Literary Vibes - Edition XCVIII (11-Dec-2020)
(Title - When My Mind Blooms - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 98th edition of LiteraryVibes containing beautiful poems and wonderful short stories. Hope you will like them.
I am happy to welcome three new contributors to the LV family. Ms. Magline Jackson from Kochi, Kerala, is a prolific writer who has a spectacular presence in Malayalam literature. Her stories are built with intricate care to take the readers into a world of joy. Ranju teaches at Hyderabad, and writes in Malayalam and English. As his story in today's edition shows, he is an extremely talented writer with a lot of promise. Similarly, T. Arun Kumar, a journalist and a screenwriter is a creative genius who weaves great stories around interesting themes. Let us wish all of them tremendous success in their literary career. We are grateful to Mr. Sreekumar for introducing them to LiteraryVibes.
Today while taking my morning walk on the roof I leaned over the parapet wall and with the sun behind me I found my shadow on the road. I looked on with fascination, amused by the way the shadow moved when I walked slowly along the parapet. And then suddenly a speeding motorbike ran over me on the street. For a moment I was shocked. I knew it was my shadow that had undergone the running over, but my recent foray into the subject of Magic Realism made me shudder. What if, my shadow was an alive me? What if the biker stopped and looked back because what he thought to be a shadow was actually a bundle of flesh and blood and had started walking towards him.............
In the past few days I read a book of some excellent stories blending fantasy and reality and the mind has remained in the Magic Realism mode. I am tempted to share some of the information I collected on this wonderful subject. Magic Realism as a form of fiction attempts to find a meeting point where surreal meets the real and a tale bursts into a riot of emotions. In a mystic sense, the ordinary and the magical overlap each other and carry the reader to a kaleidoscopic experience of myriads of colour and fragrance.
There is a bevy of works on the origin and exposition of Magic Realism. From the early practitioners of the genre to the high priest Marquez, the literary world has been dazzled by the exquisite experience of fantasy merging with reality in a sublime mixture; "One Hundred Years of Solitude" perhaps marks its zenith. In recent years I have also been greatly impressed by the writings of Pamuk, Murakami and Khaled Hosseini, their mesmerising creations transporting me to the enchanted world of magic realism.
Those who have read Orhan Pamuks's "Museum of Innocence" would have been moved by a strange stirring when he quotes Coleridge: "If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream and have a flower pressed to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and found that flower in his hand when he awoke - Aye! And what then?" Pamuk builds on the dream leitmotif later, "The life we live is someone else's dream!"
Murakami's foray into the mystic realm of silent throbbing in "Kafka on the Shore" or "1Q84" are exceptional in their impact - layers of consciousness represented by multiple levels of space, moving seamlessly over the labyrinths of time. "1Q84" mixes fantasy with reality to make both elements shine and is a procession of a lucid dream. With one wayward short cut the protagonists Aomame and Tengo shift to a not quite parallel world! A masterpiece indeed!
And the best comes from Khaled Hosseini in "And The Mountains Echoed", where he speaks of a Div or a monster who comes to an Afghan village and steals the peasant's favourite son. The peasant decides to go after the Div and kill him, but when he reaches the monster's place he finds his son living in opulent luxury. The dilemma before the peasant is whether to leave and forget or to deprive the son of a good life. The tale told by Saboor to his daughter Pari under an Afghan sky comes alive as a heart wrenching throb since he is on his way to the city to hand over the daughter to Nila, the childless wife of a rich man.
I realised, after reading these and many amazing works based on Magic Realism, that there is so much to read, so many masterpieces to enjoy! A lifetime is just a fleeting shadow in this galaxy of scintillating creations!
I hope you will enjoy the delicious fare offered in LV98. We are close to the 100th weekly edition after which LiteraryVibes will be published once in a month. Please send your poems, short stories and anecdotes for the LV100 in my email address mrutyunjays@gmail.com Let us try to make it a memorable one.
Do share the link of LV98 with your friends and contacts: http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/362
Please remind them that all the previous 97 editions of LV are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, be safe and keep smiling.
We will meet again next week.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FAREWELL SNAKE
02) Haraprasad Das
SANCTUM (GARBHAGRUHA)
03) Geetha Nair G
COTTON PILLOW FROM AMAZON
CLOSING DAYS
04) Dilip Mohapatra
WAITING FOR DOC
05) Sreekumar K
AROUND THE BEND
06) Ishwar Pati
THE LATE EXPRESS
07) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
OUR HERITAGE - TRYAMBAKESHWAR JYOTHIRLINGA
OUR HERITAGE - NAGESHWAR JYOTIRLINGA
08) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
GHOST
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
A COMPANION
10) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
THE DREAM GIRL
11) Madhumathi. H
WHAT IS THE COLOR OF PAIN?
12) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS!!
13) Dr. Molly Joseph M
LIFE ON EDGES..
14) Sangeeta Gupta
CELEBRATE
PAST
15) Padmini Janardhanan
THE NEED TO BE NEEDED
16) Hema Ravi
FEEL GOOD - DO GOOD -PASS IT ON.....
17) Magline Jackson
LIFE ABRIDGED
18) T Arun Kumar
MACHER KALIA
19) Ranju
TAJ MAHAL
20) Gita Bharath
CUCKOO
21) Setaluri Padmavathi
SPREAD YOUR WINGS
22) Ravi Ranganathan
NOCTURNAL NICHE
23) N. MEERA RAGHAVENDRA RAO
WHY I STOOD OUT
24) Pradeep Rath
TO MOONSTRUCK CHILDREN
25) Abani Udgata
CALENDAR
26) Mihir Kumar Mishra
LETTER TO A FRIEND
27) Ashok Kumar Ray
KALA PANI
28) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE OLD FOX
Tonight, we play hide and sick
in the ruins of the promised land.
The dark is a smooth veil,
the rustling wind
heightens the desire. But
the fistful of figs
wrinkled in the cellar of time
howl like prisoned spirits.
We know, the tide has ebbed.
Let us fold our loins and thighs
into cool sheets of respectability.
Bid farewell to the lure of the snake.
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
The interior,
so gloomy?
the gloom,
so oppressive?
Even the morning light
leans against pillars
of the dark room,
sharp as a night.
A foreboding fear -
the dirty swab, that wipes
the writing on the wall,
will be used to gag mouths.
A clarion call
booms in the air,
the rocks rise,
anointed with blood.
So, why doesn’t
this gloom leave?
Why is the inside
still so dark?
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)”
COTTON PILLOW FROM AMAZON
Ms. Geetha Nair G.
Below your loving mail,
Stares the next one;
"Amazing Cotton Pillow--
From Amazon."
Amazing serendipity !
That's what you are,
Ethnic, soft; as clean
As cotton that once broke from pods on trees
To fill those pillows;
Cushioning me with your gentle words
Your love and longing;
My amazing cotton pillow.
Sad, isn't it, that love
Cannot be bidden;
cannot be simulated, urged
Else, these wide, wide chasms
That amazon between us
Would have dwindled to one cotton pillow
For two lonely heads.
There is a road that runs east from Munnar town into a little valley. Flanking this road are decorous, green tea bushes with here and there a royal jacaranda tree decked in purple or a silver oak shimmering in the breeze.
The road ends at a large building.
It is a high-end home for the elderly. There are suites for each inmate. Men in the left block of suites; women in the right. The two blocks are separated by a long, low block comprising the expansive common recreation area and the dining hall. From the road above, the building looks like an enormous 'H' made with a child's red and cream building blocks. "HOMES", it is called. Simple yet succinct.
Prema had moved in a year back. Both her sons, settled in the US, had zoomed in on HOMES as an ideal final home on earth for their mother. They had tried out having her with them- half the year to each -but it hadn't worked out. The climate, the loneliness, the crazy pace of their lives, their children-everything had upset her terribly.
So, at seventy two, Prema came back to her homeland after two long years of painful absence. Her new home was close to the picturesque town she had worked in for several years in her young days. She had been happy working in various branches of Kera Bank but the Munnar branch had been her happiest tenure.
Her elder son had dropped her at HOMES one evening. The journey and the challenges awaiting her had left her exhausted. The formalities had mostly been completed online. She was shown her suite and she made straight for the well-made bed. Though the place was well-staffed and their mother was healthy for her age, her sons had insisted that she should have a personal attendant. A suitable one had been identified and was waiting to be interviewed.
When Prema woke after a refreshing nap, she found a youngish lady sitting by her bed. "I am Susan," she said with a smile, "your personal attendant, Madam".
"My son?" enquired Susan. "He left, Madam. He said he had a night flight to catch from Kochi... ."
Prema took to Susan. She was an educated girl from a family that had seen better days. She had been disillusioned by her stint in a primary school as teacher. This was her first job as a companion. Prema's days passed smoothly.
Forenoons she spent in her suite, reading, chatting online, getting her scanty hair dyed by Susan, sharing memories with her. "Once, my hair was like yours, long and black," she would say, stroking Susan's long, thick plait. "Do you know, my husband first saw me at a function in our family temple. My hair was damp and untied and he claims he fell in love with it first!" She didn't add that this practice of falling in love with various parts of the body of various women had continued till he left her for good when their sons were teenagers. She had not missed him. She had the children, her job, her friends and peace of mind. The divorce had come through three years later.
After her siesta, she would move to the Recreation Hall to socialise. There were about fifty men and women there in various stages of deterioration. Prema generally avoided paediabores as she privately termed the majority who spoke only of their children. Praise or blame, pride or anger; they were redundant, she felt, in this phase and place.
She had found a couple of women she felt comfortable with. They played rummy some days or watched a movie. Sometimes, she went for a little stroll with Susan in tow.
In February, a new inmate arrived. Prema was in the Recreation Hall, watching an old 'sixties movie when, from the window, she saw a car at the portico. A balding old man was being helped into a wheelchair by a young, black-haired one. As he seated himself in the wheelchair and looked up at his helper, Prema saw his face clearly. It was Sajan.
The years crackled back as swiftly as currency notes in counting machines. Sajan and she had worked together in the Munnar branch for several years. He had been very popular, a good organiser and a favourite with the lady staff.
He had been a popular bachelor then. He was good-looking; trim body, luxuriant hair, small regular features, an alluring smile. Moreover, Sajan was a good and ready singer ; he sang at the drop of a pay-in slip. At all informal meetings of the staff, he was both master of ceremonies and singer. His favourites were those melodious songs of the sixties and the current ones of the seventies.
"Flower that blooms in the chill mist;
Tell me why you weep;
Does my love too sadden you? "
This hit song of the year had been always on his lips. He would look often at her when he sang this song of sad love. She suspected it was addressed to her; in those days, Prema wore her misery like a halo; it was almost visible. The song was as alluring as his smile.
Imperceptibly, she found herself moving closer and closer to him, emotionally and physically. Nothing was said, yet everything was.
Easter was in March that year. Schools had closed early for the summer vacations. Her husband had taken their little sons down to the plains to his parental home. She would join them on a month's leave in two days' time.
That Bank Closing Day remained imprinted on her memory like a bright wild flower pressed onto a blank sheet. The day had been hectic like all Closing Days and work had gone on into the night. They were hunting for a missing rupee. One wretched rupee. Even Sajan wasn't humming. Everyone was exhausted. Finally it was found; the balance sheet could be sent the next day. There was a collective sigh of exhausted relief. When the clock struck eleven, everyone streamed out into the chill March air. In half an hour it would be April. "Let me drop you home," Sajan offered. Prema and two other lady staff piled onto the back seat of Sajan's Fiat. The other two got off at their homes. Prema 's house was the farthest from the bank. There were just the two of them in the car. Suddenly the air was taut with expectation, fragrant with desire. Prema stared straight ahead, her hands gripping her bag.
Sajan stopped at the gate. He switched off the engine. As she reached her dark front door and was fumbling for the key, he came up behind her. In a second she was in his arms, crushed to him like a leaf. Her bag fell to the ground. He was raining kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her eyes. Then, just as abruptly, he let go of her and walked swiftly back to the car.
Prema did not remember entering her dark house or even going to bed.
The next day, he greeted her with a merry "Happy Fools' Day" but his eyes spoke other words.
Prema left for home that afternoon in the rattling bus that descended like her spirits.
Sajan was due for a promotion transfer ; he left Munnar two weeks later. They did not meet again but he continued to linger somewhere deep within her, emerging at unexpected moments to smile that alluring smile at her.
And now, here he was, walking, no, being wheeled into her life again. She rose and made for the Reception... .
Prema's routine changed. Susan melted into the background. Prema spent the forenoons in Sajan's company. Often, the evenings too. She learned that he had remained a bachelor -"I am a free bird; I don't want to be caged" - had been his standard, flippant reply to the inevitable question. After retirement fifteen years ago, he had stayed alone for years in his cottage in Munnar, had found housekeeping cumbersome, had fallen in the bathroom one day and lain there for hours with a broken leg. He had finally decided to lock up his cottage and move to HOMES. Balu, a local boy whose education he had financed and who now worked as an accountant in the office of a tea company had taken leave to be of help to him.
Sajan's leg was healing fast. Now he could hobble about, one arm firmly held by Balu. In the evenings, he would mingle with the other inmates. One day, Prema announced that Sajan was a fine singer. From then onwards, he sang for the others every evening. His voice had a little quaver but was still melodious and he sang those old favourites of their generation.
One cold evening, the song he sang was that old hit about the loved one who had bloomed in the mist. He looked at Prema all through the song. Prema had been waiting for this.
A week later, tongues wagged nineteen to the dozen in HOMES. Lines got clogged as call after call was made to UAE, the USA, Germany and other parts of the globe where the children of the inmates lived. Such juicy news! Prema and Sajan were getting married ! They would be moving into Sajan 's two-bedroom cottage in the town.
It was on 31 March, bank Closing Day that they registered their marriage. Prema's sons sent their reluctant wishes. Sajan had no one to wish him.
That evening, they threw a party for their friends in HOMES. Sajan sang, needless to say. It was that all-time hit-
Sau saal pehle,
Mujhe tumse pyaar tha... .
Balu drove them to their new home.
And what of Susan? Ah! When she melted into the background, she found Balu there, similarly backgrounded.
That second bedroom in Sajan 's cottage? That became Balu's and Susan's. It had been a double wedding that morning.
Life is good for the quartet. Susan keeps house, Balu goes to work while Sajan and Prema savour their closing days.
Every day is Closing Day for Sajan and Prema.
(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.
Tearing through the office traffic
with my fingers crossed
and praying silently for the
safety of my car's bumpers
I finally make my way
to the doctor's waiting room in haste
for I was just two minutes late.
I register for my appointment
for my routine cardio check up
and I am directed to wait
for my turn till my token number flashes
on the digital status board.
Absentmindedly I pick up an old
issue of The Week
that features on its cover
the gory news about the captives of ISIS
and I exchange it for a movie mag
Stardust and meet the defiant
gaze of the eight pack abs
engraved on the bronzed body
of Tiger Shroff.
The minutes tick by
and my turn is yet to come
and an Ad on the back cover captioned
the Rolex Way catches my eye
that declares
precise is too imprecise
for their attention to detail
and tradition too conventional
for their innovation
and a lone mosquito buzzes over my ears
with total impudence
my token number still unlit.
Having browsed all the dog eared
and much thumbed pages
I shift my attention to the posters
on the wall
and half way through the one
on nicotine dependence
the attendant comes to announce
that all appointments for today
are cancelled
for a cine star has arrived with
acute pain in the chest
and is under examination.
As I amble out of the OPD
after taking a new appointment
for next week
I overhear two interns
conversing that it was
just a case of gastric distension
due to indigestion
or perhaps
an outcome of
severe constipation.
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
( A radio play about storytelling. Stories were born much before us and they will stay around long after we die. In many Indian languages, to say someone left his story behind means he died. If the story is alive and he died, he might as well come back to relate it on moonlit Fridays.)
Thomas (as the narrator): When some people asked me to write a radio play on ghosts, I couldn’t think of a good idea. So, I asked them whether some of my experiences in a deserted house in a village in north Kerala would be good enough. They said it was all right so long as it didn't sound too realistic or too boring. I told them that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction and they said they sincerely hoped this would a strange enough truth. The incidents I am going to narrate here are known to me, my wife and Bhaskaran, our cook. I have managed to live on my own writing for the last six years. Writing as a career posed only one problem. To meet my deadlines, I needed more than what was available at home: a drink or two in the evening, complete silence and fresh air. I always found this, often for a dear price, far away from home, among the hills on the Western Ghats. I also liked to have good food three or four times a day and Bhaskaran who accompanied me on all those occasions could provide me with that. He was an excellent cook, a good companion and spoke only when he was spoken to. Quite unlike Mary, my wife. The incidents narrated in this radio play happened on such a sojourn as is mentioned above. With all the materials to write a book on the recent developments in the Middle East, I went with Bhaskaran to a deserted house on the top of a hill, skirted by coffee plantations. As many of the stories that I wrote as a school student, this was also on a dark and stormy night……
(a phone rings persistently and we hear Thomas waking up and cursing out loud, mumbling to himself, calling Bhaskaran and then answering the phone. But once he learns who is on the other side, he is quite warm and happy.)
Thomas (younger voice) (over the phone): Good Morning, Queen Mary. I just woke up. Could sleep only very late. I had set the alarm at five o’ clock, planning to go for a walk. Didn’t even hear it. Bhaskaran! He is fast asleep in the other room. The taxi driver is also with him. No, no. There was only one taxi available at the railway station and that chap knew this place, fortunately. Not that much. But well above forty kilometers. It is quite steep with hairpin curves and all that. Say thanks to Brigit if she calls. Well, he couldn’t go back after dropping us here. In fact, he went and came back. The car’s headlight failed or something he said. So, we had to let him stay back here for the night. He wouldn’t have made it past the third curve with no headlight. ..Yes, yes. I put the bags in my room only and bolted my door properly. You are right, can’t trust such guys. Bhaskaran? He is really tough, though he looks quite lean and weak. No one rubs him the wrong way. Yeah, you don’t know him really. He picks up fights with almost any stranger and never trusts anyone. OK, OK, he is just the opposite of me. Why else do you think I take him everywhere I go.
(Knocks on the door and Bhaskaran calls him)
Bhaskaran: Sir, sir...
Thomas: Mary, I will call you later. Seems like our tough guy is on the loose. (loudly) Wait a minute, let me open the door.
(Sound of the door opening.)
Bhaskaran (agitated): He is gone sir, the driver. Didn’t you lock the front door?
Thomas: Since you two were still chatting when I went to bed, I didn’t care to lock it. Just closed it only. You didn’t know when he left?
Bhaskaran: No. When I woke up, he was not there in the room. I went out and even his car was not there. He said he had parked it outside the gate. It was not there. Anyway, nothing is missing. The money you had given me yesterday was under my pillow and it is still there. Idiot! He should have at least told us.
Thomas: Anyway, good riddance. Thank god, he didn’t murder you in your sleep and run away with the money. He could have killed me too. He is not an idiot. We are the idiots. Never trust a stranger.
Bhaskaran: That is what I always tell you.
Thomas: Let’s go for a walk. If you have not made some coffee yet, don’t bother. We can go and have a cup of tea as well. He said there is a tea shop somewhere down there. May be we can also have our breakfast there. You lock up the room. I want to call home.
(sound of dialing a phone)
(sounds of doors being closed; footsteps, and a creaky gate being closed)
Thomas:(over the phone) Hello May! I already have a story to write: The strange disappearance of the Taxi Driver. Yes, the guy just vanished. No, he didn’t take anything. Yeah, we don’t know him. We found him at the railway station. Funny fellow. He slept with Bhaskaran in the other room. Even when I went to bed, I could hear them still chatting. This morning when Bhaskaran woke up, the chap had vanished. He is a young fellow. Interesting character. Very good at story telling. Told us several stories about his night rides and such stuff. When I got bored, I said good night and went to my room. I don’t know why he left without telling us. Yeah, probably; he would have tried to wake us up and we would have been fast asleep. Even the alarm couldn’t wake me up. Yes, Bhaskaran is here. I will give it to him.
(loudly) Bhaskaran, it is Mary, she wants to talk to you. Leave it, I will lock it.
Bhaskaran: Amma, I didn’t want to let him in. But sir let him. No, nothing has been taken away. Yes, I am going with him. Don’t worry. I will take care of him. No, I will be careful. The tea shop is farther down. I will arrange some milk today itself. OK Amma.
(Phone is switched off; footsteps on the gravel)
Thomas: It is still very cold. And foggy too. Let’s walk down. When did you sleep last night?
Bhaskaran: O, it was very late when I went to sleep. He didn’t let me. He went on telling his stupid stories. After some time, I closed my eyes and acted like snoring and it was only then that he stopped.
Thomas: What kind of stories?
Bhaskaran: His own cock and bull stories. He is a mean fellow. He smiles and talks well and is extremely polite. Taxi car is only his side business. Really, he is a pimp.
Thomas: Did he say that?
Bhaskaran: No he didn’t say exactly that. He was talking about all the girls he had chased, hunted and stalked. He made it sound like he was hunting them down for himself. Or that they were hunting him down. But, it was clear that he is just a small-time pimp.
Thomas: Nothing strange, with a railway station to this side, a hill station and resorts to the other side and he being a taxi driver who takes night rides. He is young and may want to make some extra money.
Bhaskaran: Extra money, extra trouble. The worst is that he was trying to see if he could get some business from us too!
Thomas: Was he!
Bhaskaran: You don’t know such people, sir. They are not to be seen in books. But they are everywhere. He told me several stories. Wasn’t there a Charlie, your friend?
Thomas: Yes, Brigit’s brother. This house used to be Charlie’s. He is no more and now it is his sister’s. He died in a car accident.
Bhaskaran: This guy knew Charlie and they were in very good terms. That is why he could recognize his address when we asked him. But he didn’t want to let you know all this. From what he told me, Charlie used to share all his secrets with this guy. He suggested that there were a whole lot of things about Charlie and he didn’t want you to know any of them. Though, he didn’t mind telling me some.
Thomas: Really! I really would like to know a few things about Charlie. What did he tell you about Charlie?
Bhaskaran: He was not talking exactly about Charlie. He was talking about himself. He had roped in several girls for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of his customers and some high level officers. He had brought one for Charlie also. But, that was a tragic incident. The girl ran away that same night and committed suicide. He had got that girl from the railway station and no one else had seen her. So, there was nothing connecting him or Charlie to that incident. But Charlie had to spent a fortune to silence the police. In fact, that is why Charlie left this coffee plantation and went back to Bangalore.
Thomas: I know that story. Charlie himself told this to me. I couldn’t imagine I would ever meet the guy who brought that girl here for Charlie. What Charlie had told me was that he had got a girl from somewhere and that she ran away that same night and that her dead body was found in a pool at the foot of this hill the next day.
Bhaskaran: My God! I didn’t know all this. You never told me anything like this. It was only when Doctor Amma told me that one of your friends died in a car accident in Bangalore that I heard Charlie's name for the first time. Does she know this story?
Thomas: No, she doesn’t. She knows both of them. She and Brigit were classmates in Nimhans. That is how I met Charlie. Brigit was always worried about her brother's lifestyle. He had taken to drugs and all that. It was only after their mother died that he changed a little bit. But, I am sure whether it wasn't the other incident that changed him. He died within a year after that incident.
Bhaskaran: While I was in the kitchen, the taxi driver was talking to you quite a lot. What was he telling you?
Thomas: He was not telling me anything. I found he was holding back something. So, I was making him talk. He couldn’t resist the temptation to tell stories to an eager listener but at the same time, he didn’t want to tell me much. So, he came up with some unbelievable stories, one after the other, mostly about ghosts and stuff. I was interested more in real stories since people like him may have a lot of inside information about the dark lives of people. I hoped to get the thread of a novel from him. But he disappointed me. Once, I spent a night at a railway station and the signalman told me a very good story and I was able to develop a full movie script from that.
Bhaskaran: I remember that. And you paid him handsomely, right? We have walked a lot now and I can’t see any tea shops here.
Thomas: Let’s walk a bit more. What is the hurry? You only have to prepare our lunch today and I don’t have much to do either.
Bhaskaran: I think we may not even get a tea today, forget the breakfast. If you don’t mind, I am willing to walk all the way down to the valley. From here onwards, it is really steep and full of hairpin curves. Walking back is going to be way too hard. Sir, did he tell you anything interesting?
Thomas: Everything he said was of some interest to me. He didn’t tell me anything about his game hunting. As I told you, they were all spooky stories. They were all about ghosts and goblins. Kid stuff, mostly.
Bhaskaran: He is very clever. He can cook up any number of stories. And he is an excellent story-teller. I was too tired to listen to him. Or, I would have sat up all night listening to him. And, it was also good that I didn’t listen to his spooky stories. I am actually scared to listen to such stories.
Thomas: Are you scared to listen to them in this broad daylight too? What if I tell you a story?
Bhaskaran: I may or may not get scared of them depending on how convincing the story is. I think I know all your tricks by now. I have read almost all the books you have written, at least all the storybooks. But sir, I think when it comes to storytelling, doctor Amma can tell stories better than you. You are good at writing them, but not so good at telling them. Once she told me a story you had written and it made me cry.
Thomas: I always knew that she is good at cooking up things. Anyway, I want you to listen to this story. It is good to walk and tell stories. What else is there to talk about? This is one of the stories that our driver told me. I am recounting it in my own way. As he told me, this is not a story. It really happened.
Bhaskaran: I am ready to listen. If the story is too shocking and I pass out, please don’t leave me here.
(sound of a car speeding by)
Sir, be careful, these drivers are not used to city men. They don’t know you are a famous writer. So, please keep to the side.
Thomas: This story doesn’t happen on a hillside like this. It happens in a city. First, we are in a bar and the time is close to ten o’ clock. There is very little light but there is a lot of smoke settling down in the hall. There is some soft western music which can be hardly heard. People are not talking so loudly now as they used to be an hour ago. Everyone is either drunk or tired and the bar is about to close. Those who are still there are all their usual customers. They usually leave only when the shutter is half down and then again they ask for a drink or two. After that, they usually walk out and drive home. Hopefully, everyone reaches home somehow, though there are occasional accidents and a few may end up in the police station and spend their night there.
Bhaskaran: What is so scary about all this? I often see this in real life whenever I travel with you.
Thomas: Can you just listen for a few more minutes? Then you will get your chance to comment. In one corner of the bar, there is a young man sitting with his face down. His car key is on the table. He seems to be in some internal agony. Something is eating him and he is not eating anything. He is really drunk. He doesn’t look up even when the waiter brings him the bill. He draws out his purse and takes out a thousand rupee note and mumbles something to the waiter and ambles towards the door. The waiter calls him from behind and hands him the car key. He hugs the waiter and tries to say thanks but fails to do so. The waiter turns his face and softly pushes him away. The man manages to get out. The guard at the door helps him walk down the steps. There is only one car left in the parking lot. He moves towards that. It is an expensive car, noted for its speed and pick up. He gets in and starts the car. It moves like an untamed wild beast, with a soft purr. The rain comes down heavily on the car and a bolt of lightning rips through the thick darkness for the thunder to come out like a wild beast. The guard anxiously watches the scene and when the car gets out of the gate, like water from a flood gate, he crosses himself.
Bhaskaran: My God!
Thomas: See you are already hooked and anxious. I think I should tell you the rest of the story later.
Bhaskaran: No, no, I take back my word. Sir, you can also tell stories. Please don’t stop.
Thomas: His car is now speeding through the city. The rain has subsided and the chill in the air has made our man soberer. There are only a few people on the street, only those ones who have the guts to dare the heavy downpour and the gusty wind. He slows down the car and starts to look left and right through the car window. Everyone is covered in raincoats or is sheltered under umbrellas. The unsteadiness in his eyes is gone and so is their foggy appearance. In its place, one can see only the flares of lust, the hunger felt all over his body. He stops the car near a lady and asks her something and she abuses him and spits at him. He speeds up again. He is almost near the city limits and is eagerly looking in both directions now. A lady, quite unaware of the danger, crosses his path. It was a close call. He swerves the car to the left. The front wheel hits the curb and the car stops. He is enraged and he puts his head out, about to curse her. But she is not there. She appears on the left, bends down and pushes half of her head in. She says ‘hi’ and he melts off like a scoop of ice cream in summer. Her luxuriant hair hangs about her face and the air is filled with the scent of jasmine flowers on her hair. He unlocks the door, she opens it, gets in and sits with him and says ‘let’s go’.
Bhaskaran: She iss wearing a white sari. From here, I can continue. He sees the cross hanging from his neck and struggles to get out.
Thomas: Nothing like that. The car turns around and cuts through the city in the opposite direction. It soon takes a different path and enters the highway. It slows down. Traffic is quite sparse. The rain gets worse and it lashes against the car window. The tall trees on either side are swaying in the heavy wind. Suddenly the car stops. It moves slowly to the other side. A bolt of lightning almost hits the car and a street light sends out silver flares. All the street lights go out and the car’s headlights also die off.
Bhaskaran: I have to interrupt now. The next morning there is a crowd on the high way around a smashed car and there is a truck lying across the road. Inside the car, we see the young man who died, having lost a lot of blood. See, I only mentioned a crowd and there is a crowd right here. Look, on the next bend, there is a real crowd. I am sure it is an accident. Now the story gets really scary.
(the phone rings)
Sir, you attend the call and stay here. I will take a look and come back. Doctor Amma may be calling you.
Thomas: Hello, Mary, no we are still on the road. Yes, it is a long walk. It is nice here. Only that we are yet to get a coffee or tea. There are no shops here. Yes, we have covered almost four kilometers now. There is another junction two kilometers from here. I think we will have to go all the way down there for a cup of tea now. Have the kids gone to school? Ok, I think we will go all the way down and have our breakfast also before going back up. If Brigit calls, thank her for the house. And tell her it is a haunted house. I couldn’t sleep last night. All kinds of nightmares. Didn’t tell anything to Bhaskaran. He is already scared of being here and wants to go to Shornur where his cousin has a house near the river. OK. There is a crowd near the next curve. Looks like an accident. Bhaskaran has gone there to see what it is. He is coming back. I will call you later.
Bhaskaran: Sir, it is bad news for us. It is that driver. Got killed. His car is still deep down in the valley. They brought up his body and sent it for post-mortem. The inspector is here. And some policemen too. They were asking around who had hired the taxi. I didn’t say anything.
Thomas: So bad. This was what the idiot was rushing out for. Anyway, I will go and meet the inspector. You go back home. I think you are right. Let’s look for another house.
Bhaskaran: His time had come. That was why he had to rush out like that, without even letting us know he was going.
Thomas: That is actually nice of him. We would have felt even worse if he had said a proper good-bye before he left. Still, it happened just like that. His story and his stories have come to an end.
Bhaskaran: I was not shocked by your story. But, I got shocked as soon as it ended. It was too much of a story. You had just told me the story of a car accident and right here there is one.
Thomas: It wasn’t my story exactly. It was based on a story that he had told me. I modified it with a few things from Charlie’s life and death.
Bhaskaran: I also thought so. Doctor Amma had told me something about that accident then. That is why this story sounded so familiar. She had told me that the car was smashed by a lorry. She didn’t tell me there was a woman in the car. Did that lady also die?
Thomas: What lady? There was no lady there. I added that from the story the driver told me. He and his stories! He was trying to scare me with that! He had no idea that I make up stories for a living.
Bhaskaran: Sir, let’s move out of this house today itself.
Thomas: Are you scared? He was your bedmate yesterday. He will come for you tonight. O, he died on a Friday. So, for sure, you are going to be eaten alive tonight.
Bhaskaran: Sir, that won’t work for me. You are the one who writes scandalous stories about dead people. He was telling all those ghost stories to you last night. If you ever write those stories down and make any money out of it, he is surely going to come after you for his share. For the time being, there is the inspector ready for HIS share. It is nice to give him something. Or, he will make you walk up and down this hill for the next one week.
Thomas (as narrator) I went with the inspector on his jeep to the station to give a written statement. Since he himself blurted out that the man had died seven or eight hours ago and that the accident had happened between eleven o’ clock and midnight, I had to hide a few things from him. My statement showed that the driver had dropped us at ten thirty and had gone away soon after. Since Bhaskaran had not come to the station, it made things easy for me. I never had to tell him the truth. I never mentioned it to my wife also. I lied to both of them that the accident happened only in the morning.
We moved out of the house the same day itself. I heard from the inspector later that the post-mortem report also went well with my report and that the file was closed. The new house that Bhaskaran found for me was a good one. I finished a small book on the recent developments in the Middle East. It was titled: Jasmine Smells Better than Blood. Talking of jasmine, that day at the police station the inspector had asked me again and again whether there was a lady with us that night in the car. He said that the people had commented that when they took out the driver's body from the car, the smell of jasmine was stronger than the smell of coagulated blood.
Bhaskaran went to live with his son who was in Adimally in the High Ranges. I once went to see him to invite him for my eldest daughter’s wedding. It was nice to see him after all those years. He offered me some good home-made liquor. I got a little drunk and told him what had happened that night at Brigit’s house on the hill-top. Not only that he didn’t believe it, he laughed a lot and told me that the home-made liquor could work wonders.
(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.
The express train was late, as usual. The small station, built when a new university town was coming up, had remained small. It was deserted except at vacation time, when students came and went in large numbers. The old man had insisted on cycling for five kilometres to the station with his two sons. He had to see off the elder one, who worked in a big city and occasionally came to visit. The other son was there to escort the old man home. All three of them had their eyes glued to the incoming train as it rounded the bend like an experienced 400-metre runner, its headlight piercing the darkness like Shiva’s third eye. The train would halt for barely a minute before moving on. The sons sprinted to the nearest bogey for a seat. The elder son got in and turned to wave goodbye to his father and brother on the platform.
After the train left, the duo turned their cycles homeward. The young man’s heart missed a beat when he spotted a solitary figure standing at the other end of the desolate platform. He had not seen anyone get down. Who could then be this silhouette? “Hey,” she called out to the old man, shattering the supernatural mirage she had created. “You work at the university, right? Can you arrange a ride for me to the campus? I have to take admission tomorrow.”
The father gestured to his son and the latter went to wake up a rickshaw puller. “Have you informed admin that you were coming?” he asked the girl.
“They never respond to my letters after offering me admission.”
Typical of Indian bureaucracy, he thought, uniformly decadent. “Which discipline are you joining?”
“English M.A.,” she promptly replied.
“I see. Here comes your rickshaw. It’s very late. My son will escort you to the ladies’ hostel. I will take the other road to home.”
“Okay. You know, you should get yourself a better cycle,” she giggled. “Will I see you in the university office?” His answer, if any, was lost in the wind.
The girl didn’t see the old man next day in the office, nor in the library. After completing admission formalities, she moved to the English department for briefing. She was sitting in the front row when the English professor strolled in. The girl’s heart was in her mouth. Her limbs shook on seeing the old man, whom she had taken to be a clerk! All the professor did was to spread a big grin across his bemused face.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - TRYAMBAKESHWAR JYOTHIRLINGA
Om Tatpurushaay Vidmahe Mahadevaay Deemahi Tanno Rudrah Prachodayat
[Shiva Gayatri Mantra]
Tryambakeshwar Jyothirlinga
Tryambakeshwar Temple referred to in the Padma Purana is located on the foot hills of Brahmagiri in the holy city of Trimbak which houses one of the twelve Jyotirlingas. The Bhramagiri hill is referred to in the literature of Marathi saints. This shrine enjoyed the patronage of the Peshwa rulers. Built in the 18th century by Peshwa Nana Saheb, one of the famous Maratha rulers is an epitome of classic architecture. Kusavarta or kund is the source or origin of Godavari River which adds sanctity to the temple. The fascinating feature of this Jyotirlinga is its three faces symbolizing Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwar. This is an ancient shrine; however the current structure is the result of the reconstruction efforts undertaken by the Peshwa Balaji Bajirao in mid 18th century. It is believed that Trimbakeshwar bestows longevity and consequently immorality and Trimbak town is like a heaven on earth..
Legend
Legend has it that Bhrama and Vishnu searched in vain to discover the origin of Shiva who manifested himself as a cosmic column of fire. Bhrama lied that he had seen the top of the column of fire, and hence Shiva cursed that he would not be worshipped on earth. In turn Bhrama cursed Shiva that he would be pushed underground. Accordingly, Shiva came down under the Bhramagiri hill in the form of Tryambakeshwar. Circumambulation of the Bhramagiri hill is considered sacred.
Many stories explain the legend behind the manifestation of Shiva (Lingodbhava) construction of the Temple. It is believed that Trimbak was a land of sages. Gautam Rishi was one of them who lived here with his wife Ahilya. When the area was facing drought Gautam Rishi prayed Varuna, God of water, to solve the water scarcity problem. Varuna having accepted his prayers gave him an unlimited supply of water. However, the other Rishis became jealous of Gautam Rishi. So, they prayed to Lord Ganesh to send a cow to Gautam Rishi's field which was rich with crops. When the cow went to Gautam Rishi's field, he tried to frighten it. But, somehow the cow died. After this, he went to Lord Shiva along with his wife to seek punishment for the crime he committed. Lord Shiva was very pleased and then, he ordered river Ganga to come down on earth. The river flowed from Brahmagiri Hill and Gautam Rishi also trapped it in a Kund which is called as Kushavarta. Then, he prayed Shiva to reside there. Accepting his request, Shiva turned into a Linga to stay there.
Trimbakeshwar Temple
Legend has it that the Ganga (Godavari) appeared and reappeared several times in response to the pleas of Gowtama Rishi, and there are several thirthas associated with these legends. The Gangadwara thirtha is believed to be the site where Ganga emerged. Varaha thirth is where Vishnu in the form of Varaaha took a bath in the Ganga (Godavari). Legend has it that Gowtama muni resided on the Bhramagiri hill here with his wife Ahalya, and by virtue of his devotion received from Varuna, a bottomless pit from which he received an inexhaustible supply of grains and food. The other rishis, jealous of his fortune, arranged for a cow to enter his granary, and caused it to die as Gowtama attempted to ward it off with a bunch of Darbha grass. Gowtama, therefore, worshipped Shiva to bring the Ganga down to his hermitage to purify the premises. The Ganga came down as Godavari, and Shiva took up an abode here in the form of Tryambaka. Interestingly, locals refer to the river here as Ganga and not as Godavari. All the heavenly Gods promised to come down to Nasik, once in twelve years, when Jupiter resides in the zodiac sign of Leo.
Brahmadev worshipped God Trivikram when he came to Satya Loka (on earth) with the same holy water of the Ganges, to get the river Ganges held up by God Shankar on his head, to flow. There was a famine of 24 years and people were affected by the pangs of hunger. However, Varun - the God of Rains, pleased with Sage Gautama arranged rains every day in Gautama's Ashram (dwelling place) which was in Trimbakeshwar. Gautama used to sow rice in the surrounding fields of his Ashram in the morning, reap the crop in the afternoon and with it fed a large group of Rrishis, who took shelter in his Ashram on account of the famine. The blessings of the group of Rrishis increased the merit (Punya) of Gautama. Lord Indra's position became shaky because of his increased merit. So Indra ordered clouds to rain all over Trimbakeshwar, so that the famine will be over and Rishis will go back and the merits of Gautama will be weakened. Although the famine was over, Gautama urged the Rishis to stay back and kept on feeding them and gaining merit. Once he saw a cow grazing in the paddy field and he drove her away by throwing Darbha (sharp, pointed grass). The slender cow died by this. It was Jaya - Parvati's friend, who had taken the form of a cow. This news upset the Rishis and they refused to luncheon at his Ashram. Gautama requested Rishis to show a way out of this sin. He was advised to approach Lord Shiv and request him to release Ganges and a bath in the Ganges would set him free of his sins. Gautama then practiced penance by going to the peak of Brahmagiri for 1000 years. Lord Shankara was pleased by his worships and gave him the Ganges. However, Ganges was not prepared to part with Lord Shiv, which irritated him. He made Tandav Nrutya (dance) on the peak of Brahmagiri and dashed his jata there. Frightened by this action, Ganges appeared on Brahmagiri. Later on Ganges appeared in the Trimbak Tirtha. Gautama praised her but she off and on appeared on the mountain at various places and disappeared in anger. Gautama could not bathe in her waters. Ganges then appeared in Gangadwar, Varaha-tirtha, Rama-Laxman tirtha, Ganga Sagar tirtha. Still Gautama could not bathe in her waters. The Gautama surrounded the river with enchanted grass and put a vow to her. The flow stopped there and the tirtha thus came to be called Kushavarta. It is from this Kushavarta that the river Godavari flows up to the sea. The sin of killing a cow by Gautama was wiped off here.
Temple Architecture
During the Mughal era, several Hindu temples were destroyed. Along with them, Aurangzeb enjoyed destroying Hindu temples during his long campaign and ordered to destroy the temples at Ellora, Trimbakeshwar, Narasinghpur, and Pandharpur and built mosques on the sites. Later the temples were renovated.
Trimbakeshwar Temple as it stands today is within a spacious courtyard and has been built by Peshwa Nana Saheb in the 18th century. It is constructed with black stones in the Nagara style. The temple has a high Shikhara which is internally a square. This Shikhara has a giant lotus- shaped disk made up of stone. On the top of amalaka is the golden kalasha. Inside the temple, one can see a garbhagriha, amalaka, which is the innermost part of any temple where the Lord resides. In front of this garbhagriha is a a hall which is opened from three sides for devotees to enter. Various designs of flowers, images of gods, humans and animals have been carved on the arches and pillars. Altogether, the architecture of the temple is quite simple with no intricate and immaculate carvings. The existing temple was built out of basalt. After it was commissioned by Peshwa Nanasaheb who made a bet on whether the stone surrounding the Jyotirlinga, is hollow from the inside or not. The stone was proved to be hollow. On losing the bet, he built a marvellous temple. The deity of the temple had the world-famous Nassak diamond which was looted by the British in the Third Anglo-Maratha War and presently lies with one owner or the other ever since. The diamond presently lies with Edward J. Hand, a trucking firm executive from Greenwich, Connecticut, USA.
In front of the garbagriha and the antarala is a mandap with doors on all four sides. Three of these doorways are covered with porches, and the openings of these porches are ornamented with pillars and arches. The roof of the mandapam is formed by curvilinear slabs rising in steps. The entire structure is ornamented with sculptural work featuring running scrolls, floral designs, figures of gods, yakshas, humans and animals.
The Linga present inside the temple is called as Trimbaka because Lord Shiva has three eyes. The three thumb-sized Lingas present in the sanctum represent Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. However, the main Lingam is present in a depression on the floor of the sanctum. Generally, the lingams are covered with a silver mask but, on festivals, a golden crown can be seen on the lingas. Also, a mirror is placed at a considerable height in the sanctum so that the devotees can see the Lord from a distance. Due to excessive use of water, the linga has been eroding. It is said that this erosion symbolizes the eroding nature of human society. The Lingas are covered by a jewelled crown which is placed over the gold mask of Tridev (Brahma Vishnu Mahesh). The crown is said to be from the age of Pandavs and consists of diamonds, emeralds, and many precious stones. The crown is displayed every Monday from 4-5 pm.
Festivals
Some of the holiest and most exciting festivals held in Trimbakeshwar Temple are- (i) The Kumbh Mela- It is one of the largest religious gatherings held once in every 12 years, millions of pilgrims gather to take a dip in the river Godavari. The last Kumbh Mela was held in the year 2015. Simhasta Parvani which occurs once in every 12 years, when Jupiter enters the zodiac sign of Leo, is a time of great festivity when it is believed that all sacred waters gather in the Kushavarta thirtha. The Ganga avatarana festival is celebrated in the month of Magha. The Kushavarta thirtha is a tank with flights of steps on all sides, with pillared aisles with highly ornate arches. This is considered to be the holiest of all the thirthas here, and is believed to be the spot where Gowtama Rishi finally secured Ganga on earth by spreading the Kusha or the Darba grass around her. The structure around this thirtha was constructed by Raoji Abaji Parnekar (of the Holkars of Indore) in late 18th century. Other thirthas here are the Gangasagar the Gautamalaya, Bilva thirtha, Indra thirtha, Vishwanath thirtha, Mukund thirtha, Prayag thirtha,Rama Kund, Lakshmana Kund etc. The confluence of the rivers Ahalya and Godavari is also held in reverence.
(ii) Maha Shivaratri is generally held in February or March, this is considered as the auspicious day on which Lord Shiva got married to Parvati. Devotees keep fast and sing bhajans throughout the day. (iii) Tripuri Purnima festival takes place in the month of Karthik which is November or December. It is celebrated because Lord Shiva destroyed three demon cities which are known as Tripura. (iv) Rath Poornima takes place in January-February when, the Panchamukhi Idol of Lord Trimbakeshwar is placed in a rath and then is taken around the town.
Rituals
This temple is famous for lots of religious rituals (vidhis). Narayan Nagbali, Kalsarpa Shanti, Tripindi vidhi are performed. Narayan Nagbali puja is performed at Trimbakeshwar only. This puja is performed in three days. This puja is performed on special dates for many reasons like to cure an illness, going through bad times, killing a Cobra (Nag), childless couples, financial crisis or you want to perform some religious puja to have everything.. Some days are not suitable to perform this puja. This pooja is performed for those people who face difficulties in life due to certain positions of planets between Rahu and Ketu. Some of the types of Kaal Surps are- Ananta Kaalsarpa, Kulik Kaalsarpa, Shankhapaal Kaalsarpa, Vasuki Kaalsarpa, Maha Padma Kaalsarpa and the Takshak Kaalsarpa Yog. Milk, ghee, honey, sugar and other such items are offered to the Lord. Naag or Cobra is worshipped by the devotees. Other rituals include the Mahamrityunjaya Pooja and the Rudrabhishek
Three worship services are carried out each day. During the nightly worship service sheja-aarti is carried out and the silver mask is placed in a bed in the hall of mirrors.
Each Monday, the silver mask of Tryambaka is placed in a palanquin and taken in procession to Kushavarta theertha and given an abhisheka there. This procession with the special golden mask happens also on Shiv ratri, full moon day in the month of Kartika and during other festive occasions.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - NAGESHWAR JYOTIRLINGA
( Nageshwar Jyotirlinga Nageshwar temple )
Nagendra Haaraaya Thrilochanaaya
Bhasmaanga Raagaaya Maheshvaraaya
Nityaaya Suddhaaya Digambaraaya
Tasmai Nakaaraaya Namah Shivaaya.”
--Shiva Panchaakshara Stotra
Meaning: I offer my humble salutations to Lord Maheshvara - 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 embodies as the first letter Na
According to Swami Vivakananda the worship of the Shiva-Linga originated from the famous hymn in the Atharva-Veda Samhitâ sung in praise of the Yupa-Stambha, the sacrificial post. In that hymn a description is found of the beginning-less and endless Stambha or pillar and it is shown that the said Stambha is put in place of the eternal Brahman. As afterwards the Yajna (sacrificial fire), its smoke, ashes, and flames, the Soma plant, and the ox that used to carry on its back the wood for the Vedic sacrifice gave place to the conceptions of the brightness of Shiva's body, his tawny matted-hair, his blue throat, and the riding on the bull of the Shiva, and so on., the Yupa-Stambha gave place in time to the Shiva-Linga, and was deified to the high devahood by Adi Shankara. In the Atharva-Veda Samhita, the sacrificial cakes are also extolled along with the attributes of the Brahman. In the Shiva Purâna, the same hymn is expanded in the shape of stories, meant to establish the glory of the great Stambha and the superiority of Mahadev.
Location controversy
There has been controversy about the actual location of Nageshwar Jyotirlinga temple. Three alternative places are highlighted to be the location of Nageshwar temple. The legendary forest of Darukavana is associated with the temple location.. No other important clues indicate the location of the Jyotirlinga except the only clue of the location of 'Darukavana'. The name Darukavana, is derived from 'daruvana' (forest of deodar trees), is thought to exist in Almora. Deodar (daru vriksha) is found abundantly only in the western Himalayas, not in peninsular India. Deodar trees have been associated with Lord Shiva in ancient Hindu texts. Hindu sages used to reside and perform meditation in deodar forests to please Lord Shiva. Because of this the 'Jageswara' temple in Almora, Uttarakhand is commonly identified as Nageshvara Jyotirlinga. Another interpretation refers the place to Dwaraka. The written name of Darukavana could be read as 'Dwarakavana' which would point to the Nageswara temple at Dwaraka. However no forest is in this part of Dwaraka that finds mention in any of the Indian epics. The narratives of Shri Krishna, mention Somanatha and the adjoining Prabhasa tirtha, but not Nageswara or Darukavana in Dwaraka. Darukavana might exist next to the Vindhya Mountains. It is south-southwest of the Vindhyas extending to the sea in the west. In the Dvadasha Jyotirlinga Stotra Shankaracharya praised this Jyotirlinga as Naganath as follows:
"Yamye sadange nagaretiramye
vibhushitangam vividhaishcha bhogai
Sadbhakti mukti pradamishamekam
shrinaganatham sharanam prapadye"
This means that Nageshwar is located in the south ['yamye'] at the town of 'Sadanga', which was the ancient name of Aundh in Maharashtra, south of the Jageswara shrine in Uttarakhand and west of Dwaraka Nageshvara.
It is enshrined by one of the 12 swayambhu (self-existent) jyothirlingas in the world, in an underground sanctum. A 25 m tall statue of a sitting Lord Shiva and a large garden with a pond are major attractions of this place rather than its serenity. Some archaeological excavations claim five earlier temples at the site. Nageshwar Jyotirlinga temple is located on the west coast of our country en-route between Gomati Dwarka and the Bait Dwarka Island in Saurashtra region of Gujarat. The Jyotirlinga enshrined in the Nagnath temple is known as Nageshwar Mahadev and attracts thousands of pilgrims all round the year. This powerful Jyotirlinga symbolizes protection of human beings from all poisons and adversities. It is popular feeling that those who pray to Nageshwar Jyotirlinga become free of poisonous and negative impacts. The Rudra Samhita sloka refers to Nageshwar with the phrase 'Daarukaavane Naagesham'. This Jyotirlinga manifestation of Shiva is worshipped as Nageswara. According to the Shiv Purana, anyone who ever with devotion reads the birth and greatness of this Jyotirlinga shall beget all material happiness and divine status in the end.
Legend
There is a scriptural story about the emergence of Nageswar Jyotirlinga. According to Shiv Mahapuran, once Brahma (The Creator) and Vishnu (The Preserver) had a disagreement as to which of them was supreme. To test them, Shiva became the arbitrator and pierced the three worlds as an immeasurable pillar of light, (the Jyotirlinga). Vishnu and Brahma were to measure part of Jyotirlinga i.e. upper and lower part. Both of them parted company to determine the extent of each end of the pillar. Brahma, who had set off upward, lied that he had discovered the upper end of the pillar but Vishnu, who had gone in the direction of the base of the pillar, admitted that he had not. Shiva then appeared as a Jyotirlinga and cursed Brahma, telling him that he would have no place in the ceremonies, though Vishnu would be worshipped until the 'end of eternity'. The Jyotirlinga is the supreme indivisible reality from which Shiva appears.
According to one of the legends, 'Balakhilyas', a group of dwarf sages worshipped Lord Shiva in Darukavana for a long time. To test their devotion and patience, Shiva came to them as a nude ascetic wearing only nagas [serpants] on his body. Wives of sages got attracted to the saint and went after him, leaving their husbands behind. Sages got very disturbed and outraged by this. They lost their patience and cursed the ascetic to lose his linga [one of the limited meanings is Phallus, but it has a deeper theistic symbolism]. Shiva linga fell on the earth and the whole world trembled. Lord Brahma and Lord Vishnu came to Lord Shiva, requesting him to save the earth from destruction and take back his linga. Shiva consoled them and took back his linga. [From Vamana Purana CH.6th & 45th]. Lord Shiva promised his divine presence in Darukavana as 'jyothirlinga' forever.
There is another legend. Once lived a demon called Daruka, who was cruel and tortured the good people, yet he was a great devotee of Lord Siva. Supriya a Siva devotee was a merchant who came to Darukavanam, where Daruka lived with his wife Daruki. While selling his goods Daruka asked Supriya to teach him the path of devotion to Siva, the norms of performing pooja and penance. Fearing that Daruka would use any additional powers gained by such penance, to bad use, Supriya refused to guide him. The enraged Daruka began to torture Supriya and imprisoned him along with many others in his city of Darukavana, a city under the sea inhabited by sea-snakes and demons. Supriya was a staunch devotee of the Lord and was unmoved by any torture. At his urgent exhortations the prisoners started to chant the holy mantra of Shiva Om Namaha Shivay and immediately Lord Shiva appeared and being pleased with them killed the demon Daruka. Thereafter Daruki, Daruka’s wife, gave more trouble than her husband. Siva killed her too and gave darshan to his devotees at this place as Nageshwar. The lingam that Supriya had set up was called Nagesha; it is the tenth Jyotirlingam. Shiva once again assumed the form of a Jyotirlinga with the name Nageshwar, while the Goddess Parvati was known as Nageshwari. The Lord Shiva then announced that he would show the correct path to those who would worship him.
Architecture
The temple has been constructed according to the basic weather conditions of the area and it gently slopes towards the lake of Nageshwar. There is a retaining wall along the Nageshwar lake. The foundation of the temple is built in raft style as the size is huge and there are no rock strata beneath. The foundation of the temple is built in raft style as the size is huge and there are no rock strata beneath. The whole temple is built out of Reinforced Concrete Cement that have anti rust chemical coatings. Porbandar stone of light and porous texture is fixed on the structure. Good number skilled man power worked here to complete the temple. The Nageshwar temple has a unique design that follows the ancient principles of Vastu Shastra and is in complete affirmation with conservative Hindu temple design. The temple follows the western style of temple architecture and it faces west. A devotee praying the divine Shiva Linga in Nageshwara temple also automatically faces the Sun God.The temple is planned on the basis of the posture of Sayanam of the Human Body. The Mahadwar, entrance and porch, prayer halls (Sabha Mandapa), Antarala (Nandi’s Place), Inner Sanctum (Garbha Griha) are the portions of the temple. The total height of the temple is 110 feet above Ground level and it has many beautiful elements like arches, rounded flute shaped columns, lotus themed capitals, jails made of pure marble etc., the whole structure is interspersed with swastika and Kalash which are traditional Hindu worship signage.The temple has three different levels. The Garbhagriha or the first level is 6 inches below ground level while Rangamandapa is 2 inches above the ground level (second level). The Antaralaa is situated somewhere in between and it guards the Shiva Linga in Garbha Griha. The Antaral is believed to be the transition place between the God (Linga) and the devotees in Mandapa. The Antaralaa is therefore called as the level of Pujari. Here the different structures have the following significance:
- Mahadwar is the body’s feet: devotee enters through the feet.
- Entrance Porch is between the two sacred idols of Hanuman and Ganesh: two hands of the human body
- Sabha Mandapa contain the payer seats: they are the abdomen and chest of the body
- Antaralaa is the worship place of Nandi
- Holy Shiva Linga is in Garbha Griha i.e. the body’s head
Significance:
The Jyotirlinga in the temple is known as Nageshwar Mahadev. The lingam at Nageshwar is, however, unique. It is made from a stone known popularly as Dwarka Stone, which has small wheel imprints on it. The lingam is shaped like a three-faced oval Rudraksha, which literally means the tears of Shiva. In this temple the Shivalinga faces towards the south. Giant statue of Lord Shiva allures the devotees with its aesthetic appeal. On the eve of Shivaratri, the temple premises witnesses huge turnout of devotee and which virtually changes the entire ambiance into a place of festivities. The Jyotirlinga situated in the temple is considered to protect everybody from all sort of poisons. It is believed that one who offers prayers in the temple becomes poison free. Skand Puran mentions that the King Raivat of Kushsthali was an avtaar of Takshak Nag and he ruled over this region. Interestingly, Dwarka is also known as Kushsthali in Hindu scriptures.
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.
COVID 19 has taught me many things. One thing which touched me was that many of COVID patients were dying because of fear. The way awareness was created, the way COVID patients were stigmatised, the way they were ambulance lifted at the dead of the night to an unknown destination and imprisoned there; automatically created a state of panic in their minds. Naturally it may be an aggravating factor for the increased morbidity and mortality.
It's neither unnatural nor uncommon for psychological factors playing a serious role resulting in death. Everyone must have heard the bad news of a partner's death after the death of a spouse, or the death of a close friend. This speaks of the role of psychology in health and disease & life and death.
In this context I will narrate my experience on a Ghost of Life. It was in May 2007. I was delivering a guest lecture in the annual conference of IMA Odisha Chapter. On the podium to start with I felt a few extra heart beats followed by cardiac arrhythmia( irregular heart beats) during my speech. Somehow or other I managed to complete my talk. Immediately after my talk I was shifted to Burla, my parent station which is 40 km from the venue. Then after treatment by the cardiologist I was alright.
He had advised certain important things to be followed, one of which was, " NEVER GO OUT ALONE. " From that day whenever I went outstation for any reason like attending any conference or for a medical check up, my wife always accompanied me.
In the mean time five years passed. I had become almost asymptotic and more or less stable. I was not depending so much on my wife. I was having my routine exercise , classes, surgeries both in hospital and nursing homes.I was feeling as if I was as good as normal.
l had to attend a national conference at Kolkata as a guest speaker. My wife was preoccupied with some important office work, as the CDMO, so that she was not in a position to accompany me. Therefore I was in a dilemma what to do, should I go alone or should I cancel the programme?
I decided that I could go alone since it was an important commitment and Kolkata is just an overnight journey. Kolkata is just like my home town. Some of my students had already gone. They would feel disappointed if I didn't go. All these factors went in favour of my taking a positive decision. I booked my ticket in Samaleswari Express. To my bad luck I got the side upper berth in the 2 nd AC coach.
My packing was complete with minimum luggage in a light trolley bag. Dinner packet with a small water bottle in a handy disposable bag was the extra luggage I was carrying. Train was on time . My wife saw me off and I boarded the train at about 7 pm in the evening. I met the TTC in charge of the coach and requested for a change or exchange of berth to a lower berth citing my health problem, but in vain. I climbed up to the side upper berth with much difficulty against my will. I tried to request the young man, peculiarly dressed lying down on the side lower berth to exchange with mine. But to my bad luck he appeared as if he does not care my words and quite adamant. In the adjacent cubicle were four young men enjoying the journey at the peak of their voice, clapping, laughing and singing as if it was their parent's train. Then I thought to request them to maintain silence. But when I saw all of them with a glass in hand and in an intoxicated mood I could jolly well imagine the situation. I thought that I was destined to suffer this night. I had to adjust to the situation some0how or other. I took early dinner at 7.45 pm, took a sleeping pill and tried to sleep.
But where was the sleep? Took the second sleeping pill but same result. I started feeling nervous and restless. I tried to divert my mind in multiple ways, went to toilet, washed my face, finished all my prayers but no sign of sleep. Evil thoughts invaded my mind. The scene of my cardiac arrhythmia and how I was shifted to Burla haunted me again and again. I felt as if a ghost was asking me what would I do if I developed such a problem again during this journey. There was no one to help. Another ghost started telling me, "Dear Doctor! if something wrong happened with you on the way, you will be lost as unidentified and unclaimed. Can you think how much pain will your family members take to search for you." The third ghost told, " What will you gain by taking such a risk, better get down at the next station." The voice of the three ghosts were echoing in my ears again and again. I began to feel my heart beat, counted my pulse, it was a bit rapid but regular, I started breathing very fast and deep, started moving to and fro the toilet again and again. I could imagine if situation worsened what would happen to my wife, my daughter continuing her MBA at Noida, my son still in his probation and my small world around me. At last I fell in the devil's trap. I enquired about the next station. It was Rourkela. I made up my mind to get down there, informed TTC, telephoned two of my students working at Rourkela to book a room in a hotel and the area manager of Pulse Pharma to reach the platform, but didn't inform my wife, lest she might panic. The moment I took this decision all the storms in my mind became calm, the ghosts no more seen and their voice stopped echoing. As soon as the train arrived at the station, l silently got down. It was about 10 pm. All were eagerly waiting for my surprise visit.
Rajat and his wife Sunita both of them my students, Alok the area manager and Rasmi the sales representative of Pulse Pharma were present to receive me. In short I described them the thrilling secret of my surprise visit to Rourkela. Listening to my story Alok laughed, (probably thought, such a daring surgeon with such a weak heart), Rajat and Sunita sympathised and shared my feelings and supported my action . They left me in the hotel, after making necessary arrangements for my comfortable stay. While parting Rajat and Alok left a few words of assurance, "Don't hesitate to call if you feel something wrong. Good night Sir! "
I took a light dinner, watched the ongoing one day cricket match and went to bed. When I slept off I didn't know but when I woke up at 7 am, I found the lights were on, the TV was running (never before I had woken up so late ). Most probably the double dose of sleeping pills proved their efficacy.
When I switched on the mobile I saw two missed calls and a message from my wife. Just as I was going to call back, her third call came, "Was the train late? When did you reach? Any problems!" Endless questions.
My simple reply to her, "Yes, I reached safe not at Kolkata but at Rourkela!"
This story "The Ghost" symbolises how psychology affects the course of a disease. A weak psychology worsens the outcome of a disease very rapidly . Every body knows that doctors are the worst patients. Since they know the natural history of diseases, they think the worst possible outcomes might happen to them, they imagine only the complications and the vicious cycle goes on.
To keep one's psychology strong one should practice mental and spiritual exercises regularly. The sooner the better. I pray God to bless every body with good health.
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..
I was given to you
A companion
To enjoy with you
The life gifted to us
Two sides of a coin.
But what have you done to me?
You petted me
You pampered me
You made me your toy,
A pawn, a rag doll
To satiate your hidden
Desires, whims and agendas.
I, the embodiment of love and patience
Passive and selfless, a slave to your charms
Cared for you like a babe, sacrificing my time and energy
Neglecting my children, to cater to your demands and desires
Nay, I never said, adapting myself and you thrived.
You took me for granted
I became a servile being
Even education and money
Liberating me, only made me more abject.
With my infinite patience I tried to please you.
But you, in your bloated arrogance
Misused me brutally.
What was sacred in me
Was torn and and destroyed to fulfill
Your perverted mind's desire
You treated me heinously,
I was raped and tortured
Even my lifeless body was not spared
You are worse than a beast I realised.
Now it is time for rethinking
A time for me to retrace
A time for me to redefine
A time for me to break these fetters
These false chains of helplessness and need
That tethers me to your side.
Let me break these manacles.
Even animals have their freedom!
You tell me, I tempt you
Exposing my body
I lure you to commit
Unwanted atrocities on me.
My looks, my body, my walk
Everything tempts you.
But I am helpless, I am made this way.
Isn’t it time
You looked into yourself?
Or stand in my shoes
May be for a day
To comprehend my life?
Weren’t we created
For a beautiful life
Complementing each other?
When are you going to transform?
If you don't
I will change.
I have a terrible, blood thirsty side to me
Leashed and fettered in my subconscious
Where I become a monstrous, blood drinking deity.
Impatient, aggressive, intolerant
Wild, untamed, ferocious
With an overwhelming desire
To destroy everything on my path
Hindering my progress in life
To live the life true to myself
Once it is unleashed
No power can withstand
This ferocious fury
Shackled inside my being.
Don't tell me
I didn't warn you
I have given you many hints
If you remain deaf
This fury restrained
Unleashing itself,
Will satiate itself,
By drinking your blood.
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
This time
It was different,
She came on her own,
Stealthily, tiptoed,
Opening the door,
Came face to face
To pour the heart
Overflowing with love
To splash the paint
On the canvas
And scribble few lines
With golden words
Creating a book of verses
Reminiscing bygone years.
Holding my hand in care
Serenading me
In the moonlit night
Away from public glare,
She created the poetry
Beyond the grasp of mind
Making the heart swing
In great euphoria.
I wasn’t aware
Until she came closer
And stroked my hair
To tell she was the girl,
Who ruled the dream
I had woven,
All these years.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published three books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” & “Niraba Pathika”, and two books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” and “The Mystic is in Love “. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com
When hope crumbles, and
Fear looms large
when tired eyes long to smear deep sleep, upon the eyelids
Pain walks in, roaring
Fuelling the dance of fire upon every nerve
Pricking the flesh, and scalding the blood
Can the color of pain be
The color of tears
That never flowed from the eyes of destiny
With vampire teeth, planting nightmares?
Oh to bottle each pain, and test its DNA…
Well! the color of pain is not just one
But a heap of countless colors
Each hue tagged to an experience
When the days are dark, canopied by clouds
The color of pain is in desperation
When love walks out like a sudden quake
The color of pain is in desolation
The empty starving plates
Reveal the color of pain in poverty
Drenched, children on the pavements
Stare at the color of pain through their torn tarpaulin
A thirsty seeker’s eyes, wear the color of pain
When the school gates demand a king’s treasury
The color of pain seeps through a wailing soul
When healing has a price tag, that look like a leech...
The intense colors of pain
Flow through wars, weapons, and frozen lives
The fragile colors of pain
Gurgle like streams from the abandoned dreams...
Blend the shades of silence and indifference
The color of pain is in that scary coldness
Lend some erasers to the precious memories
Let down feeling is a color of pain...
Ah! to see the colors of pain!
An experience not just for the human
But for all things great and small…
The light in labour reveals
The shimmering color of the dawn
Straight under the scorching sun
Several tender petals smile in endurance
Small wings, vast sky
Birds steer through the gravity-colored wind
Untiring waves, rush to the shore
Despite the glaring color of rejection
Ignoring the bruises, the water flows upon
Irrigating the roots of the rough rocks
The animals ants reptiles, and plants
Each one knows the color of pain
The palettes are different, the canvases unique
And every atom holds some color of pain
Each pain forms a pattern
Inside the kaleidoscope of life
He chooses our colors of experience
To make us blend, blossom, and
Become an art that bleeds the colors of compassion...
Those eyes that can smell the colors of pain
Always handhold each color
Go for a walk into the woods of hope
And come back healed, brighter, and bolder
For the colors of pain meet love.
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
WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS!!
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
It's past eight and the sun shines bright
Something’s amiss, it doesn't seem right
I wake up and find, all quiet and peaceful
It is Monday morning, and I am late for school
I find mummy in the kitchen, brewing tea
Humming an old song, showing signs of glee
Oh Mummy, why didn't you wake me up
She smiles and gives me a loving rap
You are to stay at home, we are under siege
That's what the PM last night did beseech
Let me do my chores in peace
Just go and do what you please
No school today? Oh, what a joy!!
I could call Suresh, go out and play
No, stay indoors, my mamma said
Be careful, be quiet, don't wake up dad.
Eat, play and sleep, night and day
Boy, was I ever so happy and gay?
Mummy's mobile was always handy
To talk to Harish, Salu and Mindy
It's been months since that fateful day
Even the summer sky has turned wintery grey
I miss the morning nudge, the ruckus
The hour long ride in the school bus
What fun it was to throw chalks in class
Passing notes to the pretty lass
Oh, how we played in the school ground?
Not caring for the dust or mud
The recess bell, a nudge and the run
Eating lunch was so much fun,
Along the corridor to the canteen
I miss the days before Covid-19
Online classes and no play
My routine monotonous, it’s a dull day.
Wearing a mask, I can’t even run
Who envisaged this life for a young un?
I miss my teachers, friends and the school
Oh Carona, pray be merciful
Teachers, student and parents, in unison
Bow to thee, please be done!
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.
the mundane
treads
on slithery
slippery
edges..
mind at
midpoint
oscillating ..
your son
rushes
down
to gulp out
breakfast
mind in
tatters
to arrange
his town hall
of an
IT meet..
Your daughter
tied to
her online
classes
kids play
and prattle
for attention.
your mind
brewing over
your talk
fixed on line..
the right
flow to
flow..
the right
venue
attire...
The worst
part
the technical
glitch
as uncertain
as the weather,
so erratic...
yes, rush
a creative rush
to fill up
moments
in your allotted
time
in your book
of life
what a relief
you give
my muse
when you
flow through
my words,
to let out
the mounting
multitasking...
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
You will never be able
to escape from your own heart
better listen to
to what it has to say
keep it happy
and know that for sure
you will sing along all day
why you want to listen
only to your mind
and make sense
out of every damn thing
sensible is not merely
what is written in the text books or
they taught you in school
they just taught how to make
good grades so you could make a living they taught you that
if you managed better grades
you found a better job
they didn't teach you
how to make a happy living
try and unlearn all that
change your mindset
learn to live through your heart
listen to it for a change
if you are not happy
you have lost it all
the only purpose
one can fulfil here is
to celebrate life
until you are gone.
Past is an old story
we keep telling ourselves
time and again
and yet again
be in here and now
and write new stories every day
it is more fun to be
part of a new story
choice is yours
create and carve your story daily.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed poet, artist and film maker, also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer, recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. She also worked as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts.
She has to her credit 35solo exhibitions of paintings, 20 published books, has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films.
She is a bilingual poet and has twelve anthologies of poems in Hindi and three in English to her credit. Weaves of Time, Ekam, Song of Silence are collection of poems in English. Pratinaad,Mussavir ka Khayal (2018 ) and Roshani ka Safar (2019) are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.
Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography.
9 of her poetry collections are translated in Greek,German, Mandarin, English ,Urdu, Bangla and Dogri. She is based in Delhi,India.
Your hug hurts, you hold me so tight
Never letting go - day and night
Quietly I scream, leave me alone
I must be on my own
I'll take care of my pain
Please stay off, I cry in vain
But then I understood
In tough times and good
Not content as a loving bystander
You turn a sharing performer l
I see your need to give,
So, am happy to receive
Though I don't need it,
I love that loving spirit
Redundant concern's no burden
God's magnificent gift – A caring person
God, give me the grace
Ego of Self-sufficiency erase
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
FEEL GOOD - DO GOOD -PASS IT ON.....
Many months ago, I read an interesting anecdote in the newspaper- Titled, ‘Hop on Board,’ it was the tale of a bus conductor winning hearts with his welcome speech in a TNSTC bus commuting between Coimbatore and Madurai. The article also mentioned that his inspiration was from another bus conductor who, during every journey, recited a Tirukkural to his passengers.
A tingling and lingering joy engulfed me for several minutes. It set me thinking as well. Don’t we experience this on various occasions? For instance, when we are about to meet a long lost friend, a family member from overseas, meeting the fiancé at the wedding hall amongst a host of others.
On other occasions, there is a dullness or dampened spirit while awaiting certain people, events.. or facing certain situations. Science reveals that hormones such as Serotonin, Oxytocin and primarily Dopamine are some hormones that make us feel great. Such a feeling enables individuals to be happy, positive and carry such spirit around ourselves ; not only about lives, this involves products, the economy and a host of others.
An interesting quote that I have read by Mary Doctor says –‘win or lose, I’ll feel good about myself.’ What a positive attitude! And, how many can imbibe such a personality, particularly in this era of self-deception that the’ selfie’ revolution has brought in. Selfies have penetrated through all kinds of barricades and minds- to the point of selfie before the deity!
The 'feel good' factor can be passed on by 'doing good', and it can begin in the neighbourhood- yes, look good, feel good, pass on good! Often, the home is always spic and span, however, the garbage is strewn around the bins, the chocolate paper thrown by one of us is still on that staircase, apparently the maintenance supervisor has been absent again! Children, especially, must be taught not to litter the neighbourhood; perhaps, trees planted on the sidewalk can be taken care of by the young citizens.. This would not only inculcate a sense of responsibility, it would also facilitate their holistic growth into responsible citizens.
As Abraham Lincoln says,’ when I do good, I feel good, when I do bad, I feel bad, and that’s my religion…” A religion applicable for all, irrespective or age, gender or socioeconomic status.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Translated by Sreekumar K
I met her one summer. She used to ferry me across the river, rather a rivulet which slices a small chunk off the village. In rain or shine, she used to ferry us across the river. At times I was her only company and enjoyed some candid conversations with her.
I had nothing to do on the other bank. It was rather barren and spotted a few huts and fewer trees.
The purpose of my sojourn in the village was to write a story, a rather long one. I had found an agreeable house in that quiet village ‘far away from the madding crowd’. My only purpose of using her service was to be with her, see her for long and hear her voice when I was lucky to do so. I spoke very little, for I wanted to listen to her beautiful stories more than to talk to her.
She was jet black in complexion, had luxuriant curly hair which flew in the wind all around her and her wet sparkling eyes reflected the river beautifully. When sunlight hit it, she looked so unreal, a bewitching angel from some fairy tale. Her wardrobe was obviously a poor one but her figure was rather rich. Her only possession seemed to be the boat which she took good care of.
It was a feast for the eyes to see her sitting on the edge of the boat and rhythmically ply the oar, softly and carefully as if not to hurt the river. It costs only two rupees for enjoying such great, unique moments.
Most people had to avail of her service since the town lay on the other side of that small slice of the village which lay on the other other bank.
Days, weeks and months passed by. My story grew into a novel, enriched by the stories I heard from her.
Her name was Aswathy, the name of an important constellation. Good. No wonder she was starry eyed.
Her parents were old. Her father used to do this job before he fell a victim to tuberculosis. Then she took up the oar to ferry her family across hard times.
I once told her about me.
That I was there to write a novel.
That the stores she had told me would also be in it.
That I was not married and would go right back when the story was finished.
By and by she began to visit me to listen to what I had written. She laughed, wept and applauded in the right places, failing my expectations not even once.
Slowly, I stopped using her ferry and stayed home, expecting her to visit me.
Her visits grew more frequent and our relationship grew stronger.
And one day, finishing my novel. I packed up and left her and the village, promising her that I would come back for her. She ferried me across an unsuspecting river.
Life is such that, unlike rivers and rivulets, it takes unexpected turns. I could not keep my promise and got married in a hurry only to realize my big mistake. Years of being with my wife tasted bitter compared to the brief moments I had had with that village girl. I could not recall having enjoyed that kind of love from anyone else in my life.
As things grew more intolerable than one could possibly take, my doctor advised me to go for a retreat, somewhere in the countryside.
That is when I went back to the same village. I was very apprehensive about facing her. I had no answer if she asked me anything. I was ready to face it all and compensate for what I had done, though I had no idea how.
The bus dropped me closer to the bank.
Everything was almost the same, except two things one easily noticeable and the other rather unnoticeable.
There was a bridge across the river now.
There was no ferry.
No one could recall whether there ever was one.
Mrs. Magline Jackson who runs a busy life with her herbal beauty clinic (Her Choice), dubbing and anchoring work, various hobbies, writes mostly for women’s magazines in Malayalam. She finds beauty in everything around her and embellishes it in different ways. Her stories are about the rich and varied experiences in a wide variety of places she had lived with her husband from the tender age of fourteen.
Translated by Sreekumar K
It was a good catch and Manu knew it was expected and unexpected at the same time. It was at such a unique moment that Yamuna fell for the bait, an international call.
She said 'hello'.
Manu was trying to make out the recipes for the exotic sweets Thapan had served on whatsapp. One was Pakisthani Barfi and another was Chinese Tofu. Yamuna's voice surpassed both in sweetness, he felt.
"Hi, Manu, where?"
Taken aback for a moment, Manu fished for more.
"Hey, Yamuna, where on earth are you? Tell me that first."
Manu knew that she was delaying the response, just to flap around a bit. Hopefully he held out.
"I am at the Mumbai Airport, checked in to fly to Kochi. Come over to the airport."
"Mumbai?"
Trying as much as he did, he could not contain his surprise. Like a slimy eel, his amazement slipped out as his words.
"When I called you the other day, you mentioned some other place."
He could not recall the place. He muted himself to fish it out of his memory but it eluded him.
"That was a long time ago!" She burst into peals of laughter.
"When you called me last, I was in Antananarivo. From there, last week, I moved eastward. In fact, I had told you that too. But you forgot. You are forgetting everything these days."
Then she resumed her flapping around to keep him hooked in suspense, "I will answer all your questions when we meet, OK?"
He kissed her over the phone.
He rang up Thapan.
"Sab"
"Thapan?"
"Tell me, Sab"
Thapan started off in Bengali but then slid into English
"Yamuna is coming. You too should come over and make some good fish curry."
Thapan waxed enthusiastic. Even last time when Yamuna had been here he had made her fall for his wizardry fish curry. He had served her cod fish in Bengali style dripping with mustard oil.
Manu recalled that when Yamuna dipped the knife into the glistening bulge on its flanks, its eggs broke out onto her plate like a colourful map of Kerala. Peering into it, Yamuna said, "I thought the Keralites cooked fish the best"
"The best fish curry in the whole world is made by Benglis," Thapan took a fighting stance. "You're a globe trotter. Have you tasted anything like this, Mem Sab?"
"This taste? No, never."
"That is it," said Thapan resplendent with pride. " The fish was marinated in garam masala soaked in mustard oil and sauteed before it is cooked in a special gravy."
Manu remembered also that, in bed, that night, when Yamuna was reminiscing her workplace memories, there was one sentence she lingered on. She said something to this effect: The world owes it to the refugees, for they lug around great civilizations on their back. He didn't bother to ask her what other news was there on the UN Refugee Mission. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and drew her close. He smelt fish on her lips. He called her 'fish-smell' and she chuckled.
Then she said,"In fact, this whole world is the work of travelers and refugees. Otherwise we wouldn't have had the chance of tasting Thapan's piscis delicacy today."
Then she removed his hand from her waist and got lost in thoughts.
"Sab, may I ask you something?" Thapan's question brought Manu back to the present.
"Sure."
After a moment's silence, when Thapan told him of Reema's arrival, Manu wondered whether it was from Yamuna that Thapan picked up the art of keeping someone in suspense. When Manu asked him why he had not mentioned it before, Thapan was all the more happy.
"A while ago she landed at the railway station and called me. I hadn't expected that."
Then came his question, or rather Rima's questions. Reema was asking whether she should make the fish curry for Yamuna.
Manu agreed. He knew from what Thapan had told him before that Reema was specializing in seafood cuisine. Thapan promised to send him more details on whatsapp. Manu got ready to go and pick up Yamuna. He fished out his car key from somewhere, locked the front door and dived into the lift.
As he was driving, Manu thought of Thapan. He came from Kolkotha and joined the Cochin Sweets, two years ago. That was when Manu was thinking of winding up his business for want of good hands.
The traffic lights in their fast colours brought back the memories of the sweets Thapan had introduced to him.
Thapan first entered Manu's world as a man carrying a large salver of colours. The salver which glistened like the belly of a fish was full of sweets. Since the company had decided to sell sweets in north India too, several chefs had come seeking a job. Thapan was the only one who came seeking a kitchen.
To test what Thapan had made for his demo, Manu had brought in the marketing head and the baking captain. As he was about to taste it, Manu felt that Thapan was visualizing him only as a tongue though he kept staring at his whole being. Manu broke a crispy piece from the globes made of colourful beedy bits stuck together. As he put it in his mouth and passed his tongue over them, he knew he had become nothing but a tongue, a drooling one.
After that Kochi Sweets hasn't been what it was till then.
The phone rang and he swerved his car to the side and idled the engine.
"Tell me, Thapan."
"Sab, when you buy fish today, buy rohu or katla, or something with tough flesh and taut skin."
Before I cut the call, I heard him saying that even catfish would be fine, only the style would have to be altered a little.
Before putting the phone down on the other seat, Manu looked at the whatsapp messages. Thapan's messages were on the top. Ingredients for the fish curry.
Mustard oil, bay leaf, potatoes... it went on and on.
At the next junction, as the traffic light winked to yellow as if noticing him, Manu thought again about Thapan's salver and his first meeting with him. The salver he carried glowed in yellow and red. It was a study of geometrical shapes in colour.
He broke a piece from the yellow globe and put it in his mouth.
Great!
"And what is this?"
Thapan said, "This is made from milk. It's called Rajbhog."
Rajbhog, Manu juggled that word in his mind and tried to figure out whether it meant what he suspected. Then he peered again into the salver. Scattered on it were several cubes, white, grayish red and yellow in colour. And there was a katori bowl right in the center with little white turtles swimming in it.
Thapan explained: This is sandesh. The taste varies with their colour. Please try some."
Manu broke a bit from a cube of sandesh and tasted it with relish. He sensed that his taste buds were blossoming eastward now. He dipped a spoon into the little bowl and ruffled them a bit. Then he looked askance at Thapan. In another minute Manu was taught what chanar payesh was all about.
In the ticking moments that followed, Manu was initiated into the science of sweets, a pursuit he valued much in his later life. For the next nineteen minutes, Thapan was only a voice and Manu was only the sense of hearing. Between those two abstract selves, the mystic secrets of sweetness encrusted in words were laid bare. Amruti, bundiya, chanargoja, chanmughi, chomchm, kalojam, rasgulla and a host of such sweets heaped up in Manu's mind. Manu was shocked to realize how the form becomes the content itself as Thapan's words, effecting a synesthesia, fell sweet in his ears. He understood the real meaning of mellifluous. As Thapan's catechism ended, Manu knew that most of the sweets were made of milk and only a few were made of ghee. When Manu asked Thapan why it was so, Thapan, for the first time added a mysterious smile to his answer.
"That, Sab, the so-called ghee is after all only milk." For Manu, it sounded more like a philosophical thought than a culinary observation.
That is how Thapan joined the crew and took over a special project at the Kochin Sweets, marketing in north India north Indian sweets confected in the far south.
That was a real fool's errand. But that is how it is always. Everyone laughs at an idea until the idea succeeds, he had heard.
Even though the project didn't turn sour, Manu, one day, shared his anxieties with Thapan.
"Thapan, will this be like carrying coal to Newcastle?"
"No way Sab, nobody can make these sweets like we do, no matter how hard they try. It has a mysterious ingredient."
Thapan winked at Manu. Manu was stunned.
"Really?" Manu was not incredulousnly that he could not contain his enthusiasm.
"Be a little patient, Sab. You will come to know about it in time."
And that was exactly what happened. The Southern Flavoured Specially Baked Sweets silenced the north Indian tongues and made them drool for more. People's jaws literally dropped to see how something could be that delicious. In six months, huge exports to Bangladesh directly and, through agencies, to Pakistan and the Middle East. Manu tweeted that it was Thapan's solo act. And he spared nothing in marketing.
So, celebrating the first year of success, Manu wrote a short but sweet post on Thapan and posted it along with his pic on FB. No sooner did it get noticed than he got a call from a reporter in an English daily. He wanted an exclusive on Manu and Thapan.
"We can meet at my flat," Manu suggested. "Come over this Saturday. We will be there."
It was on that Saturday that Thanpan made his special fish curry for the first time. A symphony in mustard oil. When he added small potatoes to fish curry, Manu had his doubts.
"Potatoes in fish curry, seriously?"
When the potato chops, along with fish chops, swam in the gravy, Thapan smiled at Manu. Manu was pouring out his second peg. Even though he forced him, Thapan refused to drink.
"Well, Sab," Thapan said with a smile,"Potato is very dear to us Bengalis. Especially when we cook non-veg dishes. We might make mutton curry without mutton but not without potato, no way..."
The fish curry he made that day was awesome. After that, when Yamuna came over for her scheduled holidays or quite surprisingly, they relished Thapan's delicious fish curry on each other's tongues and their sultry nights reeked of mustard oil.
On the way back from the airport, Yamuna was chatty as usual. She had a week's holiday. She has to fly to Dammam after that and from there to Geneva.
"So, where were you when I called you last?" asked Manu.
"I was closer to you than you thought," she said with an impish smile. "Guess where."
"You smart ass, were you in India? Delhi?"
She nodded her head to say no.
Manu turned a curve and swerved his car towards a parking lot. There was a supermarket nearby. Parking his car, he sat there pretending to accept defeat. Yamuna was satisfied and passing her finger over his lips teasingly and whispered in his ear the name of Burmese city.
" Naypyitaw"
The way she said it and the tenor in her voice took him instantly to their bedroom. He sat there taking in the changing expressions on her face. She took his hand and passed it over her handbag. It felt like a globular breast was hidden inside. He smiled at the thought. Yamuna knew exactly what he had on his mind.
"It is a bottle, you dickhead. For tonight"
"Tanye," she added.
"Tanye?"
"Yes, tanye. Bootlegged in Burma."
When he entered the shop, he saw the cans of Kochi Sweets White Rasagula displayed conspicuously. As they moved to the provisions section, he pointed it out to her.
Manu showed on his whatsapp, Thapan's long list of ingredients. She read it out to him and he took them off the racks one by one. Suddenly he turned to her and said," Oh, I forgot to tell you. This time it is not Thapan who is cooking for us."
"Then?"
"Reema is here. His daughter."
Before she resumed reading the list Yamuna asked Manu what Reema was going to make for them. It was then that he thought about it. Thapan had told him what he needed, but he had not told him what he was going to make with it. He was to buy rohu, katla or catfish. For a second, Yamuna stared at the mobile screen and then resumed her reading.
"Mustard oil, coriander leaves, tomatoes.."
Not having any idea what might be left in the kitchen, Manu bought each and everything on the list. While they were loitering in the fish section, Yamuna asked him,"Don't you remember when I came last?"
Manu smiled back, relishing the memory and nodded to say yes.
"Hey, Manu.."
"Yes, tell me."
"You know that fish curry Thapan made that time, the one with ground mustard?"
"Yes, sorshe mach. Wasn't that he said it was?"
"Name is not the thing, bear that in your mind. Its taste is what it is." She paused for a while. "I had that from Dhaka last week. It is very common there. Indigenous. Typical Bangla thing."
Wondering why she found it significant, Manu went over to collect some fish. He saw dead ones and half dead ones dispossessed of their natural element, water. Their eyes and open mouth with no tongue to stick out, looked like begging for help. He turned his head away and ordered for three kilos of Rohu. As the sales person handed him the parcel, Manu felt that it had the chill of a donated organ, though he had never been near one.
They did not talk much on their way home. Yamuna mentioned a series he was going to write for some political magazine.
"I did come up with an intro. I will read it out to you tonight. It is on vanishing lingos. I have titled it " Tongue-Tied."
Entering the flat and looking around, Yamuna remarked that it was just as clean as she had left it. She hugged him as a compliment.
They both stripped for a bath together. After the bath, drying each other, they did not wait much to dive onto the bed and compensate reasonably for the missed days.
Soon after six, they let their bacchanalian spirits run out of the tanye bottle. While they were sipping the second peg, the doorbell rang.
It was Thapan. Behind him, Reema.
Not only Yamuna, even Manu had not seen Reema before. She was as delicate as a Bengali poem and as resplendent as its rendition. When Thapan offered Yamuna a gift wrapped in glittering paper, Reema showed the courtesy to extend her little hand to touch its corner.
" Some sweets. I baked it in the little time I had," said Thapan. As Yamuna removed the wrappers, Thapan, as usual, named them in order.
"This is chanar goja, this is sandesh and this you know is rasgulla."
Yamuna smiled at him. "No need to know what they are called. They are for the tongue, not for the ears!"
After exchanging a few words of etiquette, Thapan checked out the fish. Seeing it was rohu, he smiled at Reema. Then he took a casual inspection of the provisions and whispered something in Bengali to Reema.
Manu was curious.
"What conspiracy is going on between the Bengalis?"
"It is nothing Sab. Reema was asking me when Mem Sab usually takes her dinner."
It was then that even Manu recalled their plan to go for a movie. Yamuna had seen the poster of a new Hollywood movie running in the city. When Manu asked her whether it wasn't enough to watch it on the phone, Yamuna frowned at him.
"Cinemas are to be seen in cinemas. It has to be bigger than you, the screen. You got to be dwarfed by it. Give it some respect, man!"
Manu didn't object. The show was at nine thirty. It meant they had to leave at eight thirty not to be late for the show.
Hearing the time limit, Reema raced to the kitchen. Neither Manu nor Yamuna could see what she was doing there. But the soft and rhythmic footfalls on the kitchen floor and the percussion accompaniment offered by the spoons and utensils with the gurgling of water from the tap like motifs in that orchestra told Manu what the fish he had bought might be going through. Reema was getting it ready as if it were a docile bride at the hand of a fastidious beautician. At one point Thapan blurted out, "When she cooks, it's like she is dancing. Steps, rasas, gestures, music, everything will be there!"
Quickly, he bridled himself. "Sorry Sab, it is only what I feel, because I am her father."
The music from the kitchen slowly faded out. But its finer elements lingered in the air and whirled around the three of them as an appetizing aroma and an endearingly warm humidity which made their lips taste salty. The flavoured expectation now became more voluptuous and stripped itself to tempt them all the more. The aroma took everyone's breath away, especially Thapan's. Yamuna noticed it and her frivolous mind cooked up playful mischiefs.
Manu and Yamuna had drained one more peg. Thapan showed the discretion to leave them alone. He ambled off to the kitchen.
"Let me check on her. She might need some help."
That was when Yamuna too bolted up.
"I am also coming. I have got a few things to ask her."
Through the fogged glass lid Yamuna could barely see the fish chops, along with tomatoes and potatoes, bobbing up and down in the gravy. At one point, Reema raised the lid to let Yamuna get a clear vision. Now she spied mustard too. Manu also saw an ensemble in faded red and golden yellow, a culinary concoction which had stood the test of time, boiling inside out in ecstasy, awaiting its connoisseurs. The aromatic steam, winding up skyward like the soul the fish had given up, cast a spell on him like a wisp of smoke from some magic lamp. In a trance, he heard Yamuna asking Reema what they called this dish.
Reema answered in crispy English, "Macher Kaliya, Benglis' own fish curry." Not waiting for another question from Yamuna, she began to describe how it was made, spicing up her talk with expressions of enthusiasm. Yamuna seemed to be taking it all in. She turned to Manu and whispered she wanted another peg.
"But nobody cooks macher kalia like they do in Bangladesh," Reema had begun.
"First the fish, preferably rohu, has to be chopped and marinated and set aside for some time."
She went on in detail about how the chops have to be fried in oil, how the ground masala could be sauteed in the same oil and how each step has to be carefully done. It was like she had learned it by rote. When she ended her fairly long briefing, Yamuna pounced on her.
"This is Bengli dish, OK? Then how come the Bengladeshis excel in it?"
Reema whirled the pan around without taking it off the stove.
"In Bangladesh, you get fresh fish. That is why."
"That is true Mem Sab," Thapan supported his daughter. "Take hilsa. It is Bengalis' favourite fish. But it has to come from River Padma."
Yamuna was thinking of something else. Manu wondered whether she was already drunk. He looked at Thapan and he was going on and on about Reema.
"Now she is saying that she won't come away from Dhaka. She is bent on opening a hotel solely for fish items on the banks of Padama."
Only after that did Yamuna come to know that Reema was a student of culinary arts at Dhaka.
Manu now sensed that Reema's enthusiasm had rubbed off on her father.
But Reema interrupted him and was vociferous about the rivers there. She talked about the people on their banks and the rich wealth of fish in those rivers. Manu found that her knowledge of rivers as an ecosystem surpassed that of an eighteen year old. Her elaborate reminiscence of the long boat rides she had had on River Padma bewitched him. As minutes ticked by Reema was becoming an Alexa on Bangladesh.
Yamuna struck again.
Manu saw a smile appear on her face as she listened to Reema. She was unwrapping Thapan's gift of sweets using some words which were unknown to Manu. She reiterated their names one by one amazing Manu. Each time she asked Thapan whether she wasn't right. After finishing the list of names she added a question for him, "Thapan how come all these are Bangla sweets?"
"Who says they are Bengla sweets? They are Bengali sweets, not Bangla."
"My first hand experience tells me something else. My last assignment was in Bangladesh and Burma."
Thapan went silent. Slowly, he began to wipe the dinner plates. Reema who had her eyes on macher kalia which was in its last lap of cooking, also went quiet. Yamuna's questions had not ended.
"And another thing. That awesome fish curry which you had made last time? I had had more than enough of it from Dhaka."
Nobody spoke for a while. The soft sound of the bubbles bursting in the fish curry and the softer sound of a towel drying the dinner plates sounded like the ticking of some strange clock. That was when Yamuna went for the kill.
"Let me make a wild guess, Thapan, from the kind of work I do and from reading your face, may I?"
It looked like Thapan knew what was coming. But still Manu looked at him intently as he nodded his head to admit it. He longed for another peg.
Then Yamuna ended the game with a straight shot. "Really speaking, you are not Indians, right? You are from Bangladesh."
Manu felt that the voice of a question was that of a piece of metal hitting the floor. Without bothering to pick up a long spoon which had fallen off the fish curry pan onto the granite floor, Reema stood there having lost in a cat and mouse game of belonging. Even Manu, who had no idea how to sieve out the strain from such a moment, hung on its tenterhooks. He was about to have the realization that such a question can come as an uninvited guest to spoil one's dinner. Yamuna's face had a smile on it even though it was no relief for Thapan.
Thapan managed to ask, "Mem Sab, will you kindly tell me what made you think so?"
"Thapan, you know very well the kind of job I do. I have been dealing with refugees and immigrants for quite some time now. I can easily spot them, part of my job."
"Do they look different?" That was all that Thapan asked. He didn't make it specific. Different from who?
But Yamuna was ahead of him. She chose to say 'yes' but with no tone of conviction in her voice.
Looking at the stern face of truth, he stood there in dismay for a while. Then Reema began to speak. She spoke of her life, beginning with the beginning of her life. She was born in a government hospital in Dhaka, that was how she began.
Manu drained two more pegs, keeping his eyes shut. Then he smashed the glass on the floor as if on Thapan's face. The brittle glass pieces which flew everywhere were not as sharp or lethal as the question that followed.
"You are an illegal immigrant, Thapan? Have you been trying to hoodwink me with a fish curry and some sweets?"
Ironically, the question made Thapan feel better. The ghastly look on his face vanished and he started relating a love story. The Aliya Sweets of Kolkotha was a character in the story. Its owner Ali and his daughter Aaliya were also part of the story.
It was Ali who fed Thapan the secrets of the mesmerizing confectionery. His was a small outlet but had a unique reputation. White rasgulla, yellowish jilebi and Ali's own puddings made the customers swarm the shop even in the early hours of the morning. In six months Ali found that Thapan had imbibed all the core secrets of confectionery with ease. In another six months, Thapan was successfully experimenting on his own. It was into that sweetness of success that Aliya stepped in. She came to taste and stayed to eat. On the last days of such a transformation, Thapan smeared on her lips a sweetness she had never heard of, his very best. In an instant she knew it was the sweetest thing in the world, famed from east to west as love.
"Mem Sab," Thapan concluded, "from then onwards, I became an immigrant with no papers, no IDs, nothing. Not in India, in Dhaka, on the banks of River Padma, in Bangladesh.
"It took me some time to realize that for a Hindu-Muslim couple, falling in love means being dispossessed, dispossessed of everything, vasthuharas. He didn't mention that lesson. As the story ended, Reema was ten years and half months.
"That is when I returned to Kolkotha," Thapan was about to end his story. The bake house in Dhaka opened a large outlet in Kolkata and I became its manager."
Nobody said anything. Manu noticed that Yamuna was staring at him. It foretold of some unpleasant outcomes but Manu had no time to waste on judging the possibilities.
"What if this whole thing is a cock and bull story and you are just another story teller?"
For a second, Thapan's hands moved over his pant's pocket to make sure that his purse was there.
It had his Aadhar in it.
His voter ID.
A copy of his passport.
But he was scared to fish out any of them lest he should get entangled in this labyrinth forever. Steeped in fear, Thapan looked at Reema and saw his own fear reflected on her smooth cheeks, a fear born in alien lands. He walked towards her and touched her. Still touching her, he looked at Yamuna's eyes and dared the evil glint in them. Manu knew that the three had formed a triangle and that he was not in it. That gave him the casual stance of an apathetic onlooker.
Thapan managed to laugh. "Mem Sab, do you seriously think that these sweets and the fish curry would betray me?"
He went on to taunt her a bit, something he had never done to anyone for ages.
"If you think so, it only means you have no idea about human history."
Yamuna's face reddened with anger. She bolted up. Now, not only Thapan, but Reema too was laughing out loud.
"Mem Sab," Thapan began to talk like offering a formal vote of thanks after a grim meeting. There was an uncanny tenor in his voice.
"When Bengal became East Pakistan and then Bangladesh, heedless of those historical moments, macher kaliya would have been boiling in thousands of kitchens. Just think about it, when the lines are erased and redrawn in minds and maps, this macher kalia, a simple fish curry, flowed all over that, unchecked, unhindered, uninvited. The same provisions, salt and mustard gel together for a single sensation on the palate. It has no boundaries but the edges of a pan, no IDs, but its own taste, no passport, but the mouthwatering memories of a dinner. Think of how a simple fish curry wins over barbed wires, walled off lands and unpalatable nationalism. Isn't that something?"
Of all her senses, Yamun had unknowingly kept her ears very keen and Manu knew that. Thapan was dexterous not only in catering to the tongue but also in spellbinding the ears. As Yamuna now appeared like a skinned and marinated fish, stripped of her foreboding scales of logic and acuity, Manu really felt sorry for her. Manu also wanted to try on Yamuna the most primitive and the most effective mode of human communication, the sense of touch, to pacify her.
As he held her hand, he felt a chill on her fingers, like what he had felt that afternoon when he touched the parcel of rohu fish at the supermarket.
"So, Mem Sab!"
With those words, Thapan poured macher kalia onto another glass vessel. The creamy, halwa-like fish chops swam around in the reddish yellow gravy, as if the fish were getting another life.
Thapan raised the big glass vessel with both his hands, like offering prayers to some ancient god.
As he walked towards the dinner table with it, he could be heard saying: Chopped and cooked, even rohu fights segregation in its own way. Only we don't think of that as we take it in."
Reema too followed her father and started laying the table.
Macher kaliya was, no doubt, the guest of honour at that dinner table.
T Arun Kumar is an editor and journalist who has a deep interest in literature and a high taste for stories. He is a screenwriter as well. He is well read and his stories resonate with an artist's response to whatever troubles the human race. Winner of several awards including the prestigious O V Vijayan Award for the best short story in 2019 , he has brought out a collection of stories Cheenkanniye Kanalil Chuttathu (An Alligator Roasted on Fire).
The mosque casts its shadow on the street, as the evening sun passes by. A soul-soothing azaan splatters from the dome and plummets into the one-bedroom flat in which Shajahan lies asleep. An angelic dove flies away from his dream, leaving a glow over his eyelids. Startled, he jumps out of his weekend siesta.
He stares into the mirror for a moment, while washing his hands and feet.
“Need to resolve it somehow…,” he reminds himself.
He finishes the prayer and goes out in a hurry, a puzzling thought lingering in his mind.
Mumtaz sits with her laptop, engrossed in writing. She notices him going out, uttering only a hesitant “Bye,” and hiding a secret in his leather bag full of surprises. A dreadful thought hits her all of a sudden and she dips into a bipolar like mood swing. It takes her away, for some time, to an unknown terrain full of unkind people inflicting pain on each other. Finally, she returns to the words on the screen, her bulging eyes moving in and out as if watching an animated horror thriller.
It is her fifth year in doctoral research and she is busy giving final touches to her dissertation. She wants to complete and submit it somehow.
Shajahan, like every young man in a new romantic relationship, poses problems for Mumtaz. But he helps her in household chores whenever finds time. He loves to take over the kitchen on weekends. Rest of the days, he offers to assist her: cleaning the utensil, cutting vegetables, making roti and cooking rice.
He finds time to do all these after finishing his day job in a bookshop, which he has started recently after the submission of his thesis. He also takes up additional translation work to earn an extra income.
Mumtaz loves his cooking, especially the Kerala style beef curry and fish fry. With the knack of a Malabari boy who has been brought up in a Muslim family by working-class parents, he knows how to take care of the kitchen. He runs it like an ancient messiah who does wonders with the blessings of Allah.
A marble decor of Taj Mahal, though dusty and damaged, is kept on a table as a symbol of their love. Marble? Nope. The décor seems to be made of some low-quality material, because of which it has begun to wear out now. But it remains so close to their heart, sweet memories of love at first sight and a romantic trip to visit Taj Mahal, a three-hour long journey in a crowded local train from Delhi to Agra.
Absorbed in the splendour of a romantic journey, she gazes at the Taj Mahal on the table, sipping black tea quietly from a red tinted mug. A piece of biscuit sinks in the tea and she tries to gulp before it disappears. She dozes off leaning forward on the table and dreams of falling in love once again.
Mumtaz’s parents are from two different creeds. Her papa belongs to a traditional Muslim family, and mamma, born and brought up in a conservative Syrian Christian background. But they have overcome these boundaries with their love for each other, which they realised while working together abroad. They solemnised their marriage without the consent of parents. But soon after Mumtaz was born, they had to return to their native place and start a humble life, due to a huge loss in business after the Iraq war in the early 1990s.
Mumtaz is a living signifier of their inter-religious love. They loved to give her whatever she wished for in life, except her desire to be in a live-in relationship with Shajahan, a young chap she met at the University.
Shajahan belongs to a lowered caste converted Muslim community of Ossan and many consider it to be less dignified to form a conjugal bonding with them. For Mumtaz’s parents, however progressive they are, it evokes a hidden communitarian displeasure, a deep-rooted malice that prevents her papa and Shajahan from being deemed equal, although they pray to the same God.
Unlike many scholars at the University, Shajahan understands the prevalence of such structural forms of discrimination. He brings up at least a piece of such everyday knowledge in their post-dinner debates. And it has become a routine for them to argue and eventually end up fighting over frivolous quips on gender, religion and caste.
The following day of every quarrel leads a melodrama. Mumtaz would deliberately get up late and confine herself to her working table, pretending to be studious. Shajahan has to take the initiative in appeasing her with a fresh blend of black tea and a piece of lemon, adding an extra pinch of love specially to flavour the drink that only an Emperor of romance can savour.
Prof. Muthu Kumar and family live opposite to their flat in the Ambedkar Vihar Colony. A bald-headed and bespectacled man with a sniffy nose shouting abuses in Tamil is the first memory that they have had about their neighbour.
Janamma, his wife, is seen moving around, engrossed in household chores. She keeps her voice so low that it is never heard outside the four walls. She sneaks out to chat with Mumtaz when the Professor goes to the University. Sometimes, Gautam, her five-year-old son, also comes over.
When Mumtaz is around, Janamma blabbers a lot. Gautam plays in their house, while they engage in small talks.
Mumtaz makes delicious home-cooked dishes. One day, she offers them a special Malabari cuisine made of rice powder and roasted buffalo meat.
“We don’t eat beef… We like chicken only!” Janamma asserts.
A mountain of poultry meat reaches Professor’s home every Sunday. Rest of the days, a nice smell of Rasam oozes out of their kitchen. Sometimes, Janamma shares chicken curry with Mumtaz, well-packed in a bowl.
“Do you eat beef?” Gautam asks Mumtaz. His eyes pop up like a bespectacled boyish Ambedkar in Western attire.
“Yes…,” she replies hesitantly.
He looks at her in disbelief. He stops visiting her place after this incident.
Mumtaz narrates the whole episode to Shajahan. He sits pondering over that and thinks aloud: “Hmmm… He teaches Ambedkar and Marx and revered as a politically active professor on the campus… but…”
He pauses for a moment, fearing, what fate the meat in question might bring forth to him.
Who else other than Shajahan knows well about it? The nearest meat shop is situated at the fag end of the city. He has to travel through narrow and dirty lanes, face rude gazes and hide the shopping bag whenever stepping out to buy meat.
Prof. Kumar champions the cause of the downtrodden. He preaches Marx and Ambedkar. But at home, he does not entertain any social revolution. Apart from putting up a customary frame of Ambedkar on the wall of his living room, he never indulges in anything that makes his kitchen impure. Red meat, especially beef is a taboo in the kitchen, so is a woman in her periods. Any talk on sex is considered immoral, but a traditional moralistic sense of feminism that most of his generation of activists count as ideal, frames his perspective on gendered relations.
It is only when a young woman student at the University who has been injured in a bike mishap at midnight that Shajahan, while accompanying some students, gets to see the vulgar moralistic self of the Professor.
Instead of a sympathetic hearing, to their dismay they receive an ugly moralistic rant: “What was she doing outside with boys at midnight?”
This episode blinkers in the immediate memory of Shajahan after hearing Mumtaz’s experience of getting morally policed by the Professor.
“What happened?” he queries out of curiosity.
“He asks his wife to enquire, whether we aren’t supposed to be married in order to stay together…”
She stares angrily at their neighbourhood. He follows her irate eyes, moves his finger slowly over his lips, signalling to keep quiet and whispers: “Inshah Allah… forget it… world exists beyond such vulgar moralists…”
Mumtaz goes out regularly on an evening walk. Questions that challenge everyday life takes a peek-a-boo every time she takes a stroll in the nearby park. She observes while walking: the evening sun glitters shadows in orange red; dusty summer leaves droop to dream; flocks of birds hurry back as if chasing the sun; children stop playing reluctantly and cling around; old men and women sit and chat endlessly and defeat death every day; a pot-bellied man stops in between his languorous saunter and waits for a moment under a tree to let a middle-aged woman in salwar wades through, shaking her hefty body.
She sits on a cement bench under a tree after four rounds of brisk walk. Gasping and drenched in sweat, she muses over her life with Shajahan. Both are struggling hard to make both ends meet, amidst pursuing their research at the University.
“He strives hard to keep me happy. But is he happy with me?” she contemplates.
Both of them have seen the worst times in their life ever since moved to Delhi for pursuing their higher studies. And it has only worsened after they decide to stay together.
Moving out of a hostel to a place of their own is what they dreamt together. The city-dwelling middle-class, from those who work in government offices to those who own small businesses, accommodates their dream of owning a house in cumbersomely built DDA flats, which span across the city.
They moved around the city, looking for a rented house. But everyone preferred a vegetarian, non-Muslim family! Tired and disgusted, they ended up at a broker who took them to Ambedkar Vihar colony where mostly middle-class Muslims and educated Dalits set up their aboard. And they found a place of their own amidst them, away from the hate-filled gazes of the city-dwelling elite.
Life eases out and becomes peaceful eventually, although wounds remain private, hidden and unhealed. And it turns sour one day when she realises with a shock that a baby has been growing in her womb.
“It’s your fault Shajahan… You should have been careful…I don’t want a baby now,” she picks up a quarrel with him.
Shajahan stays numb and dumb like all men caught in such moments. He has no idea how to express love, and fails miserably whenever a public display is expected. He tries to change himself, knowing it is indeed a Herculean task, which requires him to metamorphose into a new gendered species altogether.
He finds it difficult to cope with her liberal ideas. But after days of contemplation, he comes out of his cocoon and agrees with her decision to abort the child. He also agrees to find a suitable doctor who can guide them, which gives him sleepless nights.
Mumtaz feels nauseating every morning and it makes her frustrated. Unable to concentrate on her dissertation, she begins to pick up fight with Shajahan for something or other. And it has become a routine affair for them, and they feel ashamed about it too.
Feeling a bit remorseful and reminiscing about falling in love, she walks back home with a hidden smile on her dried lips. After taking a quick shower, she moves to the kitchen thinking of making a special dish as a surprise gift to Shajahan and make him happy .
But, where is he? It is getting dark and he is yet to come home. Mumtaz feels stressed out. She tries to call him several times, but his cell phone remains silent.
She calls up Amit Chauhan, their house owner. He is a nice gentleman who rented out his house to them, knowing well that they are meat eating Muslims. He picks her call.
“There is a news about the outbreak of a riot in the city. So please don’t go out…,” he alerts her.
She decides to approach her neighbour for help. She knocks at the door, expecting Janamma, but a stout and bald-headed man peeps through the half-open door.
“Sir… please help me… my partner has not returned yet… I am unable to contact him… and … and…”
Even before she completes the sentence, he slams shut the door. Her eyes catch a glimpse of a huge portrait of Ambedkar hung inside. It disappears as the door closes. A statue of Ambedkar holding the Indian Constitution tumbles down in her mind, into her fears and tears.
She sits there for long, weeping alone. Stifling thoughts rush through her mind like a dusty wind before a storm.
Shajahan frisks out in the evening, thinking of giving her a surprise by offering the most delicious food in the world that she loves. That is what he can afford to do to please her. He takes a bus to a nearby metro station and travels to the other end of the city in search of the Malayali restaurant where he can order her favourite platter of Kerala paratha and pothirachi varattiyath, a non-vegetarian cuisine with buffalo meat fried in coconut oil and garnished with diced coconut!
The shop is located at the far end of a narrow lane towards a Muslim locality, beside a mosque. He reaches there to see a group of people standing in groups scattered across the street, discussing something loudly in their native dialect.
At first, he ignores them. As he comes out of the street with a well-packed parcel of paratha, appam and pothirachi, a sudden commotion erupts over the transportation of cattle in the locality. It turns into a bloody clash, at first between people, and then between two communities, all within minutes.
When people begin to pelt stones and burn public property, he tries to catch a cycle rickshaw and gets out of the place. Young men carrying weapons surround the area all of a sudden, chanting slogans. They stop the rikshaw, pull the fragile rikshaw man onto the dampened road and begin to beat him mercilessly with broken bricks and iron rods. The rikshaw puller falls unconscious and the crowd spreads quickly into every nook and corner of the locality.
With a sudden gush of energy, Shajahan runs towards a nearby lane in a bid to save his life. He barges into a nearby flat. A young man with a distinct Northeast Indian look opens the door and asks: “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“May I come inside. A mob is after me…,” Shajahan shivers as he tries to complete the sentence.
The young man hesitantly welcomes Shajahan into his small room and offers him a glass of water. A group of young men and women sit around a table, serving food.
“My name is Shajahan and I came here to get some food…,” he explains after a long pose.
“Food?” the young man becomes curious. He murmurs: “Food lands people in trouble these days…”
Shajahan stands still, unable to recover from the shock of encountering a blood thirsty mob.
The young man steps forward and introduces himself.
“Relax… I’m Zuchamo Yanthan. We do struggle with our food culture here. So, we are buddies!”
He hugs the puzzled Shajahan.
A memory of bad-mouthing about fermented bamboo shoot comes to Shajahan’s mind and he closes his eyes in remorse.
“We are going to have our dinner. Why don’t you join us…,” he invites Shajahan.
As soon as they begin to serve food, the smell of fermented bamboo shoot fills the room.
“Why don’t you open the food packet and eat?” he suggests.
It reminds Shajahan about Mumtaz and he gets up: “I need to go. My partner must be waiting for me. I came out to get her favourite food!”
“Awesome! Well, what’s that, if you don’t mind…”
Yanthan walks up to Shajahan and smells his leather bag kept on a side. An aroma of coconut oil and pothirachi oozes out and he stands mesmerised.
“Are you from the South? You sound South Indian…,” he pats on Shajahan’s shoulder.
“Yes… I am… from Kerala...,” Shajahan mumbles.
A sudden glee appears in Yanthan’s eyes.
“Are you carrying the yummy buffalo nationalism in your kitty?” he bursts into a laughter like a political scientist proposing a counter critical theory of cultural revolution.
Shajahan stares at him.
“Sorry brother, sorry for the sarcasm… I am a political science student. By the by, that’s an awesome gift for a foodie partner,” Yanthan complements him.
“Yes… I know…,” an unknown fear grips Shajahan, making him stutter.
Yanthan gets up without finishing dinner and washes his hands, a strong determination alludes his otherwise sturdy face.
“Brother, there is only one life and let’s fight it out today!”
Yanthan declares it like a warrior king. After a chat with his friends, he decides to accompany the astonished Shajahan. He kicks start his bike as if in a Bollywood action movie and rides through the riot-hit streets and narrow lanes like a true hero.
Shajahan sits on the bike sulking, but living a real-life fantasy in utter shock. He closes his eyes tight, trying not to see the bloody world clashing on either side of their path.
They traverse burning streets, mutilated bodies lying in pools of thick warm blood, remnants of demolished places of worship and shops at a distance, and hapless men screaming aloud…
After hours of a hazardous journey, they reach the apartment alive and unhurt.
“May Allah save the world!”
They both heave a sigh of relief and hug each other.
Ignoring Shajahan’s plea to stay back, Yanthan bids farewell and storms back into the bloody world they left behind a few minutes ago. Shajahan waits till the sound and smoke of the bike wither away at the end of the lane.
The moment it vanishes, an armed mob begins to form and scamper down the street. Shajahan hurries back to the apartment and knocks on the door. It opens on his fragile touch as Mumtaz had forgotten to close the door.
She is seen lying on a chair fast asleep with her head on the table. A bowl covered with a lid, kept beside her, invites his attention. He opens it to see a thick but cold milky viscous pool of sugary vermicelli kheer with fried cashew nuts and dried grapes floating along with dead flies.
Shajahan keeps his bag, saggy and leaking, on the table.
He kisses on her forehead.
“Are you back Shaj…,” she mumbles, her voice still trembling.
A waxing crescent moon gleams in the dark sky and a blinkered ray falls on the dusty Taj Mahal.
As the rioting mob reaches their street and gathers gradually outside their apartment, shouting abuses and slogans, Shajahan and Mumtaz find themselves in a deep embrace. And it transforms into the language of their life thereafter.
Ranju is a bilingual writer hailing from Thrissur, Kerala. He has published short fiction both in English and Malayalam in magazines such as Mathrubhumi, Madhyamam, Delhi Sketches, One Frame Stories, Onnippu and Athma Online. He has received the Charles Wallace Research Fellowship in 2018.
I have outsourced my jobs
One by one
So I'm able to have fun
In the sun.
Someone else has built a nest
I choose whichever I like best
I have also outsourced my children's care
To those who conscientiously bear
The burden of providing tasty food
To the hungry mouths of their big brood.
I leave it to trained teachers to teach
To entertainers to amuse, to preachers to preach.
I'm sure my nestlings can learn to fly
Without my personally hovering nearby.
I suppose you thought I was a cuckoo?
No, I'm a human, just like you!
Gita Bharath describes herself as a Tamilian brought up in the Northern parts of India. She currently lives in Chennai. After teaching middle school for 5 years she has put in 34 years in the banking service. She is a kolam & crossword aficionado. Her poems deal with everyday events from different perspectives. Her first book SVARA contains 300 thought provoking as well as humorous poems. Many of her poems have appeared in anthologies.
I grow as tall as I can spreading my wings
I become strong beneath the golden soil
I give strength to my branches slowly and slowly
I cherish seeing my leaves fluttering in the air
I try to touch the greyish sky, but can never
Time brings changes in my parts of the body
The strengthened trunk shields me in and out
I support you from little to big as you wish
My leaves help you make beautiful brooms
and create beneficial baskets, tiny and big
You love my fruits immensely in and out
I’m hard physically, but so soft internally
You utilize my branches and trunk as wood
You can use my parts as much as you could
Relax in my shady shelter while you pace
I grow as tall as I can spreading my wings!
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
NOCTURNAL NICHE
Ravi Ranganathan
It is in the night that I hear nights, every night...
and it hears me in my whispers; waking my own realm
while secrets keep knocking its doors.
It is in the night that I make the world a stage
and write my painful pieces on earth
till my pensiveness gets unfurled.
Reflections of soul’s tears and fears
begin to break away for dear worth.
In every atom of light my night shines.
I dissolve my faults In thorn ridden confines
till flowers awake, delighting in designs...
Closely consuming nights and nights
I create my own nocturnal niche
where my being resumes its smile.
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
I stood out in a crowd
Of five and forty
Though not a beauty
Neither smart nor bubbly
But plain and doughty.
What is my attraction I wondered
But never cared to be bothered.
Still the reason was gnawing me
And I could never let it be.
I knew my aging face
Was wrinkling at a fast pace
But was happy I still stood out
And soon the secret was out
When I stumbled on the reason
Which was quickly found
And it surprised me
When the crowd complimented me
On my new collection of POETRY !
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.
Be ware of guiles of Love,
It sneaks in
when you are least prepared,
flies furtively
in silent waves,
croons soft in your ears, pierces your heart
and you whistle soft like a crazy fool, tender heart fluttering in wind like a severed leaf and
the earth radiates in strange unknown colours.
It meets you at class rooms, bus stops, parks
and running brooks
every dawn, noon and moon,
your mind whirrs in subtle puzzles, sometimes brays like a whipped ass,
stars and winds find new fragrance,
you find fervour in every limb,
beauty and strength in every flower.
Love is a radiant necklace,
instils self esteem,
often drives you to face parents' frowns,
lifts you high in the air and flings you to rocks and disappears,
yet a sweet angel it is, bestows bliss and happiness.
Love is a wondrous gift,
you discover your true self,
treasure it,
disseminate it's message among stubborn fools and rise.
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..
To me calendar is an aviary-enmeshed
windows inlaid with dates,
The rain-birds flutter down
through the spidery web
in silky drops in monsoon.
It is written in the calendar.
On the tired wings of cranes
Winter floats in from Siberia .
Few wrinkled bits of feathers
in the hot mid-day sun
dance with whirlwind and
drag tired feet in to
cool shade of the nest.
The earthen pitcher by the door.
fails to quench their thirst .
The song of honey birds in spring
wafts in the middle of night as per
the inscriptions on the wall.
In fluorescent red letters
a date of birth glows in hope
on the rectangle in the calendar.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English.
A nostalgic euphoria grips
Will you, my friend share!
Like a plate of Pakoda in a canteen
Or a mischievous act in a lab
Avoiding cunning eyes, doubtful glare.
Dead Alaka often beckons
With a sandy bed at her bank
Through murmur of wind among
Rows of starved Casurina trees
To visit our college again
Reliving the past, lost youthful sallies
The forgotten saga of union elections,
Rashmi talkies, veil bottom pants,
A promised pleasant tour down memory lane,
Of those days, truly golden.
Let us turn back, take a frog leap
To those maverick moments we spent
Nothing to feel shy, nor to defend
In an ecstatic sojourn in Eden.
Time waved its magic wand
Landed us in an abyss of worries
Propelled by turbid flow in pangs of pain.
Yes, the whirligig of time to my chagrin
Played her fond trick coquettishly
To cast her charm like an old Siren
Some early birds left for their hedges
And others keep guessing their turn
Though lodged in a bit safer den.
Situations changed also the scene
Before the stage is dismantled,
Life turned hard, a rocky terrain.
The old banyan trees in a queue
Stand like us as a witness dear
To the journey we embarked upon
Without hypocrisy, without disdain.
The statue of Swami Vivekananda, a reminder
Of our sportive span in the late seventies here
Registered in faithful cordiality, honest tear.
Before bidding adieu to each other
With hands folded, pray together
Let that clarion call echo in us
For our next life with a soul enriched
Arise, Awake, and Stop not
Till the goal is reached.
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many
Kala Pani was known to me ever since my school days.The movie, 'Saza-E-Kala Pani' had also amazed me decades ago. It was one of the classics of Indian cinema. My interest and curiosity for Kala Pani was rising day by day. But I couldn't see it earlier. It remained a dream for me.
Kala Pani is far away from the mainland of India, beyond the Bay of Bengal. It is located at the juncture of Bay of Bengal and Andaman Sea around 1300 kilometers away from Indian coastline. Flights take around 2 hours to reach it from Kolkata or Chennai and Ships take about 60 hours. To avoid delay, it is better to go there by flight.
It was November 2016. Weather was in its best. It was an opportune time for a pleasure trip. I told my wife- 'Let us go to Kala Pani'.
She said - 'Are you mad ? Did you know - It was a jail and a hell for our forefathers. What crime have we committed to get "Saza-E-Kala Pani" (punishment)?'
I tried to convince her - 'Kala Pani is not a place of punishment now. It's a beautiful national museum and monument located in Port Blair, capital of union territory of Andaman and Nicobar Islands surrounded by sea.'
She was convinced to accompany me to Kala Pani. At that time, there was no direct flight from Bhubaneswar to Port Blair. We went to Kolkata, stayed there for a couple of days and visited Kali Temple, Victoria Memorial Hall, Eden Gardens, Belur Math and enjoyed boating in the Hooghly River.
Next morning, we left for Port Blair from Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport. Flight time was 2 hours 10 minutes. While flying, we enjoyed the beauty of the sky and sea. The sky was clear and cloudless. The blue sky was touching the blue sea and the Sun was smiling at the beautiful sight. The spectacular natural scenery was eye-catching.
We reached Veer Savarkar International Airport, Port Blair at about 10 am. The Airport is named after Veer Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Indian freedom fighter, patriot and revolutionary who was imprisoned in Kala Pani (Cellular Jail) for ten years.
We had no prior booking of hotel, cruise and vehicle for sightseeing. But the people of the island were so simple, cordial, helpful, friendly and hospitable that we faced no difficulty due to their help and assistance. They arranged everything for us.
Population of Andaman and Nicobar Islands is around 4 lakh including one lakh people of Port Blair. The islands were pleasant and peaceful. No cheating and haggling was there. Such a nice place I have never ever seen in my lifetime.
Andaman & Nicobar Islands is famous for its serene and untouched clean beaches, underwater corals, adventure sports like trekking, scuba diving, parasailing, historical monuments, natural wonders, vivid wild life, lush green islands. It is an archipelago of around 572 beautiful islands, of which 37 are inhabited.
Tens of thousands of tourists across the world visit it every month.
Its weather is tropical and hot due to its proximity to the Equator. Its temperature was 25-30 degrees celsius during our visit.
At about 1 pm, we reached Kala Pani. My dream came true. It's a national museum and monument. It has an art gallery and a photo gallery. Its beautiful garden and fascinating flowers captivated our mind. Its list of prisoners astonished me. It's a tourist attraction.
My wife, who had presumed it to be a hell, was now satisfied by its beauty. She told me - 'It is a nice place. Why is it called Kala Pani ?'
I told her - 'It is one of the most beautiful islands of the world. Its sand is white. Its water is transparent greenish-blue. Neither its soil nor its water is black. But the barbarism of
the British gave it the moniker Kala Pani. Also, as per Indian mindset, culture, tradition, crossing the sea waters was a social taboo and overseas journey was considered as loss of religion, social respectability and as such the sea waters around Andaman Islands was considered black water or Kala Pani. The old Banyan tree and the Gallows are the testimony to the torture of our freedom fighters, revolutionaries, patriots and martyrs who sacrificed their lives for our independence. The Cellular Jail was known as Kala Pani. The British had imprisoned our freedom fighters here, tortured them and killed them mercilessly. Its soil is soaked with the blood of martyrs. It's a temple of glorious sacrifices.'
We came to know from a guide that the three-storied Cellular jail was built by the British during 1896-1906. Puce-colored stones were brought from Burma for construction of the Cellular Jail comprising seven wings radiating from a main watch tower that had a bell to raise an alarm if any prisoner tried to escape. There were 696 cells, each measuring 13.5 × 7.5 feet with a ventilator. Out of 7 wings, two were demolished in 1942 during its Japanese occupation and another two were destroyed after independence. In 1969, the remaining three wings along with the watch tower were converted into a national museum and monument.
Our head touched its holy soil spontaneously in pride and in honour of those who lost their lives for our independence. The pathetic stories brought tears to our eyes.
It is a silent testimony to the struggles and sufferings of the freedom fighters. Our walking through its corridors was akin to walking down one of the saddest chapters of Indian history. The horror of captivity came alive as we walked through this national museum and memorial monument dedicated to our brave freedom fighters who endured extreme torture to free our motherland from the British colonialism. The term "Kala Pani" is a symbol of British brutal oppression. We felt proud of the selfless sacrifices made by our freedom fighters.
Born in free India, we couldn't even imagine the enormity of the sacrifices made by our forefathers. Blessed with its natural bounty, this beautiful paradise was turned into a hell when the British began its penal settlement here. After the first War of Independence in 1857, the British used Andaman Islands as a colonial prison to imprison the patriots and revolutionaries.
Before and during construction of the Cellular Jail, Viper Island was used as a prison for the freedom fighters and convicts.
It is called 'Cellular Jail' due to its individual cells for solitary confinement of the prisoners. All measures were taken by the British to ensure that political prisoners and revolutionaries were isolated from each other. They were humiliated and treated as beasts for breaking their resolve and patriotism.
The solitary confinement was such that Veer Savarkar brothers, Babarao Savarkar and Vinayak Damodar Savarkar did not know about each other for two years though they were confined in the same jail.
During the centenary celebration of the Cellular Jail in 2006, the surviving prisoners were felicitated. They had spoken about the hangings, daily flogging, torture, suicides, cases of insanity, failed jailbreaks and hunger strikes. Once, the great freedom fighter, Mahavir Singh protested against the inhuman treatment meted out to the prisoners and sat in hunger strike. He was force-fed hot milk which went into his lungs and he died. He was tied to a stone and thrown into the sea. None could know about the merciless murder. Such was the extent of British brutality and cruelty.
We were so submerged in its melancholic history that we couldn't know how the time passed by and when the sun set.
In the evening, when the cool, crisp breeze caressed us, the 'Son-et-lumiere' mesmerized us. It is a sound-and-light show narrating and showcasing the trials and tribulations of our freedom fighters. It is a tribute to the patriots and martyrs.
After the mind-blowing show at Kala Pani (Cellular Jail), we returned to our hotel in Port Blair and asked the manager - 'We want to visit the holy land, where Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose had hoisted Indian Tricolor flag before independence of India.'
He said - 'Netaji had hoisted Indian Tricolor flag of Indian independence in Ross Island on 30th December 1943.'
Next day, we went to Ross Island by boat. It was named after British marine surveyor, Captain Daniel Ross. It is 3 kilometers away from the central Port Blair. It is a part (Taluk) of Port Blair. The historic ruins are its tourist attractions. It gave us an impression that it has no life and no human habitation. No civil settlement is allowed there.
Ross island is a beautiful island full of lush green forests. Spotted deers, rabbits and peacocks are its inhabitants. It is full of palm and coconut trees. Its lighthouse is a tourist attraction. Its natural ambience and beauty is scenic and spectacular. It's a paradise for photography.
As heard from the guide, the British had shifted the Penal Settlement from Singapore to Port Blair in 1858. About 200 revolutionaries from Calcutta (Kolkata) and over 700 criminals from Singapore were deported to Port Blair. They were kept in Viper Island prison, around 7 km away from Ross Island. Construction of Kala Pani (Cellular Jail) began in 1896. For administration of the prison, prisoners and Andaman and Nicobar Islands as well as its strategic and geographical importance, Ross Island was the Administrative Headquarters of the British. The dilapidated bazaar, bakery, stores, water treatment plant, church, tennis court, printing press, secretariat, hospital, cemetery, swimming pool, Chief Commander's residence with its huge gardens and grand ballrooms, Government House, Old Andamanese Home, Troop Barracks are the remnants of the old British settlement.
The Japanese had occupied Andaman and Nicobar Islands from 1942 to 1945 and imprisoned British soldiers in Kala Pani. They promised to hand it over to India. Accordingly, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose arrived at Ross Island, Port Blair on 28th December 1943, stayed there for 3 days and hoisted the national Tricolor flag at the top of the Government House on 30th December 1943 and declared independence of India. Andaman and Nicobar Islands became independent from the British. But alas ! Japan was defeated by the USA bombardment on Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6 & 9, 1945.
Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose died mysteriously on August 18,1945. World War II came to an end in September 1945. Unfortunately, within a couple of years, the Indian Tricolor flag hoisted by our beloved Netaji at Ross Island was pulled down by the British, who reoccupied Andaman and Nicobar Islands including Ross Island.
The Japanese had left their imprint in the bunkers made by them at Ross Island. We gazed at the bunkers used by them as watch points to safeguard the island from the British invasion.
We got back the Andaman and Nicobar Islands with our independence in August 1947.
Civilians are not allowed to Ross Island after 3 pm. INS Jarawa has set up a naval base here for surveillance over the entire area including Port Blair. INS Jarawa is named after the Jarawas, an indigenous tribe of the Andamans.
Now, Ross Island has been renamed as Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Island in memory of his glorious sacrifice and in honour of his great contribution to independence of India. Of course, he is no more. His sad demise is shrouded in mystery. His revolutionary spirit, thought, activities and his sacrifices are legend now. He is one of the greatest sons India has ever produced.
In the afternoon, we returned from Ross Island (now Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Island).
After some days of sightseeing in Andaman and Nicobar Islands, we left for Bhubaneswar.
Both Kala Pani prison and its administrative British Headquarters at Ross Island are no more now. But barbarism of the British has been haunting me ever since my departure from Kala Pani.
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.
THE OLD FOX
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(Two young girls take a walk in the park every morning, chatting and giggling like most teens do. Their world of innocence changes one day when they come across an old man - another regular walker - geting obsessed with one of them. His eyes light up when he sees her and he is desperate to talk to her. The old fox waiting to jump upon the young chick remains an enigma, striking terror and intense unease in her heart; till one morning she comes to the park with her dad……………………. )
“Where is the old fox today? Not seen so far!”
Vinita, my friend, gave me a big nudge and laughed loudly.
“I don’t know. May be he is out of town.” I replied.
“Yeah, I can see your restlessness for the past half an hour. Don’t tell me you are missing him?”
“Of course not, what a preposterous idea!”
“But something is wrong Ranju, tell me what it is.”
“Actually, I am missing the way his eyes sparkle like a flashlight when he sees us.”
Vinita gave me another nudge and rolled with laughter. Vinita and I have been friends for the past twelve years. We were in school together. When we passed out of high school this summer, she went to the co-educational BJB College and I joined Ramadevi Women’s College. She insisted on going to a co-educational college (“There is no fun yaar, if you don’t have boys looking at you, like they are going to eat you up!”). My grandma didn’t allow me to go to BJB, so I had to be in an all-girls college. For the first time Vinita and I were separated. Throughout our school years we ate from the same lunch box, giggled over the same jokes and read the same novels in class away from the stern gaze of the teachers.
For the past three months we have been meeting at the park every morning. Usually we take five rounds of the park. Vinita loves to talk and is a real chatter-box. We catch up on a lot of issues, her college, my college, and the friends we have made. Vinita is quite a stunner in looks and loves to display her figure. Just three months into the college, she has managed to step into the sweet world of love and courtship with a prince charming, who has been relentlessly pursuing her with mind-blowing devotion. These days she keeps talking about her hero all the time, how he waits outside when her classes end, how they stand under the tree chatting for hours. Sometimes her mobile phone rings in the morning during our walk, and she gets lost in her hero’s world, completely ignoring me!
Compared to Vinita, I am a plain-looking girl, although my grandma says that my eyes are captivating, and can melt even a statue. I lost my mother at the time of my birth. Baba never married again, he was deeply in love with my mother. I have rarely heard him talk about her but on different occasions I have seen him sitting before her photograph and gazing at her in a pensive way. The day he got a promotion last year from section officer to under-secretary, he kept telling grandma, “Manju would have been so happy today.”
My grandma is the centre of our lives and everything revolves around her. She runs our lives and no one questions her authority. Baba takes us to a movie every weekend and we go for dinner at a restaurant afterwards. This has been the routine for us for a long time, rarely deviated.
And the old fox? He is an elderly man, who has been coming to the park for the past one month. From his looks and manners he seems to be a senior government official. I have seen a few officers while moving with Baba. On some of the weekends while having dinner Baba would point out to us the elderly gentleman sitting with his family at the corner table, “Look, that is Basu sahab, the Transport Secretary”. If Basu sahab’s gaze falls on Baba, he stands up and greets him. Basu Sahab nods his head and continues eating.
Once Baba’s boss came to the restaurant when we were having dinner. Our table was close to the entrance and he saw Baba the moment he entered. There was a slight hint of annoyance, but he hid it instantly. Baba got up and nudged me also to stand up and greet his boss. Mahanty babu, Baba’s boss looked at me and said,
“Arabinda, this is your daughter?”
“Yes sir, she is Ranjana, my daughter. She is a student at the Unit Six Girls’ School.”
“Good. She is a pretty girl! You should bring her home sometime. This is Monica, my niece from Delhi.”
Baba’s boss tried to charm me with a roguish smile and moved on to another table. As soon as he was out of our hearing range, I asked,
“Baba, how is it his niece didn’t even greet us and didn’t say a word?”
Baba didn’t answer but suddenly grandma broke into a big, loud laugh, like she has gone crazy or something. Baba felt embarrassed and tried to hush her up.
“Maa, don’t laugh so loud. People are looking at us!”
“Aru, you were telling me the other day that your boss goes to the restaurant with a new niece every week! Why don’t you tell that to Ranju?”
Baba kept mum and threw a sharp look at her. I felt shy. My grandma is quite an item! Does a father say such things to his school-going daughter? Anyway, our dinner that evening became a disaster, with the unwanted intrusion of his boss into our talk.
Like me and Vinny, the old man has been a regular in the park every morning. The first time he saw us he glanced away and kept on walking. But gradually we noticed that every time he passed us from the opposite direction, he would slow down, cast a lingering look at us and move on. He also made it a point to arrive at the park at the same time as us and walk for five rounds in the opposite direction. So he would pass us ten times during the walk and his eyes would be fixed on us while we cross.
First I thought he must be looking at Vinny, because she is an absolute knock-out, and wears tight-fitting dresses which reveal the contours of her body in a suggestive way. So I complimented Vinny,
“So, Vinny! Sixteen to sixty, boys to men, everyone is a victim of your looks! Lucky you!”
Vinita was hugely pleased.
“I am like that, one in a million!”
But next time uncle passed us, Vinny gave me a big nudge and said,
“Hey, Ranju, did you see? He is not looking at me, he directs his entire gaze on you. And guess what? It’s a funny look, like he is going to eat you up! My God, the old fox, still trying to catch a young chick?”
I didn’t believe her, for two reasons. First, with Vinny by my side, why should any one look at me? Second, he was fairly old, must be fifty three, or fifty four.
I gave a push to Vinita.
“Get lost, you vamp, you have a dirty mind. That uncle must be fifty three, fifty four years old. Why are you reading so much into his glance?”
“Ranju yaar, fifty-three, love is free, fifty-four, wife is a bore. Don’t you remember how our classmate Sheila’s uncle ran away with his typist to Gopalpur beach and raised such a stink in the town last year? He was fifty four. So love and lust knows no age. Isn’t it Shakespeare who said that?”
Vinita looked pleased with this priceless nugget plucked from God knows where!
“No, not Shakespeare, it is your dirty-mind, Vinny dear, which invented it! You have a way of putting dirty thoughts into everything. It must be your overflowing libido oozing through your tight dress! For all that you know this uncle may be a decent man.”
“Decent, my foot! If he were decent, he should be looking at your face, why is he giving you that hungry, sweeping look from your head to toe! I am telling you, he is an old fox, just licking his lips in anticipation of a good meal.”
That’s how the uncle came to be called the ‘old fox’ by Vinny, every time she spoke about him. I am quite shy by nature, thanks to the long lecture my grandma gives me about chastity and the poison that is supposed to be spewing when boys cast their glance at me. In fact, if one takes my grandma seriously, even those looks have the power to make a girl pregnant! Compared to Vinny’s depth of knowledge about love and sex I am like that famous scientist who felt like he was collecting pebbles on the shore when the vast ocean of knowledge lay unexplored before him.
So next time the uncle passed us, I stole a brief glance at him and a shiver ran down my back. I got puzzled by his searching look, directed exclusively at me, completely ignoring Vinita. It was a peculiar, hungry kind of look, as if inviting me to come near him and to accept his offer of friendship. Being a student of psychology, I knew that face is the index of mind. From his intense looks and the flushed face, I had no doubt about his intentions. Vinny saw the puzzled look in my face and burst out laughing,
“Idiot, go and tell your grandma, how she has failed in her mission. She sent you to a Women’s college to keep you away from the boys and now an old man has fallen for you! I pity you Ranju! An old man, who looks like an old fox! Hey, hey, such bad luck! What will you do with him? Except wash his dirty underwear?”
I felt annoyed with Vinny. Why is she dragging the matter so far? Dirty underwear? Ugh! Disgusting! Vinny really has a sick mind!
“Hey, Vinny, looks like everything dirty appeals to your sick mind. Dirty underwear? Can’t you think of anything better from that uncle?”
Vinita broke into an earth-shaking guffaw. It was her special day of pulling my legs and teasing me to death!
“So, you get those piercing looks from Old Fox, and you have started having kind thoughts about him? Ranju, Ranju, beware of old foxes, they have long teeth and sharp claws!”
“Vinny, you are being unduly harsh on him. How do you know what is in his mind?”
“So, you have become a mind reader? Tell me what is in his mind? Trust me Ranju, I am more experienced than you! Anyway I will consult my hero today about the old fox and tell you tomorrow,”
From next day we took special care to guess what was in the uncle’s mind. Vinita’s hero threw up his hands, saying he has no time to think of old foxes when his mind thinks of nothing other than her, all the time. He feels twenty four hours do not give him enough time to dream about her. So, there is no space in his mind for old foxes. From the behaviour of the uncle, we had no doubt that he was eager to come closer to us and perhaps to befriend me. There was no question of my going anywhere near him. Every time he passed by, my heartbeats would increase, as if the sound of a mild drum were reverberating in my heart. I would quicken my pace, leaving Vinny a little surprised.
Looking at my uneasiness, Vinny suggested that we can avoid the old fox by going to the adjacent park, though it was much smaller and not so well-maintained. It would be at least a relief from the unwanted gaze of the old pervert. We did that, but after two days he was with us walking in the smaller park, a hurt look on his face, silently asking us, how we could ditch him. We knew there was no escape from him! So we resumed our walk in the main park.
One day while walking I twisted my ankle. Groaning with pain, I dragged myself to a bench with the help of Vinny and sat down. From there we could see the uncle feeling bewildered, looking here and there. His face darkened, he was lost in thought and moved on. In the next round he spotted us and his face lit up, like a lost child finding its mother. He took his walk very close to us, looking at me in a questioning way as if asking, “What happened? Why did you sit down? Get up, let’s continue the walk. Let’s talk to each other with our eyes. Why aren’t you getting up?”
Uncle didn’t stop. He had just slowed down. We looked helplessly at him and he left. He was probably getting late for the office.
When I came home limping, an arm over Vinita’s shoulder, Baba got scared. I tried to convince him that it was just a twisting of the ankle, but he immediately called his office and applied for a day’s leave. I chided him,
“Baba, you will unnecessarily get into problem with your boss. As it is, he is a difficult man to please.”
Baba smiled indulgently and shook his head.
“No way! I am not going to office today, when you are sick. And didn’t I mention to you, I have had a change of boss recently? The new man is a gem of a person. He never gets angry, and never shouts at the staff. He is exactly the opposite of Mahanty Sir. There was so much tension in the office earlier. Mahanty Sir is never satisfied with anybody’s work, he shouts at people and often throws files at them. He goes away for lunch with clients, takes drinks and comes to office. In the evenings he would go to a restaurant or to Bhubaneswar Club to consume liquor again. Sometimes he would assign work to people before leaving and people have to sit late in the office to finish the work. The new boss, Mr. Tripathy is a saintly person, soft-spoken and mild-mannered. He never shouts at people and leaves office promptly at six. He asks everyone to go home to spend time with their family, to take care of their kids’ home work or to simply relax. ‘Any body who has to work beyond six in office must be cheating during daytime’, that’s what he says. Tripathy Sir is an excellent team leader and trusts his sub-ordinates. The other day he called me and said, ‘Arabinda Babu, I am giving you this sensitive file. You must deal with it yourself. Please don’t pass it down. Analyse the issue properly, whatever you write I will accept, but try to be objective.’ Tell me Ranju, isn’t it nice to work for a boss like him?”
When Vinita turned up for walk next morning, I couldn’t accompany her because of the sprained ankle. She hesitated, but I pushed her, “Go and watch uncle’s reaction when he doesn’t see me.”
Vinita looked at me and burst out laughing.
“Oh, the matter has gone this far! The young chick is pining for the old fox! Looks like you are sunk. Poor Ranju, what bad luck! You should have come to my college yaar, at least some love-lorn teenager would have swept you off your feet. But look at your luck! This wretched old fox has won your heart! You are getting restless if you don’t see him! What a pity! What a miserable pity! I am really disgusted with you.”
She started leaving for the park and I hollered after her, “Vinny, go and meet uncle,
tell him I am going to fit him with my grandma!” She threw another disgusting look at me and ran away.
She returned after one hour, excited,
“Hey Ranju, looks like the old fox will go crazy if he doesn’t see you tomorrow. Today he went pale when he saw me alone! Kept looking at me every time we passed, I thought he would stop me and enquire about you. But he didn’t have the courage, I guess. I look like a cracker about to burst, you know. One day when I am not there, he will pounce on you.”
“Why do you say like that? He may not be such a bad fellow?”
“Oh Oh! So, he is not bad, only I am bad, is it? OK, I will come here only when you are alright. I don’t want to be mauled by the old fox!”
Vinita left in mock anger.
We resumed our walk after three days. Uncle’s face showed a big relief when he saw me. In fact he broke into a huge grin and there was a fresh bounce in his walk that day. Vinita had a great laugh.
“The old fox is besotted with the young chick! Look at him, smiling away like a coy lover! What a waste of your life, Ranju! If you really want to have a lover pine away for you, change your college, come to mine. At least I can fix a teenager for you!”
I kept quiet. I still didn’t know why uncle was obsessed with me.
Meanwhile, three months passed since we first saw the uncle taking a walk in the park. During the pooja holidays Vinita had to go to Rourkela, along with her mother. It seemed her grandfather was seriously ill and was on the verge of collapsing any time. Vinita was initially not keen on going, but her hero said he would be also coming to Rourkela to spend the holidays with his elder brother. Then Vinita got terribly excited.
“It’s going to be great fun yaar. I will go and watch a movie with my hero and we will eat ice cream during the interval, licking it from the same cone” – the last
statement delivered with emphasis, looking at me in an arching way, designed to make me feel deficient in the matter of love.
When I said nothing, she was annoyed.
“Ok, I will return early, you stay away from the old fox. I don’t want to see his teeth marks and claw scratches on you when I come back!”
The next morning when uncle saw me alone, his face lit up. I thought I saw a twinkle in his eyes. Every time he passed me, I imagined he tried to come a little closer. After three rounds I felt uneasy and left the park for home.
I had decided that I would not go to the park again till Vinita came back, but the next day I got up early and felt restless sitting at home. So I went to the park. Uncle’s face brightened up on seeing me. When he passed me during the second round, he came very close to me and asked, “What is the time?” My heart stopped for a few seconds. Sweat appeared on my face and my legs trembled. I lifted my hand, shook my head and showed him my bare wrist. I ran away from the park and till I reached home, my heart was thumping. I finally decided not to come to the park till Vinita returned.
The next morning I told Grandma that I didn’t feel like going to the park alone in the absence of Vinita. She asked my father to accompany me. Baba agreed immediately. He had not been to a park for a long time. From an old trunk he took out a pair of stylish sunglasses and a white fur cap, put them on and moved out. I put my foot down.
“Baba, there is no way I am coming with you, if you put on those two ghastly objects. I don’t want you to look like a Tamil hero if you want to walk with me.”
Baba immediately agreed to discard the fur cap and the sunglasses. He was really excited to come with me to the park, like a child going to a circus. When we reached the park, he kept on asking me, how many rounds I take, how much time it takes to complete one round, whether I am ready to compete with him in one round of walk. I laughed at his excitement, but I was getting increasingly nervous. What will happen when we come close to uncle? If he looks at me in that typical hungry way, how will Baba react? What a shame! What will Baba think of me, if uncle tries to speak to me again? And what if Baba picks up a fight with him? But then I tried to reassure myself, hoping uncle will not be so stupid, trying to talk to me when Baba was with me. I thought, if he has a modicum of intelligence, he will not do that.
I became aware that Baba had repeated his question and was looking curiously at me, wondering why I was lost in thought. I replied,
“Baba, how do I know how much time it takes to complete one round? You haven’t given me a watch, nor do I have a mobile phone.”
“Am I such a bad father? You have so many complaints against me?” Baba asked in mock despair.
I laughed. I love my Baba too much to have any complaints against him.
“Sorry Baba, don’t take it to heart. I was only joking. I don’t need a watch, nor a mobile. But will you buy me a treadmill? Then I don’t have to come to the park alone to take a walk. It is really frightening to walk alone here.”
Baba stopped and looked at me, alarmed.
“Why are you saying that? Tell me, is anybody harassing you here? No doubt I have stopped going to the Gym. But even now I have enough force in my punches to knock out the teeth of any ruffian.”
I was happy, making an imaginary connection between Uncle’s teeth and Baba’s swinging fist. I thought I will tell Baba the cause of my nervousness.
“Actually Baba.............
Baba picked up my hand and stopped me. I saw uncle a few feet from us. He had appeared from nowhere, emerging out of the shadow of a huge banyan tree. Baba went forward, bowed his head and did a huge Namaskar to him,
“Sir, so nice to see you. Do you come here every morning?”
Seeing Baba, Uncle’s face beamed with pleasure,
“Arrey, Arabinda babu. Such a pleasure to see you. We are meeting in the park for the first time!”
I stood there transfixed. So the uncle, the old fox, is known to Baba! Baba came to me. And holding my hand, virtually dragged me to the Uncle.
“Say Namaskar to my boss! I have told you what a great man he is, a God-like person.”
My heart started beating violently. God-like person, this uncle? Then how about the man who harasses me every day by those suggestive looks and the unwelcome attempts to speak to me? Is this man a split personality?
I obeyed Baba and went forward to wish him.
His face lit up.
“Arabinda Babu, this is your daughter! How nice! I see her in this park everyday. What’s your name Maa? And where is your friend? Why she is not coming for the past two days?”
“Uncle, my name is Ranjana and my friend’s name is Vinita. She has gone to Rourkela to see her ailing grandfather. I was just now telling Baba that he should buy me a treadmill so that I don’t have to come to the park alone to take a walk.”
I deliberately said this to remind him of his boorish behaviour and how I disliked it. Uncle’s face became pale. But then, he composed himself.
“Arabinda babu, Ranjana is a very sweet girl. I will gift her a treadmill on her birthday.”
Baba almost fainted in panic, thinking of such a costly gift from his boss. .
“No, no, sir, why should you buy such a costly gift for Ranjana? I will buy it for her.”
“Not at all. You won’t understand Arabinda babu, it’s a very small price to pay to get the love of a sweet girl like Ranjana.”
I was startled. Love? A treadmill to win my love? So finally the cat is out of the bag!
“Actually Arabinda babu, I have a daughter named Laali, who is studying in the US for the past four years. My wife has also gone there for the last six months. I love my daughter too much and miss her all the time. Ranjana looks exactly like my Laali, same height, same colour. Every day when I look at Ranjana I feel that if she was a bit fatter, she and Laali would be looking like twin sisters!”
I felt like someone has passed an electric current through me. The shock was terrible. I missed Vinita. If she was with me, I would have given her a big slap. The rascal has such a dirty mind! I bowed my head in shame and told uncle,
“Thank you, uncle, for such affectionate thoughts. I will come to the park everyday to give you company. We will chat about Laali.”
Baba was relieved. He was still perturbed by the thought of his boss buying a costly gift for me.
“So sir, in that case you need not buy a treadmill for Ranju.”
Uncle and I laughed out loud. In a taunting tone I said,
“But uncle, you should buy me a watch so that if you ask what time it is, I will be able to tell you!”
Uncle let out a loud laugh.
“That’s a perfect timing! To fish for a gift!”
Baba gave me a hard, intimidating look.
But I didn’t care. Now that baba’s boss was on my side, I acted kind of cool!
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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