Literary Vibes - Edition XCVII (04-Dec-2020)
(Title - Poinsettia - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 97th edition of LiteraryVibes.
We are happy to have a new, young poet with us in this edition. Jibu Kochuchira from Alappuzha, Kerala, an undergraduate student of English Literature, writes deeply sensitive poetry. He is extremely talented and is quite prolific. We wish him tremendous success in his literary career and hope to get more of his poems on the pages of LiteraryVibes.
I would like to urge you to read a brilliant article on "A Maritime Perspective On A Two Front War" by Admiral R. K. Dhowan, PVSM, AVSM, YSM, ADC (Retd.), former Chief of Naval Staff of India. It is a highly analytical discourse of strategic importance for our country. Comments on the article can be sent to the author in the email address given by him. The article can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/359
Three days back I came across a story of incredible beauty, a saga of compassion and sacrifice. It is from the life of the famous actress Katharine Hepburn, a celebrated diva of the Hollywood film world. Here is the story:
*Thought of the life time*
“Once when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus.
Finally, there was only one other family between us and the ticket counter. This family made a big impression on me.
There were eight children, all probably under the age of 12. The way they were dressed, you could tell they didn't have a lot of money, but their clothes were neat and clean.
The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line, two-by-two behind their parents, holding hands. They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, animals, and all the acts they would be seeing that night. By their excitement you could sense they had never been to a circus before. It would be a highlight of their lives.
The father and mother were at the head of the pack standing proud as could be. The mother was holding her husband's hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You're my knight in shining armor." He was smiling and enjoying seeing his family happy.
The ticket lady asked the man how many tickets he wanted? He proudly responded, "I'd like to buy eight children's tickets and two adult tickets, so I can take my family to the circus." The ticket lady stated the price.
The man's wife let go of his hand, her head dropped, the man's lip began to quiver. Then he leaned a little closer and asked, "How much did you say?" The ticket lady again stated the price.
The man didn't have enough money. How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn't have enough money to take them to the circus?
Seeing what was going on, my dad reached into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and then dropped it on the ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!) My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."
The man understood what was going on. He wasn't begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking and embarrassing situation.
He looked straight into my dad's eyes, took my dad's hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming down his cheek, he replied; "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family."
My father and I went back to our car and drove home. The $20 that my dad gave away is what we were going to buy our own tickets with.
Although we didn't get to see the circus that night, we both felt a joy inside us that was far greater than seeing the circus could ever provide.
That day I learnt the value to Give.
The Giver is bigger than the Receiver.
If you want to be large, larger than life, learn to Give. Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything.
The importance of giving, blessing others can never be over emphasized because there's always joy in giving.
Learn to make someone happy by acts of giving.”
~ Katharine Hepburn
...........................
Reading her account of an adolescent memory, I was reminded of another story of great compassion by Maj. Gen. SPS Narang (Retd.). I am tempted to reproduce it here:
"Like a large percentage of secular Indians, I have an incident to share which may awaken the conscience of some of my fellow men.
The incident goes back to nearly a year, and even now evokes poignancy in my heart.
Last November, I was driving back to Dehradun from Chandigarh — a fascinating four-hour journey, with the added attraction of visiting Paonta Sahib Gurdwara. I had to break on the way to give myself and my car some rest. And what better than entering the abode of the Guru. Besides the soothing kirtan, it is the langar that one savours, seated on the floor among a multitude of people from all walks of life. Some partake of all meals as they have no means to satiate their hunger.
Breaking bread with them gives an indescribable spiritual high, and to experience this, one doesn’t have to belong to any one religion. I, too, enjoyed the langar and came out to get on with my journey.
I stopped to buy some knick-knacks from a kiosk outside the gurdwara. Just then, I spotted a family of Gujjars (Muslim nomads who rear cattle in semi mountains and sell milk), in an intent discussion in front of a tea vendor. The family comprised an elderly couple, two middle-aged couples and four children. Three women were partially veiled. They seemed poor as the eldest gentleman (probably the father) counted coins and some crumpled notes.
Undoubtedly, the issue was how much they could afford to buy. They asked for three cups of tea and four samosas (popular Indian snack) .
Gathering courage, I asked him, “Kya aap sab khana khayenge?” (Would you all like to have some food?) They looked at one another with a mix of surprise, apprehension and a hurt self-pride.
There was silence. Sometimes, silence can be loud. The innocent eyes of the kids were filled with hope. “Hum kha ke aaaye hain,” (We have eaten already), the old man responded.
There was an instant retort, “Kahan khayaa hai subeh se kuch bhi, Abba?” (we have not eaten anything since morning, Papa!!).
Hearing that, a dull ache in my chest caught me by surprise. The stern look in the eyes of the three men and the pleading moist eyes of the women said it all.
I insisted that they come with me. They agreed, reluctantly. We entered the gurdwara (Sikh Temple of God) .
A good feeling descended over me as I deposited their shoes at the jora ghar (Shoe deposit room in all Gurdwaras). The elders were awed by the architectural marvel.
However, there was fear in their eyes, which was understandable. They were entering a non-Islamic place of worship for the first time.
But the children couldn’t care less, their innocent faces single-mindedly focused on food. Some onlookers flashed strange looks from the corner of their eyes. But then I followed the children, adopting their easy attitude as they excitedly chose head wraps of different colours. (everyone is supposed to cover their heads inside a Gurdwara).
Except for the eldest member, all accompanied me inside, and emulating me, bowed their heads and touched their forehead to the floor. Many others must have noticed, as I did, that these children went through this ritual with utmost reverence. They took Parshad (offering) from the Bhaiji (The Priest) ) who asked them if they needed more. The children gladly nodded.
We entered the Langar Hall and I took the kids along to collect thaalis (plates) .
They did it with joy, like only kids would. Seated opposite us was a newly-married couple. The bride, with red bangles accentuating her charm, asked the children to sit beside her, and two of them sat between them. The way she was looking after them, I could tell she would make a loving mother.
Langar was served, and though I had already eaten, I ate a little to make my guests comfortable. One had to see to believe how they relished it. The initial apprehension had vanished and they ate to their fill. I have no words to describe the joy I experienced.
We had nearly finished when an elderly Sikh and a youth with flowing beard (perhaps the head granthi and sewadar-helper) sought me out.
I was overcome by fear, and more than me, my guests were scared. I walked up to them with folded hands.
He enquired, “Inhaan nu tusi le ke aaye ho? (Have you brought them in?).” I nodded.
The next question had me baffled, “Tusi har din path karde ho? (Do you say prayers every day?).” I almost blurted “yes”, but it would have been a lie. So, with utmost humility I said “no”.
Expecting an admonishment, he surprised me, “Tuhaanu tha koi lorh hi nahin. Aj tuhaanu sab kuch mil gaya hai ji (You don’t need to. Today you have got everything).” I was flabbergasted. Was it advice or sarcasm? He added, “Inha nu Babbe de ghar lya ke te langar shaka ke tusi sab kuch paa laya. Tuhaada dhanwad. Assi dhan ho gaye (By bringing them to the Guru’s abode for langar, you’ve got everything from God. Thank you. We are blessed).”
Then, with folded hands, he walked up to the elderly couple and requested them, “Aap jad bhi idhar aao to langar kha ke jaaiye. Yeh to uparwale da diya hai ji (Whenever you happen to pass through here, please come and have food. It is God’s gift).”
I escorted my guests out of the Langar Hall. Just as we were about to pick our footwear, one of the children said, “Humme aur halwa do naa.” (Get us some more sweet offering). We five went in to get more parshad.
Finally, as they were about to depart, the elderly lady whispered to her husband.
I enquired, “Koi baat, Miyaji?” (is there any problem, Mian Ji!!)
Almost pleadingly, he said, “Yeh keh rahin ki, kya aap ke sar par haath rakh sakti hain?" (She is saying, can she keep her hand on your head)!! I bowed as she blessed me with tears in her eyes.
A wave of emotions swept over me.
Is it my imagination, or for real, that I often feel the beautiful hand of a Muslim lady, wrapped in purity and love, on my head?
This is the reason, we are secular.......
.................................................
What great stories! My eyes fill with tears reading them. Tears of joy and gratitude to the Almighty that He has given us the ability to read such beautiful gems, feel them in our heart and purify our soul.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in LV97 and share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/360 with all your friends and contacts. Please do remind them that a treasure house of poems, short stories, anecdotes and travelogues are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe and healthy.
We will meet again next week.
Those of you who want to contribute their best pieces of writing for the 100th edition of LiteraryVibes due to be published on the 25th December, may send them to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
EVENING THOUGHTS
02) Haraprasad Das
THE PRISONER (BANDI)
03) Ms. Geetha Nair G.
ALL GOD’S CHILDREN
04) Dilip Mohapatra
MY WIFE’S HANDBAG
05) Sreekumar K
TELL TALES
06) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
OUR HERITAGE - MAHAKALESWAR JYOTIRLINGA
OUR HERITAGE - OMKARESWAR JYOTIRLINGA
07) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
DEATH OF A CADAVER
08) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
BROKEN NEST
09) Madhumathi. H
SEARCHING...
SCENTED MIRAGE
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 16: POINSETTIA
11) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
HANDFUL OF THORNS
12) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
ODE TO THE COVID WARRIORS
SOS CALL BY A HARASSED WIFE
13) Vidya Shankar
DIALOGUE IN THE DARK
14) Setaluri Padmavathi
BLACK
15) Meera M. Rao
A PIECE OF CAKE
16) Pradeep Rath
AS DREAMS FADE
TIME WILL COME
17) Abani Udgata
MARADONA
18) Ashok Kumar Ray
HOME VS OLD AGE HOME
19) Jibu Kochuchira
SILENT APOCALYPSE
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
HOMECOMING
SUBHASINI DIDI
Reviews
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A BRIEF CRITICAL REVIEW OF STORIES AND POEMS IN THE LITERARAY VIBES, 96th ISSUE
02) Sreekumar K
BLOOD BROTHERS - CHANDINI SANTHOSH
Shadows lose shape,
the dusk thickens, bird-cries
slit the air, cheese-clouds
swirl in the spilled-milk sky.
Thoughts that had strayed far,
wild oats looking for wet earth
are returning home
to be stroked to cinders.
Smouldering embers
and the spleen that choked
are coming to terms
with themselves.
The wild desires, the nights ajar,
the blind eyes searching for star-bursts,
have returned
to be buried in the backyard.
Life pauses at this evening’s
indifferent fluorescence
amid the whines of machines, tar, dust,
and the charred smell of relationships.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Keep your feet firm on the soil,
hands raised in air.
What freedom
are you asking for, you prisoner?
You have accepted
to live in captivity lifelong;
your thumb impression
blazes on the dotted line.
Do you expect miracles
in 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 your plant 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)”
He had moved into the house next to mine just two few days back. I had viewed his arrival with interest and speculation. He was a fairly young man clad in saffron and much ash. His muscular body looked well-fed. A flier tucked into the next day's newspaper confirmed my suspicions. Yes. The materialistic variety. Swami Athurananda offered his services in astrology, vaasthu, poojas for all occasions and reasons- all at not very modest rates. A con man, like me. Like most of us, I suspected. Didn't I make a living in a thriving company that sold medicine guaranteed to cure asthma, make hair grow and nourish ageing skin? And my wife worked for a medical insurance company. Hadn't she encountered hundreds of people who had found out too late that their medical insurance hadn't insured them against being half-conned?
That morning a knock at my door turned out to be Swami ji himself. He introduced himself; he was a member of a pan-Indian mission devoted to service. In his hand was a vessel. It contained, he said, prasad from his first pooja at his new abode. My wife hung back when he offered the vessel to her. I warned him of her "untouchability"; she faced west when she prayed. But he dismissed it with one of those noble shrugs of his hefty shoulders that I was to encounter again and again and an observation: "All are God's children, Jagdeesh." He had read my name on the name plate at the gate.
I warmed to him a little.
Though my wife was a militant non-vegetarian, she enjoyed cooking my docile Hindu fare .I think to her I was a son as well; we had no children. Swami ji loved the veg dishes she made for me and which I often gave him a share of, after he had declared he had no qualms about accepting food cooked by her.
Summer was at its searing best. I would see him on the terrace in the mornings doing yoga with great agility. After the yoga,, he would clean and fill up with water a large stone bowl. This was kept in the open. It was for birds and squirrels - and snakes. Sure enough, the first two came, regularly, to slake their thirst. Swami ji claimed that slitherer friends too drank on the sly; anyway, there were plenty of them around. ”All God’s children, Jagdeesh,” he shrugged, seeing my expression. Soon, his front yard became a little aviary. I spent much time watching the many-coloured birds drinking and splashing in the stone vessel.
People too dropped in… . Probably with insoluble problems that he dissolved in the holy water or burnt in his holy fire. He soon gained a reputation for performing special poojas to cure those who were ill or close to financial death. He was certainly well-named.
Often, he was spirited away in cars to different places in order to work his magic.
When he was away from home on such business, I would fill the stone bowl every morning. He had requested me to do so and I had agreed readily. On the day of his return, I invariably took across a meal to him. He welcomed this because he did his own cooking and cleaning. But after a few months, he hired a middle-aged lungi-clad man as his domestic help. Probably, he had so many house-calls that he was tired out when he got back and had no time for housework.
It was election time. Assembly seats seemed precariously balanced this time in our land that boasted a regular, five-yearly pendulum swing between left and right.
Swami ji had a steady stream of visitors. I recognised several of them from T V newscasts. Like the birds, they came in many colours- red, white, saffron; even green.
A week before the elections, Swamiji bought a car; he showed it to me proudly. The brand-new, white Swift seemed to have come with a brand-new, brown driver as well. Now, he travelled by it in style to those unknown destinations.
The elections came and went. Two days after the results came out, a distant relative of mine came visiting. He was a chota neta of the party that had lost the elections by a narrow margin. I entertained him because he was useful to me. Otherwise, I would have shut the door in his face long back; he was obnoxious. He ranted about rigged voting machines, ghost voters and those who had promised but not kept their promise.
“But the ***** who takes the cake is a swami. Swami Athurananda or Swami *****.” he uttered an unprintable obscenity. ”You know what he did? He promised our party about 1100 votes from three ashrams and surrounding areas. He pocketed ten lakhs from us. And yesterday, we heard from an informer that he had sold the same votes to our rival party for the same amount! The scoundrel!”
My wife, hearing this tirade, came out and exclaimed, ”O but that is our neighbour!”
“Really? He will have visitors soon.” replied my irate relative. He left almost at once.
That night, my wife and I mused on the murky undercurrents, the audacious double crossing. Or was it triple crossing? Democracy, freedom to vote, strangled and wrapped twice in sheaths of deceit. What a superb conman my neighbour was! My wife had an “I told you” look on her face. She had never taken to him. And then, suddenly, the funny side of it hit me. I started to laugh. What a clever rascal!l More unscrupulous than his buyers! Fleecing both unsuspecting parties! They deserved that or worse. “Not letting the left know what the right hand was doing!’ I guffawed, pleased with my own witticism. My wife gave me a blank look and turned on her side to sleep.
In the morning I leaned over the wall as usual to view the birds. What I saw was the new Swift with its tyres slashed and windshield shattered. There was no sign of Swamiji. I rushed across. The front door was open. Swamiji was lying on his side on the cot. There were bruises and wounds all over his body. He was conscious but obviously in great pain. He whispered a phone number. I called and gave the man at the other side the update. Then I got him a glass of water to drink. He looked up at me. “Swamiji,” I told him, “go away before the other party sends you their share.” He looked surprised, then grateful. His hold on my hand tightened. ”You are a kind man.” he murmured. I wanted to say “All God’s children” but he would have shrugged his shoulders and that would have hurt him terribly.
In two hours he was spirited away by some of his people who came by car. I never did see him again. I took away the stone bowl and placed it in the middle of my little garden. Every morning, I fill it with water and watch God’s children drink and dip in joy.
(This story had appeared in an earlier edition of LiteraryVibes)
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.
It could be the most mysterious
black box owned by Pandora
the inventory of its contents
even unknown to its inventor
or it could be the tall black top hat
of the magician
that produces almost anything
from rabbits to doves
at the wave of the wand.
I always wonder how
she pulls out almost any thing
to meet an unexpected need
from the bottomless pit
that I suppose it is
whether it’s a tooth pick
or a match stick
a cello tape or a tube of glue
paper napkins and plastic spoons
and even an old laundry receipt that
once I needed to trace one of
my misplaced underpants
which she thought I had
lost under suspicious
circumstances.
The list is unending and
so very dynamic
but it always meets any
kind of unprecedented calamity
and I never dared to explore
the numerous pockets and
pouches it contains
for I could be at my wits end
to figure out under what magical
mantra it bares its contents
so very accurately
on time
every time
on demand.
I get impatient when she rummages endlessly
the whole innards of her
puzzling possession
to look for a ten rupee note
to pay for a cup of tea that
I had ordered aboard Deccan Queen
bound for Mumbai from Pune
and in my agitation lose
control of my rising blood pressure
and she knows the signs so very well
and before I could burst a vein or two
and suffer an esophageal spasm
she dips her hand into the
abyss of oblivion
and pulls out a tablet of Sorbitrate
and puts it
under my tongue.
(On board Deccan Queen to Mumbai )
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
Once upon a time in a faraway land, there was a King. He was very interested in listening to stories. The whole day he was busy doing a lot of things for his subjects. Thus he would be very busy the whole day and by night time he would finish his work and ask others to tell him stories.
You know, the King had so many wise people around him, and they were very good storytellers. Some were good at telling stories about snakes and birds and other animals and some were good at telling stories about lakes and rivers and oceans and hills. There were also other people who told stories about kings and queens and princes and princesses. Then there were those who had funny stories of buffoons and fools.
But, you know, the king didn’t like these stories. He sent all those storytellers away. He couldn’t stand them or their stories. He wanted to hear a story which he used to hear when he was young, when he was a very young baby. Who knows what story the King used to hear when he was young? The King's mother and father had died a long time ago and so had many aged people. There was no way of knowing what story the king used to listen to as a baby. Many people tried to tell him various stories. No, No, No. He only wanted to hear that story he used to hear when he was very young.
People went around the kingdom, asking about the story the king used to hear when he was young. Nobody even knew who had been with the King when he was young. Actually, even the King himself had no idea.
Then, one day, the King's men found a very old man who used to be in the palace when the King was a very young prince. They brought him to the palace and asked him whether he knew the story the King used to hear when he was very young. The old man had gone deaf and they had to shout the question into his ears. It took some time. When he finally heard the question, he started laughing. "O, my children," he told the King's men, "when the King was very young he didn't let anybody tell him anything, not even stories."
The King's men were shocked to hear this. They thought that the King had been trying to trick them. They didn't try to tell him any stories after that. When the time for storytelling came, they all had a headache or a toothache or a backache and disappeared from the palace. Some people even stopped going near the King after supper.
The King now really wanted to hear the story that he used to hear when he was young. He became sleepless. He lost his appetite. His hair became grey. His eyes sank into deep pits. He didn't care about the people and one night he ran away from the palace.
He crossed seven mountains and seven rivers and seven deserts and came to a forest. He was so tired that he slept there. He hadn't eaten anything for days. He slept for a long time. Then it drizzled. He woke up and saw some monkeys around him. They all ran away and climbed the nearby trees. The birds began to talk about him among themselves. When he went to the stream to drink water the stream started giggling. The wind blasted at him and the thunder roared at him. The breeze whispered about him to the flowers and the flowers nodded their heads as if they understood. Seeing this, the King smiled. The flowers suddenly stopped nodding their heads and went to sleep. In fact, they went to sleep because the sun had set in the west.
Then it was night and it was time for the fireflies to visit the glowworms. The King was sure that they were talking about him that night. The Owl kept hooting, "whoooo? whoooo? whooo?" And our King replied, "King, King, I am the King." A bat came flying by and slapped the King on the cheek with its skinny wings for saying that and flew away. That whole night the king stayed awake listening to the millions of sounds around him. You know, the forest is full of songs and chattering and snorting and hooting and roaring and babbling at night. It was early morning when the king had some sleep, but he woke up early to listen to the birds. The King was very happy. Here was a story, a very long one, a very mysterious one, a very interesting one, a very happy one, a very enchanting one, a very fresh one. Fresh? No, he had heard it somewhere before. He had heard it when he was very young, when he used to wander in the palace garden all by himself early in the morning and at night after his dinner.
He hadn’t understood it so well when he had first heard it. Now, in the evening of his life, he understood every bit of it and most of the time could guess what was coming. All the stories were in one way or another about rivers and how they flowed. A river seemed to flow through everything, big and small. It sucked everything up on its way and left them wherever it fancied.
The king thought that he himself had come floating into the forest. He sensed that it was time for him to go back. But he was in no hurry and stayed for a few more days and returned only when he thought he had had enough of it.
Most people at the palace was very happy to see their king returning to them. They hoped that he would have got cured of his hunger for stories. Or, some he would have found his own storyteller.
But now the king knew better. He knew where to go to listen to the best stories. He grew more trees in the garden and invited all the birds and flies and small animals to come and stay there. The whole day he worked for the people. He was changing their lives. He was making their lives better. It was like telling them a good story. In the evening, with his people, he came to the garden and listened to the story, the story the sunset told him and the wind told him and the evening flies told him. The mosquito too had a story in the form of a song.
Later the King found that even if he goes nowhere and stays in his bed he could hear the story. In fact, when he became too old to go out he enjoyed listening to the story he heard when he closed his eyes. And his last words when he died were, “and so he lay dead happy ever after.
(This story had appeared in an earlier edition of LiteraryVibes)
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
OUR HERITAGE - MAHAKALESWAR JYOTIRLINGA
(Mahakaleswar temple at Ujjain Mahakaleswar Jyotirlinga)
Lord Shiva is called 'Bholenath' because he is easily pleased and showers his blessings on his devotees with simple penance. He protects any devotee with sincere devotion and a clean heart. Shiva has been worshiped since time immemorial; he is Mahakal, ruler of time, lord of the universe. Since it is a self-originated linga, (Swayambhu) it derives power on its own. It does not require mantra shakti for power like the other lingas.
Mahakaleshwar is one of the 12 Jyotirlingas, and the lingam is believed to be swayambhu generating shakti from within. Mahakala is eulogised as the “creator of all beings and the universe”; “cosmic body and great Yogin”; “the generator of the time wheel and the superb courage” and He is the OMKARA whose body is adorned with the Kundali (girdle of the playful king of the serpents), the whole creation is His physique who sits in the Avantika city which is like the heart-lotus of Lord Vishnu, that merciful divinity should redeem the devotees form the fear of death. His glory has been sung throughout the ages. The people in general surrender all their virtues and vices to Him to attain salvation. It is the only jyotirlinga that faces south – dakshinamukhi. All the other jyotirlingas face east. This is because the direction of death is believed to be south. As Lord Shiva faces south, it symbolizes that he is master of death. In fact, people worship Mahakaleshwar to prevent untimely death – to enjoy a long life. This is a unique feature upheld by tantric traditions to be found only in Mahakaleshwar.
The story behind Mahakaleshwar Jyotirlinga
Like all old structures and the stories that surround them, the legend behind Mahakaleshwar Jyotirlinga has many versions. One of them goes like this. It is believed that King Chandrasena of Ujjain was a great devotee of Lord Shiva. While he was praying, a young boy, Shrikhar wished to pray along with him. However, he was not allowed to do so and was sent away to the outskirts of the city. There, he overheard a plot to attack Ujjain by enemy kings Ripudamana and Singhaditya with the help of a demon named Dushanan. He began to pray to Lord Shiva to protect the city. Vridhi, a priest heard his prayers and also prayed to the Lord to save the city. In the meanwhile, the rival kings attacked Ujjain. They were almost successful in conquering the city when Lord Shiva came in his Mahakal form and saved them. From that day on, at the behest of his devotees, Lord Shiva lives on in this famous Ujjain temple in the form of a linga.
History
The origin of the Mahakala temple is shrouded in divine mystery. However, the legends trace to the pre-historic period. Puranas indicate that the temple was first established by Brahma. There is historical reference to the appointment of prince Kumarasena by King Chanda Pradyota in 6th century BC for looking after the law and order situations of Mahakala temple. The coins of Ujjain, belonging to 4th and 3rd century BC, bear the figure of Lord Shiva on them. According to the ancient Indian poetic texts, the Mahakala temple was very magnificent; its foundation and platform were built of stones and rested on the wooden pillars. Kalidasa in Raghuvansam described this temple as ‘Niketana’. The palace of the king had been in the vicinity of the temple. In the early part of the Meghadutam (Purva Megha), Kalidasa describes the aura attached to Mahakala temple. Many poetic texts like Harsa-charit and Kadambari of Banabhatta, Naisadha-charit of Sri Harsa, and Navasahasamka-charit of Padma Gupta composed during this period which sung the significance and glamour of the temple.
The temple is the embodiment of splendid art and architecture of yester years displaying the multi-storeyed gold-plated palaces and buildings and the superb artistic grandeur. The temple had high ramparts with the entry-gates. In those days the whole atmosphere echoed with the sound of various musical instruments and the echo of the Jaya-dhvani of the devotees was heard along with Vedic hymns and Stutis of the priests.
After the downfall of the Gupta Empire, several successive dynasties including the Maitrakas, Chalukyas, Guptas, Kalachuris, Pusyabhutis, Gurjara Pratiharas, Rastrakutas etc. dominated Ujjain. However, Mahakala temple remained supreme and a number of temples of various gods and goddesses emerged in Avantika. Several Saivite temples including those of 84 Mahadevas existed here. It is found that when every nook and corner of Ujjain was having religious monuments, the development and progress of Mahakala temple was not ignored.
During Paramara period, the crises affected Ujjain and the Mahakala temple and the worst came in the Eleventh century AD when Malwa was invaded by Gazanavide commander who looted and destroyed many temples. The temple complex was destroyed by Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish during his raid of Ujjain in 1234-5. But shortly thereafter the Paramaras rejuvenated. During eleventh and early twelfth century, the Mahakala temple was re-built by Udayaditya and Naravarman Kings in the Bhumija style of architecture. The temples of this style had been either Triratha or Pancharatha in plan. The features of such temples had been its star-shaped plan and the sikhara generally of odd numbers, gradually decreasing in size in rows between the well-decorated spines. Every part of the temple has decorative motifs. Horizontally, the shrine from front to back was respectively divided in entrance, ardha-mandapa, sanctum sanctorum, antarala (vestibule) garbha-griha and Pradaksana path. Upper components of the temple rested on the strong and well-designed pillars. The temple contained the images of various gods and goddesses, Nava Grahas (Nine planets), Apsaras, female dancers, anucharas (attendants), Kichakas etc. Further, besides the Saivite images of Nataraja, Kalyanasundara, Ravananugraha, Sadasiva etc., the temple was adorned with the images of Ganesa, Paravati, Brahma, Visnu, Surya, Sapta Matrkas (Seven mother-goddesses) etc. which were very proportionate, well-decorated, sculpturally perfect and carved according to classical and Puranic texts. Prabandha Chintamani, Vividha Tirtha Kalpataru, Prabandha Kosha composed during 13th-14th century revealed these facts. Mention of Mahakala is made in Vikramacharit and Bhojacharita composed in 15th cemtury AD. Hammira, the ruler of Ranathambor worshipped Lord Mahakala during his stay in Ujjain.
A few Sanads issued by the Sultans of Malwa and Mughal emperors testify that during the mediaeval period these Islamic rulers contributed some donations to priests for conducting worship, lighting the lamps and offering the prayers to Mahakaleswar for the safety of their reign which indicated Islamic rulers’ respect for Mahakaleswara.
Maratha regime established in Ujjain in the Eighteenth century assigned the administration by Peshwa Bajirao-I to his faithful commander Ranoji Shinde, The Diwan of Ranoji was Sukhatanakar who was very wealthy but unluckily issueless. On the suggestions of many learned Pandits, he decided to invest his wealth for religious purposes. Accordingly, he re-built the famous Mahakala temple in Ujjain during the 4th and 5th decades of Eighteenth century AD which stands today.
Temple architecture
The Mahakaleshwar temple has been built in Maratha, Bhumija and Chalukya architectural styles. It has five levels, one of which is underground. It has a tall spire (shikhara) with intricate and beautiful carvings. There are images of Lord Shiva’s consort, Goddess Parvati (to the north), his sons, Ganesha (to the west) and Kartikeya (to the east) and his mount, Nandi (to the south).On the second floor above the Mahakaleshwar linga is the Omkareshwara linga. Enshrined on the third floor of the temple is an image of Nagchandreshwar – with Lord Shiva and Parvati seated on a ten-hooded snake and surrounded by other statues.
The pilgrims get the glimpse of Nagachandresvara on the festive of Naga Panchami. A very large-sized Kunda named Koti Tirtha also exists in the temple-complex which was built in the sarvatobhadra style. The Kunda and its water both are considered as very sacred. On the path adjoining the stairs of the Kunda, many images represent the sculptural grandeur of the temple built during the Paramara period. In the east of the Kunda is a large-sized veranda in which there exists the entrance to the path leading to the garbhagrha. In the northern side of the veranda the images of Sri Rama and goddess Avantika exist. In the southern side of the main shrine, there stand many small Saivite temples Vrddha Mahakalesvara, Anadi Kalpesvara and Saptarshi built during the Shinde regime.
The lingam of Mahakalesvara is colossus. The silver plated Naga Jaladhari and the inscribed and esoteric silver-plate covering the roof of the garbhagrha add extra grandeur to the shrine. All around the walls classical eulogies in the praise of Lord Siva are exhibited. The Nanda lamp always remains lit. In the exit-path, there is a wide hall in which the most attractive metal sculpted stone Nandi, in the sitting pose may be seen. The magnificent courtyard opposite to the Omkaresvara temple adds beauty to the temple-complex. The upper part of the temple has been covered with gold plate. In the year 1980, a separate mandapa was constructed to facilitate the visitors. In 1992, Madhya Pradesh Government and Ujjain Development Authority exclusively contributed special repairs and made provisions for the stay of pilgrims. The same process was followed at the time of the Simhastha.
Festivals
During the 4th and 5th decades of 18th century many ancient traditions such as worship abhisheka, arati, sawari (procession) in the Sravana month, Harihara-milana etc, were also revived. These are still continuing with joyful ceremony and devotional enthusiasm.
The Bhasmarti in early morning, Mahasivaratri, Pancha-Krosi Yatra, Somavati Amavasya etc. are special religious occasions interwoven with the rituals of the temple. The Puja-archana, abhishek aarati and other rituals are regularly performed all the year round in Mahakala temple.
Nitya Yatra is narrated in the Avanti Khanda of the Skanada Purana. In this Yatra, after taking bath in the holy Sipra, the pilgrims visit Nagachandresvara, Kotesvara, Mahakalesvara, goddess Avanatika, goddess Harasiddhi and Agastyesvara for darsana.
Sawari (Procession): On every Monday of the Sravana month up to the dark fortnight of Bhadrapada and again from the bright fortnight of the Kartika to the dark fortnight of Magasirsha, the procession of Lord Mahakala passes through the streets of Ujjain.
Harihara Milana: On Baikuntha Chaturdasi, Lord Mahakala visits Mandir in a procession to meet Lord (Hari) during the mid-night. Later on in a similar procession on that very night Dwarakadhisa visits Mahakal temple. This festival is the symbol of one-ness between the two great Lords Hari and Hara.
Bhasma aarti
Bhasma aarti (offering with ashes) is a famous ritual here. As ash is pure, non-dual, imperishable and unchangeable, so is the Lord. Lord Shiva, father of tantra, is usually depicted naked in sadhana, his whole body covered in bhasma. The first verse of the Shiva Panchakshara Stotram gives the following description:
“ Naagendrahaaraaya trilochanaaya,
bhasmaangaraagaaya maheshwaraaya.
Nityaaya shuddhaaya digambaraaya
Tasmai Nakaaraaya Namah Shivaaya.”
[Meaning: I offer my humble salutations to Lord Mahesvara - who has a garland of serpents around the neck; who has three eyes; whose body is covered with ash (vibhuti); who is eternal; who is pure; who has the entire sky as His dress and who is embodies as the first letter Na ]
Some other names given to Lord Shiva are Bhasmashayaaya (abode of bhasma) and Bhasmabhootaaya (covered with bhasma). Covering the body with ash is considered to be an auspicious act for discovering one’s Shiva nature. Shiva is said to be responsible for mahapralaya, the dissolution of the universe at the end of each kalpa. At this time he dances his tandava nritya, the dance of destruction.
(Images of Bhasma Aarti for Mahakaleswar)
While this temple is open through the day, its unique daily ritual of bhasm arti (consecration with ash) takes place only in the dead of night at 4 am . The Lord is first ceremonially “awakened”. The ritual begins with jalabhiseka or bathing of the linga with water, milk, honey, and curd. It is anointed with shringar, a sandal and turmeric paste, and decorated with bael leaves (bilvapatra) and flowers, before finally performing the first arti of the day. This first arti of the day includes bhasm (ash). Unlike the sacred ash found in most temples, in the past the Mahakal bhasm arti required chita bhasm or ash from the first funeral pyre cremated at night. Today, the practice has changed and temple authorities prepare fresh ash from cow dung and present it in a thin cloth pouch. The token presence in the sanctum sanctorum, of an ash-smeared aghori sadhu Baba Bam Bam Nath from the cremation ghat, completes the ritual. People watch the chief priest dramatically swing the pouch over the linga, as droplets of ash shower down, covering it in grey dust. This lasts a few minutes, and is followed by an arti with oil lamps, the clanging of bells and cymbals, drumbeats, and the chants of “Om Namah Shivaay”, “Jai Mahakal” and “Har Har Mahadev” resonating through the air. It is a powerful, soul-stirring, and overwhelming experience. Some even claim to see a divine light (jyoti) emanate from the linga, during this arti. During the Bhasma Aarti no one is allowed to enter into garbhagriha,area where ritual is performed. Devotees are allowed to nandi hall and barricades behind nandi hall for participating in the Bhasma Aarti. Nandi hall which is situated outside the sanctum sanctorum, accommodates 100 people where as 500 devotees could sit near barricades behind the nandi hall.
Why Shiva smears ash on body?
Once Parvati asked Lord Shiva as to why His divine body is smeared with ashes. What is the reason behind it? Lord Shiva smiled gracefully and narrated a story; A Brahmin descending from Sage Bhrigu once performed an austere meditation. While doing so, he was not affected by seasonal changes such as scorching summers or stiffening winter nor was he disturbed by monsoons. All he was focused on was his inner strengths to be in meditation. When he felt hungry, he requested animals such deer, lion, bears and jackals to fetch him fruits. These animals unafraid of the Brahma served him relentlessly. The time passed by. He gave up feeding on fruits and only ate leaves which were called parna. Therefore, he was called Parnada. Years passed by. One day, Parnada was busy cutting some grass with a scythe. Suddenly, he got his middle finger sliced off. However, it didn't scare him instead he was amazed to find that no blood oozed out from the wounded portion. But a sap-like liquid, which plants unleash, came out. He wondered for a while and realized it was due to his long subsistence on the leaves he ate during the later years of his meditation. Parnada felt proud of his achievement and began to jump with delight. Having been observing Parnada, Lord Shiva decided to teach him a lesson. He disguised Himself as a Brahman and arrived before Parnada."Why are you so happy?" asked Shiva."Can't you see?" replied Parnada. "My tapasya has been so successful that my blood has become like the sap of plants.""This sort of vanity or self-important attitude destroys the fruits of all penances," said Shiva. "What have you got to be so proud about?" Your blood has only turned into the sap of plants. What happens when you burn plants? They become ashes. I myself have performed so much penance that My blood has become ashes."Shiva sliced off his middle finger and ashes came out of it. Parnada was impressed. He realized that there was nothing that he could be proud about; here was a far greater hermit than he. He asked Shiva who he was. Shiva then displayed his true divine form to Parnada. Ever since that day, there have always been ashes on Shiva's body.
(Images of Mahakaleswar temple from different angles)
OUR HERITAGE - OMKARESWAR JYOTIRLINGA
(Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga Location of Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga)
“Tvameva Mata cha pita tvameva
tvameva bandusca guru tvameva
tvameva Vidya dravinam tvameva
tvameva sarvam mama deva deva”
“O Lord of Lords (Deva, Deva), you are my mother (Mata); you are my father
(pita); You are my relative (bandhu); You are my teacher; You are my
Knowledge (Vidya); you are my wealth (dravinam);
you are everything to me (sarvam)”.
Omkareshwar is one of the 12 revered Jyotirlinga shrines and is located on an island called Mandhata or Shivapuri in Madhya Pradesh. The shape of the island is said to be like the Devanagari ? symbol. Omkareshwar means "Lord of Omkara or the Lord of the Om Sound". Advait Math indicates philosophy of Omkaar that Omkaar is composed of two words, Om (sound) and Akaar (srishti). Both are one not two since Advait means "not two". Om beez mantra of Srishti, itself is creator of Srishti.
Omkareshwar Temple is situated in the Khandwa district of Madhya Pradesh at about 12 km from Mortakka. Omkareshwar is formed by the sacred river Narmada. This is one of the most sacred rivers in our country. Mandatha Island sandwiched between Narmada and river Kaveri (a tributary of Narmada). The island is 2.6 km2 in area and can be approached by boats and bridge.
Legends
As per the legend, Vindya, the deity controlling the Vindyachal mountain range was worshipping Shiva to propitiate himself from the sins. He created a sacred geometrical diagram and a Lingam made of sand and clay. Shiva was pleased with the worship and believed to have appeared in two forms, namely Omkareshwar and Amaleswara. Since the mud mound appeared in the form of Om, the island came to be known as Omkareswar. There is a shrine for Parvati and Ganapati in the temple.
Another legend relates to King Mandhata of Ikshvaku clan (an ancestor of Lord Ram) and his son's penance. Mandhata worshipped Lord Shiva here until the Lord manifested himself as a Jyotirlinga. Some scholars also narrate the story about Mandhata's sons viz Ambarish and Muchukunda, who had practiced severe penance and austerities here and pleased Lord Shiva. Because of this, the mountain is named Mandhata.
The third legend from scriptures says that once upon a time there was a great war between Devas (Gods) and Danavas (demons), in which Danavas won. This was a major setback for Devas and hence Devas prayed to Lord Shiva. Pleased with their prayer, Lord Shiva appeared in the form of Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga and defeated Danavas.
Adi Shankara's Cave – Omkareshwar is said to be the place where Adi Sankara met his guru Govindapada in a cave. This cave can be found even today just below the Shiva temple where an image of Adi Shankara has been installed.
(Sculptures at Omkareshwar Temple Parikarma path around temple)
As per Shiv Mahapuran, once Brahma (the God of creation) and Vishnu (the God of Protection and Care) had an argument in terms of supremacy of creation. To test them, Shiva pierced the three worlds as a huge endless pillar of light, the jyotirlinga. Vishnu and Brahma split their ways to downwards and upwards respectively to find the end of the light in either directions. Brahma lied that he found out the end, while Vishnu conceded his defeat. Shiva appeared as the second pillar of light and cursed Brahma that he would have no place in ceremonies while Vishnu would be worshipped until the end of eternity. The jyotirlinga is the supreme reality, out of which Shiva partly appears. The jyothirlinga shrines, thus are places where Shiva appeared as a fiery column of light. Originally there were believed to be 64 jyothirlingas while 12 of them are considered to be very auspicious and holy. Each of the twelve jyothirlinga sites take the name of the presiding deity – each considered different manifestation of Shiva. At all these sites, the primary images are lingam representing the beginning less and endless Stambha pillar, symbolizing the infinite nature of Shiva.
(Island where Omkareswar temple is located )
Structure and Significance
A special feature of the location of Omkareshwar Temple is where river Narmada branches into two and forms an island Mandhata or Shivapuri in the centre. The shape of the island resembles that of the visual representation of the Omkara sound, Om. This shrine can be seen from long distance attributed to its white high rising spire. It is built on the edge of a cliff overlooking river Narmada. The core of the existing temple is perhaps built by Paramaras in 11th century as seen by its Bhumija style of spire. The most of the present shrine is built quite later, in the 19th century by Holkars. This is a three tiered temple, where Shiva Linga is placed on the lowest level. There is a Panchamukhi Ganesha shrine on the next level. The uppermost level has Annapurana shrine. The pillars of the mandapa are carved with sculptures and yaksha capitals. This is the only jyotirlinga where the linga is not of proper shape or better say shapeless. You can take photographs inside the mandapa but not of the sanctum. The Omkareshwar Temple is built in the Nagara style and is characterized by a lofty shikhara. There are also shrines to Annapurna and Ganesha here. Before entering the temple one has to pass through two rooms. The Omkareshwar is not affixed to the ground but is naturally installed there. There is always water around it. The significance of this linga is that the linga is not situated below the cupola. The idol of Lord Shiva is situated on the top of the temple. The temple can be reached by ferry from the banks of the river. A huge fair is organized here on the day of Kartik Poornima.
The entire island is said to be highly mystical. The temple has many beautiful carvings and images, and its architecture is truly exceptional. The temple has a beautiful hall, which is supported by pillars. Many inscriptions have been discovered here by the Archaeological department.
However, this temple, like many others, was not spared from the Islamic invasions, which destroyed most of the beautiful carvings and structures. The temple was completely desecrated during the invasions.
(Omkareshwar Jyotirlinga Temple)
The temple has been renovated many times by different rulers like Paramaras in the 11th century, and the Holkars in the 19th century. Omkareshwara temple was built in 1820 by King Lingarajendra II as act of penance. The temple has five-stories, and the Lingam is in the first level. The Lingam of Lord Shiva in this temple is found to be self-manifested and is of different shape. There are shrines for Lord Ganesha, Lord Karthikeya, and Goddess Parvati, too.
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda is a retired Civil Servant and former Judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. He belongs to the 1972 batch of IAS in Tamil Nadu Cadre where he held many important assignments including long spells heading the departments of Education, Agriculture and Rural Development. He retired from the Government of India as Secretary, Ministry of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in 2008 and worked in CAT Principal Bench in Delhi for the next five years. He is the Founder MD of OMFED. He had earned an excellent reputation as an efficient and result oriented officer during his illustrious career in civil service.
Dr. Panda lives in Bhubaneswar. A Ph. D. in Economics, he spends his time in scholarly pursuits, particularly in the fields of Spiritualism and Indian Cultural Heritage. He is a regular contributor to the Odia magazine Saswata Bharat and the English paper Economic and Political Daily.
Mrs Pradhan, a primary school teacher, wife of a local politician, aged about 47 years and mother of two children delivered through abdomen by Caesarian Section, was having abnormal uterine bleeding. She consulted almost all renowned gynaecologists of the towns, Burla and Sambalpur. All avoided to take up the case with some plea or other, most probably due to her political link. At last she came to me . As usual I never refuse when somebody surrenders before me, rather I get pleasure to accept the challenge. All investigations were done both for diagnostic and therapeutic points of views. It was diagnosed to be a case of multiple tumors in a moderately enlarged uterus. All other investigations including function of vital organs were within normal limits. Surgery was the only option. Patient decided to be operated in the best Nursing Home available in the city. The best available anaesthiologist was consulted. Anesthesiologist gave a green signal . Date was fixed. One bottle of blood was kept ready for emergency purpose. I usually schedule the major cases early in the morning at six. Two most loyal, dedicated and senior gynaecologists assist me in any major case.
Under spinal anaesthesia the surgery started. Along with uterus and tumors the two pathological ovaries were removed. It was a simple operation. There was no adhesions inside the abdomen because of the past two operations.
Post-operative period was uneventful. After 72 hours of the surgery we decided to discharge the patient, as she was comfortable, ambulatory, under oral medication and capable of doing her own routine work.
We had already written the discharge ticket, so that she can go home the next morning.
Her residence was at a stone's throw from the nursing home. But God had a different plan.
Next morning I had two major surgeries in another Nursing Home. My team was busy. In the mean time I got a call from the Gupta Nursing Home, where Mrs. Pradhan was operated three days back. I was told that Mrs Pradhan had a fainting attack following two bouts of loose motion.
I immediately asked one of my assistants to attend to that case and report.
He obliged. As per his observation, the patient was pale, blood pressure low and having slight bleeding per vaginum. She was advised to repeat all relevant blood tests including liver function test (LFT) and sonography of abdomen and pelvis. By the time we finished the two surgeries and reached the Gupta Nursing Home, the reports were available. The significant findings in the reports were low Hemoglobin percentage, moderately raised liver enzymes, which were normal before the surgery on her. Ultrasound report showed moderate fluid collection in the abdomen. Thinking that there might be internal bleeding laparotomy was planned. We kept one senior surgeon in our team. On opening the abdomen we found no active bleeding anywhere. Moderate amount of slight blood stained fluid was present,which is normal. We cleaned all the collection inside the abdomen and put a drain in it. Blood Transfusion was given. Next day LFT was repeated.There was moderate collection in the drainage bag. LFT report showed rapidly increasing liver enzymes. The senior most physician was consulted.
The provisional diagnosis of acute liver failure was made.
The physician suggested to refer the case to a better institution for management.
It was decided to refer her to the oldest and best corporate Hospital in Bhubaneswar as the service of a liver and gastrointestinal specialist was available there. After all arrangements were made, the patient was shifted to Bhubaneswar.
Since it was month of May an AC ambulance was arranged and a resident doctor accompanied the patient. The patient reached safe in the corporate hospital. Over phone I briefed the gastro enterologist personally about the condition of the patient. After three days I got the information that the patient was not improving, collection in the drainage bag was rapidly increasing. After one day the patient started bleeding from different sites.
To my bad luck the consultant told the patient that most probably during surgery the urine pipe was injured for which so much fluid (probably urine ) was accumulating in the bag .
This message of "cutting the urine pipe " spread like a wildfire in Burla. In the morning, when I reached the Nursing home, people of all categories almost gheraoed me, sloganeering against me started and I was almost going to be manhandled. Fortunately I, along with the management of the Nursing home calmed them down and also some known faces were there in the mob who helped a lot to pacify the situation. In front of them I talked to the consultant at Bhubaneswar, keeping the speaker on. I discussed with the consultant, explained everything in detail and convinced him that the fluid draining from the abdomen was not urine rather it was peritoneal fluid. Had it been urine how the urine bag was getting full? I suggested to him to test the fluid for urine. The consultant obliged immediately, did the test and called me back. He confirmed that it was peritoneal fluid, not urine and apologized for the misinformation. By that time the damage was already done. Anyway the situation was managed and fortunately I was saved. After five days the patient succumbed to the liver failure. I suggested for postmortem to avoid legal issues, but the patient's family disagreed.
After completing all formalities in the hospital the dead body was brought to Burla, about 300 kilometres away from Bhubaneswar. On the midway the vehicle carrying the deadbody met a severe accident with a loaded truck almost head on. Fortunately all present in the carrier miraculously escaped except the dead body. The impact of the accident was so high that the body with the stretcher was ejected out through a window and grounded on a field 200 meters away from the main road. The body was smashed, skull fractured with brain matter out and one hand almost amputated. Any one who has not seen the scene can't imagine how horrible it was. It was almost like the cadaver met with a serious accident and died a ghastly death again. The accompanying persons who were absolutely unhurt, with the help of the local people, rebandaged and covered the body with utmost care and respect. Then the body was brought to Burla in another vehicle . It reached in the evening. Preparation was already made for the cremation. In a long procession the body was carried to the cremation ground. I was also in the procession.
Discussion was going on regarding the death of Mrs Pradhan. Different people were putting forth their views, hypothesis and postulation and trying to prove their point.
At that point of time one elderly gentle man boldly argued with those people and convinced them that Dr. Sahoo could never be wrong. At no point of time the patient was neglected. Might be she had some unknown and undiagnosed liver problem which flared up and went beyond control. Even the superspecialist at Bhubaneswar could neither diagnose nor do any thing.
Then everybody was of the opinion that she was destined to die. Had she survived the complications following surgery she could have died of any type of accident. The accident of the vehicle carrying the body proved that no one can undo the God's wishes. It was her luck that she died following a surgical intervention by a renowned and Godly surgeon.
AUM SADGATI.
This is a true story during my stay at Burla and I was the operating gynaecologist. The story narrates two TRUTHS.The first one is that one must always do efficient, ethical, evidence based and selfless practice with dedication. One's selfless good work will never go unrewarded. At the time of need it will pay its dividends. Moreover in unfortunate situation like the above one, one's rapport will act as a shield.
Secondly, before passing a negative and untrue comment on someone, the person should think hundred times of its repercussion.A small casual comment by an expert at the referral centre may finish the name and fame of a highly respected person within twinkle of an eye . This may put him and his family at risk. This type of situation is not uncommon in our society.
Your Good Deeds will come to your rescue at the time of need. God is great.
Prof Gangadhar Sahoo is a well-known Gynaecologist. He is a columnist and an astute Academician. He was the Professor and HOD of O&G Department of VSS MEDICAL COLLEGE, Burla.He is at present occupying the prestigious post of DEAN, IMS & SUM HOSPITAL, BHUBANESWAR and the National Vice President of ISOPARB (INDIAN SOCIETY OF PERINATOLOGY AND REPRODUCTIVE BIOLOGY). He has been awarded the BEST TEACHER AWARD of VSS MEDICAL COLLEGE,BURLA in 2013. He has contributed CHAPTERS in 13 books and more than 100 Scientific Articles in State, National and International Journals of high repute. He is a National Faculty in National Level and delivered more than 200 Lectures in Scientific Conventions.He was adjudged the BEST NATIONAL SPEAKER in ISOPARB NATIONAL CONVENTION in 2016..
(Original story ‘Nashta Needa’ in Odiya translated into English by Sumana Ghosh)
Bannerjee Babu, the Permanent Way Inspector (PWI), had just settled down to his dinner when there was a cautious knock on the front door. Before opening the door his wife peeped through the wooden slats of the window. In the pitch darkness outside, the stranger’s blue shorts and part of his shirt were visible in the faint light of his hand held lantern.
This visitor turned out to be the station porter Tukaram. When the door was opened, he extended a chit of a paper saying, ‘Badababu has sent this memo.’
What, another accident! Bannerjee Babu’s heart started thumping. From the time he joined, there was some mishap or other, every few days.
Dongaposhi, near the Bihar Odisha border is a widespread area full of mines. Its mountains and land are a treasure trove of iron ore, manganese, bauxite and other minerals. That’s why the goods trains in most of the stations in this section are loaded with these minerals headed towards the steel plants and other factories. The iron ore is exported to countries like China and Japan from Paradeep port in Odisha. These mineral laden trains exert a lot of pressure on the tracks in this area. That was one of the main reasons for frequent derailments. There are days when Bannerjee Babu had to literally run from one accident site to another. He had hardly been able to catch a good night’s sleep ever since he arrived here.
He took the semi official chit close to the lantern and in its dim light read out: PWI Badajamda – the driver of Down EP 13 felt a heavy jerk in the Badbil Jamda section KM. 37 2/13 – 12. Please attend soon.
Bannerjee Babu went out to the verandah and told Tukaram, “You go; I’ll be reaching the station soon. If there are any Up trains, tell Badababu to detain them and to get a ‘line clear’ permission for the motor trolley.”
Whenever there are railway accidents, they are entered systematically in the log book. If any staff does not reach the site on time, he is held responsible. Because if a track is non functional for an hour, it could lead to heavy financial losses.
The appetite for dinner had died; he somehow stuffed a few mouthfuls of food and told his wife, “I have to leave for a site visit. I will take Haria with me. You close the doors properly and go off to sleep. There is hardly ever electricity here during the night.”
Then he called out to the trolley man Haria and instructed him, “Go and call Naria, Basua and Chinta from their homes and get the trolley out from the shed. I’ll be reaching the station soon.”
“What has happened?” Mrs. Bannerjee asked.
“The Down train driver has sent word of a very heavy jerk on the tracks.”
“Return soon,” she said, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Having changed his dress, Bannerjee Babu picked up his three cell torchlight and proceeded towards the station with long strides.
Cutting through the impenetrable darkness the motor trolley rolled on, with its grinding sound.
Station master Mitra Babu called Tukaram and said, “There are no trains towards Dongaposhi now, you stay here, in case some phone call comes from the control room. I will be back in a while from my house.”
KM. 37 2/13 -12- was a section of great disrepute because of the many derailments earlier. That is why the 52 kg. rails had been replaced by 60 kg rails. The ballasts were changed after deep screening. Steel sleepers were removed and concrete sleepers were laid instead. Even the 8 degree curve had been eased out.So how could there be a heavy jerk in this section? Was there a rail fracture or had a fish bolt come out loose? All these thoughts kept Banerjee Babu’s mind in a turmoil as the trolley rolled on towards the site.
Once at the site, Banerjee Babu meticulously inspected the tracks. He flashed his torch and asked the trolley man, “Measure the gauge.”
The vestiges of some previous accidents lay in the form of a few upturned bogeys near the tracks. A snake slithered out of the skeleton of one such coach and crossed over to the other side of the track. The trolley men who were busy measuring the track jumped up shouting, “Snake, snake!”
The entire process of measurement was repeated again. Hardly was any discrepancy noticed except for some slack gauge in one or two places. But they were all within permissible limits. Nowhere was a tight gauge noticed, even the super elevation did not surpass the standard limitations.
Banerjee Babu entered the readings in his diary and said, “Inspect the ballast cushioning of the fishplates. Hit it with the beater and see if the thudding sound could have come from there.”
The murkiness of the night was intensifying. The soft rustling of the leaves on the arched branches overhead, of the saal and simul trees, and the chirping of the crickets made this desolate place even more eerie.
Nothing was found even after much prodding and probing. Banerjee Babu returned to the station only to find that the Station Master was not in his office. He placed his Track Certificate on the Station Diary on the Master’s table and weighed it down with a stone and left for home.
After this incident, the memos on account of the ‘heavy jerks observed’ started arriving on a regular basis. When the incident was repeated in the same spot, he attached a checkrail there for safety.
Banerjee Babu had been posted at Badajamda station for a year now. Prior to this he was at the Chakradharpur- Manoharpur mainline section. But since he did not get along well with the Assistant Engineer, he had taken a transfer to this branch line. But after coming here, he was certain that someone had cast an evil eye on him.
The Railway Colony of Badajamda station was not a very large one. There were about twenty or twenty five families from the Operating, Engineering and Mechanical departments. Station Master Mitra Babu and PWI Banerjee Babu were neighbors. Mitra Babu lived alone here while his children lived in Kolkata. Banerjee Babu invited him over for meals on special occasions and pujas. Both the friends enthusiastically organized and celebrated the Durga Puja by collecting donations from the mine owners and the contractors. Banerjee Babu officiated as the priest during the puja. These two men had grown quite close over the year.
After three such incidents of ‘heavy jerks’ consecutively from the same spot, and there not being any noticeable cause at the site, Banerjee Babu’s mind was tainted with evil thoughts. He went on thinking how could it be that the memos were coming for the heavy jerks and sounds from the same place and that too late in the night? What was at the root of this mystery?
The next time…..
On receiving the memo from the Station Master he gathered the trolley men as always and got the trolley started. At the outer signal he asked the men to stop the trolley and got down saying, “I am not feeling well. You people go and check the site.”
He then turned around towards the station. On his right a fox emerged from the dark and glared at him. His blue eyes glimmered under the bright light of the torch.Then it scurried away, down into the giant milkweed bushes. The superstitious Banerjee Babu thought that seeing this animal to his right was not a good omen at all. The oval red light of the home signal seemed to scare him all the more.
On reaching the station he found the Station Master missing from his post. The station porter was snoring away on a bench.
He went ahead and focused the torchlight on the Station Master’s house. There was a big padlock on the door.
Now he entered the compound of his own quarter. Just as he was about to rattle the chain on the outer door he heard some sounds from within. He tried to strain his ears to catch the sounds through the wooden lattice gate. This ancient house with tiled roof was home to the frolicking field mice that produced such sounds. Sometimes when the wild cats were after the pigeons nesting in the wooden beams, the fluttering of the birds’ wings also produced similar thudding sounds. Now he went to the right side of the house, near the bedroom window and pressed his ears close. The heavy sounds originated from the bed in his own bedroom!
A little later there came the rippling sound of laughter. He stood rooted, silently, under the comforting shelter of the old jackfruit tree. After an unending agonizing ten minutes, he saw a shadowy figure emerge from his house and walk towards the station. The mystery of the heavy jerks now lay unraveled, crystal clear before Banerjee Babu’s eyes.
He had no desire or strength to step into his house. The hapless Banerjee Babu squatted lifelessly on the ground, resembling a crumbled anthill. How long, he did not know. He was jolted back to his senses by the screeching sounds of the mynahs in their nest overhead.
He thought, perhaps the hungry rat snake that was often seen moving around their house had slithered up the tree stealthily and ravaged the poor mynahs’ nest.
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Broken Nest’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
Sumana Ghosh is a retired Principal of a High School in Bhubaneswar. While heading the faculty of English she tried innovative methods of teaching and inculcating in her students the love for writing and reading. An avid reader, a passionate teacher with a penchant for writing, The ‘Broken Nest’ is her first independent translation work in Odiya before which she edited and helped in the translation of Krupasagar Sahoo’s book on rail stories, that has already been published as ‘Rail Romance and other stories’.
Between your silence, and
My words
Runs a brook
Of tears
That speak a language
Understood only in dreams
As it gurgles
Drowning and dissolving conversations...
The lullabies I sent
You haven't unwrapped
But
Return my sleep, at least...
The smoke from the incense
Swirls, and sways
Becomes a fairy, her wings
Sequined with dreams
A purple sky, opens like a book
The pages illustrated
In lavender, mauve, lilac, and violet
Flutter in the wind
Curious to join the svelte smoke
But
Like feathers of soft snow
Drift, melt, dissolve
All under a handful of seconds...
All under a handful of moments
Life blooms brightens fades, and
Evaporates into a drop of fairytale...
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
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 16: POINSETTIA
The secret of success in life is giving. Whatever you give, you will get it back when you are in need, that too more than what you had given. In the Lord's eyes giving, even if it is a humble one is worthy of great reward. Nothing goes unaccountable in His Golden Book. What is important is the heart to give without any restraint and it brings forth the Lord's blessings, the reward is eye boggling.
What should you give? Anything, it can be love to materialistic objects including money. And the reward without fail transcends what has been given. This is one of the best lessons she learnt at the feet of her grandma Karunaipoo. kanaka had been taught to give without expecting returns. Being the eldest, giving and sharing was her lot. Repeatedly over and over again she was told to give whatever she could. And she became one of the best givers never expecting anything in return. If she got anything back, she thought it was God's generosity. And all her needs were miraculously fulfilled for her.
When she was a little girl her grandma told her the story of Poinsettia, the Christmas flower. The story remained etched in her heart forever. She had, whenever she got an opportunity, recounted it to her student's to teach them the glory of giving .
The story was about a little girl. She was just seven years old, a village beauty with dimple cheeks and curly hair. She lived in a remote village with her parents. When Christmas arrived it was the custom of the village people to set up a Nativity Scene in their Chapel. Everyone was then supposed to go to the chapel and pay homage to Infant Jesus. But she dared not go because she could not afford a present for Infant Jesus when they went for Christmas Service, as the custom demanded. Her parents were too poor and struggled hard to keep poverty at bay and though a little girl she knew the plight of her parents and did not have the heart to ask them money for a gift and make them unhappy.
When her mother learnt of her longing, she gave her permission to go and consoled her saying God would understand their plight. What was important was going to pay homage and not the gift. So on the day of Christmas Service she was sent to the chapel accompanied by her young cousin. She wore her only good frock, her sunday best and tied a red scarf, her favourite, and ran down the hill to meet her cousin who would be accompanying her. But she was distraught that she had no gift for Child Jesus and she told him. He too tried to cheer her up. And told her any gift even if it is a humble one, if offered with love was acceptable in the eyes of the Lord
As they walked down the snow covered path she looked around for flowers or at the most a plant but there were only straggling weeds here and there, getting ready to sleep for the long winter, while all the plants lay blanketed with snow. She pulled out a few weeds and they were so scrawny looking her heart filled with despair yet she arranged them into a sort of bouquet. As she entered the village chapel tears welled up in her eyes. She felt ashamed of the gift she had brought. But as she went towards the altar she remembered the comforting words: "Even the least humble gift is acceptable in the Lord's eyes. What is important is the heart's willingness to give." She knelt down to pray and placed the bouquet at the feet of Infant Jesus and closed her eyes to hide her tears and to shut out the smirks of those gathered around her. In her heart she saw only the Infant Lord in all His glory. When she opened her eyes she was surprised by the sight in front of her. The weeds had gone, in its place, stood star shaped red flowers blooming. All those who stood there witnessed the miracle. Her heart flooded with Joy. The Lord was pleased with her and had accepted her gift. Like a little lamb she skipped home with her cousin to tell her dear parents how God had accepted their gift. She had learned the great lesson of giving. Giving with a heart full of love.
The flower that bloomed there on that day is called the Christmas Flower or Poinsettia as it blooms only during the Christmas season and it is a symbol of giving.
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
To wrench the blooming roses,
To wander around a mysterious cactus,
To irk a porcupine so precarious,
All ends in a handful of thorns.
The one who adorns a throne,
The peasant who fumingly drones,
The mortals who are death prone,
All complain of handful of thorns.
For the saviour prince Jesus,
Crown full of thorns.
For the banished prince Ram,
Bed full of thorns,
For the renounced prince Gautam,
Feet full of thorns,
And listen we commoners,
Least is this handful of thorns.
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.
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
Behold the Covid Warriors in their armour
Ready for battle in the frontline of war
Against the pandemic, the deadly killer
Unmindful of their own safety and danger
Patients in pain need attention,
Warriors are a few, the patients many
Some need oxygen, some medication
They can't ignore any
Twenty four seven, they are on toes
Without going home for a month
Have no time to vent their woes
Saving patient's lives is their worth
Patients are serious but full of hope
Most recover and allowed to leave,
The Warriors in PPE kits laugh and clap
And see them off the hospital with glee
Abused, stoned and sometimes beaten
Hungry, weary and sleepless
Resolute on their posts, every man or woman
As a soldier on duty nonetheless
Unmindful, they serve with devotion
What of their families?
As nonchalant as they are seen
Live in fear, they have my sympathies
Doctors, nurses and health workers,
Laid down their lives, so that we may live
Grieve for them, offer a prayer, friends
As gratitude for their supreme sacrifice
Their lives, do they mean nothing to us?
Wear a mask, heed my advice
Maintain distance and wash your hands
If you value life of others and want to live
Don't grudge the petals strewn from the sky
To acclaim their noblest endeavours
Like brave soldiers in their line of duty
It's but a small tribute to the Covid Warriors
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
(Please sing to the tune of ‘Money, Money, Money’ of ABBA)
I slog all day, till late at night, to do the chores, for all of you,
Ain't it true
And yet, there never seems to be, any appreciation, for pity me,
Shouldn't I rue?
It's my life, it's really sad
During lockdown, it's really bad
The maid is absent, cook is away, who do I call?
Honey, Honey, Honey,
Listen to me
Give a helping hand
Honey, Honey honey
Do you read me
Give a helping hand
Aha aha
Would you do the dishes or the laundry,
Give a helping hand
You call me Durga, You call me Kali or the Goddess Laxmi
It's a trap
To tie me, with chains of emotion and cage me in motherhood,
All that crap
I ain't sugar, I ain't a fool
You got to pitch in with enough zeal
Get the kids to do the chores or draw my ire, yes you will
Honey, Honey, Honey,
Listen to me
Give a helping hand
An alumnus of Sainik School Bhubaneswar, National Defence Academy, IIT Delhi and Osmania University, Lt Gen N P Padhi was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in June 1976. During his career spanning 39 years, he held many challenging technical and administrative appointments, namely; Chief Engineer of a Corps, Works Adviser to the Air Headquarters, Chief of Staff of Tri-service Andaman & Nicobar Command, Chief Engineer of Southern Army Command, Director General Works in Ministry of Defence, Chief of Staff of Eastern Army Command. As Director General Weapons and Equipment in the Ministry of Defence, he was responsible for Capital procurement of weapon systems for the Army. Apart from winning the Silver Grenade as the best Young Officer, best officer in Mountain Adventure Course, he won the Gold Medal in BE and a CGPA of 10.0 in M Tech from IIT, Delhi. He was awarded the Harkirat Singh Gold Medal for Excellence in field of Engineering in 2000, Commendations of CISC ( 2005), Chief of Army Staff (2008 and 2010) and Chief of Air Staff( 2009). The officer is recipient of the Vishist Seva Medal from the President of India in 2014 for Distinguished Service of a High Order and the Param Vishist Seva Medal in 2015 from the President of India for Distinguished Service of the Most Exceptional Order. On superannuation in May 2015, he worked as President and Unit Head in a 1980 MW Super Critical Thermal Power Plant at Allahabad.
When our nephew said that he was going to take Shankar and me to a restaurant where the dining experience would be in a totally dark room, our response ranged from half-witted jokes to hopeless scepticism at the weirdness of the theme. Much as I tried to get more out of him, K only smiled and left me to my guesses.
Anyway, the following day, around noon, my husband and I, along with K, got into an Uber that he had booked.
‘Drop off point is Express Avenue, sir?’ asked the driver.
When we heard our nephew confirm Express Avenue as our drop-off point to the driver, our scepticism of the previous day surfaced again.
Express Avenue is a high-end mall in Chennai where one can be spoilt for choice when it comes to shopping and entertainment. Apart from the contemporary shopping, the world-class multi screen Escape Cinemas, the best of Chennai’s restaurants at the food court, and spas to splurge in, EA, as it is popularly known, also houses South Asia’s largest gaming arcade.
In spite of all this, why we didn’t find EA exciting enough was not only because it was just fifteen minutes drive from our place but also because we had been there a million times.
‘I don’t think there’s anything here to interest us, K,’ I said. K pretended not to hear me but just walked on ahead of us till he came to the elevator. We soon joined him there and when the capsule descended, we filed in.
‘Which floor are we going to?’
‘Third,’ came the reply.
Escape was on the third floor.
‘Oh, so you have booked tickets for a movie, we are going to pick up some food and eat it while we watch the movie in the dark?’
It seemed as if K was prepared for my harangue. He continued to be as stoically silent as before.
The capsule stopped at the third floor, we got off, and instead of turning left to go to Escape, K turned right and walked on. This was no laughing matter anymore; things were getting really curious and more suspicious now.
We walked on almost to the end of the third floor before we stopped at an orange and black themed space which showed no traces of an eating area behind its solitary closed door that seemed to merge with the orange panelling. The board at the entrance said, ‘Dialogue in the Dark’.
‘Unusual name for a restaurant,’ I thought. It seemed odd that we were the only ones at the ‘restaurant’. I looked around and noticed that this was exactly opposite Escape. When one stepped out of Escape, one shouldn’t have missed this place. Yet we didn’t know about this. (And so did my friends with whom I had later shared this experience.) Maybe it went unnoticed because it was not the kind of ‘happening place’ crowds preferred to go to. I, however, kept my thoughts to myself. Curiosity had, by now, well and truly taken over me.
The young man at the reception counter of ‘Dialogue in the Dark’ welcomed us warmly, and with equal politeness, requested us to sit at the chairs placed at the counter. Shankar and I accepted his offer while K showed him the online booking he had made. The young man took a minute to cross check the booking, and when satisfied, he looked at us and asked, ‘So, have you heard of ‘Dialogue in the Dark’? Do you know the concept behind it?’
No, we hadn’t. No, we didn’t, obviously.
For the next fifteen minutes, as the young man spoke about ‘Dialogue in the Dark’, we realised that though the concept did seem unusual, this was not one of those crazy-themed restaurants. It was dining for a cause.
Conceptualised by Dr Andreas Heinecke in 1988 as an event to create awareness on disability and diversity, ‘Dialogue in the Dark’ today is an international network that not only works to increase tolerance for ‘otherness’ but also to provide employment for the visually impaired. The young man went on to say that for the next one and a half hours or so, we would have as our guide a person who was visually challenged.
‘Guide?’ I asked.
‘Yes, because what you are going to experience, once you walk in through that door, is darkness, total darkness. And the only one who can handle that darkness is someone who knows what dark is, someone who can find their way through the darkness, and lead others through it too, someone who is visually challenged. So, are you ready?’
We nodded our heads in affirmation but if the blank expressions on our faces gave us away, the young man probably chose not to see it. (Just wondering, is stoicism a young man’s trait?) Instead, he took us to a row of lockers, opened one that was empty, and asked us to leave our bags, watches and mobile phones in there. Bags, he said, would be cumbersome in there, and watches and mobile phones give out a luminescence that can interfere with the no-light zone inside.
Still not sure of what to expect, we nevertheless deposited, as per the requirement, our watches, mobile phones and bags in the locker. Shankar locked it securely and pocketed the key. The young man then proceeded to give a set of instructions:
‘Stand by the door, one behind the other.’
K took his place by the door, I stood behind him, Shankar brought up the rear.
‘Pick up a cane and hold it in your left hand.’
We saw in a basket by the door some typical white probing canes. K took one and passed one each to Shankar and me.
‘Place your right hand on the shoulder of the one in front of you. Do not take off that hand when you are inside, except when you are told to do so.’
I placed my right hand on K’s right shoulder. Shankar placed his right hand on my right shoulder. We were ready to go.
The young man knocked at the door. A young girl opened it. A young girl with a bright, endearing smile. A young girl who had never known what light was opened the door with a bright, endearing smile. She took K’s free right hand. It was not a tight one transmitting fear and confusion. It was a firm hold, confident and poised. The door closed behind us. She welcomed us into her world. It was solid dark inside, with not even a thin ray of light to pierce the darkness. If the three of us hadn’t been connected by our hands, we wouldn’t have known they were there. The darkness was so enveloping that it seemed to get into our eyes; our vision could detect nothing.
Our most endearing guide, with the help of a few others like her, took us through a series of fun activities, games, and a meal. The meal was a simple one, for what mattered in that experience was not the spread itself but how we ate that meal. In the darkness. Did we direct our hands to our mouths and back on to the plate without creating a mess? What did our tactile sense and our olfactory sense tell us about the food that we ate? Or, during the fun and games, did our auditory sense save us from being hit by a ball?
In that hour and a half, we faltered and failed.
In that hour and a half, we were the disabled.
In that hour and a half, the idiom ‘the blind leading the blind’ had a totally new and beautiful connotation.
In that hour and a half, what we ‘saw’ in that darkened gallery was something we-with-the-ability-of-sight hardly noticed in our daily life.
We ‘saw’ sound, taste, smell and feel.
We ‘saw’ that we could also use our different abilities.
We ‘saw’ trust, love, laughter and caring.
We ‘saw’ that the differently-abled required not our sympathy, but our empathy.
We ‘saw’ that though they lacked abilities we had, they were as capable of normalcy as we were.
We ‘saw’ our fear and vulnerability pacified by someone deemed incapable of strength.
We ‘saw’ with eyes not blinded by ego and prejudice.
We ‘saw’ life as it should be: that one did not need everything to be perfect to live life. One could live a good life with what is.
When Shankar, K, and I emerged from the dark after an hour and a half, it was not just out of the physical darkness we came out but out of the metaphorical darkness too. Something had shifted within us, something that was to make us stronger for what life had in store for us.
Two years later, in early 2020, the entire world went into lockdown. What used to be normal usages and practices till then didn’t make sense anymore. People called 2020 an evil phase, a dark phase because a sort of ‘disability’ affected everyone. But nothing seemed to affect 2020. It was here with a purpose: to teach people that life was an opportunity for those who could adapt to living differently. All we needed to do was use different abilities. The sooner we learnt to let go and change, the sooner we found happiness and life again.
2020 was here to make us learn that life belonged to those who could carry on a dialogue even in the dark. Just as our cheerful guide in the restaurant.
03 December 2020 (International Day of Persons with Disabilities)
(P.S.: I came to know, while writing this article, that ‘Dialogue in the Dark’ at Express Avenue has been closed permanently. The closure happened sometime in mid 2019.)
Vidya Shankar, a widely published Indian poet, writer, English teacher, a “book” in the Human Library, and an editor with Kavya-Adisakrit (an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House), says poetry is not different from her. The author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam (in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan), and The Rise of Yogamaya, she has received several literary awards and recognitions. She finds meaning to her life through yoga and mandalas.
Behind the incredible world of brightness,
Black dominates the world with its dimensions,
symptoms, significance and symbolic view,
Mankind often lead their life in blue!
The blackish sky filled with glittering stars
gives a positive hope to lead a life ahead;
Don’t the black eyeballs make folks feel
a sense of vision to wander hither and thither?
An attractive black attire impresses one’s sight,
but negative thoughts say not to wear, right?
Auspicious occasion keeps it away very often,
but you have no charm with no black hair!
Black days make us feel worried and be in gloom
Blackish sky drops showers of rain to quench the thirst
People in black complexion surely look good
with their nature of life, ethics, and decorum!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
Have you ever watched people sitting at the nearby tables at a restauran zags,t ? I can assure you that it is both amusing and also embarrassing . The person at our next table had ordered a plate of idlis and when it arrived, he said something to the waiter who promptly brought another cup of sambar .The man crushed the idlis poured both cups of sambar on them ,after mixing thoroughly engaged himself in parallel activities –even as he was eating he was engrossed in reading a newspaper holding it in his left hand and placing it inches from his face! I wondered how he managed to concentrate on two things and shared my observation loud enough for the man to turn round and his body language spoke louder than words!
There was a family of three sitting at the table opposite .The plate of puris arrived,they were large and all puffed up looking very tempting. The mother and father were alternately taking turns coaxing the young boy to eat them along with the potato curry but he continued to gaze at the puris in awe refusing to even touch them lest they lose their shape! They appeared to give up after a while and the father polished them off within minutes perhaps not realizing the consequences, for ,he had to pacify the little child who had started throwing tantrums seeing the puris disappear ! I let out a guffaw which attracted both the parents !
Then at the table on our left sat a mixedgroup of eight .It was apparent that they were celebrating the birthday of the young boy who was dressed in natty clothes .Soon one of them opened the carton which bore the name of a five star hotel and placed the cake in front of the boy .He cut it with glee to the accompaniment of the Happy Birthday song and a round of applause with the following of Gifts. Click click went the digital cameras even as everyone fed the boy with a piece of cake and I was amused at the sight he presented-- his face was half covered with the icing and his cheeks bloated with the contents inside .He appeared excited with the attention he was getting. What aroused my curiousity was the disparity in the age of the group (which appeared to range from nine to ninety) and the contrast in their complexion as well as their way of dressing . Even as I was trying to categorise them as relatives/ friends one of the ladies walked towards our table and offered us a big chunk of cake with a smile. Though I appreciated her gesture I felt embarrassed and cursed myself for making my curousity appear so obvious! I went up to the boy and wished him a very Happy Birthday.The person sitting by his side immediately got up and greeted me with a Namasthe and a smile. I am his father. I work in Dubai and came down for my son’s birthday, he said in Tamil.
Are you all related? I asked.
Some of us are and others are our friends, he said with a broad smile.
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.
I adore your hallowed visage every morning
as fresh sunshine
touches the heart,
think of your embalming words
every hour
as old memories of struggle
frequent the soul,
brood on the gleaming
images of
serendipitous hours
that touched the nation and fade.
Where did the dreams
fade in some nameless
cold winds of the dusk and we forget your name?
Venture some new script
full of hatred
and morose discord
and tarnish your fame,
Why do we so stoop
so low that
evil thoughts possess us and we miss the land of our dreams?
Time will come
when strong winds dispel the dark clouds,
Sun shines in a clear blue sky
and the present miasma melts.
Time will come
when birds flutter again
people find work, happiness and rest,
hope soars high in their dismal lives.
Time will come
when they see reason
refrain from vivisection
for their narrow selfish ends.
Time will come
when clear stream of wisdom
flows in human heart, men drink milk of human kindness, misery ends.
Time will come
when you pay me a visit, sing a song,
we laugh and play again under the Sun
and go on a long sojourn to distant lands.
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..
Your love sublimated in the crossbar.
Those manicured arenas exploded to the stars.
A cheat?
You slapped her way in to the crossbar
one day with god as your witness as
the priests stood aside .
A genius?
Five determined pairs of legs fell behind panting
as you caressed her way in, a baby cradled
In your feet and the wind ruffling your hair.
Those fleet-footed horses you rode turned
scaly crocs charting their way through
a narrow creek infested with piranhas.
Claudia, your wife, says you stopped being
Diego and returned as a psychedelic Maradona
dancing with phantoms, traipsing through
light and shade. A failed father would then
gaze at the dance of moonlight on
the sleeping faces of his tiny daughters **
and retreat to the shadows.
Diego,
We are all patchworks. Aren’t we?
Strangers on a square from
where the seasons stretch to the beyond.
Diego, will you give an autograph?
(** In his bio-pic MARADONA, the legend narrates how he would come home high on drugs after a wild night of revelry and on seeing his infant daughters would hide in the bathroom out of guilt consciousness)
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.
Uncle and Aunt were the parents of Bharat, my childhood friend. They were affectionate, loving, cordial and amiable. They were also known to my parents.
Once, I was returning from college. Uncle saw me on the way and called me to his home. I told him - 'Bharat is not at home. I shall come later.'
He told me - 'He is my son and you are my nephew. What's the difference? Come and enjoy Aunty's pakhal (water rice).'
It was a Summer afternoon. I was hungry. Flavour of pakhal enticed me. I went to his home. Aunt was loving me as her son. Her pakhal satisfied my hunger.
Uncle said- 'After completion of his studies, Bharat will be a doctor. Our wants and difficulties will be finished. It's God's mercy to give us such a brilliant son.'
In the evening I reached home. My father rebuked me saying - 'Roaming happily ! Being an Arts student, what a job will you get after university exams? Pay attention to your studies and prepare for competitive exams.'
My Mom told him - 'Why do you underestimate my son? One day my son will be a renowned officer and also a good man.'
Years passed by.
As expected, Bharat became a doctor and got married. Uncle and Aunt lived in Bharat's home after retirement.
Time was changing. Generation gap was playing its nasty games. Uncle and Aunt were feeling suffocated. Day by day, their beloved son was transforming into a money-making machine and drifting away from them. Love and affection was fading away. Of course, their son and daughter-in-law had purchased beautiful houses, costly cars, gold, diamond and everything. But their greed, selfishness and flamboyance were eating away peace, love and affection of sweet home. Happiness of Uncle and Aunt was dying silently.
One day, Uncle and Aunt came to our home. While blessing my wife, they asked my parents - 'Is she your daughter or daughter-in-law?'
My Mom told them - 'After the marriage of my daughter, I got my son married and brought her to my home. I found in her both my daughter and daughter-in-law. I don't feel the absence of my daughter.'
My Dad told Mom - 'While I was working in an university, I had chosen her to enchant our home. Hardly you had any role in her selection. She is our daughter.'
In the meantime I reached home and touched the affectionate feet of my loving Uncle and Aunt out of devotion. While blessing me, they said to my parents - 'You are really lucky to have such a son and daughter-in-law.'
Mom told them - 'I have made my home. As I sow, so I reap.'
Dad told my Mom - 'I sow seeds,but you only reap without knowing the art of sowing. Why are you always using 'I, me, my' ? Have I no role in home making ?'
I said - 'It is her instinctive habit. None can change her. She is embodiment of love and affection. She does not take rest before we eat and sleep peacefully. She owns all of us. Her sense of belongingness is heavenly. She is pivotal to our family. She is our home in herself.'
Dad teased her - 'She does nothing except spending my earnings.'
Mom told Dad - 'What are you doing? After retirement, you are sitting, eating, sleeping, writing, increasing your body weight and fat. I am managing my home and my children. You are only doing morning and evening walks in fear of me.'
'And you are secretly following and watching him to know - whether he is walking or not,'- Aunt said smiling.
All of us laughed.
But Mom went on telling Dad - 'You are doing nothing, only writing baseless imaginary stories full of lies and posting them on Facebook, online magazines for perusal of others. Once, I found one of your stories on Facebook.The last line was- "My son is a beggar, begging for me and keeping me in his sweet home, but not in an Old Age Home". I felt ashamed and insulated. I was constrained to write in the comments - My son is a renowned officer. My husband is a mad storyteller. Please don't go through his bogus stories.'
Aunt said - 'I like his stories.Your comments have no effect on the readers. Rather, his stories became more lively and popular. All know - a story is not an autobiography. It's an interesting outflow of thoughts and emotions of the writer.'
Mom was about to say something. To divert her attention, I said - 'Won't you serve dinner to Uncle, Aunt and us ? Your daughter-in-law has already made the dinner ready.'
On the dinner table, Uncle told my father spontaneously - 'We feel jealous of your sweet home'.
Sorrowfully Aunty said - 'Alas ! Our fate has given us only sorrows.'
I understood their pain, I was undone and helpless. It was their family problem. Any interference will worsen the delicate situation. They are my Uncle and Aunt, but their only son is my childhood friend. I remained silent.
After dinner my father requested them to stay in our home.
But in a thoughtful mood Uncle said - 'My son and daughter-in-law would think otherwise. We have to go home. Do you have a car to leave us at home ?'
Mom said - 'Car ! It's a dream for us !! Not even a hut he has built in his entire service period. My son has purchased this apartment. The old man has got only twenty lakh rupees towards his GPF, gratuity, leave encashment, commutation of pension that was spent in our daughter's and son's marriage. Whatever pension he is getting, he is traveling alone. Neither he is taking me nor I am interested in going with him. I am happy with my son and daughter. Once we had gone to Singapore via Malaysia. The entire expenditure was borne by my son and daughter. Another time, we visited Andaman and Nicobar Islands on LTC. Our flight tickets were borne by the government and all other expenses were met from my savings. Of course, we had accompanied him inside-India-tours during our young age when our children were small.'
Aunt told my Mom - 'You have traveled throughout India and also visited foreign countries. But we have not seen Delhi for want of money. Whatever little money we earned was spent in the medical education of our son. You are lucky enough to have such an amazing husband and son, daughter.'
During our amusing conversations, my son was busy hugging my Mom and making a mustache silently under Mom's nose in black color without our noticing it. My wife knew his naughty boy.
She said smiling - 'Mom ! Your grandson has done mischief.'
My Dad was happy. He said in a hilarious voice - 'That's like a good boy. What can't be done by me, done by my hero. Really, he feels my mind and does accordingly. I am proud of him.'
All were looking at her mustache and smiling. But Dad was saying funnily - 'Queen Victoria Ma'm ! Please see your face in the mirror at least. Your old beauty is blooming out of your nose.'
Laughter came out of all lips. Mom was also happy,
She told Dad - 'Why are you making jokes? It is the creative art of my grandson.'
She kissed the naughty boy, gave him a chocolate and washed her face.
But the naughty boy had two chocolates: one from my Dad to do mischief and another from Mom for doing art. He was smiling for getting two prizes for one art.
While chewing the chocolates, my son said smiling - 'The World war between Grandpa and Grandma is finished now'.
All were happy.
Uncle told my father - 'Such an incredible loving mischief is a dream now-a-days. In your sweet home, we feel love for 3 generations : grandfather, son and grandson. You do have a pleasant life in a small home, which we don't have in our big bungalow. Though my son owns cars, we have come here by an autorickshaw. You don't have a car, but you have traveled from America to Australia. We are enjoying the mischief of your grandson and affectionate squabbles of your wife. But in our big house we feel the silence of a graveyard. Life is mechanical and boring. We are envious of your home's amazing smile, laughter, fun, humor, mischief, squabble, conversation as well as love and affection.'
I called an Ola cab. Uncle and Aunt went home.
After a couple of months, I was transferred to another town. My family including my parents went with me. My father and my son cannot live without each other. Of course, the mischief of our naughty boy was pleasant to my Dad. Their love for each other was so incredible that none could separate them.
My sister was calling my mother to stay with her. But Mom refused. The most secret but funny thing is that she gets pleasure out of squabbles with Dad. It's strange but true. I have never ever seen them away from each other. I am proud of my loving Mom and Dad.
Life went on. Years passed by.
Once, I came to know about the sorrowful life of my Uncle and Aunty. They were living in an Old Age Home, but not in their son's house. They had no house of their own. What happened was unknown to us. It was a secret, sentimental issue. However, it was some financial or property dispute that drove them away. Uncle and Aunt were not allowed to live in the house of their son for whom they had spent their earnings, savings, life, liberty and property in grooming him up. They had no other alternative than living in an Old Age Home.
To see their condition, I reached the Old Age Home. The old and helpless residents stared at me. To my astonishment, some started holding my hand and some others hugged me as their own son. I felt their lovelorn heart. I enquired about them from the caretaker.
He told me - 'They are expecting their lost-love from you. They are still hoping that their children will come to take them home. Young man ! You can't feel their sorrowful life.'
This was my first experience in an Old Age Home. The pitiable condition of hapless souls is beyond imagination.It is due to lack of physical, social, financial and emotional support to the people.
However, I entered the room of Uncle and Aunt. Of course, they were old. But their separation from their beloved son had made them older than their actual age. They were looking lean, pale, weak, and skinny. Unknown diseases had increased their plight. Hardly they got any medical care and treatments. They were coughing and breathing painfully.
My head touched their feet. They embraced me, but wept. They could not find their son in me in their last days.
Their eyes and mind were still searching for their son. Instead, they got me. Tears were rolling down their cheeks. While touching their feet, their drops of tears, falling on my head, were piercing into my brain. Their pathetic condition was unbearable for me.
I told them - 'I am your nephew. Kindly come with me to my home and stay with me in your old age. Otherwise, your health will deteriorate and plight worsen.'
In a choked voice Uncle said - 'When we could not get a place in my son's house, we deserve no mercy from others. It is our destiny. None can change it. However, your sympathy is a solace to us. I have come alone. I will go alone. Let us forget and forgive. But our last wish to see our son is haunting us. Let him know our best wishes and last wishes.'
The trembling and weeping lips of Aunt were saying in pain and agony-
'My womb's labour's lost. I could not get back my son before leaving the world. Please convey my last blessings to my son.'
Their best wishes and blessings were their love and affection to their son. I returned home. But I could not sleep. The tears of their eyes had taken away my sleep. Their sorrowful sufferings had broken my heart. Their plight had stolen my peace of mind. My wife felt my mind. She told everything to Bharat over phone. But he was not a man, but a statue of stone without a heart. He neither felt the pangs of separation nor meet his father and mother in the Old Age Home as per their last wish.
Next evening, Bharat informed me on his smartphone - 'It was reported to me - my mother passed away in the Old Age Home. Now, I have come to a hospital in another city and I am busy in heart operations as per the previously scheduled appointments. I cannot go now. I will repay you back your expenses for my deceased mother. Also, my father is there to help you in her cremation. Please do the needful.'
I told him - 'An old woman who died in an Old Age Home can't be your mother. The loving name has been dishonoured by you. Have you ever seen her in the last 5 years ? Uncle's pension of Rs.20,000/- per month was being taken by the management of the Old Age Home and in return they got food and shelter. Her pent-up love and emotion for you was dying every moment. Yet, she was living and waiting to see you before her death. Alas ! You have never come to meet her for whom you saw the light of the World. Her sorrowful soul went to her heavenly abode at last.'
My wife felt my emotions and anger. She snatched away the smartphone from me and requested Bharat politely - 'Please come and do the funeral of your deceased mother. In your great doctor's life, so many operations of other hearts will come, but mother's funeral will not come again and again. Kindly come at once.'
My wife called a vehicle. We went to that Old Age Home. But we couldn't find Bharat there.The residents of the Old Age Home had never seen the son of Uncle and Aunt. They presumed me to be their son, since they had seen me previously and rebuked me - 'You ungrateful son ! Can't you give a drop of water to their dying lips ? After their death, you have come here to get their death certificate and their legal heir certificate so as to grab their property. Shame on your greed and selfishness.'
I was so overwhelmed in grief and sorrow that except shedding tears, no word was coming out of my lips. My wife was calling me crying. I ran to the room of Uncle and Aunt. But they were no more. Their souls had left for heaven simultaneously. Their dead bodies were laying together.
My grievous mind was saying - 'You had told me - "I have come alone. I will go alone." But you went together. This is injustice.'
'Son ! Death knows no injustice. It is the hardest truth. It's beyond your comprehension and imagination. Do the funeral for the departed souls.'- A commanding voice was rushing into my ears.
I looked up and saw a loving old man with tearful eyes. He was a sorrowful resident of the Old Age Home.
Me and my wife took the bodies of Uncle and Aunt to 'Swargadwara'. Tears were rolling down from all the eyes. The funeral fire finished their corporeal bodies, leaving behind some ashes for me.
The Atma (soul) of Uncle and Aunt went to heaven. Their corporeal bodies mingled into Pancha Maha-Bhoota i.e. five great elements: space (ether), air, fire, water and Earth.
I brought home their holy ashes and the loving dust of the Old Age Home.
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.
(Translated by Sreekumar K)
As a mother,
her breast throbbing with milk,
walks away down the lane,
a little throbbing heart
sobs in the dumping yard
As a father
master of the house
leaves,
the kitchen starves.
so do the little ones
As a fine tuned budget
leaves without permission
a father left behind
wails broken hearted
As the well guarded dyes
run away and fade
from an unworn dress
a young man dies
hanging by a sari
A sister left by her brother
can't find her own way
from a thousand
all around her
Books left at school
had only the dark to devour
shiver from cold, hunger and fear
Unaware of
the loud silence left behind
we go on dying
till our death
Brother. Jibu Kochuchira, son of Mathew Kuriakose and Gracy Mathew, from Edathua, Alappuzha district, after his schooling, joined the CMI Sacred Heart Province and started priesthood studies. He is a prolific writer at this young age and has brought out a collection of poems which is into its third edition now. At present he is an undergraduate in English at Thevara Sacred Heart College.
The book finally came home
After an arduous journey,
It had gone from hand to hand
In search of a kind soul
That would understand
Its struggles and trials.
It was not a book
That spoke of joy and sorrow,
It did not dig into the affairs
Of love-lorn birds,
Nor of business rivals with knives
To tear each other apart.
It was not a book of prayers to Gods,
Nor of religious discourses
No big lectures on faith and ethics
Nor a path to pious living.
Neither a management guide
Nor a motivational treatise.
The book spoke of the toiling class,
The dreamers who are losers
The ones who go from place to place
From person to person
Asking for a flicker of light
For their half burnt candles.
It was written with indelible ink
Of pain and remorse
Lives dripping with despair,
Moments of hunger and pity,
Of unreachable heights
And flickering gazes.
It was a book discoloured with age
Passing through hands of indifference
Of riches and abundance,
Contempt and arrogance,
No one had time for a book so dull,
It returned home to wait for a good soul.
Caught in a long traffic jam at the Moti Bagh intersection in Delhi on a busy afternoon, I almost missed my flight. Two airhostesses were standing at the aircraft door, nervous and panicky.
“Mrs. Ranjita Joshi?”
Out of breath, I nodded my head.
“Please get in madam, we are already late. The flight is about to take off.”
One of them led me to my seat at 9-C. I looked around. The flight was not very crowded. The middle seat in my row was vacant. A lady had occupied the window seat.
Air journeys are, in a way, quite strange. People come from all corners, converge in an aircraft, share each other’s company for an hour or two and disperse at the end of the journey, perhaps never to meet again. Unlike train journeys, flights are of short duration, often not enough to pick up a friendship. One is not sure whether to start a conversation with a co-passenger. It also depends on how much warmth one sees in the other person – sometimes the fear of rejection plays a dampener.
That afternoon, somehow my co-passenger near the window repelled me. A tall, middle-aged lady with a non-descript face, the only distinguishing feature in her was the pair of expensive dark glasses she was wearing. There was an air of indifference about her, a total lack of concern for anything around. She exuded the kind of arrogance which will keep decent people away from her. I waited for a chance to nod at her and be pleasant to her if she looked at me. But she completely ignored me and just sat there, staring straight ahead.
A handbag with an American Airlines tag was lying on her lap. I presumed that must be the reason for her arrogance – her trip to US, the fabled land of opulence and extravagance! But what’s so great about trips to America these days? People go there at the drop of a hat! I myself have visited US three times in the past one year, to deliver lectures at Illinois, Denver and to conduct viva voce of students at Penn State University. Why does the lady think she is special, just because she is returning from US?
The airhostess came and offered her a glass of juice, but she just shook her head. When she tilted her head to look at the airhostess, I smiled at her, trying to draw her attention. She ignored me. Lunch was dismissed with a wave of hand. Oh, perhaps the flavor of McDonald burgers is still fresh in her mouth, so the Indian food looks unpalatable to her! My God, how can people be so snobbish! Incensed, I attacked my food tray with a vengeance and polished off everything.
Her indifference got on my nerves and infuriated me no end. In my own way, I am a celebrity of sorts. An eminent professor of Psychology at the young age of forty-one, I am well-known in the intellectual world. My articles and stories get published in journals and popular magazines all over the country with my photograph. Hasn’t this lady ever seen my picture? Is she not able to recognize me? It has always happened in the past few years that whenever I travel in a flight, one or two passengers come and shake hands with me and start talking.
How can this lady be so indifferent to me? Does she think she is an intellectual giant and I am not even good enough for a mere glance? Two months back my picture was all over the television when the Education Minister of India gave away the award of “The Most Popular Professor of Delhi University” to me. May be she missed it, being in US!
In my acceptance speech at the Award Function I had openly announced to the audience that I owe all my success to my revered guru Professor Desai, who taught me in my M.A. course at the MS University, Baroda, twenty years ago. He remained a friend, philosopher and guide ever since, till cancer took him away from the world three years ago. He was an amazing professor. None of us had seen anyone like him then, or ever after.
Tall, distinguished looking, with a baritone voice, Professor Desai used to mesmerize the class with his knowledge and eloquence. Students from other departments came and attended his lectures, sometimes sitting on the floor, and often spilling into the corridor outside. Professor Desai didn’t mind. He was the most popular professor in the university and if there was an award those days for popularity among students, he would have won it year after year.
Professor Desai’s practical classes were a super hit. God knows from where he used to get such amazing ideas for practical experiments. To the best of our knowledge no text book covered those experiments. For the dissertation project in the final year, he used to guide ten students, selecting them by drawing lots. He never cared whether the student was a topper or a back-bencher. He believed, everyone had the right to learn from him and it was his duty to help every student. Luckily in my final year I was one of the ten who got picked up for doing a dissertation project under his guidance. My joy knew no bounds.
That year Prof. Desai gave us a completely new kind of project, something unheard of till then. Each student was assigned a ‘subject’, whose identity was kept a secret - only Prof. Desai knew him. The student should never try to probe his identity, should not ask any personal questions, such as the real name, address, age or marital status of the subject. The subjects were bound by a gentleman’s agreement not to reveal their identity. Prof. Desai’s formidable reputation ensured that no subject would ever breach the faith reposed in him.
The content of the project was also unique. Over a period of one month the student would talk to him over phone on anything he feels like, and from that conversation he would prepare a psychological profile of the subject. The student will be assessed on his analytical ability and accuracy of the profile. Since Prof. Desai knew the subject well, he was undoubtedly the right person to evaluate the accuracy.
The project appealed to me. I had topped the class in the first year of M.A. exam and Prof. Desai was quite happy to have me as a scholar for his project. Seeing my excitement my friend Vilasini told me,
“Don’t get so hyper Ranju, you will get a handsome, smart boy as your subject. You are so intelligent and fun-loving, after talking to you for a month he will sweep you off your feet, leaving Pratyay in the lurch.”
I told her, “Impossible, no one can be more handsome or smarter than my Pratyay. There is no way I will leave him for anyone!”
Pratyay, who I married later, was my dearest friend. We had been together since our high school days, and there was no secret between us. We were crazy about each other. But Pratyay was a serious type, wanted to work hard for his law exams and become a judge one day. He was a student at the Law College in Ahmedabad, seventy miles away. He came once in a month to meet me. We used to go to Sayajibaug and Khanderao Market to roam around or to Aradhana Talkies to watch movies hand in hand, chatting away endlessly. I wanted him to come every week, but he avoided it saying he hasserious studies to do. Often in the dead of night I used to get up from sleep, my heart pining for him, and talking to his heart in a way that only young lovers can communicate.
Prof. Desai called me to his room and handed over a slip of paper with a name and telephone number.
“Good luck Ranjita, you have a lady as your subject! Here is the telephone number.”
I came out of the room, Vilasini was the first to see me. With a naughty smile she told me,
“Thank God, it’s a lady. Pratyay is saved, there is no danger for him.”
x x x x x x x x x
It was my first day with the subject. I was excited and nervous. My hand was shaking when I lifted the phone receiver and dialed the number.
“Good afternoon ma’m! I am Priyambada.”
“Not your real name, for sure!”
The lady at the other end chuckled. I was amazed. What a sweet, lilting voice! I had never heard a sweeter voice in my life,
“I am Subhasini, not my real name either!”
“Wow, what a nice name Ma’m - Subhasini – the lady with the sweet voice! Prof. Desai could not have chosen a better name for you! You sound like a twelve year old girl. What is your age?”
She laughed, in an admonishing way.
“No personal questions to the subject. Remember?”
“Sorry ma’m. Won’t happen again.”
“It’s ok. This is my first day also in the project. Let’s be friends.”
In no time, she put me at ease. Asked me to address her as didi, the elder sister, and not as ma’m. For the next one hour we just talked and talked. She had this wonderful ability to talk freely and naturally. We talked of hundreds of things, just didn’t know where we started and where we ended. Like two long-lost friends our hearts bonded on the first day itself, although I found she was much more mature than me. Every time I came close to getting any personal information, she stopped me, reminding me of Prof.Desai’s conditionality. I realized that her loyalty to him was unflinching. But that’s what the project was meant to be! I noted all these as my first day’s impression.
For the next few days, time just flew by. We had agreed that I would call at five in the evening everyday. I started eagerly waiting for that hour. When Pratyay saw my anxiety to speak to her he started teasing me, “Good, I am getting a sister-in-law for free when we get married. It’s a two-in-one deal for me.” Somehow I felt Subhasini didi was a sister to me, may be from my previous birth. My abiding regret during those days was the inability to see her, talk to her in person and hold her hand.
In a way, the project was a bit of a painful riddle for me. And also frustrating. No matter whatever route I took to reach the inner mind of the subject, the path came to an end abruptly. How could someone know another person without figuring out how old she was, married or not, if she lived in the town or in the suburbs? But then, Prof. Desai lovedto pose such challenges to his students and test their ability. I learnt to live with it.
x x x x x x x x x
“Subhasini didi, what is your favorite pastime?”
“To imagine things, to lose myself in a world of dreams, to visit places.”
“What kind of places?”
“The vast foothills of the Himalayas, the dense forests, the lovely sea beaches, everything that we don’t have here.”
“What beautiful dreams you have didi!”
“Yes, I would be roaming in the foothills of Himalayas, the soft sound of the falling snow would touch my heart, like the orchestrated beauty of a symphony. Or I would be sitting under a tree in the dense forest, evening will creep on me slowly and the air will fill with the sweet chirping of a million birds, my mind will find the joys of fulfillment of homecoming after a weary day. And Priyambada, is there anything better on earth than the sound of waves beating the shore on a deserted beach under the silence of a limitless sky? I wish I could be somewhere like that, on a beautiful evening, the waves sprinkling cool water from the fathomless ocean, the sound of the rolling sea singing like a lullaby and putting me to sleep under the open sky!”
“Wow didi, what wonderful thoughts. One day when I get a job, I will take you around the country and show you all the beautiful places.”
“Impossible, Priyambada. We cannot meet. I will never break my promise given to Prof. Desai, My identity will always be a secret to you.”
x x x x x x x x x
“Subhasini didi, what are you doing today, at this hour?”
“I am sitting near the window upstairs. There is a park down below. I can hear children playing, the exciting thud of the cricket ball hitting the bat. Small boys are fighting over a football. Girls are playing on the swing. From their giggles I know they are enjoying themselves. Children are crying for their mothers’ attention. Ah, what fulfillment in this cacophony! It’s like life’s caravan slowly trudging along a crowded street!”
“Didi, where are your kids?”
Silence for a few seconds.
“I don’t have any”
“I am sure one day you will be a great mother. You are so sweet, your children will be really blessed, to have you as their mother.”
The phone went dead with a mysterious chuckle from Subhasini didi.
x x x x x x x x x
“Priyambada, who is that boy?”
“Which boy, didi?”
“The one for whom your heart aches like a wounded bird, whose voice I can hear behind every word when you talk of love and life.”
“Pratyay, didi.”
“Ah, what a lovely name!”
“He is even better in person didi.”
“Lucky you! Do you meet him everyday?”
“No didi, he lives in Ahmedabad, and comes here only once a month. Keeps promising me he will come more often. But he revels in putting me through a sweet torture, to make me pine for him day and night. I can’t tell you didi, how much silent anguish I have suffered in my love for him. Last time when he was here, he told me how a girl in his class forgot her lines looking at his face during the mock trial. For three nights I could not sleep, consumed by the slow fire of jealousy!”
“Priyambada, his name is Pratyay and that means ‘trust’. So have trust in his love. I am sure he won’t let you down.”
“Didi, have you ever been in love?”
There was no answer for a full minute. Finally with a voice tinged with infinite sadness, Subhasini didi answered,
“No personal questions to the subject, remember?”
I felt sad for her. What is it that silently tortures her? I wish I could know.
For that day I wrote in the diary, whoever gets my sweet didi’s love will be the luckiest person on earth.
x x x x x x x x x
It was the last day of my talk with the subject. In the past one month Subhasini didi had become a part of my existence, filling my mind with her sweet presence. I was sad to think that from tomorrow I won’t be calling her again to ask how she spent the day; I will not be able to tell her if Pratyay called and what we talked.
Prof. Desai had issued strict instructions that no student should ever try to locate the subjects and establish contact with them. He was also clear that the student should not forget the subject totally. In different turns of life, one should relate to the subject, revise one’s opinion about her with new experiences and incidents. The subject should remain an integral part of one’s learning process and by meeting her, the advantage of continuing to explore the unknown will be lost. I didn’t really agree with this, but I had too much respect for Prof. Desai to question his judgment,
In a pensive mood, I called Subhasini didi for the last time. My hand was shaking, like the first day of the project. My heart was seized with an unspeakable agony of the impending parting of ways. We talked a lot, carefully avoiding the topic of a possible meeting. Both of us knew it was futile to discuss that.
“Didi, what is your favorite fantasy?”
“To be roaming in the icy mountains of the Himalayas, looking for the wise sageswho have made it their abode. Suddenly the air will reverberate with the sound of ‘aum’. A celestial symphony will start, led by the veena of Goddess Saraswati. Tiny bells will chime everywhere, soft, tinkling sounds, like the footsteps of the divine beings. I will sit there clad in soft snow and my heart will be filled with adeep, fathomless bliss.”
“Wow didi, you are great. Good luck in your quest for the divine and the Supreme Being. You have a pure heart, untouched by mundane inanities. God bless you.”
“God bless you too Priyambada and good luck for your final exams.”
When I kept down the phone, tears were rolling down my eyes.
x x x x x x x x x
I was very happy with my project report. So was Prof. Desai. It had come out really well. I thought I would get an ‘A’ grade. But he gave me only a ‘B’. I was astounded. I asked him, “Sir, I thought I deserved an ‘A’!”
Prof. Desai shook his head.
“Ranjita, you are the best student in the class. So I had given you the toughest subject. Your analysis is perfect, and your language is superb. But there is a fatal error in your analysis. In your anxiety to achieve technical excellence, you have overlooked the obvious. There is a fundamental error. I am sorry, I can’t give you an ‘A’.”
“It’s ok sir. I accept your verdict with all humility. But tell me what is the error in my project?”
Prof. Desai smiled.
“Sorry Ranjita, you know my principle. Your project is not for your student days only. It is a lifetime engagement. I am sure at different points in life you will remember your subject and marvel what you had missed in her. I am sure one day you will have a spark of realization and know what was wrong with your analysis. Till then goodbye and good luck”
Despite the ‘B’ grade in the project I topped the class again and came to Delhi
University for a Ph.D. In due course I became a lecturer and because of outstandingresearch and teaching abilities I became the youngest professor in Delhi University. I had kept in touch with Prof. Desai all these years, talking to him every month and seeking his guidance on various research projects. We used to meet in conferences and I could see the pride in him when he used to introduce me as the best student of his teaching career. Still, in a funny way the ‘B’ grade had kept rankling in my mind and the mystery of the fatal error in my project remained unresolved. I had never tried to speak to Subhasini didi again, out of respect for Prof. Desai’s intellectual integrity. The memory of those sweet evenings, when we talked like two long-lost sisters, had gradually faded.
x x x x x x x x x
Putting a brake on my reverie, the flight landed in Baroda, rolled unto the tarmac and came to a complete stop. The passengers started getting up and collecting their baggage from the overhead racks. I didn’t even look at my co-passenger in the window seat. Somehow she had filled me with an undiluted abhorrence. I wanted to collect my bag and leave the place, away from this unfriendly, indifferent and arrogant person. I was turning to collect my bag when she spoke up,
“Excuse me; can you please get my stroller from the overhead rack?”
I decided to ignore her. She probably sensed my annoyance. She hesitated a bit and extending a soft hand, touched me on my elbow.
“I know you must be annoyed with me for not talking to you during the journey. Actually I am not in a mood to talk. My heart is shattered. My elder sister, with whom I used to live since my childhood, suddenly died of a stroke three days back. I had gone to US to spend a few months with my brother, but rushed back on hearing the news. Please don’t mind and take out my bag. And also my walking stick. Without that I can’t get out of the plane. I was born blind.”
I just couldn’t believe my ears. The high heavens crashed on me! Oh my God, what have I done? How could I be so stupid, so insensitive? In the name of life and all that is sacred, can I ask for her forgiveness and do I deserve it? I wanted to hold her hand and beg her forgiveness, but my voice choked and tears of deep anguish blinded my eyes. I just touched her hand in an act of intimate, unspoken regret. I took out her bag and the walking stick and gave them to her.
In the last few minutes another thought had been troubling me. The voice of the lady sounded painfully familiar as if I have had extensive conversation with her somewhere in my life. And then in a flash, it came back to me. My God, this is the voice of Subhasini didi! How can I forget this soft, sweet, lilting voice, one which had filled many of my evenings with hope, faith and joy twenty years back?
With a sense of overwhelming wonder, I exclaimed,
“Subhasini didi! I am Ranjita, no, no, Priyambada! Don’t you remember me? You were the subject of my project twenty years back! Please wait, don’t go away.”
The lady had started to walk. My words stopped her on her track. She turned back, faced me. There was a hesitation for almost a minute. My heart skipped a beat. Then she slowly turned away,
“Sorry, I don’t know. I can’t remember being associated with any project in my life.”
With that she walked away, slowly, bent with the burden of grief. The way she emphasized the word ‘project’, I had no doubt that she was indeed my Subhasini didi. I also knew she did it deliberately, to remind me again of the promise we made to our beloved Prof. Desai never to compromise our identity.
And looking at her retreating figure, I suddenly remembered Prof. Desai’s words, “Your analysis has a fatal error. I am sure one day you will realize what it is and see your subject in a new light.”
Pages from my memory kept unfolding and I realized what I had missed in my analysis. For the one month that we had talked, all of Subhasini didi’s dreams, words and thoughts were filled with the echo of sound, noise, music, silence and symphony. She had never spoken of anything that she had seen or wanted to see! In my eagerness to achieve excellent analysis, I had failed to discern this void in her life.
I found myself crying uncontrollably. The deep anguish of my sweet didi, the heart-rending emptiness pervading her existence and the elusive joy of sight that she has missed in life, filled me with a sense of melancholy. Silently I folded my hands, and touched my forehead, as a mark of love and respect for Subhasini didi. With a heavy heart I told to myself,
“Sorry, Subhasini didi, twenty years back I couldn’t recognize you from the voice across the telephone line. And today when I finally got to see you in person, you are going away from me, hiding behind the façade of a promise made to a dear, departed soul. Soon you will melt into the milling crowd of Baroda. And I will live with the regret that my aching heart, eager to touch you even for once, will be left pining for you for ever.”
(This story had appeared in an earlier edition of LiteraryVibes)
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.
REVIEWS
A BRIEF CRITICAL REVIEW OF STORIES AND POEMS IN THE LITERARAY VIBES, 96th ISSUE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
POEMS:
To start with my own poem, “Bread is not Made of Dreams”, I will desist from assessing its merits, leaving that to readers and critics. But I can elaborate a bit on my underlying thoughts that spurred the poem – “Love can be as magical and romantic as the will-o’-the-wisp. It may give pleasure as intense as causing goosebumps, fear of a ghost-light, and extreme pain. It can be illusory like cowries spread on honey-colour skin of the beloved in a moonlit night. it can be earthy and spiritual in one breath. But finally, a tyrant, the hunger of the belly, steps in to rule the destiny of the lovers, the destiny of a common man and woman in love. The need of a square meal often pushes love to a back bench.”
Odia poem, ”VINIMAYA” of the poet Haraprasad Das in translation as “BARTER”, waxes eloquence with its symbols, and images - the paper boat, ivory, merchant, downpour, a hooded cobra etc. A tender childhood is put into a paper boat, and left sailing. But a squally downpour makes the child uncertain of its future, she is worried, how it would fare in the vagaries of life’s changing climate while she is growing up. Finally hope dawns like a dream, the merchant on her paper boat has safely docked in a rich island and is bartering his ivory for a scarf for her, a scarf as beautiful as the blue sky. A charming little poem, knit around the timid childhood of a girl who is growing up into a woman with her mysteries and secrets of womanhood.
Dilip Mohapatra’s naughty poem “Say Cheese” is a soft self-leg-pulling, his varied life-experiences where he had to affect forced smiles. First occasion came in his cradle, when he was tickled to laugh, and then in his school’s group photograph where to show a toothy smile exactly when ordered and hold it until the cameraman had taken his shots. The next occasion was as tender as with a brand-new wife, yet as forced as in a drab tiny dark studio room, when he had to show his overwhelmingly happy romantic toothy expression for a grand wedding photograph as the family’s collector-item for posterity. The last in his poem, that might and may not be the last in life, was when his daughter took a selfie with him. Though “Say Cheese”, may sound absurd, but doesn’t this cartel of absurdity rule the roost in all walks of lives. Dilip has bearded the lions, including himself and we all, in our own dens, by this hilarious poem.
Bichitra Kumar Behura’s “Just a Thought” has deep soundings. He speaks of a deep and vast ocean, his symbol for minds of men with patience, tolerance, and capacity of a Pacific proportion to absorb good and bad into its core, may be, he is hinting at himself. The turbulence, squalls, cyclones, quakes do not touch the inner space and peace at the great depths of this oceanic vastness. Flowing into it, rivers may wash in their mud, garbage, debris, and dirt, yet nothing changes its size, depth, or consistency. It remains calm and contented, a stoic.
Madhumati H has two poems. In “Soulmate” with a trick of poetic hyperboles, she hints at an oft-repeated rule of love, “Opposites attract”, like a magnetic north pole cannot be separated from its south pole, they coexist or don’t exist at all. I also found a hint towards sadomasochism in relationship, that may not be aimed at by the poet, but the sense comes through dominantly. I find an expression of pleasure while being tortured by a partner, in the soulmates/couple’s walking under the love’s umbrella. Her other poem “Distances Dissolve…” is a Thanks-Giving poem, a hymn of sorts to the almighty, who created the beautiful nature, its colours, mist, sunshine, flora and fauna. She thankfully revels in His bounty, immensely thankfully. Two poems, two moods.
Dr. Molly Joseph M. in her poem “Hunger” touches the raw nerve of social inequality, the contrasting strata between the wealthy and the destitute. She creates a word profile of abject poverty leading to hungry mouths, but side by side, the existence of a world of plenty where wastage is a practice. A poem for social awakening and the thought is close to my heart personally, so I love this poem.
“Blissful Moments” (micro poems) by Hema Ravi are nice little three liners. They read like haikus, compact and meaningful. They are about the sunshine, heart, palmtrees, and nature. They hint at the bliss the elements gift her, a collage of her blissful moments.
Mihir Kumar Mishra’s poem “Listen, My Dear” is a satire in metrical rhyming, and I am not adequately equipped by my education to judge the technicality of his work’s Meter and Rhyme scheme. But he is good at laughing at himself in his poem, a rare art these days. He indicates at backstabbing, evil manoeuvres, grudges that are common albatross in walks of life. He indicates to take them in one’s stride. He calls his own career petty, his chair fake. These to me, are, in themselves, attributes of a man who feels honestly, knows his own clay foot, and doesn’t beat his own drum like most people today. The poem is loaded with self-irony, self-rebukes, and as a poem it appears to have succeeded in its goal.
In his “River Sukta” Pradeep Rath has a simple reading but baffling poem. I thought it as a ‘Hymn to River’, but could not find anything that distantly relates to a river. The first two stanzas indicated that Mr. Rath could be writing about ideas, thoughts, that impinge on him, but was puzzled by two lines in the third stanza – “and live on a hallowed surface among winds and stars” and the next lines were more puzzling “create abundant/ discontent/in the mind of your creator.” Then my biggest puzzlement comes in the last lines – “kindred souls/catch you radiate light/and pleasure/ you create/ a better sphere.” Pradeep Rath’s next poem “Reminiscences” is equally unclear. I am not sure if he is recalling a memory of a person, or an earlier peaceful and tranquil state of mind that he has lost. May be, I admit, it is my personal inadequacy not to decipher him.
STORIES:
Prof. Geetha Nair’s story “Small Mercies” is about a maid and her woman employer, a criminal lawyer. There is a main plot of the maid and a sub-plot of the lawyer. The maid is fighting all odds to make her marriage workable in spite of a good-for-nothing husband earning a pittance, coming home drunk, beating her black and blue. But she lives for her little son and has great expectations from him. Both women, the maid and her employer, have a thing in common, they fantasize a lot oftheir respective unachieved dreams; the maid fantasizing to give back her husband the same physical beating she receives from him; and the lawyer, to bring up a child she never had from her failed marriage. Then the story turns gory and shifts towards a climax. Both women in a way have achieved their fantasies at the climax, the maid badly wounding her husband, and the lawyer getting an opportunity to bring up the maid’s kid by the side of the kid’s biological mother, now a made in her brother’s family. Calling the incidents “Indian Stories”, is used by the author as an effective punch line.
Sreekumar’s “Nobody Dies” seems to be an ordinary narration, until beyond its half mark, then the reader pricks up with an alert bell. The protagonist has never spared an opportunity to be highly critical of an old co-poet’s works, and now the old poet has died and the former is visiting the latter’s family to extend condolences. While taking leave of the bereaved wife along with other poets and writer friends, he has the shock of his life. Because, the late poet’s wife hands him over a manuscript of her late husband, and transmits the late poet’s last request, that he would introduce the late poet’s poems in the manuscript. The protagonist sort of loses his balance at such a prospect, and the story ends. I, as a reader, was blown to bits by this explosive climax. I say, “What better poetic retribution could have been achieved by the late poet against the chronic critic of his poems, than giving him the honour of introducing those poems, an extremely bitter pill?”
Prof. Gangadhar Sahoo’s “God’s Will” is a lament for the near and dear ones who pass away, leaving the story persona tired and overwhelmed by deaths all around. So, it is accepted with a rare resignation and stoic sence as ‘God’s will’, a sort of fatalistic approach to life.
Prof. Lathaprem Sakhya has been writing a series of Kanaka’s Musings, and this issue has its 16th episodic story “Independence”. The sense of independence, the power to be self-reliant, is learnt by Kanaka from an eighty-year old lady Ammumma (a term meaning granny, used for an old lady affectionately), who earned her living by cutting cattle fodder in the form of green grass growing on hill slopes. Latha ji enriches her narrative by adding children, their enthusiasm, and a grandma who tells stories that hold the children in thrall.
Dr Rema Krishnakumar’s story “If Only the Bell Would Ring…” is a tear jerker that tells the story of helplessness in old age. In the story, a man who took care of all the family members in his better days, is permanently bedridden now, and keeps ringing a calling bell for helps to get little comfort, but the bell irritates the family members, especially her daughter-in-law, and totally puts out his son’s affection. Finally, even the half-hearted daughter-in-law’s services stop, as she is shifted to a corona facility. She recalls, while lying in a lonely hospital ward, the old man’s better days when he had been a father figure to her, helping her in all walks of life. She realizes her lapses in neglecting the sick man’s calling bell and hankers after hearing the bells sound, and giving full attention to the sickly dear. But she is too late. On return from hospital she finds her father-in-law permanently shifted to an old people’s home by a decision of all the family seniors. An eye-opener good story, with wake-up bells.
Ramesh Babu’s Grizzly Nights is a surreal drama. In its lines reality and fantasy are braided into a tricky tapestry. The reader faces a jigsaw puzzle. The protagonists are a widower father and a pubescent daughter, only the two of them,staying together in a house. They are bound by a strong closeness of father-daughter love. But the author is apparently bringing in a twist of Jungian plot of Electra Complex, libido playing its grizzly role, by all probability in the father’s mind. A situation hovers above or around the pit of an incest, but stopping short of the sordid act. The story dances between the horns of dilemma for the perplexed readers.
“The Ghost Writer” by N Meera Raghavendra Rao underscores a fact that men and women harbour mutual distrust, may they be ordinary, cultured, or highly intellectual individuals. A male writer cannot accept a good piece of writing by a female writer, and presumes her to have employed a male ghost writer. Coming from a female story teller, I for one wish to drive away such distrusts.
Dr Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s “Gandhiji’s Fourth Monkey” has a most startling title. Expectations run high. It is the story of a strong-willed wife and a happy-go-lucky husband visiting various tourist spots on office vacations. To spice the fiction, are thrown in a lecherous rich tourist moving from tourist spots to tourist spots with a different woman companion every place, a waiter Hariharan who spins stories to suit the tourists who give tips, and a DJ with a ribald sense of humour whose jokes border almost erotica. The language is daring, but it suits the domain. The Fourth Monkey brings the climax, as the dour wife clips the wings of husband’s fantasy just before going to bed.
But this article will sound incomplete without a word about the Editor who has composed an excellent editorial note including a landmark poem of Robert Frost. Also, without giving a standing ovation to Prof. Lathaprem Sakhya’s evocative painting, titled “Perennial Love”, that forms an attractive logo on the portal to this issue.
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
BLOOD BROTHERS (NOVEL) BY CHANDINI SANTHOSH
The first thing we notice even before we finish reading the very first page of the novel is the style of writing. No Indianisms to spot and no stilted or complex style to confront. The author's skill as a painter and her felicity of expression as a poet are evident throughout the book.
The age old maxim that a story should be `shown` and not `told` is followed religiously, more so as we read further into the book. At times we do come across an idiom for which there is no equivalent in Malayalam, which makes us wonder how they would have expressed it in Malayalam. However, if she had stripped her style of idiomatic English, it would have sounded like a translation. It is a hard-to-do balancing act.
Kannur is the Wild West in this part of the world. Traditional ballads of heroism, martial arts, major sports personalities and circus companies are all there in the legacy of Kannur, a district in northern Kerala. This extra muscle has made the land a potpourri of power politics. One feels like Liam O' Flaherty's Ireland where one may snipe-shoot his own brother. Political fences are often seen in homes, even in nuclear families.
It is really hard to write an interesting novel disinterestedly. But that is exactly what Chandini has done. The only side she favours is the side of humanity.
True, Biju and Sunil, the main characters in the novel are mere pawns in the hands of the politicians as they play a dangerous war game. But Biju and Sunil along with their family members are also human beings who struggle to live a life of value in the face of adversity. Like bees to wanton boys are we to gods, they kill us for their sport. Except that, it is the power hungry politicians who act like the angels of death.
We have read such reports in dailies but in those reports, a person is just a name. In a novel, even a real character from history is bound to be livelier than he was in real life. Mostly set in the dark, the scenes are realistic portrayals of a rioting community. The novel will be an eye opener to this dark world.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
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