condescending of Indians (read, the “Three Little Indian Boys” and not just the Jungle Book). In that relationship of the victor and the defeated—all that the defeated loses is not so much of material possessions but “dignity”, which very appropriately the Constitution of India tried to instill into our post-colonial psyche and no doubt which is under constant threat of being undermined by our current struggle with poverty and freedom, despite assurances from many quarters, including of course, our Judiciary. The others of the ilk were our bete noire, Winston Churchill an avowed India hater who fought tooth and nail against India’s self-determination, as luck would have it, his own luck ran out—despite victory in the World War II. He lost the Parliamentary elections paving way for India’s Freedom. The others, of course, were Richard Nixon, the impeached POTUS and Henry Kissinger the former Secretary of State whose anti-Indian conversations and pejoratives are unravelling in recent days. Suffice to say racism and homophobia were never dead, despite Lincoln, Gandhi, Martin Luther King (Jr)s and Mandela and never will be, because they draw their sustenance from power—power over other human beings, to which I will come to later. In the early sixties, radio transistors arrived and therefore, access eased to the magic of the outer world. When H G Wells’ (the Historian and science fiction writer) War of Worlds was broadcast in 1930s from BBC, people were peeping out of their windows, if the aliens were really at the outskirts of London, not long after which, the Nazi V2s were whizzing around London suburbs, people running to bomb shelters! In a way, the childhood template has always been the merger of the magical with the real.
Now come to the 1980s and you have my daughter’s childhood, post-Apollo-11 moonwalk the mysteries and magic of the Jurassic Park and the Tyrannosaurus Rex on the big screen cinemas and then of course, the colour television sets again brings in the merger of the magical, (the Dinos roaming in your backyard, the poor, lovable ones, harmless and only meat eating, carnivores!) thankfully not there in reality and of course, the real—the visual has taken over the magic of the storyteller (though my Mom, time to time whenever she would visit us, would snuggle my daughter and tell some stories of yester years). Just to remind, whether it was Baba Yaga the witch, or the man-eaters of Sindbad or his outrageous adventures (of my childhood) or the Dinos and Godzillas of my daughter’s childhood the magical brutes appear harmless, even friendly or lovable, except the storyteller’s warnings against mischief for which all these characters turn real and dangerous.
Now when I have turned a grandfather to my grandsons and when they jump on to my bed for stories in the evening breaks before dinner time, what stories should I tell them? Should I warn them to be careful about, because they are not mystical--they are for the real. There is this new animal in the park, called Snollygoster. I am thankful to Dr. Shashi Tharoor, the polyglot, writer, diplomat and politician for this discovery. Though the animal, no less tyrannical than the T.Rex, has been around in our backyard for half a century now, without being discovered with a proper name. Was told, this is not real English, much less Indian, rather stuff of the American English and discovered towards the end of the nineteenth century, to describe unscrupulous people, mostly political kind, many of who were not as numerous or common as into recent times, thus the necessity of rediscovering the term now.
Let me remind the readers, languages follow the same evolutionary principles as living ones do. They discard words long in disuse, evolve or coin new ones to define new realities or borrow words from other cultures when particular realities are uncommon to theirs. When the speakers are too few, the language may die out or can become a “drift” in the evolutionary sense (kind of growth in isolation or in a cul-de-sac). So when Dr. Tharoor comes out with his new book with these forgotten/ little used/little known words and tries to bring them back to life, only a few will survive and only a miniscule may flourish and snollygoster is made of that metal, the flourishing kind. The world now revels in snollygosters for the past half a century. Are they, the new Baba Yagas, the many faced and faceted witches/ monsters or are they the Jurassic Park type T. Rex, only time will tell. But, they appear pretty close to both. At least, one great example (of T Rex) had been Herr Hitler, apparently responsible for more than 50 million deaths and untold misery to the entire humanity.
There were of course, always great political mavericks around the world, the finest being Lord Krishna, the mythical king of the Yadavas and is revered by Hindus as Avatar of Lord Visnhu, part of the Hindu Trinity. But what he achieved during the great epic War of Mahabharata, if ever, whenever it happened, was to weed out the snollygosters both from among the Kuru and the Pandava camps and in the act of establishing Dharma, (in this case, justice and rationality, not religion). The others of course, were Visbnugupta Kautilya (popularly known as Chanakya, progeny of Risi Canaka) and who wrote down the famous treatise of statecraft, Arthashastra---treatise on Wealth (of Nations) some 2500 years ago and the other was Niccolo Machiavelli, the early 16th Century Italian diplomat, polyglot in the same mould as that of Kautilya. All the three all time greats in politics had no personal agenda, but only that was necessary for the state craft and conduct of the State and those heading the states for common good of people, peace and sanity. So also Mohan Das Gandhi, the great Mahatma, told about politics as public service, something entirely forgotten by the political class today.
So, the ruthless, self-seeking modern politician (not to say there are not good human beings, who no doubt are on an evolutionary drift), now have turned professional with great acting skills. The great Greek Patriarch, Plato once lamented not to show plays to politicians, lest they turn themselves to acting only, has come about true. So how do I play out the Age of the Snollygosters to my grandsons? Perhaps, one has to tell with the same warnings of caution as, my or my daughter’s childhood magical stories of the mavericks and the monsters.
But, how this monster has come rampant in to our backyards? For some, public service comes with public money and unlike a legitimate business the risks are fewer than the rewards, because the rewards are not earned by deeds, but are self sanctioned. But what can money get?—more than anything, power over people and the ability to take away that ‘dignity of a free individual’. That is the reason some of their ilk may appear not too keen about money power, which without power over people is useless. And let us not forget that our genetic make-up is patriarchal and hierarchical—it is by defeating this primordial genetic trait that we turned Homo sapiens—the wise ones. Now this new animal in our backyard, snollygoster is more likely push us back in our evolutionary trail and turn us back as monsters and we must be wary of them and warn our little one the real threat they may pose to our hard earned humanity.
Avaya C Mohapatra is a Retired Professor, Served North Eastern Hill University, Shillong (July 1976- September, 2017). He is a freelancer in academic writing and a blogger (acmohapatra.blogspot.com). He can be reached via email: acmohapatradr@gmail.com.
Got up one morning
Tried to recollect my story
Searching inside memory
Eager to complete
My unfinished work,
But failed miserably.
It was a new beginning,
After a long night,
In an unexplored land
With uncharted paths
To face fresh challenges
Under strange circumstances.
I cried for help
Shouted at the top of my voice
Tried to explain what I felt
All my efforts went in vain
I gave up and decided
To learn the new language.
I have embarked on a journey
Crossing seas and oceans
To reach the dream island
For re-writing my forgotten story.
Birds have come flocking
Waking up my sleeping conscience.
I am busy weaving the fabric
With shades of colors and design
Knotting together threads of love
Making it strong enough to last
Even after the night sets in,
Being afresh again
To see a bright morning.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com
They were a haughty pair of cows,
Munching beside the yellow cowslips,
Incising the creeper’s red cowberry,
Rifting the long pods of cowpea
But leaving alone the umber of cowbane
Deemed to be scarier than cowpox.
Then came a locomotive armouring a cowcatcher,
Rumbling, clamouring, hooting, it cowed.
They, who were grazing, cowered,
Hither and thither ran like cowards
Ringing on their necks the cowbells.
Behind them scrambled the cowherd
His tuft of oily hair cowlicked,
Treading on the fresh green cow dung
Leaping over the hedge of cow parsley
Brandishing all the way his cow whip.
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 14: LONELINESS
"My grandkids are
The spring in my step
The song in my heart
The warmth in my smile
The frosting on my cake
The rose in my garden
The light on my face.”
One of her friends had sent Kanaka this. It was a Facebook posting. There was an accompanying picture too. Where one could see an old couple dancing with their grandchildren. Underneath that about 30 Grandmas had agreed wholeheartedly there was not even one negative comment. Kanaka too agreed to all the 30 comments but it set her thinking. "I am also like that, for me, my grandchildren are my life".
But isn' t there another side to the coin? Most of the people forget or ignore that. Only some of the grandmas are blessed like that, there are infinite others who are not. Grandparents have unconditional love for their grandchildren because they are their daughters' or sons' children and they get an opportunity to bring them up once more like their own children, but this time more leniently, more patiently, lovingly than they had brought up their own children. They get an opportunity to rectify the mistakes they committed while bringing up their own and becoming more of model parents.
Unconditional love is the norm. Giving, giving, giving, never thinking of any bit of returns. If at all one gets something in the form of a sudden kiss or a hug or fulfilment of an errand then it could be considered as an unexpected bonanza and so naturally to be cherished and hoarded to be mulled over when one is down in the dumps. But there comes a time when grandmas become too weak to move around and have interaction with grandchildren.The days when they are confined in their room and cannot venture out without help. Here comes the testing time of families. How many families rise up to the situation? How many grandchildren voluntarily help their grandparents? Very few, Kanaka realised. She remembered a still in a movie.
A young man was sitting close to his grandfather and eating oranges. The grandfather's vision was blurred, so he asked him what he was eating and he replied oranges.
"Ok, then give me some I am feeling thirsty." The young man finished his orange, forgot his grandpa's request and left the room absentmindedly. The next day dawns with the death of the grandpa. For the young man it was only a matter of stretching his hands to take an orange from the table and peel it and give it to his grandpa, the minute he asked. But he doesn’t do it. It is a telling scene of how our new generation is growing up.
Kanaka coming from a joint family with both her parents working knew the worth of grandma. She loved her grandma inordinately. Being the eldest, the load of looking after her siblings was her duty. For every mischief they committed and for every fall they had, Kanaka was taken into account. And it was always her grandma who came to her rescue and she was devoted to her grandmother. Doing all her biddings and listening to all her stories accompanying her everywhere like a shadow. More than her mother she involved her paattie in everything she did. Showing it to her for approval or correction.
After she lost her grandma whom she called "paattie" she developed a soft corner for the old and the feeble women around her. In her rural village she came across many and whenever she got an opportunity she would be with them. She remembered vividly the milk man's mother whom they called Ammumma and the tiny kunji ammumma. They were her friends. Her own mother observing her laughing with them had asked, "What is it that keeps you people so jovial?"
Somehow from girlhood she had found out that her presence nearby was what made her paattie happy. She would narrate to Kanaka, a rapt listener, everything she remembered from her childhood. She would grind betel for her grandmother and sit at her feet listening until her paattie got tired and would suggest that she go and play while she took some rest.
She also found out they needed empathetic listeners, and were starved for company. No one found time to listen to them. Because she found time to talk to them and to listen patiently to what they said they loved her she knew. Their faces would light up as she went upto, them. She made it a point to be with ammumma on Saturdays when ammumma came to wash the grass in the stream. Kanaka would help her to wash the huge bundles and listen to her talk. As soon as they finish they would tie them into smaller bundles which, ammuma could lift by herself and stack them under the mango tree where it would be safe and she could collect them as and when she required.Then they would sit on the grassy slope and talk. Ammumma would spin yarn after yarn about her life and the stories related to the village until it was time to go home for lunch.
Kunji ammumma would wait for her at the corner of the lane, every evening. Getting down at the bus stop, she had to walk more than 2kms to reach her home. The most tedious part, because of weariness, was the long lonely trek through narrow paths between fields and canals. But listening to Kunji ammumma' s tales helped her to chase away the dreariness. Kunji ammumma was a dark frail woman, very small in size. She lived on a hilltop further away from Kanaka' s house. Everyday she would go to market with her meagre farm produce. She would sell them and buy the provisions she needed. In those days these poor widows were given pension. And she was proud of the- fact that she got 'Sarkar' pension of 75Rs. And that was enough, she said to tide over for one month. Kanaka would save the extra money her Appa gave each day when she went to college as an additional bus fare incase, she missed a bus. And this amount she gave to Kunji ammuma whenever she realised that ammumma was in need of money. And the way her face would light up would tell Kanaka that her surmise, was right and that she really needed the money. Her self respect never allowed her to ask money because she knew Kanaka was only a student. She would also regale stories of the people in and around the village panchayat. And when they reached Kanaka's place she would say bye and the old lady would squeeze kanaka 's fingers which conveyed more than words.
Only later on when she listened to her invalid mother, a lucky grandmother, she realised that what these old people needed was companionship and a bit of love and concern and nothing else. And Kanaka unknowingly was providing them that and they in turn doted on her. But is there any relationship like that now? Maybe there are, in the villages. But the reality in many places is totally heart rending. In homes where the children work abroad the parents become the caretakers of luxurious homes or sometimes they are laken abroad by their children to function as glorified maids or nurses until the grandchildren come of age and can stand on their feet.
What about grandmas at home? In many homes they lead an isolated life despite the people around them. Kanaka remembered one of her neighbourhood aunts. She lived with her son and family and had two grandchildren. From their birth she had been tending them. But the surprising part was that the two girls, in their teens, never lifted their little fingers to help their grandma. For every little thing that they could do easily for her, she would come limbing all the way to Kanaka for help. She was suffering from varicose vein, too, which added to her suffering. Kanaka would then ask in agony,
"Why don't you call me aunty, I would have come. There was no need to strain your legs like this."
" No, I can 't call you or anybody else to help me, the girls would tell their parents and they would scold me."
"But then how did you come out of the house? Won't they report to their father that you had gone out?
" No, they won't, I have given them 50 rupees each, to keep them mum."
Kanaka would be flabbergasted. With eyes pricking with tears she would wash the wound, apply medicine and bandage the leg for her or apply the ointment on her back to ease her pain as required.
Kanaka remembered another grandmother living with her son. She had a comfortable room, she got her pension, everything was provided to her in her bedroom but what she didn’t really get was love and companionship. As she could not move around freely she would sit there looking out. But nature saw it all and empathised with her. Throughout the day she received winged visitors, mynas crows, magpies and squirrels to whom she shared her food . The house was full of people yet loneliness haunted her. Her son nor the grandchildren couldn't spare some time for her. Not even 5 minutes to sit with their grandmother. To listen to her, to fill her lonely hours with fun and laughter. Ofcourse she could understand the demands of living yet a loving greeting, an acknowledgement as they passed by her room, nothing happened and it affected her badly
Like the myths of glorified motherhood that have been fostered over generations, grandmother myths too abound. Very few speak about the sufferings of the grandparents which is more than physical. And the greatest malady they suffer is loneliness in the midst of flamboyant life.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
I love to be the color Gray
To my self
When chaos and gaudiness surround
To calm the frayed nerves
Breathe peace, and walk away
From the dissonances...
Composing my own rhythm, and melodies
I drape my dreams in gray, and
Dye my soul with poetry...
"Wrap me in your love
Let our eyes have long conversations
In the exuding melody of silence
Will you hear all that I wanted to say, but couldn't?!
Will you say all that I wanted to hear, but didn't?!
Will you be my mirror for a while
To be myself, and
Smile at you
Thinking
Am smiling at my reflection
That doesn't stare, or smirk
But, simply smile back
In acceptance..."
Wrote she in one of her diaries
Stacked up for burning...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
It takes concentration of a master archer and a lot of calculated blows on the chisel to carve stones of hard granite to pieces of art. Though assisted by two apprentices, Shibanath Maharana, master craftsman felt physically exhausted by noon. He was perched atop the Baikunthanath temple of Kuinpur village since morning. His assistants were hammering at slabs of stone under shade of a tree near the temple. Shibanath had been hired by the villagers to carry out major repairs to the temple and he was at it since over a month with his two assistants.
It was a hot summer day and the unforgiving sun had made the situation worse. Shibanath climbed down the scaffolding and went to check the work his assistants were engaged in. The Priest of the temple called out for joining the mid-day arati and offering of Prasad before the deity. Once the Prasad was offered to the deity, it was given to a dozen servitors of the temple and also the craftsmen engaged in the restoration work.
The Priest came up to Shibanath and while serving the prasad asked “Shibanath, when are you going to finish the work?”.
“Our job is almost finished, needs hardly a day or two more. This temple is made of solid granite and no other temple in the vicinity has similar kind of stone. Though the temple is two hundred years old, but will last two hundred more, now that I have put my hands on it”, Shibanath the master craftsman was also a known blabber mouth and always boasted about his skills.
“It all depends on the will of God, you must have heard about the river dam project they are planning. If it happens that way, this temple and the village and the whole panchayat will be under 100 feet of water. To be gone forever, submerged under water.” The priest looked remorseful.
“Pujari ji, I do not think it would ever happen. The last time I went to market I heard from the sarpanch that it needs lakhs and lakhs of rupees, thousands of men, trucks, and elephants to construct it. The British have left just three years back and have taken all money we had. Neither the Indian Government nor a poor state like Odisha has that amount of money and machinery to undertake the Hirakud dam project. So have faith on baba Baikuntheswara. It is his will. We are only puppets in his hand” Shibanath said this and took a pinch of Prasad served in his plantain leaf, touched it to his forehead as a mark of reverence to god and put it in his mouth. He looked at his assistants and signaled them to start taking the Prasad.
The survey works for the dam was going on in full swing. It was the year 1950 and Hirakud dam was going to be world’s largest dam. It was primarily aimed at mitigating the recurring floods in the delta region and for the purpose hundreds of villages and lakhs of families were to be ousted from their own land. This was a mega project in a state where no construction work of even a minor scale had taken place since last two hundred years and people were clueless about what was going on around them. Initially people refused to believe that their villages would be submerged under hundreds of feet of water. Who are these people to foretell like that? Are they astrologers? How can they say that my village which is at such a high place that worst floods have not been able to touch the village, will be submerged under hundred feet of water? Rubbish!!! They thought.
OOOOOOOOOO
Shibanath Maharana decided to take nap for half an hour and then resume his work. Despite the hot summer after noon the interior of mukhasala was cool. He spread his towel on the temple floor and lied down flat and soon was snoring peacefully. Normal people like you and me would have found it impossible to sleep due to constant sound of hammers hitting at chisels by the two assistants at work just near the temple. But to Shibanath it worked like hypnotism and only helped him lapse into a deeper slumber.
Shibanath’s slumber was broken by sound of someone sobbing. He half opened his eyes and saw a man trying his best to control his emotions and narrate something to the priest. The priest was sitting with his back to Shibanath on the steps of the mukhasala of temple. A little distance away the stranger was standing with folded hands two steps below the priest. Shibanath had never seen the man during his month long stay at the temple. “May be he has some family problem and has come to the priest to consult for some puja” Shibanath thought to himself and tried to catch few winks more before resuming his half finished work on top of the temple.
“This …..only ….misfortune to our family… a curse” the stranger could speak between bouts of sobbing. The stranger was speaking in a guarded tone as if not wishing anyone other than the priest to hear him. Shibanath could sleep no more. His ears became alert at anguish oozing infectiously from the stranger. He kept lying down but opened his eyes and trained his ears to listen to issues troubling the stranger. The regular “than” “than” sounds from two of his assistants made it difficult for him to hear the man clearly.
“Do not worry Pandu, calm down, tell me what you want, I am sure Baba Baikuntheswar will ease all your worries” the priest tried to comfort the stranger whose name was Pandu.
“Last …. my father ……died”, Pandu said.
“Yes we all know that, all have to die some day, I will, so will you, that’s the way it happens in God’s scheme of things, you have to reconcile and life must go on, Pandu” The priest tried to sound philosophical and apply some balm at his aggrieved jajamana.
“I wish it was like that ….. ji, it is not like …. is not as simple …. we …… cursed”, Pandu blurted out before relapsing to another episode of sobbing.
“Curse, did you say curse??? Why are you saying so???” the priest wished to know from Pandu.
“My father … working…… Nijam……. a diamond……”, Pandu went on in a low tone.
The priest was speechless for a moment and then said “Pandu, we know that your father had left village before Independence when you were a young boy. We often got to hear that he was working as a chaprasi at some king’s palace in a far off foreign land. And he had come back to village after independence.”
Shibanath was fully awake now but he chose to lie down and overheard the discussion. It sounded so full of suspense.
“Pandu, come to me and sit near me”, the priest called Pandu. Pandu obliged and sat near the priest and now Shibanath could see both of them clearly and hear them clearly even if the hammers hitting the chisels made a din.
OOOOOOOOOO
Then somber faced Pandu narrated the incidents by which his family came to possess a diamond:
The king had a vast collection of diamonds in the palace and he treated those diamonds like they were mounds of clay. He treated them as paper weights, toes of shoes, to break open nuts. Pandu’s father was a trusted aid to the palace officials and was working in innermost circle of palace, always around the king for taking orders. Once a gorra sahib named Jack from England came to see the King and presented him a big diamond. The king took it in his hand casually and looked at it indignantly, tossing it in his hand few times. His expression changed and in a fit of rage, tossed the diamond through the window. He gave Jack a tongue lashing threatening to call the palace guards to put him in jail. Jack was begging excuse of the king and promised to replace the small one with some specific bigger diamond and hurriedly left the palace fearing wrath of the king. Pandu’s father was the only one around the king at that time and he had immediately leaned out of the window to see where the diamond landed in the garden. After his duty at the palace was over, he came out of the security area and retrieved the diamond from the garden and kept it with him as he felt he was not stealing from the King, he was merely taking away something thrown away by the king. In any case the king treated those diamonds like they were dirt. Soon after the event India got independence and the king was embroiled with issues of annexing to India. Pandu left the job at the palace and came back to his village as he was suddenly afflicted with some strange infections.
Since last two years after his father’s return, they have been facing misfortune one after another till his father breathed his last. Pandu’s father called all family members and declared about the diamond and revealed to them that the diamond must be a cursed one and that is why Jack the gorra sahib had so unceremoniously fled from the King without even bothering to look for the thrown diamond. Pandu’s father advised Pandu to donate it to Baikuntheswar temple.
Pandu was surprised to see the diamond handed to him by his father and kept it with him. He had no time to brood over what to do with the diamond as his father was slowly sinking into coma. It was only after death of his father and funeral rituals over that Pandu got time to take out the diamond and check it leisurely. He was immediately over powered by the sparkling beauty and was in a dilemma. Should he follow his father’s advice and hand over the diamond to the temple, or to use it wisely to change their fortune by selling it to some wealthy jeweler in Sambalpur, the largest town and district head quarter about 3 hours by walk from his village?
He had temporarily forgotten that his father said it to be a cursed diamond. And he was to learn it in a bitter twist of events. He set out early in the morning and was on village Main Street when the ferocious ox of Baikuntheswar temple charged at him without any provocation and lifted him high up in air and he landed with a thud after making two somersaults in air. He suffered a bad sprain in the back. The ox had vanished from the place no sooner than he stood up. Taking this as a bad omen, Pandu limped back home, writhing in pain and remained in bed for over a week before recovering. Even during this week also something or other always bothered their family. It was then that he recalled his father’s dying words that the diamond might be a cursed one. He decided to hand it over to temple the first thing in the morning. That night he slept well.
OOOOOOOOOO
Shibanath now could see the excited priest ask Pandu, "So that brings you to me? Let me see the diamond.”
Pandu opened his turban and took out a shiny object and handed over it to the priest. Then he prostrated on floor of mukhasala in direction of the deity crying out in anguish, Jay Baba Baikuntheswar, please save me and my family baba, I have been punished by ….”
Shibanath was least interested to hear what Pandu was crying out before the deity. His attention was now focused on the priest who moved out from top of the steps he was sitting on and standing up he held the diamond against the sun. Shibanath’s eyes were blinded by the flash of the reflected sun rays, it was falling everywhere on the floor, on the roof, on the wall of the mukhasala and it was a myriad magical pattern of colors that played out on all surfaces as the priest rotated the diamond in his hand. The kaleidoscopic display of colors mesmerized Shibanath. So was probably the priest. “My god, it is huge”, Shibanath thought to himself seeing the size of the diamond.
Shibanath tried to read the priest’s mind. What might the priest be thinking? The priest looked everywhere including Shibanath who was still in his sleeping position. The two assistants were still at their chisel and hammer music on the granite. The priest quickly rolled up the diamond in his towel and came back to the top of the step he was sitting on. He called out at Pandu, but Pandu was not there. Pandu was nowhere to be seen as far as one could see. The priest looked closely at Shibanath to check if he was sound asleep and Shibanath could see a hint of satisfaction on face of the priest.
Shibanath woke up and stretched his legs and arms without looking at the priest. He took care not to show any hint on his face that he had seen everything and heard everything that priest and Pandu had exchanged.
He casually asked the priest “Pandit ji, did I sleep for a bit longer today? I must hurry up, else my work will not be finished”
The priest was a different man now, not like the one he had seen him to be during last months or so of his stay.
“You are a hard working craftsman and must take proper rest whenever you get a chance. There still is time for the sun to set, be happy and carry on your work” The priest said.
Deafening cry of someone screaming in terror shattered their indulgent talk.
OOOOOOOOOO
The priest looked in the direction of his quarter just behind the temple and scampered towards it. Shibanath and his two assistants were too startled by the alarming tone and they too ran to the priest’s house. They found the priest and his wife standing few steps apart, eyes wide in terror, trembling and looking at a retreating black snake into the bushes. All of them stood like statues for a while and then the priest moved to his wife and tried comforting her as she seemed like breaking down in trauma. Shibanath too was numbed by this sudden development and he was watching the priest eager to hear about the cursed diamond that was in his possession.
The priest ran back to the temple followed by Shibanath. His assistants had gone back to their work. For them the incident was absolutely normal as women usually reacted disproportionately at seeing snakes.
The priest went into the garbha griha of the temple and prostrated before the deity mumbling indecipherable mantras holding the diamond clutched in his fist. He remained in his prostrated condition for a long time and as he got up from the floor, Shibanath moved away and sat in a corner of the mukhasala.
When the priest came out from the sanctum sanctorum he was holding a small packet wrapped in red cloth. He was looking around and saw Shibanath sitting in the corner. He called Shibanath.
“Shibanath !!! Here, hold this” the priest told Shibanath and thrust into his palms a fistful of leaves of tulasi and bael taken from the offerings made to the deity. Shibanath obliged as he could sense a change in persona of the priest whose eyes looked red, face expressionless and free of any anxiety, worry, happiness and remorse.
“Shibanath, Baba Baikuntheswar is witnessing us and promise me in his name that you will never ever speak to anyone that you have either seen, heard or going to do now, to anyone, including your assistants, including your family, promise to me Shibanath” There was some strange force in the priest’s voice and Shibanath had no reason, no option not to agree to the proposal of the priest, even though he could vaguely apprehend the strange change in behavior of the priest.
“I promise in name of Baikuntheswar” Shibanath joined his hands in prayer looking at the deity in the temple holding the tulasi and bael leaves within his palms.
The priest handed him the small bundle and said “Take this bundle and don’t open it, don’t even try to feel what is inside, for it is none of your business to know what is inside it, this is a holy object that needs to rest at a holy abode, the task as wished by Sri Baikuntheswar is bestowed upon you Shibanath, put it inside the hole of the lion idol on the “Beki” of the temple, then seal it with the strongest concoction of cement that you can make, so that no one is able to know of its existence, no amount of rain should dislodge it from its place of rest, it is a holy command on you”
“I will do so Pandit ji” Shibanath said.
Shibanath then tied the small bundle in his waist, asked his assistants to make cement of lime and gur and other additives in specific measures. He found the priest standing on top of the steps keeping an eye on Shibanath, scrutinizing his moves. His eyes were glowing with a strange energy, almost similar to the flash of the diamond when it was held up against the sun, at least that is how Shibanath felt. When the cement was made, Shibanath took pieces of stone slabs and climbed the temple through the scaffoldings. When he reached at the top, he looked down and found the priest still looking at him standing at a vantage point of the premises.
The “Beki” of the temple is similar to the neck of human beings. In the Utkaliya temple architecture, it has four lions looking at four different directions placed on the manifold. Shibanath choose the lion statue that looked at the horizon with a gaping mouth with a crevice big enough to hold the bundle and also to hold a sealing stone slab. Shibanath was tempted to do exactly what the priest had forbidden but his past experience of one hour was too terrifying and he refrained from trying to feel it or to open it and see it. Moreover the priest was intently watching his every move. And finally what dissuaded him was the vow he had just taken.
Shibanath put the bundle inside the mouth of the lion and made a solid job of sealing it, as master craftsman, that was what he was specialist at, that was why he was sought after, and that’s what made these villagers of a remote place in Sambalpur district to seek him out from a distant land of Ganjam.
That night, as Shibanath woke up from bed and came out of his small cottage within the temple premises to attend call of nature, he found the priest sitting in padmasan and chanting some mantras. But he soon saw Shibanath and followed Shibanath as he went out of the temple and then came back into the temple. The priest kept his chanting on and motioned Shibanath to move into his cottage.
OOOOOOOOOO
Next morning the local Sarpanch visited the temple along with some villagers. A meeting was held in the premises and they stopped Shibanath from any further work. The meeting was about a declaration by the Government that the villages along with several hundred others are to be submerged as the much talked about dam across river Mahanadi would submerge these places. What was the point in undertaking repair of the temple if it has to be abandoned in a few days, or at best a year?
There was a murmur of dissenting voices among the villagers and one of them asked “Sarpanchbabu, we have been hearing this thing about Hirakud dam since many days, is it final?”
Before the Sarpanch could answers his question, there was one more voice, “Sarpanch ji, how can the government be so cruel to drive us away from our ancestor’s land, why should we be made the scapegoat? I don’t want this dam”
And a third villager who had tied his colorful handloom towel on his head, vented his frustration in an agitated tone, “Mahanadi is our mother and we the villagers, we the people of Samablpur are its children, it has never put us in danger, on the other hand it has made our lands fertile, why should the dam be built here? Dibakar Bhai, as Sarpanch, please go and speak to the Government, let them do it anywhere else and not here.”
And still one more wise sounding man stood up and silenced others, speaking at loudest of his voice, “I hear that they will take the current out from the water and only then let the water flow to farm lands. You please tell me, will it be able to nurture the crops as it used to before? If you remove the cream from milk, will it give you strength? Is the Government under impression that we villagers are idiots and know nothing?", the wise villager was huffing and puffing and gasping for breath after making this profound statement.
The Sarpanch folded his hands and said “my dear uncles, brothers, sons, friends, I am no different from you. I am as attached to this land as any of you. This land is our mother… our fathers, grand fathers, great grand fathers walked on this land, played on this land, toiled at the land, lived happily, enjoying abundantly the blessings of god, this land is our identity, our roots ….I have played on banks of Mahanadi as a child, spent enchanting evenings late into midnight in a moonlit night reflecting on vast expanses of its water……..”. The voice of Sarpanch was choked with emotion and he could barely speak a word. Shaking his head side to side, all he could do was to fall flat on the ground and kiss the ground, rolling on it, crying, smearing the mud all over his body, and screaming loudly “my motherland, my motherland”.
One villager followed him and fell flat on the muddy ground, then another and then all started rolling & wailing like children. The priest was no different; he was embracing a pillar of the temple and was crying in the loudest voice. Shibanath was moved to tears as he often had heard similar heart wrenching stories of displacement from his own village elders when a minor river dam was constructed at Rasulkonda, his native land.
The tragic spectacle could have gone for a much longer time but for appearance of revenue officials in a jeep. A loud speaker atop the jeep was blaring some announcement that became louder and louder till all villagers took notice of it and stopped in their act. The revenue officials in the jeep stopped at the temple and seeing the Sarpanch, they called him. The loud speaker kept blaring “Villagers of Kuinpur, the government is constructing Hirakud dam and your village will be submerged. The land has been acquired by the district administration. Suitable compensation shall be given to you on surrendering your land records. The Government will also make alternative arrangement to settle you all in new safe places……..”
The local official from the block said “Sarpanch babu, please prepare your people to come to revenue office with all their documents and submit for verification. We will be making list and paying compensation against documents of all lands we acquire, the Government is also providing many facilities that you shall know in coming days."
“We do not want any of that compensation. We are not going to sell out mother land, no, not at any cost. Go away and make your dam anywhere else. Why in our village?." Many villagers protested before the revenue officials venting their anger and frustration at the unwelcome project.
“Sarpanch babu, please explain to your people…,” the officials quickly left the place seeing the mood of the crowd.
After the revenue officials left the place and the villagers left one by one, Shibanath went to the Sarpanch and requested him to clear his dues for the works already done. The priest too supported him and asked the Sarpanch to make full payment even for the portions not completed as stopping the work was not the fault of Shibanath. The Sarpanch left the place promising to make the payment by the noon and left the place.
Shibanath left the village at crack of dawn next day. He had to take a long ride home, first by small sized boat to Subarnapur, and then change to a bigger sized passenger ferry to Cuttack and thereafter by train to his native district.
All through his journey, he was constantly thinking of the diamond, the Jack’s Diamond as Pandu had called it, its massive size, the flash of light, the sparkle, the kaleidoscopic patterns it made on temple roof and walls and how he came to hold the diamond in his hand, a diamond in his hand!!! It looked so implausible. He looked at his hands, the same hands that held a big diamond. He would have been lost in his thought but the memory of a black snake retreating into a bush with the priest’s wife’s eyes wide in terror spoiled the exhilarating remembrance. He decided not to think about the episode anymore and focus on his next assignment of restoring a dilapidated temple in Koraput. But the nagging thought of forgetting the diamond made him take out his note book where he kept measurements of works done by him. He drew a sketch of the temple, its location on banks of the river, the distance from nearby land marks, time taken to travel. Shibanath did all this discretely when his assistants were not around.
OOOOOOOOOO
Oceanic Sports Institute of Goa wore a festive look that day. It was the last day of the millennium and the stage was set up to felicitate successful SCUBA divers trained by the institute. A bollywood superstar was on stage calling out names of trained amateur scuba drivers and the last one on the list was the champion of the year. The announcement of name and introduction accompanied by loud music and applauded by the audience reverberated through the walls and ceiling of the huge auditorium.
“Now we present our medal to the highest scorer of the SCUBA diving Sri Romya Ranjan Maharana, a Mechanical Engineer from Jharsuguda. Romya is working in a steel plant there and apart from being a mechanical engineer he is an avid sculptor trained by none other than his legendary award winning father Shibanath Maharana. We are happy to honor him as best SCUBA diver of the institute. The auditorium was vibrating with applause of the audience.
OOOOOOOOOO
Romya looked at the ground below from his flight and the flight was just passing over the Hirakud dam. The Hirakud dam always was a passionate subject for him. His late father often told him fascinating stories of the longest dam of the world which displaced a large number of people, submerged a vast region where once existed many prosperous and thriving villages with a rich cultural history of arts, architecture, handlooms. Hundreds of temples were also submerged by the water of catchment.
He often heard a story from his father about village Kuinpur where a temple had a precious diamond hidden in a sculpture of a lion and how the diamond was a cursed one that spelled doom for all who wished to own it. He always believed the story to be an event blown out of proportion till his father handed him a sketch with graphic details of the village Kuinpur, the temple. His father was a master craftsman and had prepared a sketch which showed clearly a system of rivers and canals, the journey that his father took in multiple legs and on each occasion used boats of different sizes. But the map was not of much use now as all land marks were submerged under hundreds of feet of water.
Romya had always dismissed the story that the diamond was a cursed one. His father belonged to a generation where people believed in such superstitions. Now that his life was more or less settled and he had time to explore, he planned to make an attempt to retrieve the diamond. But he could not share this plan with anyone as he feared people may laugh at him for the seemingly cock n bull story, or they may back out due to the “Cursed Diamond” angle to it. So he planned to do it all alone. He had studied the map prepared by his father and had zeroed in on a specific location with its latitude and longitude coordinates. The other thing that he had initially lacked was skill to dive under water and he had joined a scuba diving training institute in Goa which he had completed with flying colors.
Romya hired a fishing boat from a villager on bank of the Hirakud catchment and made several trips deep into the huge reservoir using his GPS device. He spent about a year familiarizing with the skills needed to navigate in the reservoir and made several scuba diving trials in the waters. He had purchased an inflatable rubber boat with an OB motor to navigate quickly in the dam.
Finally he set out on a journey to accomplish his cherished mission to retrieve the Jack’s Diamond all alone. He sailed to the spot exactly over the village Kuinpur using his GPS and once there, he switched off his OB motor, drop an anchor to hold the boat in place. He quickly changed to diving gear and strapped all equipment he needed for his underwater expedition.
Spalsh!!! He had hit the water falling backwards and slowly sink, sink deep into the water. His Scuba could take him only about 90 feet below the surface of water he had chosen the month of may as the water level was at its lowest. He had two tanks of oxygen to last for about 50 minutes under water.
After surveying the area for painfully long minutes, he could finally see the dark profile of a massive underwater structure and his heart beats increased as this moment was something he had spent all his childhood, his youth listening to, dreaming about and secretly wish to visit not bothering about the caution the story was always narrated to him with.
He quickly flapped his legs and closed in to the structure. Yes, this was the temple he was searching for. He could see the tell tale features of his father’s sketch matching to the temple and now all he had to do was to search the inside of mouth of the lions. There were four of them and he had to choose the one that faced east. He had to quickly finish his mission as he had been under water for about 30 minutes and now that he was running high on adrenaline and was straining to navigate around the temple, he was using more oxygen than normal.
He approached one of the lion and found its head missing. May be sixty years of being under water has started showing its effect on the decrepit temple, he thought. He quickly swirled around to the next lion and found it intact. He put his hand on inside of the mouth and found it to be hollow and round in shape. His father had told him that after putting the diamond inside the mouth his father had sealed the crevice with a slab of stone and it should be flat.
He quickly moved to the next lion and found a deposit of silt on it. He was now breathing heavily and his oxygen was running on lowest. He had to very quickly finish the job or abort the mission and quickly surface. His depth meter was showing about 70 feet under water and that needed about three minutes to go up. Did he have that much oxygen? He was not sure. Should he abort he mission this time and try one more? He was in a dilemma. But grabbing the jack’s diamond was just a few feet away and he decided to take a risk, a calculated one. He cleared the silt by swiping it with his hands. Something struck hius hand and he held it and tried to dislodge it.
“My god, what’s this ? “ Romya thought to himself. He could not believe what he was holding in his now, a skeleton crouching over the lion. The skull came off the body and slowly very slowly sunk to the floor of the dam out of sight. His heart was pounding, He was immobilized with gripping fear, was the curse real, can a curse really exist? Was Jack’s diamond really cursed? His mind was working in overload. His oxygen was quickly being overused. He had 70 feet to surface to safety, and he needed two seconds to travel every feet up.
What should he do now, one try at the mouth of the lion? Or one push upward using his paddle?
Next morning the fishermen who made regular rounds of the dam found an abandoned rubber dinghy floating on the surface of Hirakud Dam.
OOOOOOOOOO The End OOOOOOOOOO
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
When THE ONE that breathed bloom into the budding rose
And put sweet into a stalk to make it sugarcane
Who put wings on the birds and honey into flowers
Breathed sentience into a bundle of elements
This me was born - through that, for that and to that return
After my tenure in the service of that Divine will.
And yet am not quite complete with me and only me
A single dot cannot all by itself be complete.
Only with That Universal Love, the elixir yarn
Weaving all the dots into a fabric divine
Does each dot find its place and purpose
In the universal space and time
Every dot has its significance
Remove one dot, there is a gaping hole
Redraw one, and the design is lost
Each in its due shape and assigned place
Special and unique like none other
In the exquisite cosmic design
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
One just can’t say no to kapi,
Especially when one has woken up
Quite grudgingly to a day already ear-marked
With prearranged assignments,
And so to the kitchen I head,
Light the stove, keep the milk to boil.
Now, milk, for that perfect kapi,
Must not be boiled on high flame,
My mother would say,
So I languish by the kitchen countertop,
Giving the liquid an occasional stir
And watching with disdain
The blue streaks dancing to a lethargic twirl,
When a playful branch of the mango tree just outside
Knocks at my second floor kitchen window.
My eyes, craving for a distraction
From the confines of the milk,
Heed to the tempting call—
After all, what harm can a moment’s inattention do?
So I look out to behold what can only be described
As a lively opera
By pirouetting squirrels and whirling leaves,
And the birds singing their songs to the music of the wind!
My eyes are gone not a minute
When a dismaying sound hisses a warning,
And before I can draw myself
Away from the fascination outside,
The milk has risen to boiling point, its angry white spills
Countering my clean kitchen top!
So, here I am, staring at it, deeply chagrined
At the thought of cleaning up an unwanted mess.
Shouldn’t the milk have known
That a poet’s mind works even when staring out of a window?
*kapi: coffee made the South Indian way, typically in Chennai
Vidya Shankar is a widely published Indian poet, writer, editor, yoga practitioner, mindful mandala artist, a “book” with the Human Library, member of well known poetry circles, and English teacher. She is the author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam, in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan, and The Rise of Yogamaya. A recipient of literary awards and recognitions, Vidya is the chief admin of the Facebook group, Kavya-Adisakrit, and one of the editors of Kavya-Adisakrit, an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House.
Can you keep this photograph safe?
See that it is not moth eaten, stained by time,
Browned into faded sepia,
brilliance lost, smile shadowed?
Yes, keep it locked in the memory chip
embedded deep within the heart
watched over by each pulse beat
Every breath giving life to lost love.
The never ending silence after the last adieu
Resounds in the depths of emptiness.
Roses flower in pale pink plethora
Overpowering the shabby green of weeds
She waits beside the slumbering tomb
Eternal lover, seeking the boon of rebirth.
Note: The Roseate Sonnet - A unique, experimental poetic form, the Roseate Sonnet was invented by Dr. A.V. Koshy, inspired by the symbol of the rose, that appears often in literature. The Sonnet comprises of two quatrains, then a couplet, then another quatrain. The last quatrain should be thus:the first line starting with R, the second with O, the third with S, the fourth with E, so that an acrostic is formed that reads as ROSE.
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
Myriad hues of blue
Keeping me cool true
I will always be me
As far as i can see
Finding reasons to smile
Although I have to go miles
Chasing the golden rays of sunshine
No time to whine
Can feel the shiver down my spine
However gloomy the weather might be
Will always brighten my pathway with glee
Pushing away melancholy
You are not here to stay.. generously
As I spread positive vibes
And uplift everyone from inside
No space for tears to hide
Let's sit alongside
The mysterious riverside
As we look into the rainbow skies
And pat our tears dry.
**Azul.... meaning blue in spanish.
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)
Smitha jumped with joy when she was informed that she was selected to be one of the inmates of 'The Big Boss House'.
Mummy, I just can't believe the news, I never even dreamt that I would be selected, she went on repeating herself.
Though I didn't want to dampen my daughter's spirits, I wished to warn her about the ordeal that was in store for her.
Smitha, you need to adjust a great deal with your housemates, who for all you know might be a cantankerous lot, out to bully you and make your life miserable during your stay at the House, I said.
Not to worry Mummy, just wait and see, I am sure I will come out a winner, which, besides giving me that important celebrity tag, will increase my bank balance as well, oh, I just can't imagine by how many millions! she assured me with her usual air of self-confidence.
As the days of her departure were drawing near, my fears only increased knowing my daughter's "capacity" to adjust. Whenever I expressed my doubts about her fate which depended upon total strangers constituting her fellow inmates, she brushed my words aside saying they were baseless. If my friend Shilpa could acquit herself, I am most certain I too can, was her attitude.
The preparations started in right earnest with the girl going on a shopping spree everyday for clothes, cosmetics, gifts, etc., and attending a few self-improvement courses, spending a fortune on them.
Finally, the day of her departure dawned and all of us in the family along with a few friends gave a grand send-off to an excited Smitha who appeared all set to contend with the worst of behaviours of fellow inmates of 'The Big Boss House'. Unfortunately, neither I nor Smitha herself had an inkling of who the other inmates were. The fact that I couldn't watch the show from here made my plight worse.
A few days passed, and I heard the phone ring, it was a long distance call. I was surprised to hear Smitha's voice. Even before I could say anything, Smitha began her tirade against one of the inmates. You know Mummy, that woman was hell-bent on torturing me from day one, finding fault with whatever I said or did. She used the choicest abusive language and tormented me 24/7. Thank God, at last I am happy to be relieved, she said.
But Smitha, it is not in you to take things lying down, how is that you have not given her back? I said.
By the way, how old is this woman who dared to abuse you and to which country does she belong? I asked.
Mummy, I had the shock of my life when I came face to face with her in the Big Boss House and I knew I would be the loser, said Smitha.
Who is she? I asked not able to bear the suspense any longer.
Can't you guess! Who else could this despicable woman be but my mother-in-law who manouvered herself and saw to it that she would remain in the House and I would be evicted, she said in contempt.
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.
Do you know why her
Tiny eyes gracefully sing a song?
Tender heart bells go ding-dong?
Bubbly gurgles flow all along?
Excitement throngs?
He gently touches her heartstrings,
Composing the rhythm of love,
Her joybuds sprouts unfolding its wings,
Up from her eyes,cheerful lyrics springs.
Sweet notes from her cascades,
Soaking his heart in happiness.
He wishes her joyful chimes gently vibrate,
And performs the LOVE concert,again and again.
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.
Down along the sequestered vale
Amidst tyrannous wind and gale
I find myself lost forever
In the tortuous treacherous river.
In the immortal waters of the stream
My perennial perils howl and scream,
No one seems to hear my pain
Except mighty rocks and rain.
Gradually grow I - insensitive to all my fears,
The torrential rain veils my salty tears.
Bound by no reason, no mind
I drift along the river, my eyes blind.
Swallowed by misery and helplessness,
I tread along the path to sheer nothingness.
Ms Akankshya Kar primarily works as a sales trader in the Indian debt market with a reputed Primary Dealer. After completing her B.A(H) in Economics from Miranda House( University of Delhi), she did her PGDM(Banking and Finance) from National Institute of Bank Management, Pune. She has been extremely passionate about poems as a genre and has been writing for a long time now. Some of her poems have been published in the refereed international Journal, the Contemporary Vibes and have been discussed at international forums as well. She is also a trained Indian classical singer and a professionally trained belly dancer.
IN A MOMENTARY FRENZIED MOOD...
On one hand a metaphor,
On the other hand an acrostic,
A poet's selection of words becomes tough,
Beginning with a meaningful drive,
Ending with those aesthetics,
A poetic knot at every joint,
To explain & elaborate words to point,
Pointing to the reader's thought,
To catch a glimpse of his mind,
Unassumingly the euphoric catapult,
Visiting the astral plains to harvest,
Harvest heavenly thoughts ,
To impress the reader to jolt,
Extempore creation of thoughts,
To behold the reader for a moment,
Reader's caustic eye a climax to note,
A deep feeling of cascading appetite,
Holds the heart for a tiny moment,
In momentary frenzy write what not,
Flamingos on trail,
Looking like divine angels,
The fleet's wonderful habitat,
Swimming, walking & flying like bats,
Flying miles & miles in winter,
Visit the far away eastern hemisphere,
Warmth, comfort & hunger,
Brings them to the beautiful laje's amber,
Relish , relax , enjoy & breed,
Populate the fleet with new birds,
Nature's enigmatic ways,
Baffling views at the bays,
From far away Siberian Region,
The incredible journey of the crane's,
Mesmerises the human wisdom,
Measuring the values of life in a poem,
With onset of winter,
To escape the sub-zero temperatures,
.
Fly to a safer & warmer destination,
Amazing calculus of nature's manifestations,
Sri Akshaya Kumar Das is poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. He is the author of "The Dew Drops" (available with amazon/flipkart/snapdeal) published by Partridge India in the year 2016. Sri Das is an internationally acknowledged author with number of his poems published in India & abroad by Ardus Publication, Canada. Sri Das has been conferred with "Ambassador of Humanity" award by Hafrican Prince Art World, Ghana. Sri Das had organised an Intenational Poetry Festival in the year 2017 under the aegis of Feelings International Artist's Society of Dr. Armeli Quezon at Bhubaneswar. Sri Das is presently working as an Admin for many poetry groups in Face Book including FIAS & Poemariam Group headed by Dr.N.K.Sharma. Recipient of many awards for his contribution to English literature & world peace, he organises a fortnightly P.R.O.P. for promotion of budding & aspiring poets & authors in Poemariam Poetry Page. A featured poet of Pentasi B Group, Sri Das, a retired Insurance Manager resides at Bhubaneswar.
Astride the great wheel,
rotate and rotate,
can't descend at my will, I wait for your grace.
Dualities spread their wings, nibble at the core,
can't rise above the fulcrum,
seemingly content.
Sometimes, clouds burst at your will, rains fall, material
gains come of own accord,
grateful I am.
Pleasure and pains float in the air, creep inside,
never question your judgement. Why should I envy others?
Yet get distracted by virus, insects, no devotee I am,
always bound by action,
success and failure hound me.
They blame me a lot for my vibes.
Let them.
Who succeeds in this world
bereft of your blessings?
As I perform little worthwhile,
seek your benedictions
so long as the body revolves.
everything as per your will.
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..
It is so tough to explain to oneself.
The moon so familiar and friendly
does not heed our calculations nor
swoons to the strains of the violin or
the magic of the painting brush.
After the pall-bearers leave heaving
the burden to a known destination
they come and sit on the verandah
and weigh pain and pleasure and talk
about the cruel gaze of malefic planets.
Friendly voices reach the shadowy
corner to caress the fresh wound .
The bouquet of flowers looks on
uninterested lying on the table
and nods as if they know everything.
Humid air teases the crotons
on the traffic island floating in
the daily fume and furore .
Voices around the receding peak
of the pyre merge with traffic noise.
Their footfalls soon walk in to
the lake of the dark night as
the wind rushes in to turn
the pages of the calendar.
Days and months march on
in a disciplined caravan to
merciless beyond as before.
Sometimes, though, my mother
with tears in her eyes grieves
for her son who died an infant
even as me and other siblings
prance and frolic before her eyes
in the moonlit night in the courtyard.
Somewhere a flame leaps in to view.
It is tough to explain to oneself
how cool breeze running over
the rigid entrails of a broken violin
extracts a mournful tune
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.
Life bounces back
In its normal course
When time is spent
To have a look in retrospect
Of a destined rocketing rise
Or menacing meteoric fall.
Love rebinds, recoils
After every shock
Suffered by a battered
Baffled, beleaguered soul.
The moon in her bridal gait
Smiles behind her cloudy veil
After a tedious smoky crawl
In the canopy of the sky
Stretching endlessly over
With changing colors to charm all.
Oozing wounds heal
Time puts the balm
With the patience of my mother
And my indifferent grandpa’s calm
To avoid granny’s routine tantrum
All misfortunes gently turn
Into boring chapters of history
Bouts of epidemics, disastrous spell
Pass like dead leaves in wind gale.
Civilizations stumble to rise
With throbbing new challenges
Shifting the mast of dreary thought
With promising new possibilities.
A self-sung song of confidence
A tuning of moral matters
To put shattered hopes together
As a hook to gather
The diffused life forces all
Heralding a phase anew
Sans anticipation of any fall.
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
We left for Paris by Eurostar high-speed train (bullet train) from St. Pancras International Railway station, London at about 10. 25 am in April some years ago. Eurostar was a high-speed train running from London to Paris passing 246 feet under the English Channel. It traveled via Channel Tunnel (Chunnel). The speed of the train was 186 miles (300 kilometers) per hour. Rail distance from London to Paris was 213 miles. Travel time was around 3 hours 20 minutes (approx) due to some halts. This was our first time traveling in a bullet train. (Bullet train was / is not available in India.) The journey was pleasant and thrilling. The landscape, weather and lush green corn fields were spectacular. We were happy to have a new captivating experience.
Distance between St.Pancras International Station to Channel Tunnel was around 80 miles. While going, we were enjoying sightseeing. The train journey was so smooth that we could not know when we reached the Channel Tunnel. It is also called Chunnel. It is under the English Channel, an arm of the Atlantic Ocean. The Chunnel is 31.5 miles (50.45 km) out of which 23.5 miles (37. 90 km) is under the Channel. It is the World's longest undersea tunnel. The Chunnel completed in 1993 and Eurostar services started in November 1994. In the Chunnel there are three separate tunnels: one train tunnel from the United Kingdom to France, another from France to the UK and one service tunnel. They are running parallel to each other. The Channel Tunnel was drilled 246 feet (maximum) below the seabed. Around 1300 skilled workers, engineers and technocrats were engaged for 6 years for building the Chunnel at a cost of 4.65 billion pounds (at that time). It is an engineering and technological marvel and spectacular achievement. Its beauty, lighting, architectural design and air-conditioning are marvelous and unique. We enjoyed Chunnel's breathtaking splendors.
Our Chunnel journey under the English Channel took around 35 minutes.
After our journey under the English Channel, our train was traveling in France. We were captivated by the green landscape of the countryside. The weather was fine. The sky was sunny. The climate was mild and moderate. We were enamoured by the natural ambience.
We reached Paris at about 1.45 pm in the afternoon. My French friend received us. I had a friendly relationship with him while he was working in India in an international company. He was transferred to Paris and left India. Many times he had called me to go to Paris to enjoy French way of life. Our pleasure trip gave me a chance to meet him. He took us to his home. I thanked for his reception and came to a hotel near his home for our accommodation. Everything was arranged by him. My friends were overwhelmed by her French style of hospitality.
On the way we came across a majestic gate. We asked about it.
He told us - 'It is 'Arc de Triomphe', one of the best-known commemorative monuments of France. This gate was built by Napoleon Bonaparte to celebrate his victory at the Battle of Austerlitz. It is the symbol of French national identity and a mark of honour to the soldiers who fought wars under the leadership of Napoleon, the Great.'
We asked him - 'As we know, the height of Napoleon Bonaparte was around 5 feet. How could he be a great warrior of world repute with such a short stature ?'
He said - ' You have got wrong information due to false propaganda created by the British and other countries who were enemies and jealous of Napoleon. As a military tactic, he was surrounded by tall soldiers. So he was looking short statured comparatively. Another factor, at the time of death, his height was recorded in French inches which was little bigger than English inches. He was not so short. His actual height was 5 feet 6 inches, the normal height of man.'
I told him - 'He was famous for his cunningness and tyranny. He attacked so many countries and was defeated at last by the Allied army of Great Britain, Prussia, Sweden, Austria in 1814 and sent to Elba island. He escaped cunningly. Again he was vanquished by the coalition army at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 and exiled by the British to Saint Helena island, where he died after 6 years of agony, at an early age of 51 (1769-1821). So how can you call him great?'
He said- 'I was working in your country for five years and know the history of Ashoka.Tell me - Why do you call him Ashoka, the Great ? As I know - He had also killed his brothers and so many people and kings. For his killings and tyranny he was also called 'Chandashoka'. Yet, he is Ashoka, the Great.'
I told him- 'Ashoka, the Great was never defeated in any war in his lifetime. After outstanding victory in the Battle of Kalinga, he renounced war, preached Buddhism and Nonviolence (Ahimsa) to the people of the World.'
He said - 'Ashoka's war was limited to Indian subcontinent only. But Napoleon conquered countries from Europe to Asia. Though defeated finally, he is widely considered one of the greatest military generals of the World. His greatness lies in propagating and implementing fundamental liberal policies in France and Western Europe and the World. Napoleonic Code is a brilliant document on meritocracy, equality before law, property rights, religious tolerance, modern secular education, etc. He had a great contribution to the French Revolution,1789 which had tremendous effects on World politics and economy. Napoleon, the Great was born out of the French Revolution.
Both Ashoka and Napoleon rose to the highest power on their own strength and valor. The only difference between them is that Ashoka expired peacefully but Napoleon died in despair. None could see him weeping in agony in St.Helena island in his last days. Let's leave the disputed debate. However, I cannot outwit you my Indian friends who sent the British to Great Britain lock, stock and barrel without fighting a single war. Thanks to your cunningness'.
Amidst funny talks, we reached our hotel. After rest and refreshment, we roamed around in the afternoon and evening to have an idea of the city. Paris is the capital of France and the seat of government. Its area is about 42 square miles (105 square kilometers) with a population of around 21 lakhs. It is the global center of art, fashion and culture as well as Europe's center of diplomacy, commerce, finance. France is about 6 times smaller than India. Its population is around 6.7 crores. It has 4 seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. The Spring (March 21 to June 20) is the best time to visit France when beautiful flowers bloom and green leaves cover the trees in the gardens, fields and woods.
The Seine River meanders through the center of Paris. The city's landmarks are on its banks. While cruising on its slow-paced water, the glimpses of magnificent buildings, structures, gardens, cityscape and cheerful people overwhelmed us. The Seine is the most romantic river of the World. Without the Eiffel Tower, Paris was existing. But without the Seine there was / is no Paris. The Seine is the heart of Paris. Its stone-paved sidewalks attract tourists.
Next day we visited the majestic Versailles Palace and its iconic gardens, the UNESCO World Heritage Site and the erstwhile seat of French royalty. It is 12 miles away from the center of Paris. The Palace is a stunning example of French art and architecture. It was built, transformed, expanded and used by French emperors Louis XIV, Louis XV and Louis XVI in the 17th and 18th centuries. Its beautiful paintings, sculptures and architectures are unique in design and decoration. It is adorned with gold, crystal and gems. The moniker of the 'Sun King' comes from the portrayal of the king as the Sun that shines over all.
The 800 hectares of Gardens of Versailles are incredibly beautiful with rare flowers, lawns, fountains and greenery. The grandeur of gardens is spectacular in appeal to the tourists and honeymooners of the World.
One of the factors for shifting the government and palace from Paris to Versailles was to keep the king's residence away from people's resentment and unrest which brought a dramatic decline of the image of the king and the palace. The plight of people turned into the bloody French Revolution,1789 and king Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette were brought to Paris and beheaded by the rebellious people of France. Napoleon rose to power and became the monarch of France from 1804 to 1814.
After enjoying the palace and gardens, we were glad to have a royal dinner at a famous restaurant in Versailles.
Next day we were busy traveling in Paris. We visited iconic landmarks such as Sainte-Chaplle, Notre Dame Cathedral , Louvre Museum, Paris Museum of Modern Art, Wall of Love, etc. Around 30 million tourists visit Paris annually to enjoy its art and architecture. A walk down the stone-paved sidewalks gave us a thrilling experience.
Paris is the romantic city of the World. It is renowned for its friendly behavior. Intimacy is considered honest and pure, It is a beautiful place for culture and tourism.
We reached the iconic and World famous Eiffel Tower in the late afternoon. The ambience was loving. The weather was romantic. The spectacle of Eiffel Tower in the reddish-yellow sunshine was mind-blowing. The natural scenic beauty was fascinating.
The Eiffel Tower is one of the seven wonders of the World and named after its builder Gustave Eiffel. Its ground surface area is around 15,625 square meters, height is 1063 feet. It has four pillars, three floors and five lifts. The 1st, 2nd, 3rd floor are at 187 feet, 377 feet, 906 feet respectively. Its cost was 1.5 million dollars in 1889. Officially, it was built by Gustave Eiffel in 1889 to celebrate the 100th anniversary of French Revolution,1789. Its construction in 2 years 2 months 5 days was a veritable technical and architectural achievement. It is a wrought-iron lattice tower. It is situated on the Seine River near Notre Dame Cathedral and Champ de Mars public park.
When the Sun set and darkness began to cover the city, the lights awakened. We were amazed and dazzled to view the twinkling lights of Eiffel Tower. It shines, sparkles and can be seen from dozens of miles away. The beautiful golden 'Iron Lady ' not only stuns the tourists but also sparks the imagination of the World. Lest we forget its heavenly beauty, we captured its appearance on our selfie.
We went up to the first and second floors to feel its majesty and scenic spectacle of the Seine River and Paris city at night. Its surrounding parks grabbed our attention. The entire area is a paradise on Earth.
Being amazed by the breathtaking view, we asked about its background story.
My French friend told us - 'Gustave Eiffel and his wife were living happily in Paris. Mrs Eiffel fell seriously ill. Doctors advised that only fresh air can save her. Being a brilliant engineer of great repute, Gustave Eiffel took the matter into his own hands and built the tower that touched the clouds of sky to provide fresh air to his beloved ill wife to restore her health. They are no more now. But the love between Mr and Mrs Eiffel created the 'Tower of Love'. Ever since, it has been one of the most attractions of tourists of the World. Thousands of marriage proposals and marriages are made under the Eiffel Tower every year.
I thanked my French friend for his hospitality. He was our friend, philosopher and guide in Paris. He is the symbol of International friendship.
Next day we left for Switzerland with the sweet memory of my French friend, the City of Paris, Versailles Palace and Eiffel Tower.
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.
Subheccha Biswal and Subrat Pattnaik
I woke up
In the middle of the night
Fighting with my dreams,
Which keeps me awake all through the night.
I pulled my chair & sat by the window.
I gazed at the empty road
that was buzzing just a few hours before.
I could feel the silence in me,
But I wanted to bluster to reach out world.
World is quiet at night
Everything stop for a while
I looked up to streetlights
Willing to thank them
For showing love to mankind.
I felt my scars differently, lost in thoughts facing the crowded street...
It wasn't just a empty road at night.....
The silent breeze & the empty street pouring their tales,
Some with noise of crowd & some voids of a quiet wilderness...
It wasn't just emptiness...
For I could my feel flaws being understood.
I woke up in the middle of night looking out of the window....
It wasn't just an empty road.
Subhechha & Subrat are aspiring writer friends having staple ideologies & goals.
Being writers they take hands to express the odds and evens that comes up with life experiences. They approach & admire connecting with people sharing their own stories and life experiences Which remains underneath for the world.
In coming times they look forward to positive changes reaching out to people & connecting better through their writings & ideas.
Subhechha is currently pursuing B.Sc.Agriculture and subrat recently completed his B.Tech in computer science, now working at Infosys.
When summer softens its rage,
Birds twitter summoning a change,
And leaves begin to turn orange,
Queen Autumn enters the stage.
Soothing breeze and light rain,
Clouds over the dead terrain,
Oak orchards adorned in crimson,
Herald the onset of Miss Season.
Sunshine playing an artist,
Reflects on the morning dew,
Spreads around a golden carpet,
Paints the sky in rosy hue.
Birds start the rock band,
Playing their own music,
Leaves dance all around,
Making the scene look classic.
Little children on the meadows,
Play with the scattered leaves,
Garnished with diverse colours,
Shed by the Maple trees.
Unique in its own flavour,
Autumn comes once in a year,
Spreads out amusing wonder,
With its matchless splendour.
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
KOLAMS---CONNECTING DOTS--CONNECTING HEARTS—CONNECTING CULTURES
It was evening, about 6 pm and the bell rang. I found an excited Hanil at the door and he said, “Bhaiya and Bhabhi are coming tomorrow very early morning’. Ninad and Mudra were to return from their honeymoon from Kerala. Hanil and his elder brother Ninad, had recently shifted to my next door house and a fortnight back, we attended Ninad’s marriage. My excitement ran high. It would be Mudra’s first visit to the sasural---and I wanted to have a traditional welcome for them. Her in-laws were at Bharuch and I was keen that the young couple start their long journey of togetherness traditionally and auspiciously without missing the elders of their family. A Tamilian Griha Pravesham would be ideal and memorable, indeed! Late night, I got a floral thoranam for the door, got the Aarati thambalam ready. No Tamilian event, auspicious one at that, can be complete without the very decorative Makolam! So I made an elaborate kolam with wet rice paste at their doorstep and decorated it with Kavi---paste of red soil, called Gheru. All my efforts were worth it when I saw both Ninad and his young bride standing on the Kolam, beaming with Joy and surprise at being welcomed by a strange old lady, at the Bhrama muhurtam time of the day!!!! I had remembered to set the Nadaswaram ( Shehenai of the South) tape ready. The traditional welcome broke the ice as it were—a special bond was streamed, a new relationship unfurled, to continue to grow intense and strong!!!!!
That was 4 years back. And as I was standing and watching Mudra decorating the Drawing room I remembered their Gruha Pravesham day! It was almost 11 o clock at night and the next day, their little princess Vedika would turn One. I was impatiently waiting for Mudra to call it a day. Impatiently of course, as I was waiting with the ground rice paste to make the Makolam again at their doorstep. Again as a surprise! The next day early morning I was having my morning cuppa and reading the paper. Got rattled a bit by the bear hug and the fast breathless chatter of Mudra----- “Ohh Auntie, what a surprise, when did you make the kolam, it is so beautiful as always—what a nice way to start my little one’s birthday celebrations!!” She was talking and crying—was so moved by the simple kolam.
I sit today recalling those memorable moments of bon homie, melting hearts and the birth of unconditioned love and bonding. I wonder how those rice flour patterns of symmetry and precision helped to break the unfamiliarity and awe of a new relationship, to foster the warmth and affection between the persons of two generations. Ninad is fascinated by the Kolams. He peeps in to my front yard daily before he leaves for the office. I sometimes find him near the kolam trying to fathom the origin and end of the lines-- we call them kambis and the dots as pullis – weaving a design around the dots. Actually during these days of isolation, he inspires me to continue adorning my front yard with different complex and complicated patterns of Kolams. When he has the time to stop, pause and ponder, I explain to him the history, significance and tradition behind these free hand drawings.
Discussion on kolams with Ninad, bring to my mind a barrage of childhood memories. From waking up each day to the sonorous chants of Vedic and Tamil hymns to having my hot tumbler of Filter coffee, watching my mother or my elder sister draw fresh kolams in front of my house, our weekly oil baths, and adorning the hair with fragrant jasmines is all so fully Tamil to me. Tamil is not just a language for me, it is a way of life, upbringing, culture!!
Kolams are a part and parcel of everyday life for Tamilians. Drawing these beautiful patterns every day symbolises the celebration of life, giving a positive start to the day. ‘Kolams’ are believed to help channelize positive energies into one’s homes and workplaces, while destroying negative energies at the same time. It has a cleansing and calming effect on the mind and body of the woman, who is then ready to face the rigours of the day ahead.
Kolam, which means “ general appearence” in Tamil, is drawn during traditional festivities as ornamental or ceremonial design. The tradition of drawing kolam is believed to have originated about 5,000 years ago, during the pre-Aryan period. Traditionally, various motifs were drawn on the floor using the rice powder, enabling ants, little insects and birds to feed on it, thus welcoming other beings into one's home and everyday life: a daily tribute to harmonious co-existence and ethos of oneness with nature. The basic essence behind this artistic ritual is the human instinct to beautify and add aesthetic value to one’s space of living. Thus, the kolam has two functions − religious and ornamental.
According to one of the stories found in the ‘Puranas’, it is believed that Goddess Lakshmi resides in homes that are clean, have clean entrances purified with cow-dung and decorated with beautiful ‘kolams’.
Most visitors to Tamil Nadu are struck by the ubiquity of designs made of white rice powder newly made each morning on the ground outside of homes, even shops and temples. They are called kolams. Kolams are regionally known by different names in India, Rangoli in Maharashtra, Aripan in Mithila, Hase and Rangoli in Kannada in Karnataka, Muggulu in Andhra Pradesh and Telangana, Alpana in Bengal.
Every morning in Tamil Nadu, even as the first rays of the Sun start colouring the sky at the break of dawn, millions of women draw kolams on the ground with white rice flour. Through the day, the drawings get walked on, washed out in the rain, or blown around in the wind; new ones are made the next day. Every morning before sunrise, the front yard of the house is cleaned with water and the muddy floor swept well to create an even surface. The cow dung is mixed with water to sprinkle on muddy front yards of the houses in villages. Generally, cow dung is believed to have antiseptic properties and hence provides a literal threshold of protection for the home. The benefit of this use of this antiseptic is much discussed these days as a regular practice for prevention as a better option. It also provides contrast to the white powder drawings.
For me and many women there is a cultural imperative to put a kolam outside our homes everyday. The first thing that an outsider assumes is that proficiency in kolams might be accompanied by an affinity for mathematics. In contrast, there is no doubt that for most Tamilian women, who put them, kolams are not considered to be mathematical objects but the main skills involved are hand-eye coordination and memorisation. In the event of a death in the family, the ‘kolam’ is not drawn during the period of mourning. During the festival of Onam in Kerala, it is traditional to make ‘kolams’ with flower petals and these are called ‘pookolams’.
Pulli, padi, chikku. Dots, lines, curves. –main elements of kolams
Pulli The simplest form of the kolam is the pulli kolam or “dotted kolam”. Dots of rice flour are placed in a grid-like framework, which are then joined to take the form of symmetrical shapes. Symmetry is of key importance to the kolam artist. Generally the importance of the array of pulli is not understood, focusing instead on the beauty and complexity of the designs formed by the kambi or lines. However, for the women who make them, the pulli, and the structure they provide, are paramount. In simple words I would remark, “if the dots aren’t right, the kolam won’t be right”.
The kolam is usually done by women and apart from training her to be a good housekeeper, kolam drawing also serves to fulfil physical and creative aims. Apart from inhaling the crisp and fresh morning air while stepping out to draw ‘kolams’, this activity has health benefits as well. As women are constantly bending down and straightening up as they make these patterns, it helps strengthen their backs and avoid back pains. Not a surprise then that women of yore never thought of visiting a gym!
Besides geometrical shapes, the kolam incorporates natural motifs like animals, fruit, flowers, and conches. Occasionally, a full-fledged peacock, parrot or lotus are etched freehand.
Besides rice flour, other ingredients used include flowers, beads, grains, lentils, shells, saw-dust, fruits and vegetables. While vegetables and sugarcanes are popular symbols drawn during Pongal, the “Harvest Festival”, lamps would be the popular design for Deepavali. A water jar (kumbha) topped with mango leaves and coconut will be portrayed in wedding kolams.
The kolam patterns are drawn deftly by women with the tips of their fingers using pinches of flour held between the thumb and the first finger and letting the powder fall in a continuous line by moving the hand in desired directions . The patterns of lines and curves are based on a grid of pullis (dots) that are encircled, looped or joined using straight or curved lines. The process involves concentration, memory and a series of disciplined hand and body movements.
Padi Kolams-----For special occasions to make the k?lam hold longer, the rice flour is made wet by adding water. A small cloth piece folded over (or a paper towel) is dipped into the liquid rice paste and placed between the thumb, the forefinger, and the middle finger and pressed until drops of wet white rice flour pours through the front end of the three fingers, the rice flour spreads evenly on the ground in a smooth, continuous, flowing manner so that the shapes appear smooth and evenly drawn.
These semi-permanent k?lams are called M?k?lam. Generally, Makolams are drawn on special occasions and in front of the main puja place at home. Padi kolams are kolams with out the dots but using lines as the main feature. Basic squares are formed with lines and lotuses are drawn to add to the religious aspect .
I had learnt drawing kolam by watching my sister making them. I think the speed with which she completed a kolam, big or simple inspired me to observe and learn drawing them. I draw them daily and my maid and the cook say they like to start their work enjoying the different kolams. In fact my maid would give me the mavu container ordering me after she gets the front yard ready!!! Truely, I have experienced many times that the kolams not only unfurl new friendships but bridge the gaps between different cultural ethos. I feel sheer joy and fulfilment whenever I am asked to decorate the front of our colony’s Ganesh pandal , with Makolam. That is an annual feature in our celebrations and provides for a lively opener for conversations. Most of the time I volunteer to decorate the venue of the festivities with kolams. Like at the wedding of my grand daughter, Niharika last year. She is a great admirer of my kolams. She comes out with making free hand rangolis instead, the architect that she is! The occasion was a sangam of rituals from different States of India. Real national integration indeed! Niharika is a Maharashtrian-Tamilaian daughter and married the young handsome Soumitra, son of Marwar! We had tried to integrate the rituals from both the sides—a Kashi Yatra and Unjal(Swing) ceremony from Tamil Nadu attracted quite a few surprised and admired comments. The bridegroom is requested to postpone his trip to Kashi and pursue Grihastashrama dharma by marrying and settling down in life. They are felicitated at the Decorated Swing and ladies sing invoking the blessings of the lords of the eight directions. I had drawn a huge Makolam at the front of the florally decorated Swing. Yes, the discussion on the kolam broke the ice and brought the guests from both the sides closer and together. Last month I had taken the rice paste to adorn the front veranda of my dear friend with makolam on the occasion of her father-in-law’s 85th birthday. There are no words to describe the happiness that the simple kolam brought to the family members who felt the kolam completed the celebration.
Hanil, Ninad’s brother has chosen his wife to be and they would soon tie their knots to start a new joyful life ahead. His kolam crazy neighbour is waiting to welcome his bride Kruti with full Tamilian Gruha Pravesham—Makolam and all!!
Kolams do take a shape by connecting the “pullis” No wonder these very beautiful creative activity go a long way to connect the hearts and the diverse cultures of our country!!!
Revathi has a wide range of experience of 40 years, in the field of Education. As the Principal of an upcoming school, she introduced many innovative methodologies in the teaching-learning process and co-curricular activities. Many new ideas were introduced much ahead of other schools in the city. Under her tenure the school progressed and grew in to one of the few best academically and administratively managed schools in the city. Was instrumental in getting the ISO certification for the school, the first in Gujarat. She regularly conducts workshops on relevant subjects for teachers and parents in schools in different parts of India.
As the founder director of STRATEGIES & SOLUTIONS, a training group, she regularly conducts Teacher Evaluation Programmes and School Enrichment programmes.
Revathi is a member of Associate Inspectors for the Indian Schools in Dubai since 2009, under Dubai School Inspection Bureau, a wing of Knowledge and Human Development Authority, Govt of Dubai.
In 2004, she was awarded the Life Time Achievement Award by Nalanda Knowledge Foundation, India.
In 2020, she was awarded the Veteran’s Award by Open Page Educators’ Award, Gujarat.
Revathi was selected to represent India at the iEARN-CIVICS Workshop and Training in using technology, held in New York in May, 2003.
I am that neglected word
hanging in a suspended conversation,
eager to come out
and light up your mind
groping for some meaning
on how life treated you
trampling on your happy smiles
and selling your tears in the market
in the form of sad poems.
I look at you peeping
into your heart to see
if the embers are still on,
if music still plays its soulful tune.
I am the one offering my hand to you,
inviting you to come with me,
we will climb the steps together
picking up on the way
the shattered pieces
of the unfinished conversation
hanging in the still air.
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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