Literary Vibes - Edition XCIII
(Title - Serene I Flow - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
On Wednesday the 4th November, I was seized by a great song of the past. It is from a movie "Phir Subah Hogi" made in 1958, starring Raj Kapoor and Mala Sinha. Sahir Ludhianvi was the lyricist and the timeless song was rendered by Mukesh under the music direction of Khayaam - all of them immortal names of Hindi cinema. I have attempted a rough translation of a few stanzas of this song of hope:
WAITING FOR THE DAWN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
That dawn shall come someday,
Someday it will happen,
The dawn shall come,
When from the dark face of the ages
The veil of blackness shall be stripped,
When the clouds of sorrow will melt,
The ocean of joy will erupt,
The sky will dance in rapture,
And the earth will break into songs of hope,
Some day the dawn shall come,
And the light will shine.
It's the long-awaited dawn, for which
We live as we die everyday,
For whose ambrosia's melody,
We sip poison everyday.
And we wait for the time
When destiny will smile
On our famished, parched souls.
Someday the dawn shall come,
And the light will shine.
Let's accept the present
When our dreams have no worth,
But why wallow in despair
when man himself has become valueless,
Much worse than the soil he stands upon.
We wait for the dawn
When our dignity
Will not be weighed by fake coins,
Someday that dawn shall come,
And the light will shine
The dawn shall come
When women's honour
Will not be sold for money,
Love will not be trampled,
Humility will not be bartered,
And the world will hang
Its head in shame
For all its black deeds.
Someday the dawn shall come
And the light will shine.
The dark time will end some time
These days of hunger and joblessness
Will be a thing of the past,
Riches will no more be worshipped,
The false idols will crumble,
And a foundation will be laid
For a new, wonderful world.
Someday that dawn shall come,
And the light will shine.
The time will come
When the tottering old age
Will stop raising dust on helpless paths,
Innocent childhood will not
Beg on pitiless streets
And the just will not be silenced
By the muzzle of death.
The dawn shall come some day
And the light will shine.
Please access the 93rd edition of the LiteraryVibes at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/354
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Take care and stay safe.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE WOUND
02) Haraprasad Das
THE PRISONER BANDI
03) Geetha Nair G
ANARKALI TO AKBAR
04) Dilip Mohapatra
FESTIVE TIMES
05) Bibhu Padhi
CROSSING OVER
06) Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
APROPOS
07) Ishwar Pati
COPY RIGHT
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 15: KERALA MY FOSTER MOTHER
09) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
TAIL LAMPS
10) Madhumathi. H
THE UNHEARD MOON...
SILHOUETTES'S MIRROR...
11) Sunil Biswal
SKYLAB IS FALLING
12) S. Sundar Rajan
LOCKDOWN RELATIONSHIPS
13) Padmini Janardhanan
WAIT. NOT QUITE YET
14) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
ME - A TERRORIST?
15) Ravi Ranganathan
INTERFACE
16) Abani Udgata
WINTER
17) Pradeep Rath
A COOL SOJOURN IN WOODS AND VALES
18) Kamar Sultana Sheik
THE DEMONS
19) Babitha George
SOUL TREE
20 )Mihir Kumar Mishra
A WISH
21) Revathi Shankar
AVIAL AT HOME / AVIAL: A MELTING POT OF TASTE, CULTURE, FRIENDSHIPS
22) Ashok Kumar Ray
SWISS TAX HAVEN VS HEAVEN
23) Subhechha Biswal & Subrat Pattnaik.
INTO THE UNKNOWN!
24) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WHEN WATER SEEPED INTO MY MIND
THE LETTER
One may not see it
but it’s there alright,
numb in sedation,
coaxed to a whisper
and on odd evenings,
smarting in full ugliness.
The cacti on the edge of a desert,
growing all the time but silent,
the cancerous city’s slums
where life is an animal.
Often late night is a mist
the clock ticks an enemy sepoy’s monologue,
unlatched doors of the house
moan back and forth on unoiled hinges
by the hands of a faltering breeze;
then the wound demands food.
Its hunger is whetted as it gorges
on my blood, flesh and bones,
I offer it as a samurai, and hope
that the flame would die
devouring the oil in the lamp.
But it lives like the genie
bottled up, casting a shadow
about me. A snare.
(Won Vineet Gupta Memorial Award for Poetry)
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
( BANDI )
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Keep your feet firm on the soil,
hands raised.
What freedom
are you asking for, dear prisoner?
You have accepted
to live in captivity lifelong;
your thumb impression
blazes on the dotted line.
Do you expect miracles
from the ‘future’? The ‘future’
that deceives all by receding
to unreachable reaches?
The ‘past’ has written you off,
the ‘present’ cares two hoots for you.
But if you keep still, possibly
you may morph into a lovely plant,
striking roots from feet,
leaves and flowers
blossoming at your fingertips.
You may enjoy vegetating
if you are not too inquisitive
about status and class.
Rather enjoy the captivity,
join wife in begetting children,
nurture your brood to grow up,
let them inherit your prison,
your slavery as legacy by default;
you may then be free
to hang your boots.
No fun ruing your prison term.
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)”
(A Paracosm)
Once,
When lamps blazed at sunset
From the pomegranate trees,
Tinklings would announce my arrival.
I would fill your crystal goblet
With the richest wine
Gleaming heart-red,
And reclining at your feet
Heap the fruits of your choice,
Picking only the very best;
Perfection is your birthright.
I would rearrange the chains of precious stones
And smooth the peacock dress
You gifted me -
To be perfect for you.
Then,
As the gay lights gleamed,
Music spoke;
My body answered.
My shimmering skirts flared
As my fleet feet twirled,
And I spun and I spun
Like a lamb caught in the shamal... .
Emperor of land and ocean,
You commanded me ; I danced;
Danced without pause, without rest
Till I fell in a fatigued trance.
Once I was queen in your chess squares,
Though my heart I never bared;
Then you learnt that truth -
How far I had dared !
My love for your son
And his for me;
A love that nothing could break.
Stone after stone
You hurl from your throne;
Such deftness, master Builder!
They hit their mark;
And it rises high above;
My defiant monument to love.
Every hit jolts me;
But that I can bear;
My feet are numb
My arms are weary
I no longer care... .
But my eyes, my eyes are luminous still.
A stone strikes my breast
It flames forth and melts in the heat of my heart;
Entomb me, Emperor, builder of tombs;
You cannot entomb my love.
* All of us are familiar with the tragic legend of Salim and Anarkali and her cruel entombing. Anarkali was Emperor Akbar's favourite dancing girl. One of his diversions was to play chess using a garden as the chessboard and his dancing girls as pieces. His liking for Anarkali ended when he learned that his son and heir , Prince Salim was so much in love with Anarkali that he intended to marry her. She was walled up and suffocated to death. But her love lives on... .
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.
The earth creeps along its orbit
and so does the sun
in reciprocation on the ecliptic
and all rotten leaves dry up
and go up in smoke
and make way for
the new leaves to sprout
and the fruits ripe to the core
wait to be plucked.
As the summer packs its bags
and winter's footsteps become
louder and louder
we pay homage to
the dead and dears departed
and to the lost and wandering souls
to the saints and martyrs
and kids come knocking on the doors
in guises treat-or-tricking
somewhere.
While somewhere else
the souls of three generations
of ancestors
who hang between
the no man's realm between
the heaven and the earth
are invited home
and are offered libation
for their ultimate liberation.
It all culminates in lighting up
dry and denuded stems
of jute plant in bundles
and showing them the way
straight to the paradise
and strings of lamps
are lit to celebrate
victory of light over darkness
of knowledge over ignorance
and of hope over despair.
Cultures may vary
so may be traditions.
Reasons may be different
so may be the means
but high holiday spirits effuse
with abundant joy and happiness
while cheers and felicity abound
and fill the air around
and remain
the common denominator
and cross across the
dispersed meridians.
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
There are quite a few things to be crossed over
so that you may reach the farther shore.
The years that lie in wait, in the dark,
sprawling the river, ready to show themselves up
when you thought you were almost near
the place you wanted to reach, delaying
your journey with hopes of going back to
where you started, now darkened already.
And then the year that won’t accompany you
despite your younger hopes of sustaining
yourself through the rites of passage,
cutting it short for a stay at a place
which you never wanted to see or know—
an island of paralysed haze, translucent air,
of unbelief fencing in your old pain in mid-river,
the possibility of others longing for your
companionship, the distracting cough
of your teenage child, your dear wife’s
taking you over even before you knew
there was yet another, so close beside
you, starting to cross over
without much trouble, sooner.
The small call of the child who left
long before you, rising and falling
with the dark water’s
changing behaviour, waiting
for someone to take it up
in his arms the same way
its father did, before it furtively
crossed over during one of the younger
nights in May of that year.
And then, your too human need
to postpone things, to defer
the crossing over until tomorrow,
of the day after, the likelihood
of picking up the name floating
on the water in front of you,
acquiring something that you
always longed for,
in spite of yourself.
The fear of drowning
in the water, the usual excuses
to keep yourself here longer than
your conscience wanted.
The fascination of waiting,
the commitments of the future.
**The poem first appeared in Orbis (UK)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
It was routine for psychiatrist, Dr Avinash Kumar, to o?er bereavement counselling to family of patients, who had died, whilst they were under his care. In the beginning of his career, it felt rather daunting, but with repetition, its dread had diminished, making the task more manageable. Although it never felt easy, the thought of the family’s grief and the prospect of some solace, his counselling could bring them, had kept his practice going.
But, these were extra-ordinary times. The COVID-19 pandemic was raging in its full fury. The mandated lockdown had cast a deep shadow of doom and gloom. Dr Kumar, himself, had fallen victim to the virus and had to spend several weeks in the hospital intensive care unit, on a ventilator to help him breath. Although he had survived, his recovery was painfully slow. While he was learning to live with its sequelae, adapting to its aftermath, he heard about one of his patients, David, who was found dead at the bottom of a cli?.
David was no ordinary patient. He was an exceptionally bright young man, who had just graduated from Oxford with flying colours, with a bright future ahead of him. In the prime of his life he was struck by a psychotic break-down. At the time, he was staying with his parents, Roy and Mary Vergheese, who lived in the neighbouring village, not far from Dr Kumar’s residence.
The picture of his break-down was one of the most florid; he was tortured by terrifying voices and scary figures hounding him. He just shut himself in his room, lying curled up on bed in foetal position.
Roy and Mary were totally puzzled by the abruptness of this inexplicable malady and alarmed by its ferocity. As devoted parents, they desperately tried to keep it under wraps, hoping they could snap him out of this by loving care and talking therapy.
Dr Kumar had a hard time convincing them that he needed compulsory hospital admission for medical treatment. They were aghast at Dr Kumar’s decision to certify David, for a spell in the hospital. Initially, they were at loggerheads with what they saw as Dr Kumar’s heavy-handed style, but they began to appreciate his professional and compassionate approach as David turned the corner with his treatment. In a matter of weeks, his imaginary voices and the persecutory figures started to fade away. In a couple of months, the drama of his imaginary voices and figures subsided completely.
Roy and Mary were relieved at their son’s recovery, but they noticed, David never regained his original spark. They were uneasy with Dr Kumar’s insistence for David to continue with his powerful medications. David was not too keen on taking more pills, as they slowed him down physically and mentally.
Dr Kumar understood their lingering concerns about David’s future prospects. Could they expect a cure or do they have to live indefinitely with the fear that his break-down may return? His message to Roy and Mary was one of cautious optimism. He introduced them the biography of the renowned Mathematician, John Nash, by Sylvia Nasar. Reading the book, The Beautiful Mind, and watching a dramatised version of his life, in the film of the same title, kept theirs hopes alive.
Dr Kumar was in two minds, whether he should go ahead with the counselling session for David’s parents. Given his own fragile health, perhaps, he should skip it. But, his relationship with Vergheese family was special. They had forged a bond in the months of his hospital admission and subsequent follow-up in his clinic. He could feel their sense of devastation by this unspeakable tragedy. At this hour of grief, how could he abandon them? “He must contact them for o?ering his condolences, at the very least”, he decided.
Because of the restrictions from the Lock-down, Dr Kumar’s session with Mary and Roy had to be by video link, organised on a virtual platform. Despite years of practice, the gravity of such sessions still made him slightly anxious, as the session approached.
Dr Kumar had not seen David for a while, but he was still under his care, attending the clinic for periodic follow-up. After his discharge from hospital, David attended Dr Kumar’s Out-patients Clinic. When his recovery was established, in keeping with standard practice, his subsequent follow-up was passed on to his under-study, Dr Prasad.
David was working in the city and lived alone. His colleagues got worried, when he was missing at work for a couple of days. Apparently he went out one evening, from which he never returned. Then, his body was discovered at the bottom of a giant cli?, by a dog walker. There was no evidence of foul play. Post-mortem examination confirmed his cause of death as blunt injury to multiple organs. The medical opinion was that he most probably died instantly, upon hitting the hard ground.
Roy and Mary had many questions for Dr Kumar, and he answered them, maintaining his composure, throughout. They had been in constant touch with their son, by regular phone and video calls. In their last conversation, a few days before his death, they sensed nothing untoward in his talk. There was no sign of any distress or worry.
Dr Kumar had, in the meantime, kept abreast of David’s progress. He had settled in his new job, which was less demanding. As the break-down had robbed him of his incisive intellect and sharp wit, this suited him better. His parents were waiting for the day when he would regain his intellectual acuity. Then came this devastating news of his death, again totally out of the blue.
Nobody had noticed anything amiss in David’s work or in his mood, prior to this incident. He was working full time and had been attending to his job, until the day of his disappearance. No suicide note was found in his apartment.
The news of his unexpected and sudden death was shocking enough. But the big question, looming large in their mind, was whether this was an accidental fall o? the cli? or a suicide.
“There was no indication that David was suicidal around the time of the incident. He had fully recovered and was stable for so long. How could this be suicide?”, Roy asked him.
“Of course, it is possible, he could have had a fall. However, the unique location of his death can’t be ignored. That cli? is a known suicide spot. Its position makes it hard to fall o? it accidentally, thus, raising the likelihood of this being a suicide. Looking at the whole picture, it is di?cult to rule suicide out”, was Dr Kumar’s frank reply.
As the session progresses, the obvious question came up as to what could have been done to prevent David’s untimely death. If it were a suicide, could he be alive today, if Dr Kumar had followed him up personally, in stead of passing him on to Dr Prasad?
“I understand your position. Again, it’s possible…” Dr Kumar’s voice became fainter.
“After all, Dr Prasad is still in training; he did not have the long experience, you have under your belt. ”, Roy said.
“I agree, you have a valid point. However, Dr Prasad is fairly senior, one of the most astute and competent doctors, I have seen. I was regularly supervising him and was kept abreast of David’s progress throughout.” Dr Kumar replied.
“But his clinical acumen could not match your maturity, developed over so many years. How can you expect his judgement to be as sound as yours?’
Dr Kumar’s discomfiture edged up a bit, as this discussion continued. “It is of course impossible to tell, if the tragedy could have been averted, if he had kept David in his own clinic. It would be speculative to say with any confidence, that the outcome would have been di?erent”
“So, what is your final verdict; is it an accident or suicide?”
“I am afraid, at this point, it has to be indeterminate. We really don’t know.” Dr Kumar said.
There was a brief pause. Dr Kumar knew, his answer did not address the real reason behind their question. The deep sense of guilt, in the tone of their voice prodded him to continue, “At the end of the day, despite the best intention and e?orts, some suicides can’t be foreseen or prevented.”
After the video session was over, Dr Kumar reflected on David’s tragic and short life. He was a high achiever and a rising star, until his future was blighted by the psychotic break-down. Dr Kumar knew, the risk of suicide remained high for bright people, even after their apparent recovery. In fact, suicide rarely occurs, in the peak of their break-down or the depth of their depression. At such times, even if they feel suicidal, they rarely commit suicide as they lose the requisite wherewithals for ending their life. After the recovery, when the enormity of their illness sinks in, the risk of suicide is at its worst.
Roy and Mary were left with many unanswered questions. Their heart was still heavy with a sense of failure for not keeping a closer watch on David’s a?airs. They had hoped, this session with Dr Kumar would help them to understand, what was going on in David’s mind at the time of the incident. But the counselling fell short of their expectations. Niggling doubts in their mind continued to trouble them: Had they done everything possible to save David’s life?
“Why did you not mention, the note, you found in David’s bedroom?” Mary asked her husband.
“You were meant to be raising it. But, as you did not mention it, I concluded that you did not wish Dr Kumar to know of the note”
The note, they were talking about, read, “This world is meant for two kinds of people; outright geniuses and ignorant fools. Sadly, I belong to neither group and that makes me unfit for this world”
“Dr Kumar said, in the absence of a suicide note or other signs of distress, it was hard to say that it was suicide. This cryptic note certainly has a suicidal flavour, which could have changed his opinion on the mode of death’ Mary continued, “But this note has no date on it; so. we really don’t know, when he was in this state of mind”.
“And, it would have added to his sense of guilt. Our David is gone. What good would have come from making Dr Kumar feel that his actions somehow contributed to David’s suicide?” Roy replied.
“Did you notice, there was something odd about Dr Kumar’s gaze?” Mary asked, after a pause. “Now that you mention it, yes. There was no eye contact, as if……”, Roy’s voice trailed o?.
Mary picked up the thread, hesitantly completing the sentence, “…as if he were blind.” Roy, in the mean time, had picked up the Village newspaper, lying on the co?ee table.
The news item, that grabbed his attention, read: Local resident, Dr Avinash Kumar was recently seriously ill with COVID-19. Luckily, he has survived the infection but he su?ered significant brain damage and as a result has lost his vision. In the interest of public education, and with a view to warning people about the dangers of this virus, he decided to go public about his predicament.”
He quietly passed on the newspaper to his wife. They stared at each other in total silence, until it was broken by Mary, “Dr Kumar is a true professional. He did not forget, who needed the counselling more”.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England.
He is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
My grandfather was a product of the then rural India. His entire working life was spent in a Sub-Registrar’s office as a copywriter. His basic duty was to make copies, by long hand, of sale deeds of properties registered with the Sub-Registrar. There were no typewriters at the time and clerks had to meticulously copy the sale deed, or else... Under British rule no trade unions could be formed to protect employees’ interests. So grandfather had to go to office at eight and came back at eight. The joke was that when asked how big was his three-year-old son, he would stretch his arms horizontally and say, “He is this long now!” Like his fellow men, he learned to accept his fate.
The arduous work took its toll. His figure acquired a premature bend and his eyesight deteriorated. He found it increasingly difficult to make out the words in the deeds. But he was shy of going for an eye check-up. His English boss (‘Gora Saheb’) was bound to notice his new glasses and come to know of his failing eyesight. That would be the end of his job as a deed writer!
Every day was a torture as he strained his eyes to go through the deeds and copy them correctly. But mistakes kept creeping into his work. His immediate boss, the Bada Babu or the head clerk, had a soft corner for Grandpa for his fine handwriting. Besides, he was a model worker willing to put in long hours without a murmur. The Bada Babu was deeply concerned for the silly mistakes Grandpa was making and tried to cover them up. But for how long? The errors kept sprouting like rabbits coming out of a magician’s hat. One day the Bada Babu confronted my grandfather.
“What’s troubling you, Das Babu?” he asked gently.
“Uh, what?” Grandpa was caught off-guard.
“You can tell me, Das Babu. I’m your friend.” Gently he asked, “Is something wrong at home? I have never seen so many mistakes in your work before.”
“Mistakes, Bada Babu, in my work?” Grandpa was scandalised. “How? Where?”
Bada Babu put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Das Babu. I have taken care of it. But you must tell me what’s worrying you. I can keep your secret, you know, if it comes to that.”
Grandpa thought quickly. He knew his poor eyesight had let him down. But was it safe to confide in Bada Babu? In official matters, even the kind Bada Babu may not be so charitable. After all, he was answerable to the Gora Sahib. The deficiency being of a permanent nature, Bada Babu would have no choice but to bring it to the notice of his boss and the Gora Sahib would simply throw Grandpa out of the office, just like that! No, he had to buy time. “Yes, Bada Babu,” Grandpa said, “there’s something the matter. But, if you don’t mind, I will tell it tomorrow.”
“All right,” Bada Babu smiled and put a reassuring palm hand on his shoulder.
As it turned out, Grandpa was spared the difficult role of Hamlet—to tell or not to tell. Next day, while he was poring over a particularly difficult scrawl in a sale deed, the Gora Sahib’s Jamadar came and stood before him. “Sahib is remembering you,” he said; which meant that Grandpa had to present himself before the Gora Sahib forthwith. It was rarely that he was called by the Gora Sahib. In trepidation, he looked at the Jamadar who was still waiting. So he slowly got up and followed the Jamadar into the revered presence of the Gora Sahib.
The Englishman was seated at his huge mahogany table in the middle of the huge room. Behind him was a framed painting of His Majesty the King and above his head a large cloth fan that swung back and forth, dispensing cool air. The Bada Babu stood to one side, trembling under the glare of the great white man. Beyond the books and files piled on the table, Grandpa spied a stranger sitting by Gora Sahib’s side with a frown on his face.
“Well, who is this?” boomed the Gora Sahib on seeing Grandpa.
“Sir, he…he is Das, Sir, the copywriter,” Bada Babu replied.
“So he’s the culprit, is it?” boomed the master again. “Come here, I say!”
Grandpa wanted to run away in the other direction. But his legs kept moving forward till he was at an arm’s length from the great dictator. On a nod from the Englishman, the stranger thrust a document towards Grandpa.
“What is the figure there?” the Gora Sahib barked at him. “Tell me, man, can you change digits as you please? And that too in the document of our good friend Hakim Mian?”
Grandpa could vaguely make out a sum, but it was rather blurred. Was it an ‘8’ or a ‘3’ there? He squinted to read it, but the poor light in the room didn’t help. He wondered whether he should hazard a guess or keep quiet.
“Well, man, can’t you read?” the authoritative voice of the master barked again.
“I…I can’t see properly, Sir,” Grandpa blurted out.
“Can’t see?” The Englishman looked from him to Bada Babu and back. “Have you gone blind, man, or what?”
“You…you see, Sir, my eyes are not what they used to be. I could do five deeds in a day, Sir, without a single mistake. But now…now, Sir, after working in this office for long twenty years, Sir, I simply can’t…can’t make out the figures. You know, Sir, I would never dream of letting you down, Sir, but what do I do? I simply don’t know what to do, Sir.” Grandpa delivered the whole monologue without a single break and then promptly broke down. His back to the wall, he surrendered to his God.
“I say, my good fellow,” commented the god of the moment, “I believe you need spectacles.”
Grandpa looked up. “But, Sir,” he ventured to carry on with a boldness he never knew he possessed. “I can’t afford to buy glasses. They cost a fortune.”
The Englishman considered for a moment before barking an order to the Bada Babu, “Misra, give this fellow eight annas from the office account. But, mind you, he must spend it on spectacles and nothing else. Insist on a proper receipt. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” Bada Babu responded.
“As for you, Das, I don’t want to hear of any complaint about your work in future. Do you hear?”
“Yes, yes, Sir,” Grandpa responded eagerly.
“Then go and make the corrections in Hakim Mian’s document. And, by God, make it snappy!”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” was all Grandpa could say before he hurried out of his lordship’s august presence, clutching Hakim Mian’s document to his heart. He could hear the Gora Sahib expressing his regrets to Hakim Mian for the inconvenience caused.
What had made the English lord show such benevolence to a lowly clerk? My grandfather got his answer when he came to office wearing his new glasses and a beaming smile. There would be no more confusion between ‘8’ and ‘3’! On seeing him the Jamadar remarked candidly, “They look very good on you, Das Babu. Much better than they do on the Sahib.”
“What,” Grandpa exclaimed, “the Sahib too wears glasses? Why, I have never seen him wear them.”
“Oh, he doesn’t like to put them on in the office!”
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 15: KERALA MY FOSTER MOTHER
Kerala is my foster land. I am her daughter in law by marrying a pucca malayali. But my love for kerala begins with my childhood when my parents settled in kerala. Whenever my father became homesick and nostalgic he would take us to his native place as a road trip in his Land master, his first car, to Neyyoor. Once we left the borders of kerala I used to feel suffocated at the strange terrain through which we passed- only red earth and fallow lands. No greenery anywhere. The only trees were the palmyra trees.That was in early 1960ies, now the story is different. This barrenness of earth made me sick and I yearned to be back in kerala, my foster mother land, enriched by rivers and forests.
Yes, how I loved her and how I love her even now cannot be expressed in words. I think I share this love with my father. That's why in spite of his nostalgia for his people and homeland he decided to settle in kerala forever. On the hilly terrain with nothing but round stones and thorny thickets he built a viridian haven and reaped golden harvest proving that even sterile, fallow land will become fertile and yielding if it is treated in a proper way. His love for earth and his green fingers helped him to turn that hilly terrain into a yielding farm .
Today kerala is turning 64 years old. Even now draped in her greenery she is beautiful despite the fact that cement jungles have appropriated many of her beautiful terrain. She stands unique in many ways. She is God's own country. She got this name In 1989 when KTDC asked the then Ad Director Walter Mendez for a one liner to market her tourism potentiality. And the phrase was magical, it created wonders in the field of tourism in kerala. But the name kerala itself was found in a 3rd century rock inscription during the reign of Asoka the Great, the word was Ketalaputo ('son of Chera[s]'). Her other pet names are ' Spice Garden of India', 'Land of coconuts', 'Land of trees'. etc. The description of Kerala as "God's own country" can also be traced to the event known as Thrippadidanam, in which in 1749-50, the then ruler Marthanda Varma, Maharaja of Travancore, decided to "donate" his realm to Sri Padmanabha (Vishnu) and thereafter rule as the deity's "vicegerent" (Sri Padmanabha Dasa). The slogan also alludes to the variety of faiths in the state. The Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists
Jains, Jews, and Parsis (Zoroastrians) have coexisted harmoniously for centuries. And it is proved by
the innumerous temples, churches, synagogues and other places of worship that stand together in every street.
Yes, the people are also like that, warm, tolerant and accommodative. They are ready to absorb and assimilate the best of others at the same time not losing their identity. Hindus, muslims and christians maintain a tight bond of tolerance albeit the skirmishes that break up due to misunderstandings. Like all the states Kerala has her faults too, mainly created by her people and when I am singing a paean of Kerala I must close my eyes to that. So I am not going to speak anything about that side.
Kerala is a land of performance art and music. And most
of them originated in the temples. My father who was fond of the temple music of kerala, especially the instrumental music would take us to all the nearby temples especially to listen to Tala Mela kachereris. (Instrumental concerts). He would make us listen to them and explain to us their differences. Thus I came to enjoy Pancharimelam, Pandimelam, Panchavadyam and so on.That was indeed an enriching experience of growing up. I don't know how many women of the Christian sect can boast of such a girlhood.That was just because my father was in the true sense an enlightened humanitarian who taught us to love people transcending all the sectarian barriers. And one who taught the real value of loving a land which had become our fosterland.
My maternal grandmother's house is near the Attukal temple which is called the Sabarimala of Women. They had settled there in the 1930ies. So we were witnesses to the growth of the temple. I loved the music that wafted from the temple waking us up in the morning, and the evening Deeparadanas and the music that emanated from there calmed and soothed us. It became a part of our psyche. We were the lone Christian family there, close to the temple for a long time. When the Attukal festival comes up there will be 9 days of various art performances. In our childhood days we spent those ten days with grandma. Nine days we would enjoy stage performances usually in venues just outside of the temple like kathakali, Bharatha Natyam, Mohiniyattam, dance drama, Chakyar Koothu, Koodiyattam, Balai, kathaprasangam, ganamela and full fledged plays etc all performed by famous artists as votaries in honour of Attukal Devi.
On the 9th day the women carrying pots and other provisions arrive in clusters and sit around the temple in its premises and prepare the brick oven for the next day. When the temple premise gets filled they sit outside around it and the circle widens and widens making space for the flowing women from distant parts of the country and even the World. No man without a pass is allowed to enter. It is an event in which all the Keralites' are totally involved, heart and soul that it should culminate without any hitch.
On the 10th day Pongala is conducted amidst prayer and deep piety. The women prepare a divine food made of rice in earthen pots and offer it to the Goddess of the Temple. The pongala preparation starts with the ritual called 'Aduppuvettu'. This is the lighting of the pongala hearth (called Pandarayaduppu) placed inside the temple by the chief priest. The festival is marked as the largest annual gathering of women by the Guinness World Records. The ceremony was set up in the Guinness Book of World Records on the ninth day February 23, 1997, when 1.5 million women participated in Pongala. In 2009, a new Guinness World Records celebrated 2.5 million attendance (wikipedia) This year too it was conducted as usual but with less aplomb due to covid lock down. But through the grace of the Devi, the Pongala ended smoothly.
Kerala with its high level of literacy is an ideal place to lead a calm and settled life. People who come to kerala almost always settle here. Being small in area the remoteness of villages have decreased due to the development of science and information technology. Protected by the ocean on one side and the western ghats on the other side it is a cosy little state with an ideal climate and plenty of fresh water. The numerous rivers are a blessing for retaining the greenness of the land and this state, an emerald gem has confiscated my being and if anyone asks me where I want to settle in this World of ours, again and again without any hesitation I would say in some nook of kerala close to nature. I am now more of a keralite and kerala is more than a foster mother for me.
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
After initiating the proceedings of the evening with a mug of beer, Kiran ruminated his past days with a bottle of vodka and then at the time of settling the bill he ordered two pegs of single malt whiskey for the road. The ambience offered by the Skylab bar helped him revolve around his memories and he didn’t mind mixing his drinks as long as they kept him in the orbit. Kiran’s bout with the drinks started early in the evening and now the bearer with whom he had reached a brotherly relation was persuading him kindly to go home since it was their closing time.
Kiran always drank alone. He did not find any mirth in drinking with his friends. Gossiping and bickering over a drink was not his glass of happiness. He was a person who rather wanted to retrospect his life with a glass of ice in his hand into which some liquor was poured.The ice froze the images in his memory and the liquor served as a liquid medium to transport him through the grey areas of memory. He would weep over one glass and with the next he would laugh or get frustrated at the things committed by or done to him. Kiran enjoyed this once in a week routine. He was not an avid drinker but today somehow he got sucked into the black hole of the bar where he lost himself. It was raining heavily outside. The beads of water that trickled down over the window pane beside him and the beads that moved outside his glass of ice filled with vodka appeared the same. It might have paved the way to retrospect his romantic days that were gone by and he didn’t realise the time that had elapsed.
Kiran felt he was in good control over his steps as he walked towards his car though it was the kind bearer who helped him walk with one hand around Kiran and the other hand holding an umbrella sheltering them from the rain. The bearer, who was Kiran's counsellor and consoler now guided him to the car even as Kiran kept repeating about his failed loved affairs. Once the car door was unlocked, Kiran opened the door for the bearer so that the bearer could drive and go home. It took little time for the patient bearer to make Kiran understand that it was Kiran who was supposed to go home after getting into the car and that he came just to help him get into his car in this heavy rain. Kiran smiled at him and thanked him profusely and finally said incoherently.
“Yeah, it is raining indeed” and he vomited right there in the parking area.
The bearer somehow managed to pack him into the car and for the services rendered he was paid a handsome tip. The bearer watched Kiran swerve the car and move towards the exit gate of the hotel. At the exit Kiran wondered in which direction he should be going. The downpour was heavy. His vision and his conscious level were almost zilch. The windshield wipers worked rapidly trying to do their best to clear the glass but they could not provide clarity of vision and thinking process to the driver. In his head the person after whom the single malt whiskey was labeled told him to turn right so that he will be right but the Russian kept saying that it will be wise to take the left so that he wouldn’t be left out in the rain. Kiran was confused and it was then that he noticed a red glow in front of him. A vehicle that was parked by the road side had started its engine and its tail lamp glowed brightly catching the attention of Kiran. The vehicle then put on its yellow blinkers to indicate that it was going to join the road. The rectangle panel of lights at the rear of the vehicle gave a signal of dependableness and Kiran felt a sort of confidence in that glow of light. He gently moved his car behind the vehicle which was ahead of him. The panel of rectangle rear lamps glowing red reflected on the wet road as though it was a beacon of guidance.
The vehicle ahead moved and so did Kiran’s car. The pace of the vehicle ahead was around forty kilometers per hour and Kiran found it comfortable to follow the tail lights ahead. He didn’t have to worry about glare from the lights of the oncoming vehicles and needn’t be concerned about anything that was on the road. All he needed to do was obediently follow the direction of the tail lamp that was in front of him. Kiran paused his car when the tail lamp of the vehicle in front burned more bright on applying the brake and turned his car to the direction when it indicated a turn. His steering turned in a rhythmic manner according to the movement of the vehicle ahead of him. It looked as though a ballet of two vehicles was being played out on the drenched road as Kiran listened to some of the late night romantic songs from the FM channel to commemorate the retrospective evening he had at the Skylab bar.
The vehicle ahead stopped suddenly at a point and Kiran too stepped on his brakes. He waited patiently for some time listening to yet another nostalgic number in the radio. The car ahead was not moving. Kiran checked for the traffic signal. There was none. He got a little impatient. The red tail lamp was off now. It seemed the engine had been turned off. Kiran honked his horn once, twice and then finally not expecting any movement he gave a long press on the horn. He wiped the mist of the glass with his palm and strained his eyes through the cleaned area to check what the driver in front of him was doing in the middle of the road. He then saw a man walking up to him holding an umbrella . Kiran lowered his window glass and the man came close to the window and asked rather curiously.
“What do you want?”
“Why have you stopped suddenly?” Kiran asked vehemently. You should either move forward or park your vehicle to the side rather than block the road like this”.
“Sir, I cannot move any further”, exclaimed the man. "There is a wall beyond and if I move further the car would be parked in my bed room”.
“What?” Kiran was astonished.
The man whom Kiran had followed understood that the intruder into his house needed a proper explanation.
“Sir, right now my vehicle is in my car porch and your car is parked in front of my house”.
Kiran was little angry. “But why did you bring me to your house?”
The gentleman of the house couldn’t help himself from laughing even as he answered. "Sir, I think you lost your way and took a wrong turn to enter into my courtyard”. The man then took a closer look at Kiran and asked. “I think I saw you at the bar!”
“Were you there at the Skylab bar?” Kiran asked eagerly.
“Yes” said the man. “I was there and I remember you sitting at one corner all by yourself. Now tell me what happened. How did you end up in my house?”
Kiran explained in detail as much as he could looking at the tail lamp of the multi utility vehicle lying in the porch which led him till here.
“Where is your home?” asked the man
“It is near the stadium” Kiran answered before asking inquisitively, “In which part of the city am I now?”
The man replied in sympathy. “You are now in the opposite side of the city. You have a long way to drive back in the reverse direction”.
Kiran was flabbergasted. “Does it mean I will have to drive back in reverse all that distance?”
The man giggled. He understood that Kiran was not going to reach his home on his own in this rain and in his state of stupor. He felt sympathy for the drunken man as for a fellow companion in any deed.
“Don’t worry. I will help you reach your home. You just need to drive behind me as you did till now and I will take you till the stadium.”
Kiran was happy. He hadn’t met such a benevolent human in his life. The kind man immediately got engaged in helping Kiran in turning his car to the road and then he took his multi utility vehicle and drove in front of Kiran’s car. The man made sure Kiran’s car’s front lights were following him and all Kiran had to do was to follow the rectangle panel of tail lamp. The window glass which was left open after his conversation with the benevolent man brought in the cool breeze as he drove. The rain had reduced considerably. The romantic songs from the radio flowed out and along with cool air it formed a magic moment. He enjoyed the drive and he was following the guiding light.
At one traffic light the MUV came to a halt and so did some of the other vehicles which had overtaken Kiran’s car. By the time Kiran arrived at the signal, a few vehicles were ahead of him. The rain and the mist created on the glass gave a blurred vision and Kiran found it difficult to make out which of the light was his guiding light. There were two vehicles with a rectangle panel of tail lamp and then there was an oval shaped tail lamp cluster. But what caught Kiran’s attention more was a sleek looking LED panel of tail lamp at the far left end. The lamp cluster had the shape of an eye and the yellow indicator light was winking at him to indicate that its intention was to go left. Kiran felt attracted to the sleek looking bright attractive red light. It was too tempting and inviting. The romantic song flowed from one to the next and tonight it seemed the channel was playing all his favourite songs together. The traffic light turned from red to yellow and then to green. All the three vehicles ahead of Kiran went straight while the car with the attractive sleek LED tail lamp turned left. Kiran too whirred up his engine and merrily followed the LED cluster.
As for the benevolent man, he must have driven till an empty road before realizing that there was no glow of light following him.
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.
The night is chilly, and jasmine-scented
On the cobalt blue water
Lands the moon's reflection...
Glistening golden ripples
Around the red, and white lilies
How they wish to hold the moon
Hear the voice of light
A light so kind, and gentle
Spreading across, star-studded quilt
Multi-colored dreams as sequins...
As the moon glided
The water level raised
By few luminous drops...
A muse for all, is mute too
No one asks, if the moon is happy
Only the pond drank those tears drops...
She is the mist
In search of sunshine
That doesn't melt her
The unwritten lines of a tune
He hums in his heart
She, the sound of a leaf
Falling on a tranquil lake
His boat sails on, everyday
She, the butterfly's dream
Sprinkled upon all the flowers
In his fragrant garden
She, is a silhouette
Hiding all the colors of love
Hoping, he will discover the kaleidoscope
In the labyrinth of her soul...
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
SKYLAB IS FALLING
Sunil Biswal
The money, all of two thousand rupees in hundred rupee denominations was rolled into several bundles and inserted into the hollow of a bamboo. The bamboo was further sealed off by old clothes stuffed tight and tied with ropes made of straw. Parasu handed over the bamboo to his wife to hide away amongst sundry other objects in the earthen vault kept in the bedroom of their two room cottage. Parasu had just returned from the local market where he had sold his cow along with the calf. He had to overcome the temptation of enjoying a glass of khajuri rasa (juice of dates) that was inviting him from the corner shop of the market. But it was not an ordinary day and Parasu was not an ordinary man. He had proceeds of the sale of his only cow, two thousand ruppes tied to a corner of his dhoti in a knot and further hidden in its folds at the waist.
And Parasu was a man of strong will as his wife often commented. Parasu was looking forward to visit the Panchayat market next month where he would buy a bullock to complete a set of two, as he had only one. Only then could he carry on the tilling work in his field. The rains were approaching and he badly needed a set of two bullocks.
Parasu had no option but to sell off his only cow he fondly called “Neta”. Parting with Neta was no small affair. Right from the day he and his wife took the unpleasant decision, the only option left to them, to sell off Neta, their home looked increasingly gloomy. His wife increased the amount of feed of Neta, caressed Neta umpteen times whenever she went past the animal, throughout the day. Often she made excuses of one thing or other and went to see Neta, just to caress, just to see the innocent eyes, the eyes that exuded trust at Parasu and his wife, trust that usually a daughter has on her parents. They felt guilty of betraying that trust. But they didn’t have any option. They looked at the cow and begged her forgiveness.
Once the money was stashed away in a secure place, Parasu asked for a rupee to his wife so that he could go back to the market and drink a glass of that exotic juice, Khajuri to douse his sorrow, wipe the picture of Neta looking at him questioningly as a stranger was pulling her away in the market, the sound of her crying made piercing stabs at Parasu’s heart. “Come and rescue me my master, my father!” may be that’s what Neta meant in those cries, Parsu thought. Neta was part of his family. Neta shared their joy and their sorrow just like a daughter. If his wife was sick and Parasu went to take care of Neta, he would see Neta shedding tears, tears of anxiety, tears of prayer so that the lady of the house, her mother gets well soon. “How could they be so cruel to sell off their daughter?” Parasu cursed himself and his helplessness. He made efforts to stop the welling tears in his eyes when when the buyer thrust the money in trembling hands of Parasu. Parasu didn’t count the money. He quickly had tied it to a corner of his dhoti and left the place, unable to bear the parting. He made one last glance at Neta, trying to avoid meeting her eyes. Neta was looking at him. Was she judging him? Was she rebuking him?
Parasu ran in the direction of the market. He needed to gulp glasses and glasses of the intoxicating Khajuri Rasa to completely black out; go out of his mind where he no more could see Neta’s crying eyes, and hear Neta’s call.
Parasu sat on a stone slab before the Khajuri shop slowly sipping the juice sitting amongst his fellow villagers. One villager had a radio set where some sad songs were playing out.
As the song ended, the announcer came up with a bulletin:-
“We draw attention of listeners; this is an important alert message for you. Skylab, the orbiting satellite laboratory of USA has gone out of control. It is likely to fall anywhere on earth causing extensive damage to life and property. Scientists of USA are keeping a vigil over possible date and time of fall. The Government will keep you updated on the developments.”
The radio resumed playing more songs. The villagers who were crowded around the Khajuri shop and in an elevated mood didn’t take notice of the alert message but then one of the less drunk villagers asked the man next to him wearing blue lungi and red towel tied around his waist “Did you hear what the radio said just now?”
The man wearing blue lungi stopped midway in the act of pouring the khajuri rasa down his throat and said “Yes, I did, but what did he say? Something will fall from sky sometime next month, I could understand nothing of it” and quickly gulped the remaining rasa ordering for a glass more.
“The times are really bad, end of Kaliyug, end of kaliyug; why else should something fall on our head? People are committing most heinous crime and are not even repentant about it, will not God find ways and means to punish the sinners?” the most educated man of the village, Hadibandhu, who almost passed SLC exam, commented philosophically everyone, looking pointedly at Parasu. Hadibandhu was a revered person for his knowledge on almost all topics. How else did he pass all exams till the 11th class?
Parasu was about to start sipping his second glass of khajuri rasa but could take no more as the words of Hadibandhu hit him like a bull on a mad run. Why should Hadibandhu say so? Does he know that I have sold Neta, and what is this thing falling from sky? Is it a punishment for me? Parasu could think no more. He needed to forget it all, he drank the glass of khajuri at one go and asked the bartender to serve him one more glass promising to pay the next day.
Parasu returned home with a heavy heart and unsteady feet. Her wife too was in a sad mood. The cowshed looked empty with only one bullock tied to the post. Neta was not there, nor her calf. Both husband and wife went to bed without a morsel of food.
Next morning the whole village was rife with the news of a heavenly object falling from sky and how everyone was doomed. The village astrologer was sitting at the high platform of the wealthiest man of the village with a “Didn’t I tell you so?” look and all villages were sitting around him. Every one looked crest fallen and the village priest was busy making some figures on the floor and all eyes were fixed on him. Finally after a long wait, he looked up and declared that this was really a bad time and the village, the state and the whole earth was doomed. Everything will perish after the object strikes earth. All this was a result of the audacious step by men of Amerika to land on the moon. How a mortal man could set his foot on the moon, a God. Is it not same as kicking your father. Now that man has done this unpardonable act, the Gods have found a way to teach the humanity a lesson. He also told everyone how he had predicted this a decade back when the Apollo astronauts had walked on moon.
The villagers tried hard to remember the astrologer ever saying so but could recall nothing of sorts. But nobody wanted to offend his feelings lest he comes up with some more calculations and blame the particular man as the main cause for this unworldly event of Skylab falling on their village.
“There must be some way to stop this act of God, Jyotish ji, please suggest to us and we all will do that. I do not want to die. I have bought that new tractor and hoping to double my yield this year.” The wealthiest man of the village pleaded with the astrologer.
“Do not worry Mama ji, the radio simply says that it may fall at any place on earth and it would only fall in a few hundred square kilometers, not that it would kill all people on earth” said Raju , who was a college going young man visiting his maternal uncle’s village.
“But my calculations say that whole world will perish”, protested the astrologer.
“Your calculations are as true as the sun rising in the west, you can only predict something after it happens”, chuckled Raju, mocking the astrologer.
“Precisely this, precisely this kind of blasphemy against the God that has invited the wrath as Skylab, this village will be the first one to be destroyed, then the whole world, sinners, sinners”, the astrologer was seen fuming with anger collecting his wares from the floor and ready to go away.
“Do not be so harsh Jyotish ji, this is a question of life and death for us all, you are the only one who can save us”, Parasu accosted the astrologer.
Then the news hawker delivered the news paper and Raju sat in the corner reading it.
“Read it aloud”, said Raju’s uncle.
So Raju read out the news of how the whole country was worried about the Skylab falling on earth. How people were sure of the Dooms' day arriving and no one could think beyond the day the skylab fell on earth wiping out life from earth. People in Uttar Pradesh were selling off their household objects and animals and using the money to live lavishly. What is the point in hoarding up the money if death is imminent? One should taste all pleasures of life. In Madras, people were buying special helmets to wear so that when the skylab fell on their head, they would live to tell the tale.
There was a flutter amongst the villagers, there was excitement and there was fear. The situation was a concoction of all emotions. Fear of dying was the most visible.
“I want to sell my cycle for three hundred rupees, who wants it?” declared one.
“What shall I do with it when I too am going to die?” asked another.
“From today onwards I will eat chicken everyday and every night. I only hope to finish all chickens we have before the damn thing hits us”, said another.
“Raju, go tell your aunty to cook food for all villagers tonight. What’s the point in having so much if it cannot save us from death? If I feed my villagers, I may be the first one in queue at the door to heaven” The wealthy man looked at his fellow villagers asking their permission to stand at front of the queue when they all died and went to heaven.
“I am not sure where I will go, heaven or hell”, Parasu thought to himself.
On his way home, he purchased five kilos of flour, two kilos of Dalda ghee and some other condiments from the village shop on credit.
“Do not worry about the payment, sahukar, I will pay today only.”, said Parasu.
“How can you be so sure of paying today?” Asked the sahukar, owner of the shop.
“You must have heard about the saying Man proposes, but God disposes, haven’t you?” Parasu asked the Sahukar.
“Yes, why? What happened?” Asked Sahukar.
“I sold my Neta to have money for buying a bullock, now you see, this skylab thing will hit us and we all shall die. Why to buy the bullock when we may not be alive few days hence? So I have decided to use all money for making merry, eating what I love to eat, wearing what I love to wear” Parasu said.
For next few days, as news of Skylab was played on radio more frequently people were gripped with fear, fascinations, anxiety.
The bamboo containing the rolled notes were opened many times sealed many times till sealing was no more needed.
Parasu and his wife enjoyed poori, palau and many other exotic dishes. Thought of Neta was doused by bottles of Khajuri as money was no more a problem. Parasu had developed an enormous appetite for chicken, mutton, and variety of sweets. The whole village wore a festive look. There was a mad rush to fulfill all sorts of wishes which were always buried, dismissed from mind due to want of money. Once people found some time free from cooking, eating, visiting relatives for the last time, they crowded at the village center around radio to listen the latest bulletin.
Radio kept the people informed, and misinformed as days passed and fear grew.
Parasu didn’t know if they were celebrating or mourning the imminent death.
Finally on a lazy afternoon the most awaited bulletin was played out on radio “The Skylab has entered into the atmosphere of earth at early morning hours and most of it had burnt out in the atmosphere, the remaining debris has fallen over a large area in a remote corner of Indian Ocean. Some chunks of it were found over few places of Australia, but thankfully no one was hurt.
The End
SKYLAB was the first Space Station of USA which was put to orbit in 1973. By 1979 it went out of control of the command center and started falling back to earth. The prediction of its fall in July 1979 created a scare amongst all countries and especially in India. All India Radio carried special bulletins warning people not to go out of their home. There was even a lockdown in a South Indian city. People became paupers as they squandered all the money they had, certain of the object falling on their village, and on their head. Finally Skylab fell near Australia in the Indian Ocean. No one was harmed. No property was damaged.
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
S. Sundar Rajan, Anju Kishore, Zia Marshall
Morning Glories, beauteous blue
Sparkling steadfast like silent stars!
Pandemic alarm, life askew
Lockdown levies vigilant bars!
Sparkling steadfast like silent stars
Our hues disguise a secret fear.
Lockdown levies vigilant bars.
Each blossoms for the other's cheer.
Our hues disguise a secret fear.
For now we stand in stately bloom.
Each blossoms for the other's cheer
In spite of the surrounding gloom.
For now, we stand in stately bloom
Awaiting freedom's fearless dawn!
In spite of the surrounding gloom,
Today's tomorrow will be born!
Awaiting freedom's fearless dawn,
We spiral skyward sprightly spree.
Today's tomorrow will be born,
Harbinger of hope, lockdown free.
We spiral skyward sprightly spree
Blossoming in the morning dew.
Harbinger of hope, lockdown free
The rushing sap pours life anew.
Blossoming in the morning dew.
Pandemic alarm, life askew.
The rushing sap pours life anew
Morning Glories, beauteous blue!
Note: The first two lines of stanza one depict a symbolic image of a flower, Morning Glory, and the next two lines convey the theme, relationships during the Lockdown crisis.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer.
Zia Marshall is a Learning Designer focusing on personal and professional growth, a poet and writer.
Anju Kishore is a poet and editor whose work has been featured in many anthologies and journals.
Photo by S. Sundar Rajan
You see me drying up, yet I stand erect.
you see the lingering soft green around?
I still have that potential fresh within.
Will you celebrate me now as a relic?
Or would you sprinkle the elixir of life?
Can the charm of a drying leaf wait awhile?
Hold on - the drying charm may yet turn living.
When its time comes, store it, relish it, throw it.
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.
Why did the security check take so long? said my husband who had done with his at one of the international airports from where we were flying to our destination.
Oh what an ordeal it has been. You know as it is these security checks scare me no end and I envy the metal detector for its power in deciding the fate of people travelling abroad, I said even as I breathed a sigh of relief that the whole unpleasant exercise was over.
But the security has to do their duty whether you like it or not, observed my husband.
You know, my heart missed a beat at the sound of beep, beep whenever the man waved the scanner from head to toe. When he went on repeating the motions my fears grew worse, I said.
But why did he do that? he let me off in a jiffy, said my husband.
By the way, did you have something on your person to arouse his suspicion? said my husband.
Certainly not. You know that I am quite aware of the rules. The blessed man made me feel like a terrorist, I said still cursing the guy in uniform.
Probably you scared him and I am glad that makes two of us, laughed my husband.
This is no time for your stupid jokes, I retorted.
O.K. tell me how did he let you off? said he, his tone changing.
An Indian colleague of his came to my rescue. I thanked the lady immensely for bailing me out, I said.
How did she do that? he asked.
Well, she walked towards him and said something which was barely audible to me. But lo and behold, her words seemed to work like magic because he gave me the green signal soon after and she gave me a smile while pointing to my saree which was embellished with sequins.
My husband looked foxed. What about your saree, he said staring at me and let out a loud guffaw as he seemed to find the answer himself.
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.
When Clouds decorates the sky
With dimension defying designs
How could I turn a blind eye?
When stars show their lustre
Even while simmering in sidelines
Will my pretence pass muster?
When sea changes its cursory course
And rivers unsettle their confines
Can my mood admit a remorse?
When a nascent night coyly niggles
And a hill over there its contour defines
Can I hide the shape of my silent struggles?
Can I avoid nature’s nudge to soar in space?
Can I ignore this interface to get divine grace?...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
Now that winter
is round the corner
I will miss the spring,
My frosted pupils will mirror
the hazy sunlight.
Thr rivulets of blood
will harden in to desolate
evenings and crumble
bit by bit in minuscules
of dreary days.
And the lone bird
soaring in the white sky
will fly above the living
and the dead alike.
The latticed window
of latitudes opens to
that little orb of solstice
in which I left You
reclining decked in
the spoils of the spring.
I will miss the spring .
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.
A COOL SOJOURN IN WOODS AND VALES
Pradeep Rath
Air is cool today as fragrance of flowers is cool,
as laughter of toddlers in their toothless gums is cool,
as twinkling of stars in vast dark night is cool,
as grace of maidens dancing to the frenzied sound beats is cool.
In this cool morning let me think of going to a distant place,
no holy pilgrimage it is,
but an idle sojourn in woods and vales,
let me go with a serene mind and heart yearning for boundless peace,
to explore myself l may go on hitch hiking,
not on trains, cars or bikes.
I never know where would I land,
but a blue bird might be leading the path
flapping it's luminous wings,
let me take some provisions as I am never robust,
but feel often slightly weak,
Don't keep the doors open,
the earth is bountiful,
I never know when I return,
I start with poetry in my soul and serene hills as my destination.
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..
THE DEMONS
Kamar Sultana Sheik
Look carefully
At that demon...
Could it be that crying, hungry child
Who was pushed away
roughly?
And now, wearing years of thorns
In its wild hair
Looks like a demon,
Further shunned by all?
Look at that demon again..
Could it be that abused woman
Abused, by her own,
Now an outcast even to herself,
Unaware of her own cruelty
To herself?
Look carefully at that demon..
Could it be an estranged brother,
Who left the shared space of home,
For the bitter wilderness
Of lonely existence
The bile, now hurts so bad,
It borders on vengeance?
Look carefully at that demon..
Could it be fallen divinity
Who has become this, in compassion
Sinking further and further
To the depths you have fallen
So that the only way to reach you
Is to fall as low as you?
Look carefully at that demon...
And you will understand
Why Christ said what he said,
Why Shiva became Bhoothanath,
Why the Sufis embrace
Even the most venomous
To their bosoms.
Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in
My soul was burning in fire
Your arms came to lift me up
I longed for a soothing breeze
You cuddled me with your enchanting spirit
Oh my beloved tree!
I miss your love and care
The freshness of the spring
The bare look of summer
The colours of autumn
The loneliness of winter
You gave me the haven I wanted in each phase
By making my broken spirit refreshed
Oh my beloved tree!
How much I adore you
As if you are a part of my soul.
Babitha George is an aspiring poet and a writer. She is an ardent lover of nature, arts, literature, philosophy and cosmology. She has rich experience throughout her life that encourages her to write poems and stories. Her experiences on life’s journey have made her a deep thinker, empath and a keen observer of life.
A passionate individual, dancer, coffee lover and an amateur artist who loves to be with people who has a positive attitude towards life. She is a seeker by nature and always in the pursuit of things that can make a difference to this world.
She holds a MBA in marketing and was working as a marketing professional in Bangalore. Her real life experiences, imaginative mind and the love for creativity turned her on to the world of writing.
A budding writer whose poems have been published in three anthologies ‘Behind Every Story’, ‘From the Poet’s Pen’ and ‘The Great Indian Anthology Vol 1’. She can be reached at the Instagram handle @ineffable.mindz
With escalating tension
Chilling news of massive violence
The roar of fundamentalists,
ear-shattering
Loaded AK-47, detonators
You bring under your belts
The seed, the tremor of destruction.
Nay, I won’t blame you
As your presence like the breath
Ignored till felt abnormal
Your lessons are forgotten
Like a tainted politician’s response
To any toasted scandal.
Yet you hardly grumble
Never, never insist
Like an all-caring guardian
To follow your dictates humble.
Open learning is a fond medium
For sensitive learners to score double.
Your routine you follow
Along the diurnal course
In universal uniformity
Never flatter nor coax at all
Pardon me, my temporal dear!
May I have a favor small!!
The villain in us unknown
Like Shakuni had his dice thrown
Intricate insecurity seen overgrown
In every part, every dimension
Let humanity flourish and grow
Frighten those like a scarecrow.
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
AVIAL AT HOME / AVIAL: A MELTING POT OF TASTE, CULTURE, FRIENDSHIPS
I was busy watching my favourite Tamil serial. I watch old episodes on Hotstar. What a pity, Corona has caused so much misery all around but the most cruel hit for me is the break of all serials, particularly my favourite one, depriving me the joy of meeting Arjun and Janoo, from the serial, Aranmanai Kili . The bell rang and brought me down to earth from the land of fantasy.
Slightly irritated with this interruption, I pressed the pause button. No visitors these days, so was a little surprised to see a neighbour, Mrs.J. with a katori in her hand. She gave it to me hesitatingly, said, “Madam, will you please taste this and tell me if it is alright? “ Wasn’t I happy to see a worried face, wanting MY opinion about a cooked item! I told myself, wish my Husbandji was around—he never gave credit to my cooking. The usual TamBram male mindset that no one, especially the spouse can ever match his mom’s cooking! No doubt, the TamBram female doesn’t agree with him but never openly voices her views on the subject.
I tasted and knew it was Avial! The taste was alright, a little extra sour perhaps, and no coconut oil. I told her it was good and tasted alright. A strong wave of satisfaction crossed her worried brows and she smiled. I told her it would have tasted more authentic if only she had added some vegetables mandatory for Avial. Like ash gourd, yellow pumpkin and yam. Little more of coconut and coconut oil were the other two important ingredients. She said her daughter-in-law liked it whenever I sent some and wanted to try making it at home. Shared a tip to add some raw rice while grinding the coconut. With a big smile, she said, next time, will remember to follow my tips.
As appreciation of her efforts to try a dish from the South, I gave her some Mor Kuzhambu- I know most of you cannot pronounce it. It is nothing but the South Indian version of the Kadi, ground coconut replacing the besan(kadaley maavu or gram flour) !!! She saw pieces of arbi in it, raised her eyebrows. I said very proudly, Yes, we add some special vegetables in Kadi—like arbi, bhindi or cucumber. I said, if you like avial, you may like this too.
I did not go back to the serial watching--- but sat reminiscing how Avial has become popular and has gained entry in to the kitchens of my apartment complex!!!. In my experience, long time residents of Gujarat do not prefer, generally speaking, dishes with coconut and curds. They go crazy with Dosas, vadas and idlis and of course Sambhar! There is hardly any awareness in the mainstream, of the many varieties of the delicious items of our cuisine! So it is nothing short of a wonder that avial,is getting the status of ‘popular’ at my apartment complex.
For those of you who have no idea about Avial, here is a brief introduction to it.. Avial, one of those traditional dishes of South Indian cuisine without which no feast is complete, must have made an entry in to Tamil Nadu households from its home-Kerala. Avial is an integral part of Kerala cuisine.It is a thick mixture of 10 to 13 vegetables, like elephant yam, plantain, ash gourd, carrots, beans, brinjal, cucumber, drum sticks, snake gourd and curry leaves. The vegetables are cut in long thin strips, of uniform size. Coconut and green chillies ground with curd forms the gravy. Raw coconut oil is added as preservative-no other spices and no seasoning. This dish can be made into a gravy or into a semi-solid side dish.
In a way, Avial is a healthy dish. It is a must in the menu in the weddings, on festival days and a special item when guests drop in. It is believed that it was Bhim ,the strong Pandava,who had concocted this blend of variety of vegetables. Bhim was working as a cook in disguise during their exile in the jungle, in the kingdom of Virata. One day, after the regular lunch time, he was asked to prepare a complete meal for an unexpected royal guest. He managed to cook a mixed vegetable dish with whatever vegetables and ingredients were available and the guest appreciated the taste. The dish though popular, turned out even more tastier when Keralites added coconut and curd and of course the coconut oil!!
It all started at one of the Annakoot session at the Ganesh festival at our colony. We are a group of 16 houses and every year the day before the visarjan, we have Annakoot, a potluck of a variety of dishes made by the members and after the puja all of us partake in the Prasad. Every year two enterprising ladies would take it upon themselves to decide the menu and also allot the item to each member. Of the 16, 2 house owners are away, 1 is a Chinese beautician and another one a non resident. That left the 12 to share the menu. The important items like pulav, subjis, kadi and the dessert the ladies kept to themselves and their friends. Papad, peda and puris were allotted to others, who presumably were less enthusiastic, and these ladies were happy to get such tasks.
Four years ago, my daughter said, “Ma, let us take some typically south Indian dish”. Items with coconut, curds or tamarind were eliminated as most people of the region fear their effects due to their inherent Khatas(sourness). So after much deliberation, we decided to take Poritcha Kozhumbu or Mixed Vegetable in dal gravy! What a surprise! it was well received. Dr. J. sought me out specially to tell me how the ‘subji’ brought back nostalgic memories. He had had many friends from the South during his hostel days and was familiar with and fond of south Indian cuisine. He also shared that Avial was his favourite!
So from then on, whenever avial was made, a big portion was delivered to DrJ’s house. My cook Raginiben would keep aside their share and deliver it on her way home. It seems the other members of his house took a liking for avial too. Dr.J and his lovely wife would make it a point to tell me how they enjoyed the dish. Of course, the bonus was that the container would be returned with some delicious snack. Recently, I had taken a casserole of avial to another neighbour, Mr.P and was surprised to get a call that both he and his wife enjoyed it. In fact, the next day, Mrs.P stopped Raginiben to get the recipe for avial! My next door neighbour, young Acharyas have been fans of my cooking. They go gaga even on the simple everyday Sambhar! They too look forward to the avial eagerly!
Raginiben always enjoyed a katori of avial. She has introduced it to our maid too. Both taste a katori each, as soon as it is made, to add spice to their gossiping session! It is amusing to hear R and the maid reminding me, if avial hasn’t been made for a long time. I dare not ignore their request can I ? R even keeps aside some beans, guwar or drumstick from the daily cooking. Tells me those are for the avial!!! So avial gets cooked once or twice a month. Or whenever ash gourd and arbi are bought; A difficult task in these Corona days, as the colony’s vegetable vendor does not carry these. Yes, now Mr& Mrs P also receive their share.
By the way, tomorrow when R makes avial,--yes, R has collected enough vegetables and the ash gourd--- I plan to send some to the decision makers of the menu. If the avial manages to tickle their palates, then this year’s Annakoot at Ganesh Chaturti will have AVIAL as the main surprise!!!
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.
It was a fine sunny morning in Springtime. We left for Switzerland by a train from Paris. Beautiful Eiffel Tower was left behind. The train was moving with great speed toward Switzerland in the lap of nature. The glimpses of the unknown panoramic, spectacular scenario was grabbing our heart and attention. We were so submerged in the beautiful ambience that we could not know when and where we entered Switzerland.
One of my friends asked - 'Now we are in France or Switzerland ?'
A Swiss co-passenger told us smiling - 'Can't you know the land from its captivating beauty? You have already left France. Now the train is running in the 'Heaven on Earth.' I think - you are new to our land. I thankfully welcome you, my foreign tourist friends to our beloved land, Sweeterland (Switzerland). It is a Swiss confederation and a federal republic of 26 Cantona.'
We asked - ' Why did you use the word 'thankfully' ?'
She humbly replied - We have almost no minerals, agricultural land, seas, big factories. My foreign friends ! You are our wealth. Your investments and money have enriched our banks, financial institutions and economy. Your love for our beautiful small land has flourished our tourism. Banking and tourism are the two pillars on which our economy stands. Foreigners have a lot of contribution to our country. We are proud of our scenic and iconic land that attracts around 30 million tourists across the World annually, though our own population is only 8.5 million, less than that of any metropolitan city of India'.
From her pleasant talks and behavior, we could get some hints of Swiss grandeur and hospitality. People and the place both are beautiful and charming. Such a cordiality from an unknown lady co-passenger stunned us. We thanked for her warm welcome and cooperation.
I told her honestly - ' I have traveled from America to Australia. But such a typical affectionate approach was nowhere available in the World except your 'Sweeter-land' (Switzerland). Really, you are an Angel of Heaven on Earth'.
She said -' Thank you for your appreciation. I shall give some information. The distance between Paris and Lucerne is 300 miles and travel time is 7 hours. Lucerne (Luzern) is a Swiss city. It is one the most beautiful cities of the World. Switzerland's lakes, rivers, mountains, valleys, woods, forests, snow covered peaks, meadows, greenery are so beautiful, breathtaking and mind-blowing that people spontaneously call it the 'Heaven on Earth'. It is a country in the heart of Europe. It is mostly located on the Alps mountain range. Alpine countries surround it. Its wind is a touch biting. Weather is unpredictable. It changes at a moment's notice. People are friendly, lovely and loving. It's a small country with an area of 41285 square kilometers. Bern is its capital.'
Amidst funny talks with the sweet co-passenger and thrilling sightseeing we reached Lucerne (Luzern).We wished goodbye to her. She departed with a smile on her lips. The Swiss guide received us and took us to a hotel for our accommodation. He was a learned and handsome gentleman.
After rest and refreshment we traveled in the City by car. Lucerne is a city in central Switzerland. Its name 'Lucerne' apparently comes from Lake Lucerne. It is the most beautiful Swiss city and one of the most visited tourist destinations of the World. It is located at the outflow of Lake Lucerne into the River Reuss. The city occupies both the banks of the Reuss river and the lowest reach of Lake Lucerne. The course of lower the Reuss runs from Lake Lucerne. The mystical Mount Pilatus overlooks the city. It is popularly known as Dragon Mountain. Splendor of Reuss River, Lake Lucerne and Dragon Mountain was breathtaking.
Mount Pilatus is a must-see destination in Lucerne. Mount Pilatus is popularly known as 'Dragon Mountain'. We went up the mountain by a cable car and walked on it. It was an adventure to go up the hilly terrain. The tall painted houses and the cobblestone shopping streets on its banks of the Reuss are picturesque. We explored the grandeur of Lake Lucerne by a boat. We walked over the Chapel Bridge on the Reuss river. It is the oldest wooden truss bridge of the World. It has a medieval stone tower. It is popularly known as 'The Water Tower'.The Swiss Museum of Transport exhibits locomotives, automobiles, ships and aircrafts.
I asked the Swiss guide - 'Why Mount Pilatus is called Dragon Mountain ?'
He said - 'I shall tell you one of the legends behind its name. Over 5 centuries ago, an enormous dragon flew to Mount Pilatus and crashed to the ground close to a farmer. He fainted. When he woke up found a dragon stone. It was widely and popularly believed that it had healing powers. Since then it is called Dragon Mountain. Today healing properties of the dragonstone is well known.'
I told the guide - 'Except lakes, hills, valleys, streams, rivers, forests, hotels, restaurants, we don't find any big factories or vast corn fields, but Switzerland is rich.'
He clarified -'We don't want to pollute our environment by setting up big factories. Our economy is based on services such as banking and financial institutions, tourism, hospitality, hotels, restaurants, cafes, bars, watches, chocolates. It gives income but does not pollute the ecosystem and environment.'
I asked about Swiss neutrality as well as the country's and people's duty and responsibility to each other.
He told us - 'Swiss neutrality is one the main principles of its foreign policy. It is not involved in military or political conflicts with any state. This policy is self-imposed and permanent. It has not participated in any war since 1815 ( Treaty of Paris). It did not join the United Nations until 2002. It is not a member of European Union so far. But it has good relations with most of the countries of the World. It is involved in peace-buiding processes of the World. Geneva is the Global head office of many International organizations such as the World Health organization (WHO), World Trade Organization (WTO).etc. Tourists of most of the World are amazed by its heavenly beauty and call it 'Heaven on Earth'.
In my personal view, huge military expenditure is a burden on the taxpayer and it eats into welfare activities of the state. In some countries political people create enemies and war. Innocent people die or pay for it. Total military expenditure of the World is in trillion dollars annually. This is purely a wastage of people's money. However, some countries indulge in it.
Switzerland has a culture of compulsory military service for male citizens for its defence mechanism. It is optional and voluntary for the females. Switzerland has no army. But it is an army. It has no enemies to fight against. A massive military with huge expenditure is not so essential, if you have cordial relations with other countries. Swiss defence expenditure is less. Government takes less and gives less. Its taxes are low. For example, its VAT is only 7.7 %. But its infrastructure expenses are not small. Salary, remuneration and wages of citizens are high. They take care of themselves. Government hardly intervenes and interferes in the life, liberty, property and freedom of people.
One of my friends told him - 'Black money has enriched your economy.'
He replied - 'Switzerland is a safe haven for wealth. Rich people all over the World keep their money in Swiss banks for safety. It is the custodian of people's property across the World. They have faith and confidence in our financial systems and banks. We have established such a gigantic financial system by our credibility. Our banks and financial institutions lend money at an interest rate ranging from 2.5 to 3.5 %. Business and industries flourish at a lower rate of interest across the World. It is the contribution of Swiss economy to the World economy. But you are saying the opposite. Have we stolen or taken any money forcefully ? Rather, it is deposited in Swiss banks voluntarily by people of the World. How can we know - whether it is black money or white money? The black money concept comes from non-payment of tax on income. It is the responsibility of concerned sovereign states. For their failure in collection of tax, how Switzerland and its banks can be responsible and blamed? To call a spade a spade, black money is generated in high tax countries. To escape from the tax burden, the people of those countries keep their money in Swiss banks paying interest rate ranging from 0 to 0.5 % on their deposits.
The rich men and corporations of high tax countries pay tax at the rate of around 50 % of their income ( including all taxes on income and expenditure both) to the government. Hardly they get any benefit for paying tax. Out of 1.3 billion people, mostly 300 million pay tax on their income and expenditure, others hardly pay any tax.The taxation law is not only complicated and high but also draconian.
In Switzerland, foreign investors pay low tax or no tax. So, some rich people and entrepreneurs invest their money in Switzerland. Outflow of money to tax havens becomes inevitable in high tax countries. Without changing the draconian law of the high tax countries, unnecessary blaming of Switzerland is ridiculous. Whatever happens in Switzerland, happens constitutionally, legally, lawfully, honestly, with all transparency. In Swiss direct democracy (since the 1848 Swiss Constitution), people can change any complicated, draconian, harmful law or constitutional provision by referendum. Such a system is not available across the World except Switzerland. We are proud of our direct democracy.'
Next day, we came from Lucerne to Zurich by car. It took one hour. The distance was 50 kilometers. The name Zurich is of German origin and means 'Gift of God'. It is the largest city and business center in Switzerland. Its area is around 90 sq km (35 sq miles) with a population of about 1.4 million. It was founded by the Romans. Its official language is German. But most of the people know English. It is one of largest financial centers of the World with many financial institutions and banks of great repute such as Union Bank of Switzerland (UBS) and Credit Suisse. They are famous for their low tax rates, credibility, stability, privacy and confidentiality. Zurich is ranked among the ten most liveable cities in the World. Lake Zurich is a beautiful destination for tourists.
The Limmat river passes through the city center of Zurich and divides the city. It's a beautiful river with pure and transparent water. Its water is so clear and pure that one can see the river bed 8-10 feet below the water. We made a ferry voyage on the Limmat River to explore the city. It's a crazy area with old fashioned houses, fantastic waterfront, cafes, restaurants. There are nice pavements on its banks for the pedestrians.
Swiss air, water, food, services, hospitality are incredible, pure and hygienic without any adulteration. Though it is a country of diverse races, ethnic groups, religious practices, there is no communal conflict. It is a secular country. It is peaceful at large - no enemy to disturb. Their culture is - Live and let others live. Peace and happiness is the motto of people.
During our sightseeing, another friend said - 'Switzerland is a heavenly tax haven of black money.'
The guide said funnily -'Have you ever seen heaven, tax haven or black money or its color?'
My friend said - 'How can one see heaven before death ? Though I have not seen heaven, tax haven or black money, I have heard about it. Of course, the color of money differs from state to state.'
The guide said - 'Black money and corruption are foreign words in our country. Hardly any tax avoidance or tax evasion happens in Swiss economy, and as such, the question of black money does arise in Switzerland. It occurs only in high tax countries. Unofficial sources say - Sages are sinners (there). Investigators go on witch hunting but to no avail. People hear black money legends, tax haven folktales and hawala stories for decades.
A tax haven is a country or independent area or well-governed tax jurisdiction that imposes low tax or no tax on foreign Investments as per law of the land. It attracts huge capital inflow from high-tax countries. Switzerland remains high atop the list of preferred tax havens due to its low tax or no tax on foreign corporates and individuals. It has never ever stolen nor forcefully taken any black money or white money from any foreign country. It is no longer hiding anything. Rather, corrupt economies are remaining silent on it in an unknown fear. Swiss tax haven is a Heaven for investors. There is a thin line between a tax haven and heaven. Who gets benefits calls it heaven. Who gains nothing, calls it a tax haven. But the country remains one and the same. Difference lies in perception.'
During our sojourn in Switzerland we observed that honesty and transparency is the very soul, backbone and blood of Swiss economy. We hardly found any corruption there. It is one of the most developed and competitive economies of the World with higher GDP per capita. It has a highly developed service sector which generates 74 % of the GDP. Industry contributes 25 % and agriculture 1% to GDP. Its currency is Swiss franc.
Swiss banking secrecy prohibits the disclosure of client information to the third parties without client's consent or an accepted criminal complaint. Accordingly, privacy is provided to select clients via numbered bank accounts or underground bank vaults.
My professor friend taught us his bookish knowledge - 'Black money includes all funds earned through illegal activity or otherwise legal income that is not recorded for legal purposes. In the simplest form, back money is money on which tax is not paid to the government. Black money and corruption are both sides of the same coin. It makes law enforcement difficult. Crimes dominate the polity and economy. Higher taxation is counterproductive. lt makes goods and services unaffordable or cost-prohibitive. Black money decreases the damage.
The hawala system is an informal system of transferring money without any footprint. Due to their tax policy, tax havens offer anonymity to black money of corrupt countries.'
The Swiss guide said - 'Thank you Professor Sir ! Can't you teach the concerned authorities?'
My silent friend said - 'The clamouring against investment of black money in tax havens is meaningless, vague and useless, unless and until the corrupt tax system and draconian laws are done away with, which forces the money to remain black and hidden in tax havens without payment of tax. Money is money. It's neither black nor white. Its uses or usage makes it white or balck. The black money of high tax countries is not only white money in Switzerland but also a golden key to flourish its tourism, banks, industries, infrastructures, hotels, tourism and economy which has made Switzerland from Earth to Heaven. Color of money lies in the eyes of the user.'
To clarify the difference between white money and black money, as well as tax haven and heaven, a story from the 'Ramayana' comes to my mind. Let me speak.
Once upon a time, Valmiki was writing the epic, 'Ramayan' with an emotional bent of mind - ' Maa Sita was weeping in Ashoka Vatika of Sri Lanka, her tears were rolling down her cheeks and white Ashoka flowers were falling in grief and consolation.'
Hanuman was reading it secretly in disguise. He appeared in his normal monkey shape and told - 'You are writing purely false facts'.
Being annoyed, Valmiki said - 'Monkey ! You broke my emotions and stopped my writing.'
Being hurt Hanuman said- 'I may be a monkey - nothing to worry. But you are writing lies. I am the last man to tolerate it'.
As usual the Sage said in a calm voice - 'I am writing - what I see. I cannot disbelieve my Divya Dristi (Divine Vision).'
In an angry mood, Hanuman said- 'Old Sage! You had neither seen Sri Lanka nor flowers. I had seen it. Ashoka flowers were red but not white. Change the color from white to red. Everything will be ok.'
Valmiki lost his quietness and said - 'I cannot change the color as per the direction of a monkey'.
Hearing their grievances, Lord Rama said smiling - 'Both are correct.'
Hanuman said - 'My Lord ! Excuse me. Except me, none of you had seen the falling of Ashoka flowers on Maa Sita. I had seen it. How can I disbelieve my own eyes ?'
Lord Rama said - Hanuman ! Keep quiet. At that time you were angry enough to finish Sri Lanka. Of course, you had that strength. But you were undone due to the prevailing circumstances. Your eyes were red in anger and as such everything including Ashoka flowers were looking red to your angry eyes. You saw red Ashoka flowers. So, you are right. Sage Valmiki is a Divya Drasta. He saw white flowers in his divya dristi (divine vision). He is also correct. Hence, what was red for Hanuman that was white for Valmiki.'
The Swiss guide was stunned to know the philosophy behind our great epic, Ramayan.
The color confusion came to an end. We unanimously said - 'What is black money for India that is white money for Switzerland due to different tax policies of both the countries.
Hemce, both are correct.'
The guide told us - 'The Alps covers 60 % of Switzerland's surface area. Without seeing the Alps, Swis sightseeing is incomplete.'
Next day, we flew over the Alps to see the beauty of the highest and most extensive mountain range of Europe covering 1200 kilometers in 8 Alpine countries: France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, Monaco, Liechtenstein, Slovenia. From the flight we were thrilled to see the beauty of the Alps.
Up above the Alps while flying in the blue sky, we looked at Switzerland. The Swiss tax haven was looking like a Heaven on Earth.
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.
INTO THE UNKNOWN!
Subhechha Biswal & Subrat Pattnaik.
I travelled into the
Unknown, unaware of its fright
In quest of being alight,
For the unease devouring my climb.
The roads were many
But I need to choose mine
In that road, I met many people
No one tried to know what i want to say...
No one understands because
I am into unknown, like a star wanting to be discovered.
It sounds dreaded to walk alone lost into nowhere
But it builds me for somewhere.
The truth found my world
While my fears got overturned.
I seek to free them for good,
As it got my soul on imbue.
I am into unknown,
like a sailor discovering my shore.
I don’t know about the secret to my success
But I think I know the secret of my failure
The secret is to play and make them fool
like unknowns.
Keep an eye on me or
You will repent lately.
I hailed here
Just to show everyone
That I wouldn’t live like that even if I had to die.
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 WATER SEEPED INTO MY MIND
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Like my Grandpa
I felt water had seeped into my mind,
Everything turned so wobbly,
Foggy and dense.
I wondered why everyone was lying,
Why lying was considered so smart,
Why being smart meant how deftly
You can cheat your neighbour,
Why being a neighbour
Was not the same as being a friend
Why a friend never appeared at my door
Why doors were shut upon me one by one,
Why one was reduced to a zero
And zeros rose to great heights
And heights looked down upon heaps of dirt,
And the dirt stuck to the soul
The soul dripped blood
And the blood turned to water
Seeping into my mind, making me wonder
Why my Grandpa no longer knows who I am.
The first time we saw Bhuban we refused to believe he was eleven years. He looked so puny! But he had a smile which was one in a million. It was like a magic wand touching your heart and filling it with a rare glow.
Yet, in a way, Bhuban had no business smiling like that. At least by all logic, his weather-beaten body and ravaged mind should have taken a toll on him. We asked our friend Ranjan and his wife Subhasini where they had got this sample - 'namuna' is the word we used for Bhuban. Both of them laughed, smug with the satisfaction of having acquired a real gem.
- We didn't get him. He literally fell into our home. His father Ramesh, who is from our village, came and dropped him here. It seems Bhuban's mother died two years back and Ramesh married again. His new wife had only one condition for the marriage - he should dump his son as soon as possible and start a new family with his freshly acquired wife. So Bhuban was withdrawn from the school, he roamed around aimlessly in the village, got many beatings from people for straying into their groves, stealing mangoes and guavas. One day Ramesh landed up here, dropped Bhuban here and left. Before leaving he folded his hands, asked us to open a bank account in Bhuban's name and to deposit a thousand rupees every month. That was about a month back.
I was surprised we had not visited Ranjan's home for so long.
- Yes, now that you say it, I realise we have not visited each other for at least a month. Now coming back to Bhuban, how did he take to the change? Did he resent?
- Oh, he has reconciled to his position as a domestic help. He knew he was an unwanted appendage to his father when his new mother - he refers to her as Nua Maa - married him. So here he is, happily helping Subhasini with the household work. He does everything with a smile, never complains about anything.
My wife, Kalyani chimed in,
- Ah, his smile! It is so captivating! If he was twenty years older I would have fallen for it like a broken telephone pole!
I teased her,
- It's not too late now. For you this humble sewak can do anything! Let me start a new journey tomorrow. Looking for a thirty year old with an awesome, one in a million smile.
Ranjan and I were college mates and rediscovered each other in Bhubaneswar after eight years. We became thick friends and our wives also jelled well with each other like butter to a knife, although it's difficult to define who was what. Both of us had no immediate plans of adding a child to the family, preferring to wait for buying an apartment first. We led a carefree life, often going out to movies and picnics to nearby places together.
Bhuban continued to charm us during all our visit to Ranjan's. Whenever we invited them to our home for lunch or dinner, Bhuban would accompany them, always smiling and lending a helping hand to the ladies. After the meal, prompted by us, he would often regale us with stories of his exploits in the village - how he and his best friend would sneak away from home in the night to steal guavas and how they would break a few Neem twigs and put them at everyone's door step to give them a surprise in the morning! And many such stories.
Bhuban would often become emotional and tell us about his departed mother, the dishes prepared by her, how he would cling to her in the night while sleeping. And how his father would tell him stories. Those were the days his father used to love him like the apple of his eyes. In his infinite wisdom Bhuban would say his Nua Maa was also good, but she had to after all think of her own kids naa! That's why she drove him out of their home.
Bhuban's biggest delight was reserved for the days he got a letter from his father. He would show us the post cards, with uneven lines of sentences. Bhuban would thrust them at us. Read, read naa, my father still loves me, although he wrote last time soon they were going to have a baby of their own. He says he will send me a new pair of dress when the new baby comes. And I will visit them during Dussehra. Maa (Subhasini) has promised she will buy a saree for my Nua Maa and a dress for the new baby. With a wide, innocent smile he would ask us, will it be a boy or a girl? He would wistfully say, may be his Nua Maa would take him back and love him as much as her own baby!
The new baby must have arrived after a few months. We could guess it from the fact that letters from Bhuban's father stopped coming. Bhuban was broken. Why no letters? Has something bad happened? Was his Nua Maa alright? Was the new baby alright? He would wait for the postman everyday and rush outside for him only to return empty handed, his face clouded in misery
We had no phones in villages those days and Ranjan's village was a good three hundred kilometres away. Even the letters took one week to arrive. Ranjan wrote two letters to Ramesh asking him to come and take Bhuban to the village for a couple of weeks during Dussehra. But there was no reply.
Whenever we met him we tried to console Bhuban, telling him that his father must have written letters, but these days the postal department had become very irresponsible. Didn't he know there was a report in the newspaper that in some area in Bhubaneswar someone found thousands of letters dumped in a garbage bin? Probably letters to Bhuban were in that heap.
Bhuban became inconsolable. For four months there was no letter, no news from his father. His eyes were often swollen from crying in the night. His smiles were tinged with a sadness that broke our heart. I found Kalyani wiping a secret tear or two thinking of the agony Bhuban must be going through. Bhuban refused to go away from our minds.
One night I had a strange dream. I saw a heap full of letters in a garbage dump - post cards, inlands, envelopes, packages, all kinds. Out of them one post card somehow managed to fly away. It looked familiar to me. Yes, I could see Ramesh's hand writing in the address! The post card went flying from door to door looking for Bhuban's address. Next moment I saw Bhuban jumping around, a long thread in his hand, a kite at the top of it. Oh, it is the post card which had turned into a kite and Bhuban was flying it with joy. The smile was back on his face. He was shouting, look, look, my letter!
Suddenly I saw another kite in the sky. It was a huge one, black, like a dreadful monster. It came near Bhuban's kite and started playing with it, trying to have a kite fight. Bhuban got frightened, he tried to wean his kite away from the monster kite. But he failed. In one cruel swoop, the monster kite came down upon Bhuban's kite and cut the thread. The post card flew away into the horizon, out of Bhuban's sight.
Bhuban shrieked and collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing.
I woke up sweating. The stab in my heart was unmistakable.
Somehow I thought God was unfair to Bhuban. He deserved better. God should have allowed the little boy to keep the letter, if there was one.
.............................................................................................
(This story had appeared in one of the earliest editions of LiteraryVibes on 03 May, 2019 http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/157 )
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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