Literary Vibes - Edition XCIX (18-Dec-2020)
(Title - When The Birds Come to Roost - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 99th edition of LiteraryVibes. I am so happy that we are just one week away from the landmark hundredth edition of LV. Hopefully it will be a truly dazzling collection of enchanting poems and entertaining stories. I urge the readers to send their best literary pieces for LV100.
In this edition we are fortunate to have a lovely poem from the distant land of Minnesota, USA. Ms. Sangita Kalarickal, a physicist by profession, is a poet at heart with great sensitivity and empathy. We welcome her to the family of LiteraryVibes and look forward to seeing more of her literary creations on the pages of LiteraryVibes in future.
This morning I woke up to a wonderful fog outside my window. Being a romantic at heart I saw a rare beauty in the thick fog hanging nonchalantly from the trees and telephone poles. It was as if a gentle, white giant had taken over the world around me. Through the eerie silence I knew our neighbours would have got up to make tea and soon the septuagenarian gentleman would come out and start reading newspapers in his portico, while sipping his first of a dozen cups of tea. In the opposite apartment, somewhere a young lady would be getting ready to leave for the office in a couple of hours after cooking meals for her old mother and small daughter. Soon loud mantras would be heard from another apartment accompanied by the ringing of pooja bells. A floating fog covering all the buildings with its white mystery will let life go on, yet it would make its presence felt, the empty streets would remain deserted till the sun came on and the fog would take a bow, singing a Sayonara, promising to come again.
Fog has many exciting memories for me worth recollecting in moments of pensive solitude. On a dark, densely foggy evening sometime in 1988 the jeep I was travelling in almost skidded off from a road on top of the hills at Kodaikanal. I escaped certain death by a hair's breadth, thanks to the old and wizened driver. Memory of a couple of trips in dense fog in winding hill roads raises goosebumps in me even after so many years. One was in November 1981 in the highlands of Bodinayakanur in the border of Kerala and Tamilnadu, when I was returning on treacherous hilly roads after inspecting a tea estate in the dizzying heights of the hills. The fog was so thick that four o clock in the afternoon felt dark and chilly like late night. The other experience was on a July evening in 2012, travelling from Kalimpong to Darjeeling, which was probably the most frightening trip my wife and I have ever taken, when visibility was almost zero. God alone knows how the driver negotiated the twists and turns, and the scary hair pin bends. Such trips always reinforce the belief that until your time comes Yamraj will not come anywhere near, and when the time comes no one can save you from his grip, whether you are in the high hills or a mile under the ocean.
Fog is also the theme of beautiful poems, movies and of course, mesmerising songs. There was a Hindi movie named "Kohra" (1964, directed by Biren Nag, starring Biswajeet and Waheeda Rehman), which translates to Fog in English. It was a mystery movie, and I was irresistibly drawn to it because of the four exquisitely beautiful songs it had: a) Jhum jhum dhalti raat, lekey chala mujhey apni saath, b) O bekarar dil, ho chuka hai mujhko aanshuonse pyaar, c) Raah bani khud manzil, peechhey reh gai mushkil and d) one of the most unforgettable renderings of my favourite singer Hemant Kumar (the legendary music director Salil Chaudhury had once said, "If God could sing, he would sound like Hemant Kumar!") Ye nayan darey darey, ye jaam bharey bharey. I am posting the clips of these four songs from Youtube at the end of the page. It is possible that in the great tradition of intermingling of music some of these tunes can be found in other languages, either preceding or succeeding the movie Kohraa. I will be happy to know of such songs. I know for example, two of the above songs have similar Bengali tunes: O Nodirey... for O bekarar dil and Ei raat tomaar aamaar... for Ye nayan darey darey. If there are Tamil, Telugu or Malayalam songs in similar tunes do share with us. My obsession with old songs is matched only by my fascination for fragrant dhoop sticks. Many a time in the past I had retuned home from long tours with loads of cassettes and CDs of old songs and packets of rare dhoop sticks, only to be chided by my wife to be a bit more "family-oriented"!
The four songs in the preceding paragraph were from the movie Kohra, but another mesmerising song which has been picturised in fog is a favorite of mine. It's by Mahammad Rafi from the movie Tere Gharke Saamne (1963) - Tu kaahaan ye bataa, is nasili raat mein...The idea of white fog playing hide and seek with light and shadow, making the night intoxicating, is....well, intoxicating indeed! I am attaching the video clip. Hope you will enjoy it.
I browsed the Internet for a poem on fog. The one which captivated me, among others, is titled "In the Fog" by the famous Italian poet Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912), a high priest in the literary tradition of Symbolism and Decadentism. Here it is:
IN THE FOG
Giovanni Pascoli
I stared into the valley: it was gone—
wholly submerged! A vast flat sea remained, gray, with no waves, no beaches; all was one.
And here and there I noticed, when I strained, the alien clamoring of small, wild voices:
birds that had lost their way in that vain land.
And high above, the skeletons of beeches, as if suspended, and the reveries of ruins and of the hermit’s hidden reaches.
And a dog yelped and yelped, as if in fear, I knew not where nor why. Perhaps he heard strange footsteps, neither far away nor near—
echoing footsteps, neither slow nor quick, alternating, eternal. Down I stared, but I saw nothing, no one, looking back.
The reveries of ruins asked: “Will no one come?” The skeletons of trees inquired:
“And who are you, forever on the go?”
I may have seen a shadow then, an errant shadow, bearing a bundle on its head.
I saw—and no more saw, in the same instant.
All I could hear were the uneasy screeches of the lost birds, the yelping of the stray, and, on that sea that lacked both waves and beaches,
the footsteps, neither near nor far away.
.........................................
A poetic, imaginative description of fog ending with an encounter with many facets of life!
Do enjoy the offerings in LV99 and let's all wait for LV100 next week.
Please forward the link of LV99 to your friends and contacts: https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/363 Do remind them that all the previous 98 editions of LV are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe. All the best,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FOETAL SONG
02) Haraprasad Das
THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN (MADHYABAYASKA)
03) Geetha Nair G
THE DHOBI DID IT
04) Dilip Mohapatra
POETRY READING
05) Sreekumar K.
PRACTICAL LESSONS
06) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
OUR HERITAGE - BAIDYANATH JYOTIRLINGA
OUR HERITAGE - BHIMASHANKAR JYOTIRLINGA
07) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
Storm in the TEA CUP
08) Ishwar Pati
A KITTEN FROM HEAVEN
09) Sangita Kalarickal
SILK RAKHI STRAND
10) Lathaprem Sakhya
ROSE APPLE
11) Madhumathi. H
THE VOYAGE
12) Bichitra Kumar Behura
TEARS & SMILES
13) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
DIVINE INTERVENTION?
14) Sunil K. Biswal
TO BE ON SAFE SIDE
15) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
OF CUNNING
16) Sangeeta Gupta
I READ YOUR EYES
YOUR THOUGHTS
CROSSING ME OUT
17) Dr. Molly Joseph M
GIVING
18) Sulochana RamMohan.
OF FOOLS AND ANGELS
19) S. SUNDAR RAJAN & S. NEERAJA
VICTORIOUS FIRE
THE NEW MOON TALK
20) Setaluri Padmavathi
CHANGE IN TIME
21) Dr. Aparna Ajith
OH SISTER, MY DEAR TEACHER
22) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
SKY AUTO
23) Abani Udgata
COFFEE TIME
24) Mihir Kumar Mishra
TO MY AILING MOTHER
25) Sheeba Ramdevan Radhakrishnan
THE GLIDER
26) Pradeep Rath
AS LEAVES FADE FAST
27) Ashok Kumar Ray
ANDAMAN SAFARI
28) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
BURIED UNDER FOGS
REDEMPTION
Interview
01) HAPPY SATURDAY WITH AN EMINENT POET
Ravi Ranganathan, a weekly Interview Program of WRITERS’ MIRROR, ASSAM, INDIA
Don’t lull me in your womb.
The sky burns with embers.
Blossoms shrivel away in bud.
Missiles fly in stork’s guise.
Every kiss, a booby trap.
When I am born, ban lullabies.
Open the windows for the wind to carry in
marching boots and whizzing bullets.
Pour in my blood venom from streets.
Soak me in acid till I scald.
Let hunger put down the churnings
of my empty stomach, my desires curl
in vestiges of passion.
I will pile and hoard RDX
in hate’s keg of desolation.
Mother, Oedipus lies dead.
Give me baptism by poison.
Let your body die for my hunger.
Raise me as a viper
on your blasphemed milk.
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
THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN (MADHYABAYASKA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Family abuzz -
grumbling parents,
jealous brothers,
resenting wife,
naughty children
with a penchant
for playing pranks,
tricking him
to buy things
of precious little use.
As night advances,
his luck sinks further -
the pan-shop he patronizes
draws shutter on his face,
his whore
kicks him out of her bed,
as he is a bit late
for her fastidious taste.
But an old pro
at the game of playing victim,
he cries foul aloud
filling the sleepy neighbourhood
with the rattle
of the iron piercing his soul.
He then seeks refuge
in his pipedreams -
happy parents, loving brothers,
a wife at his beck and call,
an obliging whore,
and his brood of beastly brats
singing, “um..m..m..m…..
home sweet home”;
he eating a hot meal,
but alas (!), his hand dips
into a blistering hot curry;
and he wakes up groggy,
wondering…
to thank or curse the hot curry.
From pipedreams
he moves to appreciate the acts
of kindness of his wife
making their bed,
of the playful flowers
down the window ledge
teasing the morning breeze.
He gifts his wife for her good turns
an insurance policy, as huge
as her pains and sacrifices,
for giving him life’s little pleasures,
her quid pro quo
in their love-hate chemistry.
But he carefully
collects his pipedreams,
keeping them within easy reach,
as his alternate shelter, his last straw.
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)”
It was her first job, in a city two hundred kilometres from her hometown. After the initial dislocation, she loved it. Her place of work was just a short walk away. Her room was small but pleasing. It was on the fifth floor of the hostel. There was a tree by her window. This massive window- tree bore bright pink flowers. Little birds flitted in and around it. She was happy in her new job, her new home.
In those days, she was in love. With love itself. The idea of being adored, kissed, bedded by one man, of caring for him till the end of her life; such thoughts had been generated by the books she had read, the movies she had watched… . Her mind revolved around pure, noble, eternal love.
Her parents were closing in on her with proposals. They threatened to advertise: WANTED: For an educated, middle-class girl, 24... She recoiled from such adverts; she did not want to be viewed, assessed, bargained for and bought. She wanted to be chosen by love, for love. She requested them for a little time.
They did not know that she had three aces up her sleeve; what do parents know about their children ?
Three men wished to claim her. Tinker tailor sailor soldier poet rich man poor man. She would play that button game on her nighties. The ones with buttons all the way down to her feet that her dearest friend had gifted her on the occasion of her leaving home. But that was no way to choose a life-partner.
On Sundays, Tinker Man would come to the Parlour. She would go down to spend a little time with him. He was a very distant relative by marriage, a mechanical engineer who worked in a huge factory nearby. Tinker suited him; she imagined him tinkering with the machines in the factory. His hair was always oiled and gleaming like his machines. Again, like the machines, he had nothing to say. Only “Let us go for a ride. Friendly. Only friendly.” Meaning he wouldn't make indecent advances, she supposed. He seemed a kind and gentle person. Her parents would approve of him whole-heartedly.But how dull he was! Yet, she was thrilled by his adoration. She would let him drink her in with his eyes. But she never ever went out with him. The car always went back with its sole occupant.
Then there was the Poet. They had gone to the same school as kids. He filled letters with poem after poem. He claimed that they dropped from his fingers like dew to the prairie. Privately she thought they fell like stones. Bad verse . Once in a particularly bad poem, he had even called her a majestic peacock and asked for a plume . She had to gently point out the gender problem. It was rumoured that he was so rich that he didn’t need to work. It was also rumoured that he led a debauched life. She thought of him as the Great Gatsby, the main character in that book she loved whose love for that one woman had shone steadily till he was killed. She wondered how many silk shirts he had. He had come once from his home 200 kilometres away in a swanky car to visit her. He was wearing a golden yellow shirt that suited him. He looked adorable. She had been impressed by both the shirt and the car and had been tempted to ride awhile in the dream-machine but had refrained. What would Mrs Grundy say? Strong is the hold of middle-class morality!
And finally there was the Soldier who was posted in some far -off mountain range. When he wasn't guarding the country he was listening to movie songs on his little radio and thinking of life with her. She pictured him against snow-capped mountains, a rifle in his hand and a song on his brave lips. It was a romantic picture. He wrote of the tea he would make for her every morning, the songs he would sing to her every night. His letters arrived regularly; there would be great black patches here and there where words had been blotted for security reasons. Her parents would not be happy if she chose him. Sending their only child all over the Motherland was not what they would wish for their only child. But the question was-did she care enough for him to marry him?
How could she choose?
In high school they had learnt Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. She still remembered that absurd story of the idiotic father who had decreed that his dear daughter would be married off to the man who chose the right casket. How they had laughed over that !
She arranged her make-up kit, her container for safety pins and clips, her bindi box on the ledge that passed for her dressing table. Eenie, meenie, maina, mo. No. As absurd as that old father's plan.
She went on Thursdays to the ancient Krishna temple a bus-ride away and prayed. Krishna, a sign. Tell me how, whom, I should choose. He was decked in his Thursday finery. A gold flute in his dark, stony hand. The flickering lamp threw its light onto one half of his face. He seemed to be winking at her. “ I had many, not one, as you know. I can't help you. You know I can't.” His whisper, carried by the camphor fumes, caressed her ears.
Finally, it was not Krishna the God but Krishna the Dhobi who settled the matter.
She had gone to collect the weekly pile of starched cotton sarees from Krishna Laundry Shop at the turn of the road. This time it was a pile of new ones that she had bought with her first salary, worn steadily over a week and then given for laundering. Krishna had trouble locating them though she told him her initials; he marked every piece of laundry with the initials of the owner. Finally she pointed to a little pile made up mainly of sarees in shades of yellow. "Those are mine" she said, leaning dangerously close to the hot iron.
But he looked hesitant. "Ithu neengada abc alla - They aren't your letters, Akka" he said in his odd Tamil-laced Malayalam.
She saw that he had marked them JR instead of JA. She was Janaki Aravind. He apologised; A and R were very similar to his unlettered eye. He sketched them as he did not know how to write.
JR ! JR indeed! Her moments of mild irritation gave way to something else.
Her mind latched on to her Soldier Man. He was Ramkumar. If she married him, she would be Janaki Ramkumar. J R.
This was the sign she had been waiting for!
That evening, she wrote three letters, walked to the red box at the corner of the street and dropped them in, one by one. It was a decisive moment in her life.
The engineer and the poet whined and pined awhile then, grew strong again.
In two months, Ramkumar and she were married.
She resigned her new job, bid farewell to her new friends and her new home... .
Mornings saw her waking up her husband with a cup of hot tea. Nights generally found her lullabied with his drunken snores.
Sometimes she lay awake dreaming of the tree by her window, the pink flowers, those early days filled with a sweet promise..
Did she regret her choice? No. Not really.
What would her life have been like had she opted for Tinker man or Poet?
It was impossible to speculate.Three roads had diverge in a narrow wood and she had chosen one of them. There could be no going back. She was one person and had one life to live. It wasn’t such a bad life too. Her husband had his faults but then, nobody is perfect.
One thing she was very careful about.
Rama’s wife should be above suspicion.
Janaki is very popular with the dhobis at each Cantonment her husband is posted at. They rave about her kindness and her generosity. At every new place of posting, she identifies the nearest Rama Temple. She is known for her dedicated temple-going. They don’t know that it is another that she prays to.
She touches the feet of Hanumanji who guards the entrance. She offers flowers and vada garlands and beseeches him -Let no dhobi come anywhere near my husband. Protect me, O Maruthi."
A dhobi it was who guided her to this life. Let not another one drag her down to her namesake's plight.
(This story had appeared in an earlier edition of LiteraryVibes.)
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
It was an international
Poetry-Fest that I recall
and after the mega event
some poets were to read out
their poems
in concurrent sessions
to smaller groups.
I remember how I had
practised for days
in front of the mirror
for the last few weeks
to acquire the perfect
intonations
and pronunciations
with the right pauses
and matching expressions
to present the ones which
I rated as the best.
And on the D day
as I walked into the designated room
I was delighted to see
few eager faces waiting in
anticipation
but soon was distressed to see
all of them leaving one after
another
before even I could finish
the second stanza of
my first poem
except for one lone lady sitting
in the corner.
I hesitated a bit
while wondering
if I should
continue and go on
or pack up
but her eyes implored me
not to stop and
to carry on from poem
to poem
and she appeared
to be in a trance
soaking in every drop of my poetry
and soon I got back my colour
rather when I concluded
I was on a high.
Then I walk up to her
and with heartfelt gratitude
pouring out of my eyes
I thank her profusely
for being such an ardent audience
and as I plan to leave
she clutches my hand
in a feverish grip
and with a desperate tug
commands me to sit down
and tells me
‘now that I listened to yours
you got to listen to mine
for I have my poems lined up
for reading out next.’
A comical twist to Wislawa Szymborska’s poem of the same title
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
As we went down the hill, picking up our path among the thorny undergrowth, I felt quite happy. The children too were excited. They see these fields far down from their school playground every day. Some of those who worked in our school garden, the barber who came on weekends and the milkman were from this village.
It was a suggestion from a new teacher in the Social Science faculty that we should take the sixth standard students down to the village. As a part of the project work in Social Science, the students could go down to the village, meet some of the villagers and interact with the children in the village school and maybe even meet the Sarpanch and interview her. I thought it would be good to sensitize the children about the lives of farmers and introduce them to the rural culture and traditions.
Our school was far away from the city, on top of a hill, overlooking a dam’s reservoir on one side and some expansive fields that extended to the horizon on the other. There was a lot of barren land too on the farther side of the fields and then there were rocky hills all around. Most of the villagers who lived in the valley were small-time farmers. The only facility they had in the village was a school which had classes up to the seventh grade.
Our school driver helped us arrange everything and we took along with us two tenth standard students who could speak both Oriya and Hindi fluently.
We crossed a sugarcane field and scrambled up a slope and reached the school ground. The headmistress came and met me. The school was worse than what I had thought. Actually, I would have been disappointed if it had been otherwise since the whole idea was to make our students realize that not many children were as privileged as they happened to be.
The school didn't disappoint me. No classes had benches or desks and the blackboard was a rectangular dark patch on the wall and there was no way a straight line could be drawn on it. Most of the plaster had come off the walls and the only reason it didn't leak was that there was hardly any rain.
Canes, bought personally be the teachers, when they visited the Sunday market in the village near the Kali temple, were the only facility that every class had. Consequently, the school was very quiet except for the teachers who were huddled together, chatting in the veranda, while the children copied the lessons from their textbooks for reasons known to no one.
We went through the veranda with the children in the classrooms giggling at us and some of the chubby ones got more than an equal share of that.
Soon after we finished our rounds, we assembled under the shade of a tree on the farther side of the playground, quite a safe distance from a couple of cows that had wandered in from the fields. The children had to be told repeatedly not to bother them. Some of the teachers were still staring at us from the veranda and whispering to each other, probably about the practices which were rumoured to be happening at our school.
Two of the boys came to me and one of them told me how annoying it was to be giggled at by those children. He said that given a chance, he would have shown them.
“Shown them what? These children work hard on the field when they are not in school and before you know what is happening you will end up licking the dust off their feet,’ said the physical education teacher who had overheard him.
I thought it was good for them to hear that the village children were good at something.
“Sir, I have a black belt.”
“So what?”
We sat around under the banyan tree and the school driver, who had brought some water and snacks, started distributing them. The crows on the branches of the banyan tree above started calling their friends at the prospect of food to be shared. We told the children to turn their back to the school while they were eating. No one asked us why. They knew that there would be children staring at them wondering what kind of food came wrapped in aluminium paper.
The snacks were nothing but two loaves of buttered bread and a sachet of chilly tomato sauce. A couple of children who had done a project on environmental issues around human habitation collected the litter, planning to take it back to the school junkyard where they had organized a system of waste management.
“May I have your attention for a minute? OK. Some of you, or most of you, though not all of you, were annoyed, angry in fact, to see the children giggling at you. Well, they giggled at me to and also at my colleagues here. But, just think for a moment. Put yourself in their shoes. I know, they don’t have any shoes.”
I waited for the laughter to subside.
“Now, the fact is you too would have laughed at them, had the situation been reversed, that is, if they had come to our school and walked down our school corridor, peeping into the classrooms. I know that for a fact, so let’s have no argument about that now. However, what I think is, if they had a recess and you had got a chance to mingle with them, greet them, ask their names and shake hands with them, you would have become friends with them in no time.
“I also want you to remember that the food that you eat, no matter how much you had paid for it, comes from them. Now, why would I say that?”
Several hands shot up and then one by one they all voiced the same idea. They are farmers, the caretakers of our mother earth. That was from the first lesson in their moral science textbook.
We also visited a family and interviewed the members about their lifestyle, culture, economy and agriculture. They were very respectful to the children, especially when they found they could speak Oriya.
Two days later, in their culture class, the children shared with their friends the information each group had gathered.
Most of the farmers owned some land. Their monthly budget ranged from five to ten thousand. Almost everyone had a bank account and saved about 10,000 to 70,000 a year which is added to their bank account. They had not yet decided what to do with the savings. Education was cheap since there was a school in the village itself. They don’t have any health hazards and the only way they may spend the money would be to build or buy a new house. Several of them still lived in huts built by their grandparents.
I thought the information didn't make sense or agree with our concepts. The children also thought that the villagers' life was not so bad. So I had to explain it to them.
“See, happiness or satisfaction is the way you take your life. These people are happy because they are not exposed to higher lifestyle or luxury. They don't even bother to buy good clothes or repair their house. As we see, they don’t even know what to do with the money they have. They are able to do so because even though they are poor, they are farmers and they can eat the food they produce. So, the money they spent on food is way too little and this helps them save so much money. In a city slum, things would be different. If someone in the village takes the initiative, their saving can be better managed to bring them up to a better lifestyle or a higher financial platform. But, the point is, will that increase their happiness. Ultimately, once the basic needs are met, the question is what can make us happy, now that we are satisfied. In other words, the question is ‘Now what?’”
We have a trans-disciplinary approach in our school and so now the economics teacher explained the difference between economy and lifestyle. The biology teacher continued and told them about the common diseases caused by polluted water and the Eco teacher told them about watershed management. He also showed them some slides about Ralegan Siddhi he had visited a few years ago.
That evening, the economics teacher said to me, “Menon, I didn’t want to contradict you in front of the children. The villagers were bluffing to the children, simply pulling their legs. None of them in the village has a bank account.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I am sure. There was a branch of the State Bank of Orissa in the house behind the post office there, when I joined the school fifteen years ago. Two years after I joined, there was a bad drought, the crops failed, a couple of them died due to starvation, many of them left this place and the bank too closed down. You can’t have a bank account without a bank, I think.”
The children have collected some money to send a New Year Greeting Card to each student in the village school. One of the parents, an industrialist, who happened to read his son’s project on the village has agreed to provide some desks and benches for two of the classes in the village school.
We had some good rains this year. It is still raining. The villagers should be really happy even though everyone’s roof is leaking.
(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.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - BAIDYANATH JYOTIRLINGA, DEOGARH, JHARKHAND
“Poorvothare prajwalika nidhane
sada vasantham girija sametham
surasuraradhitha padapadmam
srivaidyanatham thamaham namami”
[Dwadasa jyothirlinga sthothram composed by Adi Sankaracharya]
Baidyanatham Chithabhoomau and Sivmahapuran Satarudra Samhita are the ancient verses that identify location of Baidyanth Jyotirlinga. According to which Baidyantham is in 'Chidabhoomi', which is the ancient name of Deoghar. In Dwadasa jyothirlinga sthothram, Adi Sankaracharya has praised Vaidyanath jyothirlinga in the above verses.
Baidyanath Jyotirlinga temple, also known as Baba Baidyanath dham is one of the twelve Jyotirlingas, the most sacred abodes of Shiva. It is located in Deoghar in the Santhal Parganas, Jharkhand. Three temples claim their shrines as Jyotirlinga of Vaidyanath and these are (1) Baidyanath temple at Deoghar, Jharkhand, (2) Vaijnath temple at Parli, Maharashtra, and (3) Baijnath temple at Baijnath, Himachal Pradesh. However, it has been acknowledged that Baidyanath dham at Deogarh in Jharkhand is one of 12 Jyotirlingas.
Legend
Bhavishya purana narrates the existence of Baidyanath. It refers to the tract comprising of the present district Birbhoom as Narikhand, and describes it as follows:
"Narikhande is district abounding in thickets. It lies west of the Dwarikashwari River. It extends along the Panchakuta hills on its west, and approaches Kikta on the north. The forests are very extensive, chiefly of Sakhota, Arjuna and Sal trees with a plentiful addition of brushwood. The district is celebrated for the shrine of Baidyanath. The deity is worshiped by people from all quarters, and is the source of every good in the present age."
According to the story narrated in Shiva Purana, it was in the Treta yuga that the demon Ravana, king of Lanka, felt that his capital would not be perfect and free from enemies unless Mahadeva (Shiva) stays there forever. He paid continuous meditation to Mahadeva. Ultimately, Shiva got pleased and permitted him to carry His Atmalinga with him to Lanka. Mahadeva advised him not to place or transfer this lingam to anyone. There should not be a break in his journey to Lanka. If he deposits the lingam anywhere on the earth, in the course of his journey, it would remain fixed at that place forever. Ravana was happy as he was taking his return journey to Lanka. The other Gods and Goddesses objected to this plan on the ground that if Shiva went to Lanka, Ravana would become invincible, and his evil and anti-vedic deeds would threaten the world. They never liked to see Lord Shiva as his protector. They devised a plan for outwitting Ravana. They requested Varuna (the God of water) to enter into the belly of Ravana, on his way back from Mount Kailash. On his way back, Ravana felt severe urge to release water and began looking for a man to whom he could temporarily entrust the lingam.
Lord Ganapathi appeared before Ravana in the guise of a Brahmin. Unaware of the mystery, Ravana handed over the lingam to the Brahmin. Unfortunately, Ravana could not ease himself soon. Meanwhile, the Brahmin placed the lingam at this place which was and which is now Baidyanath dham. Ravana tried hard to remove the lingam from the spot but could not turn out the lingam even an inch. As he got frustrated, he used violence but only succeeded in pushing the lingam by thumb and damaging it. Later on he felt guilty of his doings and begged for forgiveness. The Gods were happy that the Shiva linga had not reached Ravana's place. He returned to Lanka but visited daily Baidyanath dham to worship the lingam. The place where Ravana descended on the earth is identified with the present Harilajori few KMs north of Baidyanath dham. The place where the lingam was kept is now Deoghar and the lingam itself is known to all as Baidyanath Jyotirlingam.
As per the popular beliefs, the demon king Ravana worshipped Shiva at the current site of the temple to get the boons that he later used to wreak havoc in the world. Ravana sacrificed his ten heads one after another to Shiva. Pleased with this, Shiva descended to cure Ravana who was injured. As he acted as a doctor, he is referred to as Vaidhya ("doctor"). From this aspect of Shiva, the temple derives its name.
Some of the purans describe the advent of Baidyanath of Deoghar to the 'Satya Yug', or the first age of the world. When Sati, the wife of Shiva and the daughter of Daksharaja committed suicide in consequence to the discourtesy shown to her husband by Raja Daksha. The heart of Sati falling at the spot in Deoghar (Baidyanath) attended sanctity. Hence the place had been called 'Siddhapitha'.
The Matsya puran narrates sanctity of arogya Baidyanatha assisted by Shakti in freeing people from incurable diseases.
Further, popular stories revealed (not mentioned in any purana) that the Lingam was lying neglected after the death of Ravan until it was noticed by a hunter, Baiju, who accepted it as his God and worshipped daily proclaiming to the world as the Lord of Baiju (Baidyanath).
History
The Matsya Puran narrates the place as Arogya Baidyanathitee, the holy place where Shakti lives and assists Shiva in freeing people from incurable diseases. The Madan Madhavi, a manuscript preserved in the archives of Maharaja of Gidhaur, provides information related to the political and cultural history of Gidhaur Raj. It includes a description of Babadham as well. This whole area of Deoghar was under the rule of the Kings of Gidhaur who were much attached with this temple. Raja Bir Vikram Singh founded this princely state in 1266. In 1757 after the Battle of Plassey the officers of the East India Company paid their attention to this temple. An English man, Keating was sent to look at the administration of the temple. Mr. Keating, the first British Collector of Birbhum, took interest in the administration of the temple. In 1788, under Mr. Keating's order Mr. Hesilrigg, his assistant, who was probably the first English man to visit the holy town, set out to supervise personally the collection of the pilgrim offerings and dues. Later, when Mr. Keating himself visited Baba dham, he was convinced and forced to abandon his policy of direct interference. He handed over the full control of the temple to the hands of the high priest.
Architecture
Baidyanath dham is a temple complex. The main temple is Baba Baidyanath Jyotirlinga, and there are 21 other temples. The temple of Baidyanath faces the east and is a plain stone structure with a pyramidal tower which rises from a square base to a height of 72 feet from the ground. It is built in Pagoda-styled architecture, where there are minute carvings on the stone. The compound walls of the temple are also high and built with stones. The shrines of Goddess Parvati and Lord Shiva are connected by strings which denote the unity of souls among the deities. The top of the Shiva Lingam is slightly damaged. When King Ravana tried to uproot it, he failed in the mission. Since then, the Lingam of Lord Shiva is not replaced in the temple complex. Near the temple, there is a sacred temple tank called Shiva Ganga, where the water required for performing the religious functions are daily drawn from. On the eastern side of the temple there is pot into which flows the water and milk offered by the devotees. The lingam is of a cylindrical form of about 5 inches in diameter and projects about 4 inches from the centre of a large slab of basalt. It is not possible to ascertain how much of the lingam is buried. The top is broken and has uneven surface.
There are different porches in the temple. One porch leads to the sanctum where the lingam is fixed. The second porch is in front with a row of pillars spanned by blocks of basalt and on the right side there is a sandstone image of a bull. There are bells fixed in the ceiling and pilgrims are supposed to pull the bell-ropes to announce their approach to the divinity. The courtyard has eleven other temples. There are temples in the same campus for different Gods and Goddesses among which Lord Shiva is considered supreme. Modern concepts ascribe that the shrines are of both old and new styles. The temple of Shiva is lotus shaped. The top contains three ascending shaped gold vessels. Besides these pitcher shaped vessels, there is a 'punchsula' (Five knives Tridenta), which is rare. In inner top there is eight petal lotus jewel (Chandrakanta Mani). The 'Lingam' (Lord Shiva) is also very rare.
The greatness of this temple lies in the fact that in this modern age the scientists are unable to open one cross ventilated door. It is popular belief that Vishwakarma (God's Engineer) had erected this temple. In the north of the temple there is one holy pond known as 'Shivaganga', regarding which there are several myths. There is another old pond (Mansinghi) made during 16th century by Swami Raja Man Singh of Jaipur
Though Panari and Adivasis are original residents, now several religious persons are residing. But priests are 'Maithil Brahmans' who came here in the end of 13th century and beginning of 14th century from Mithila. Radhi Brahmans came here from Central Bengal during 16th century; Kanyakubja Brahmans also came from Central India during same period. These all priest groups assist Shiva worshipper by giving shelter and other help. Their unbounded contribution can be seen in maintaining the sanctity of the temple. The head priest is a Maithil Brahman. His post is known as 'Sevayat' who is not only head priest but religious administrator too. Worshippers have a very revered approach to him. Presently the administration of the temple is under a Trust whose members are from the Priests, Giddhor king’s representative and Deputy Commissioner, Deoghar being receiver.
Lord Shiva is not a myth for the people of Deoghar, rather it's a live concept. Shiva is not the only source of living. In fact it splashes the love and Bhakti to each and everyone. This 'Jyotirlingam' is in fact related with the cultural way of wishing people in myriad occasion. 'Har Har Mahadav' is a slogan of trust and victory. Muslims and Hindus live in harmony. . In one side is one Muslim family (Halim Saheb) who provides worshipping materials for Shiva and the next aspect is daily evening (Shringar) worship which cannot be held without the garland of prisoners of Deoghar jail. The abode of Baidyanath Jyotirlingam is a very ancient sacred place of India. The holy place is famous for its cultural history where people from every corner of India throng all the year round. A number of tantras also appreciate this place. It is also one of 52 peethas. The question of Pithas is associated with Devi Bhagwat, Kubjika Tantra, Kalika Rahasyam, Mundmal Tantra and Rudrayamalam etc. These Tantras mention this holy shrine as a popular Tantrik seat for Sadhakas. Famous scholar and Tantric Gopinath Kaviraj have mentioned Baidyanathdaham as a seat of Tantric Sadhana. This holy shrine is famous a Chitabhumi. Here we get the worship of Sri Chakra which is still lying in the inner apartment of Bhitarakhanda, administrative office of the high-priest. Now it is administrative office of the temple. There is also one ever flaming Kund where tantrik rituals are being performed for Shakti Sadhana. Baglamukhi and Jai Durga are supposed to be the chief deities of this pitha. Baidyanath is himself Bhairav and he guards this region. Tanric Sadhana is the crux to worship Lord Shiva and Shakti. During the time of Durga Puja, the decoration of Gahbara was initiated in the temples of Jagad janani and Kal Bhairava which is more or less tantric rituals. The presence of Panch shoola is also a matter of Tantric cult.
Shravana Mela
Millions of pilgrims visit this shrine every year. It is famous for the mela of Shraavana (a month of the Hindu calendar), between July and August. About 7 to 8 million devotees visit the place from various parts of India and offer holy water of Ganges to the deity collected from Sultanganj, which is almost 108 km from Deoghar and Baidyanath. The water is also brought by the K?nvarias, who carry the water in Kavadi, and walk all the distance, on bare foot. You will find large crowds walking all the way carrying water. An unbroken line of people in saffron-dyed clothes stretches over the full 108 km for the month. The pilgrims are called Dak Bam and they do not stop even once in their journey from Sultangunj, located in Bhagalpur district to Baidyanath Jyotirlinga.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - BHIMASHANKAR JYOTIRLINGA
Meaning:
O Lord Shiva,
You are pure white like camphor,
You are incarnation of compassion,
You are the essence of worldly existence,
Your garland is the King of Serpents,
You are always dwelling inside the lotus of the Heart,
I Bow to Lord Shiva and Shakti together. Har Har Mahadev
[ This shloka is chanted after Aarti ]
Bhimashankar one of the 12 Jyotirlingas is an ancient shrine. Far away from the din and bustle of urban life, Bhimashankar can be termed as a pilgrims’ paradise. Bhimashankar ,situated at the extreme end of the Sahyadri forest ranges, gives a beautiful view of the sceneries around the local rivers and hill stations. Bhimashankar is the source of the Bhima River, which flows southeast and merges with the Krishna River. With endless stretches of virgin forests, wooded slopes and lofty peaks that seem to reach out to the heavens, and the flowing waters of the Bhim? River, Bhimashankar is definitely one of God's choicest creations. It seems as if Lord Shiva is keeping a silent vigil over the majestic forest ranges of the Sahyadris. Bhimashankar Jyotirling temple is located inside a reserved and dense forests surrounding the high ranges in the Western Ghats. The serene area is rich in diversified flora and fauna and the serenity is interrupted only by the murmuring of the cool breeze and the occasional chirping of birds, Bhimashankar is trekkers’ and travellers’ delight. To reach the sanctum sanctorum of the temple, the visitor needs to descend about 300 steps. A freshly made Pedas, Mawa, and many medicinal plants can be seen sold on the steps. A Popular species type Bay Leaf (Tamaal Patra in local language) is available in abundance in this area. The jungle of Bhimashankar is an evergreen forest, located on the mountain ranges of the Sahyadri and stretches to Pune, Thane and Raigad districts of Maharashtra. Wild animals like boars, stags, barking deer, wild cats, hares, civets, panthers, hyenas, and jackals, varieties of monkeys, peacocks, eagles and kites can also be seen here. A world famous butterfly ‘Blue Mormon’ can also be seen in this jungle, which grows up to half feet long. The jungle at Bhimashankar is a natural habitat for the red coloured giant squirrel or flying squirrel (locally known as Shekru). It lays its eggs only once throughout the year in December-January, in its nest located high on a treetop. This squirrel can easily jump 15 to 20 feet, from one tree to the other. History unveils itself in the peaks of the Sahyadris. Bhimashankar is a place where spiritual splendour merges with nature's magnificence and is definitely a spiritual pilgrims’ best destination. The very fact that Bhimashankar as abode of Shiva goes back to the Ramayana times speaks of its significance. Lord Shiva Himself has battled a demon in this very area. The temple with its surrounding peaks seems to reach out to heaven as if offering a direct path where Lord Shiva Himself watches over this temple.
Legends
Treta Yuga was a time much before the Mahabharata era. That was the yuga of the Ramayana. One can only imagine how long ago it was. That is when the story of Bhimashankar begins. In the forests around Bhimashankar an Asura (demon) named Tripurasura did long and severe penance to please Lord Shiva and to attain the boon of immortality. Lord Shiva who is also lovingly known as Bholanath granted the boon with the condition that Tripurasura would act for the good of mankind. With the passing of time, Tripurasura forgot about the condition he had agreed to and started terrorising not only men and women on earth but even the Devas in heaven (Swarga).Seeing the chaos and sufferings Lord Shiva and Parvati took on a joint form known as ‘Ardhnarya Nateshwar’ or Ardhanareeswar”. While fighting the demon, Lord Shankar assumed colossal proportions. Tripurasur feared when he saw this Rudravatar. The fight went on. In the end, Lord Shiva killed the wicked demon and set the world free on the day of Kartik Purnima, and from then on the day is also celebrated as “Tripurari Purnima”.
There is slight deviation to the above legend. That is as follows: Bhima, whose parents were Kumbhakarna and Karkati, once he asked his mother about the details of his father. His mother told him that his father Kumbhakarna was the younger brother of Ravana, the king of Lanka, who was slain by Sri Ramchandra. She seems to have said the following story:
“I am yet to see Lanka; I met your father on some mountains nearby, and after you were born, I continued to stay here. After my husband was killed, only my parental place became a refuge of sorts for me. My parents are Pushkasi and Karkat. When they went to eat up Agastya - the saint, he burned them to ashes with the power of his meditation and tapas”.
When he heard the above story, Bhima was at once eager to take revenge against all the divines. He began a severe penance and a pleased Brahma granted him the boon of becoming a very strong man. With this new strength, he captured all the divines including Vishnu and Indra. They were in his control. After this he won a victory over the great Shiva devotee Kamarupeshwar an ardent devotee of Shiva. Kamarupeshwar did not stop his worship of Shiva even when in prison. He performed the Puja with the same devotion, observing all the procedures. His wife also joined him in this. On the other hand, Brahma and Vishnu along with all the other divines started praying Shankara and of asking for deliverance from the wicked demon King Bhima. Shiva assured the divines and sent them home after pacifying them.
Bhima learnt from someone that Kamarupeshwar was making preparations to kill him. On hearing about this, he went straight to the prison and started inquiring into the process and aim of his worship. When he learnt the truth from the king, the wicked demon called Lord Shiva names and insulted Him and ordered the king to worship Bhima himself instead. When Kamarupeshwar resisted, Bhima attacked the Linga with his sword. Before he could strike, Shiva appeared there. A severe fight ensued in which bows, arrows, swords, axe, the disc and trident etc. were used. In the end, at the request of Narada , Lord Shankar blew fire and burnt the wicked demon Bhima to ashes.
Lord Shankar in the form of a huge hunk (Virat) was very tired. In order to get some rest, He settled here on the high area of the Sahyadri mountains, sweat started pouring down from His huge body in thousands of streams which joined together and collected in a pond or Kund. The river that started from there is known as Bhima, which can be seen even today. Devotees then prayed to Bhimakaya Rudra “ to save the good people reside here forever”. Bholenath listened to the devotees and stayed there as a Jyotirlinga forever. The yugas passed, Treta Yuga ended, and then came Dwapar Yuga followed by the present Kaliyuga. The pilgrimage endured over the years and yugas.
There is yet another story. Self-emanating Mahadev, in the shape of a chariot, the mountains have become the abode of Bheema Shankara. It is also known as Rathachala. Bhatirao Lakadhara (wood-cutter) used to live here. Once he was cutting some wood. Just as he struck the tree with his axe, blood started to flow from the earth. Bhatirao got scared and ran away. Soon, a crowd had gathered there. Someone brought a cow and made it stand there. The milk that came from the cow’s udders stopped the bleeding of the earth. Surprising everyone, a glowing Jyotirlinga of Shankara, emanated from the earth. People built a temple there and installed the Jyotirlinga in the temple. This temple eventually came to be known as Bhima Shankara Jyotirlinga.
History and Architecture
The temple in its present form dates back to the 13th century. Over the years it has been preserved, renovated, and rebuilt several times by various rulers and prominent merchants. The structures are a mixture of different styles of architecture like Nagara, Hemadpanthi etc. The small temple is the oldest of the structures. It shows the excellence of the skills achieved by ancient Vishwakarma sculptors. It is a modest yet graceful temple and it dates back to the 13th century while the sabhamandap and the shikhara were built in the 18th century by Nana Phadnavis. Though modest in size as compared to other temples and Jyotirlingas, Bhimashankar Temple’s beauty can be seen in the excellent sculptures carved by sculptors. The gracefulness of the temple pleases all. At the entrance of the temple is a Nandi shrine - Shiva’s beloved bull. Within the temple compound is a shrine dedicated to Shani Deva. The sanctum houses the Jyotirlinga which is below the ground level, and the Shivling is exactly in the middle of the room. The door to the sanctum is an exquisite work of art with figures of divine beings, humans and scenes from puranas carved on it. One unique feature of this temple is a huge Portuguese bell weighing about 200 kg., with 1721 carved on it. Five such bells were taken from the Portuguese by Chimmaji Appa after he defeated them at Fort Vasai. This bell has an idol of Mother Mary with Jesus. This large bell was presented by Chimaji Appa (Brother of Bajirao Peshwa I and uncle of Nanasaheb Peshwa). On 16 May 1739, Chimaji Appa collected five large bells after he won a war against Portuguese from the Vasai Fort. He offered one here at Bhimashankar and the others at Menavali near Wai in front of a Shiva Temple on the banks of the Krishna river, Banshanker temple (Pune), Omkareshwar Temple (Pune) and Ramlinga temple (Shirur). When the bell rings the entire forest range resounds. The great Maratha ruler Chattrapati Shivaji Maharaj is said to have made endowments to this temple to facilitate daily worship services
Although the structure here is fairly new, the shrine Bhimashankar and the Bhimarathi river have been referred to in literature dating back to the 13th century CE. Saint Jnaneshwar is said to have visited Tryambakeshwar and Bhimashankar. In some classics like Shiva Leelamrit, Gurucharitra, Stotraratnakar etc., Bheema Shankara is described as a woman. Gangadhar Pandit, Ramdas, Sridharswamy, Narahari Malo, Gnaneshwar, and other saints describe Bheema Shankara as Jyotirlinga. Historical figures like Chatrapati Shivaji and Rajaram Maharaj were known to have visited this shrine. This was a favourite place for Peshwa Balaji Vishwanath and Raghunath. Raghunath Peswa had a well dug up here. The Diwan of the Peshwar, Nana Phadanvis renovated this temple. A court hall was built in 1437 AD by a Pune Sahukar by the name Chimanji Antaji Nayik Bhinde.
A fine blend of old and new style of architecture can be witnessed here. This attractive structural design is termed as the Nagara style of architecture. The excellence and intelligence of the sculptors can be seen on walls of the temple distinguished through the works of this temple. Some major adjustments regarding the temple were made way back in the 13th century but the beautification was actually made by Nana Phadnavis during the 18th century. One can also find borrowed influences from the Indo Aryan style of architecture.
It is believed that the ancient shrine was erected over a Swayambhu Lingam (that is the self emanated Shiva Lingam). It can be observed that the Lingam is exactly at the centre of the floor of the Garbagriham (the Sanctum Sanctorum) of the temple. Intricate carvings of divine beings, interspersed with human figurines adorning the pillars and the door frames of the temple. Scenes from mythology find themselves captured in these magnificent carvings.
Stepping out of the Temple, one is awed with a bewitching view of the virgin wilderness, occasionally interrupted by the glimpses of the majestic forts on the surrounding mountains.
The temple of Bhima Shankara is decorated with the Dashavatar statues. These are very beautiful. The worship of Bhima Shankar is done, with Rudrabhishek, Panchamrit snan, everyday. The Lord is praised in rich words. On Mondays as well as other days, lot of devotees flock here for darshan. A big fete (mela) takes place on Maha Shivaratri festival. The natural scenic beauty of this place is wonderful.
There are other temples and shrines, near the main temple. There is a shrine to Kamalaja near the Bhimashankar temple. Kamalaja is an incarnation of Parvathi, who aided Shiva in his battle against Tripuraasura. Kamalajaa was worshipped with offerings of lotus flowers by Brahma.There is a shrine for Siva Ganams, Shaakini and Daakini who assisted Shiva in the battle against the demon, Bhima. Kaushika Maha Muni is said to have done 'Tapas' (penance) there. The place where he bathed is called Mokshakund thirtham, which is located behind the Bhimashankar temple. There are also the Sarvathirtha, the Kusharanya thirtha - where the Bh?m? river begins to flow eastward, and the Jnyanakund. The river that is famous with the name ‘Chandrabhaga’ at the most popular pilgrimage centre of Pandharpur (Solapur district of Maharashtra) is also known as Bhima. It has been a century old belief that it originates from the Holy Shivlinga of Bhimashankar. In the ancient times, the jungle around Jyotirling was called as ‘Dakini Van’. There is a strong faith that to carry out Lord Shiva’s holy bath, Dakinis (a sort of deities) reside in this jungle. It is also believed that Lord Shiva killed the demon Bhima at this place and so the place became famous as ‘Bhimashankar’.
Gupta Bhimashankar
Though it is believed that the river Bhima originates from Lord Shiva’s Linga at Bhimashankar, yet it again hides herself from our view to resurface again to the east in the jungle at the distance of about 4-5 kms from the temple. This place is called as ‘Gupta (Hidden) Bhimashankar’. While circumbulating the temple from the left side, we can see a narrow corridor that leads to this place. As soon as we start following that path, we enter into the dense and evergreen forest of Bhimashankar. In the forest, we can see tall and huge trees with giant trunks, as if embracing each other. They have intermingled in each other in such a way that their branches don’t allow sun rays to reach the ground even when the sun is at its zenith. This unique design of trees has made the forest a safe shelter for the giant squirrels. En route, coloured guiding plates indicating the way to ‘Gupta Bhimashankar’ can be seen nailed on the trees. Huge boulders on the ground also have oil paint marks towards the holy place. While going to Gupta Bhimashankar, melodious calls of various birds always accompany the hikers. A careful watch on the treetops can bless with the sight of the giant squirrels. We can also notice a sort of fungus on the tall trees, which is called as Jyotivanti in local Marathi language. In rainy days, it reflects light and the entire jungle looks as if glistening.Walking ahead in company with the guiding marks, we reach a small temple of Lord ‘Sakshi Vinayaka’ (an eye witnessing Lord). It is believed that this ‘Sakshi Vinayaka’ keeps record of every person who enters this forest. Opposite to this temple, strangely arranged stacks of stones can be seen. After this temple, we reach a stream, which is nothing but the resurfaced river Bhima. Subsequently, we see a waterfall, underneath which there is ‘Gupta Bhimashankar’. The holy place has a small Shiva Linga, with a small Nandi and a set of tiny trident and the Damru (Lord Shiva’s hand-drum). The serenity of this place compels the trekker to utter spontaneously, ‘Har Har Mahadeo’!
Festivals and Rituals
In the month of Shravan and on the auspicious day of Mahashivratri, grand fairs are being arranged here every year. Bhimashankar Temple Regular daily Poojas are Abhishek;
Rudrabhishek; Mahapuja; Mahapuja-MahaNaivedya; Laghurudra; Laghurudra-MahaNaivedya; and Laghurudra-MahaNaivedya-Bhrahman Bhojan. The Bhimashankar Temple Shashvat Poojas are Rudrabhishek; Mahapuja; Mahapooja + Mahanaivedya; Shravan Monday and Mahashivratra; Laghurudra; Laghurudra with Mahanaivedya; and Laghurudra with ‘Brahman Bhojan’. Annually the Bhimashankar Temple celebrates the following Poojas: Prati Somvar; Prati Pradosh; Prati shivratri; Prati Amavasya; Shravan Somvar; Somavati Amavasya; Mahashivratri and Shavan Mass Pratidin.
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.
IN the 94th edition of Literary Vives, I had contributed an article A CUP OF TEA, which was read and appreciated by many esteemed viewers.
That cup of tea prepared by a mother for her son was not destined to be permanent. With ageing, disablement and demise of my mother that cup of tea breathed its last. In conclusion
I had written, "The same cup is there, the same tea is there but the same taste of love is missing."
I was enjoying the cup of tea prepared by my mother until she developed trembling of her fingers due to ageing. We prevented her from using the kitchen, lest she might meet with an accident.
From that day a weak storm started to blow in my home, "Who will prepare tea for me daily at 4.30 am?" For a few days I took the help of my niece, called her daily at around 5 am, she will respond after minimum three calls, wake up from her deep slumber, prepare a cup of tea with signs of displeasure on her face and go back to the laps of Nidra Devi. The same exercise continued for a week or so. I felt as if I was torturing the little girl for my silly comfort. I stopped that. Then I followed the dictum, "What could not be cured must be endured".
In the mean time "MY MORNING CUP OF TEA " was the hot topic of discussion in my home. All the three late risers- my wife, daughter in law and my niece - made a number of plans and tried to execute them. In plan A they prepared tea in the evening, stored it in a thormoflax and kept it on the dining table. However this plan didn't last long as I expressed my dissatisfaction regarding the taste, smell and quality of the tea.
After plan A failed, they tried to implement plan B.
An electric kettle was ordered, dip tea pouches were bought and I was trained how to prepare the dip tea. I did it for a few days and abandoned it as I was not accustomed to this type of tea and the taste was totally repulsive to me.
After two failed attempts plan C was on the cards. It was a training programme to make me ATMANIRVAR. An induction heater was purchased. All the three trainers trained me how to use that heater. It was simpler and easier to use but only drawback was it was dependant on electricity. Gradually I got used to it. Then I experimented with the ingredients like milk, water, sugar, tea, elaichi, tejpatta, ginger and pepper powder with their volume and ratio for one cup of tea. At last I discovered the right combination. At present I am totally ATMANIRVAR. Not only I am preparing my cup of tea at about 4.30 am but also able to make for my better half at about 6.30. In return I get a big complement of THANK YOU. This dedicated service helped me to be in her good book, really a rare lifetime achievement for me. This cup of tea has washed away a number of misunderstandings.
While enjoying the self made cup of tea alone, I see my mother in the cup talking to me, "How are you my son? You are looking tired and a bit dark. At your age give priority to your health. Don't overwork. Don't think about me. Don't blame yourself and feel guilty that you couldn't do something for me which should have been done. What you have done for your mother, I think very few could have done. I am satisfied with every member of your family. Whenever I get a chance I come down to talk to you. I am sharing and enjoying your cup of tea too. Don't feel proud that you have done a great job by preparing a cup of tea. This will not make you ATMANIRVAR. Try to learn cooking. This is a necessity. Don't be in delusion that your everyday will be a bed of roses and others will always be there to cook for you . Tomorrow your niece (Sishu) will get married, your daughter in law (Rima) will get transferred and your wife (Meenu) may fall ill. What will you do? As an obedient and brilliant student, learn the basics of cooking from the above three great teachers you are blessed with. Don't neglect my son, learn it soon, learn it fast. Time is short. Feel proud to be a true learner."
By the time the cup of tea is finished. I feel the same pat on my back - from my mother.
I get what I always wanted - my mother's loving attention and unstinted blessings. I feel lucky!
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..
My wife heard the soft wailing behind our house. She went to investigate and found the little kitten abandoned by its mother. Hardly two days old, the furless animal was shivering in the cold. Its left eye was closed. My wife lifted it and carried it to our garage. Gently she put it down on a rug and covered it with a piece of cloth to keep it warm. As soon as my two daughters saw it, they were suffused with excitement. They took turns in feeding it milk with a dropper. By the third day the kitten started crawling all over the room. We sighed in relief when it opened its left eye and slurped milk from a saucer. Whenever it spotted one of us, it would pad across the lawn from its shady recess in the garage, meowing all the time. Its tiny feet would keep going round and round our legs. Try as we might, we had great difficulty in shaking it off before we could enter the house. After which, it would slip back to its corner and wait to greet the next visitor.
It was fun to have the kitten around, but what about its future? My daughters were keen to keep it, while I was adamant not to have a cat about the house—a stray one at that! It had to go. My wish was fulfilled, but not in a way I wanted.
Since the kitten was fond of running around our legs, we had to be careful not to step on its delicate frame. Someone had to hold it whenever the car or a scooter was taken out or put back in the garage. One day, I was late for an appointment and hurriedly took out my scooter. The thought of the kitten completely slipped my mind. Before I realised, it was all over my legs and under the wheels of the scooter. Plop, its soft head hit the scooter wheel. Abruptly its meowing stopped and its tiny legs thrashed briefly before they lay still.
I thought it was dead as I left for my appointment. It was merely a stray cat, its life quite dispensable like a falling raindrop that splashes fleetingly on a flowing river before fading without a trace. But when I returned home later, the kitten was still alive. My daughters, tears streaming down their eyes, were trying to force drops of milk and water through its twisted mouth. It lay motionless except for the steady rise and fall of its belly.
Is it true that a cat has nine lives? I had heard of a cat which was hit on its head by an iron rod; but it suddenly got up after 24 hours and bounded away! How I prayed, quietly, for such a miracle to happen. But I could not let my family know that a simple stray cat had put me in an emotional quandary. For two days the kitten carried on its silent battle, with my wife and daughters by its side. But I could not bring myself to go near it and face its silent accusation. The kitten continued to sink with the bleeding from its ear refusing to stop. On the second evening after the accident, as I was reading the newspaper, a shrill cry from my elder daughter brought us rushing to the veranda. Stifled screams and sharp intake of breath, and then deathly silence! The kitten was no more, relieved at last from its mortal agony.
Normally I would have unceremoniously dumped a dead animal in the wastebin. But not this one. Its last rites were performed by our servant, after which it found a final resting place in a corner of the rolling garden that had been its haunting grounds. I kept myself aloof from the ceremony, choosing to bury my head—and my guilt—in a pile of inert newspapers.
“Heartless!” my wife called me.
“Inhuman!” charged my elder daughter.
“How can you just sit there, Dad, when our kitten is dead? Don’t you even feel sorry for what you did?” My younger one was more blunt.
Yes, I felt sorry, terribly sorry. So sorry that I found it painful to look at the twisted remains of that fragile body. Fate may have dealt the fatal blow, but I had been its terrible instrument. So I preferred to suffer my sin in solitude.
Many days have passed since the kitten left us. Even then, a lump forms in my throat whenever I think of the little fellow. No one talks about it in our house. It’s as if my wife and daughters are bent on nailing my guilt with their silence rather than with words of scorn. But all of us miss the kitten’s cute gait and its soft meowing. The tiny creature’s boundless love and welcome spirit had won over our small world, dazzling the few hearts it touched in its short span of life.
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.
Eons and roots forever more
tie us
In cozy togetherness
I carry in me moments of
Your life.
As you do mine.
I laugh when you do,
weep with you.
Wounds of your flesh
Cause gashes on my mind
Miles of silence
yawn between us
Yet we need never utter
words.
The weight of our ancestors
Bind us
In cozy togetherness.
Born a poet at heart, Dr. Sangita Kalarickal has been honing her craft since childhood. As a published fantasy writer with a soft corner for literary fiction, she lives in Minnesota, USA, with her husband, kid, and the several characters she writes about. Currently she is working on her first chapbook. In her day job avatar she is a physicist, and has also been known to moonlight as a gardener, and a community volunteer.
(Photo Courtesy Lathaprem Sakhya)
A sapling cherished,
Transported from my Appa's farm land,
Planted by my bedroom window,
Flowered with pink sprays
Carpeting my yard in a blanket, pink.
Soon clusters of fruits dangled,
My tiny friends -the squirrels
Who thrived on the pink blossoms.
Now visited, everyday playing hide and seek.
Biting one here biting one there
Checking in their own way
For a ripe one to savour.
They are a joy to behold.
Yet, I become anxious
Will we get at least one
To taste and bless a beloved tree
To celebrate in its fruit bearing?
Drove me to cover up a few blossoms
So no naughty squirrel could bite them
Yes, we saved a few for ourselves
And our grandsons, like the squirrels
Had anxiously waited for ripe rose apples
The joy we spied in their eyes
On seeing the rose apples
Lush and reddish pink
Was the reward of satisfaction.
Far beyond words could express
As we watched them bite
In to the luscious flesh
For the first time
And relish its taste-
A blend of sweety sourness
As the juice oozed out
Urging them to have more.
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
The ship set sail from the harbour
Steering through the blue green and grey fathoms
Oceans are testimonies, of some unending voyages
Some drifting away into the Bermuda Triangle of time
This one ship's sail unfurled to adversity but
Ready for the supersonic Frisbees of challenges
Catapulted them all in such vigour and balance
They exploded in midair, the crumbles deeply submerged
The haunting sounds of the roaring waves receded
But the deep silence of the omnipresent water was eerier
The urge increased to distill solitude from loneliness
Not an albatross flying by, casting a fleeting shade
Million butterflies stampede in the bilge, bulging helplessly...
Ah the glance of another ship, the tiny floating dot
The enchanting distance was ugly this time, vision blurred
Blotting all the salt from the vast and deep hydro empire
Dissolve tonnes of sugar and jaggery to sweeten the ocean
Would it enchant the ship, steering through ecstasy?
How foolish it is to expect daffodils on a desert!
The ocean knows its might, but the ship has its own too
Every tide has its ebb and the ocean is tide-bound
After all the circumnavigation is done
If the voyage turns successful, the shore would rejoice
Shells and conches would jump and dance, splashing pearls...
But, build at least a sand castle, quite far from the waves' reach
For the ship may not make it, and someone should tell the world
That before it drowned, the ship did weather many a storm
Place a tiny flag upon the castle with the word, ''Survivor''
For, the sands of time always know the truth
Every grain in oneness with the ocean, from time immemorial.
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
Was about to cry
With my heart out,
But stopped
As I saw you smiling
Behind the veil.
Held back my tears
And joined the flock,
Behaving as usual
As if nothing adverse
Has ever happened.
You tried your best
To hide the pain
By always being in a
Cheerful state .
No one bothered
To go deep and know
The reason of your smile
Or the prosaic lifestyle.
It is our story
Lovingly written
By dedicating all our time.
It's for both of us
To read and reread.
What is the need
To make it public
For receiving
Some fake sympathy.
Let it remain inside
In our tears and smiles
For both of us to cherish
Forever in our life.
"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
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
Her parents named her Rani for she was a fair and beautiful child. She was jovial, friendly and a gifted painter. She had won several prizes in painting during her school and college days. Her father was the local Post Master and the family was not very well off. They lived in their ancestral house in the village, which had been inherited by her father. Rani’s elder brother was employed in a power plant after graduating as a mechanical engineer and her younger sister was in college.
Rani was married off when she was 21 years old, having just completed her graduation. The groom’s family was from a nearby town. During the process of matchmaking, they claimed to have two hardware shops in Cuttack (not true, the second shop actually belonged to the Groom’s uncle), two cars (ten year old diesel cars bought cheaply from Delhi and used without permit as taxis) and their own house in Cuttack (turned out, it was a rented two room house).
The groom Raman had graduated and was now running the hardware shop. His family consisted of his widowed father and a widowed sister, both of whom lived in their ancestral house in the village. The groom was dark, thin and of medium height with average looks. His fatherhad assured Rani’s parents that he would treat Rani as his own daughter after the marriage. Taken in by the glib talk of the groom’s family, Rani’s parents agreed to the alliance, without carrying out any background check on the groom and his family. Despite her father’s poor financial condition, Rani was given a dowry of a motorcycle, five tolas of gold, household furniture and one lakh Rupees, as agreed to between the two families. She also carried her easel, paint brush and two unfinished paintings.
Rani’s sister-in-law Pooja had been married young, even before she had completed her graduation. Within a year of her marriage, her husband had died in an accident. Immediately after their marriage, Rani’s husband and his family egged her to arrange an alliance between her brother and Pooja. When Rani declined, it did not go down very well with Pooja and her father.
A few days into the marriage, Rani realized that her husband was a habitual drinker and a wife abuser. Quite a few times, he had turned up inebriated at night and man handled Rani for the pettiest of excuses. Her in laws on their part added to her troubles by constantly criticizing the furniture and other items of dowry she had brought along with her. Besides, Rani’s father-in-law would make her uncomfortable just by the way he would ogle at her. Poor Rani was left alone to fend for herself. She was aware that moving out of that house was her only option, that way she would have only a drunkard husband to deal with.
After a lot of coaxing and begging, when Raman agreed to move to Cuttack, Rani heaved a sigh of relief. The two-bedroom flat that they had moved into was on the first floor of an independent house. The ground floor was occupied by the owners of the house. They seemed to be a friendly middle-aged couple. The future looked bright and happy for Rani. Not only was she far away from her ever brooding sister, she did not have to deal with the lecherous gaze of her father in law. The new house owner’s wife, Reema, seemed like a nice lady too.
Contrary to what she was hoping for, Rani’s travails worsenedas they began to settle down in their house. Her husband Raman would always come home late in the night, smelling of liquor. He would find fault with the food and yell at her for trivial issues. Yelling would then lead to hand grabbing and pushing. This became routine behavior and within time, he had started slapping and beating her as well.He would often force himself on her and after satisfying his lust, he would pass out on the bed. Poor Rani would get hold of herself, wash the dishes and cry herself to sleep. Next morning though, Raman behaved as if nothing had happened the night before. He would not even offer an apology for his beastly behavior. For Rani, this became a routine of sorts and she dreaded the approaching nights. Not wishing to hurt her parents, she never mentioned about the monstrosity she faced, day after day. She hoped and prayed that this phase of life would pass and there would be sunshine and happiness in her life again.
God, in his infinite wisdom, obviously had more pressing issues or other plans for Rani. In 2019, due to the economic situation in the country and slump in housing, there was a slowdown in the sale of building materials and hardware. Raman, who had made huge profits from the sale of cement and other building materials as well as paints and ceramic ware, suffered a decline in his income. It became difficult for him to pay the loan installment of the bank and the rent for his shop. The only money he had was used up to buy his booze.
So bad was his addiction that on some days, Rani would find it hard to even buy groceries for home. To help with the finances, Raman suggested that they borrow money from Rani’s father. She tried in vain to explain to him of her father’s poor financial status but that only infuriated him further. On many occasions, he would come to lunch after downing a couple of drinks and shout at Rani for the most trivial reasons. In one such inebriated state, he kicked Rani in the belly so hard that she aborted a three-month old fetus she had been carrying. Aware of what he had done, Raman was not even repentant. In fact, he commented that Rani was careless to have gotten pregnant during these tough times and he had done the both of them a favor by eliminating the problem once and for all. Rani’s world shattered when she heard her husband utter these cruel words.
On a few occasions, the house owner came up to inquire if everything was alright, upon hearing a commotion. But Rani feigned ignorance and attributed the noise to her having fallen from the stairs or some other such excuse. Though not satisfied with her reply, the landlord did not see how he could help, if Rani herself had no complaints. It was clear to him that the poor woman was in distress. He even asked his wife to inquire discreetly from Rani if there was any problem between her and Raman. Rani did not share her travails with his wife either.
In the end of March 2020, Raman’s father had a nasty fall in the washroom and broke his ankle. Raman had to take him to Cuttack for treatment. His father came along but he was accompanied by his widowed daughter. For the duration of his father’s treatment, the father and daughter duo were to stay at Raman’s residence. Since, Raman had never allowed Rani the luxury of employing a maid or a cook, she had to perform all household chores. For Rani, things were back to square one and there seemed to be no respite in sight.
Rani’s sister-in-law, who was a capable young woman, kept herself busy watching TV serials all day but never offered Rani any help. In fact, the father and daughter duo would often complain about Rani to Raman, further fueling his rage. Even after witnessing how Raman treated his wife, rather than intervening, they seemed to be enjoying the assaults on her. Meanwhile, Rani was also finding it difficult to keep away from the lustful eyes of the old lecher, in the small house. She was not aware whether Raman too noticed this.
When the pandemic broke out in India in the month of March 2020, a lockdown was announced to curb the rate of infections. Due to this, Raman’s father and sister were unable to go back to their village even though the treatment was complete. Their stay further got extended as their village was declared a ‘Containment Zone’, into which entry from outside was banned. Matters became worse, when the liquor stores being closed, Raman could not procure his daily quota of alcohol. The taxis, were also inoperative due to the pandemic, further cutting down his income. All this just kept adding to his frustration.
Despite Rani assuring him that things would look up soon, he went into depression and developed withdrawal symptoms. He became much more violent and would often create a ruckus. By this time though, the house owner was fed up with the commotion that Raman was creating. He sternly warned Raman that he would be made to vacate the house unless he stopped the cacophony. Raman’s father, meanwhile, blamed Rani for failing to control his drinking. He in fact, advised Raman to divorce Rani and get married again to a decent girl who would get him a huge dowry. Rani would often suffer all this humiliation in silence, in a way encouraging Raman and his family to misbehave even further.
After a few months, when shops were allowed to partially open, Raman started going out of the house often. Rani always cautioned him to wear a face mask and take all precautions against the virus, only to be admonished by him. Raman’s father and sister though were not showing any signs of going back to their village, even when their village was no longer in the Containment Zone. Raman’s sister in fact was very happy to overstay her welcome since she had no chores to perform and could watch TV and lord over her sister in law, day in and day out.
A few days later, Raman came home early one day, complaining of weakness and a sore throat. His body felt slightly warm as well. Being the subservient wife, Rani boiled some water and made him inhale steam before he went to bed that night. In the night, his cough was frequent, long and harsh, sounding like a goat under slaughter. This only aggravated Rani’s worst fears, the last thing she wanted was to see her husband in any more distress. The more Raman suffered, the more miserable Rani’s life would become.
That night, Raman’s father and sister stayed confined to their bedroom. They did not even step out for breakfast the next morning. Rani, in a panic by now called the house owner, who immediately sent her some medicines, with instruction to start administering them immediately. He also advised Rani to take Raman to the nearest Urban Health Centre and get him tested for the Covid-19 infection. Despite Raman’s protest, Rani pleaded with him and he unwillingly went and got himself tested at the Health Center. By the time they got back, his father and sister had left the house, leaving the entrance door key with the house owner. Even in his week state, their hurried departure led Raman to conclude that perhaps they were wary of contracting the infection and had hence left in a hurry.
Rani on the other hand, was leaving no stone unturned to make sure her husband was taken good care of. She continued administering the medicines as instructed by the house owner and made Raman inhale steam three times in the day. She served him hot soup along with his meals, all this while being at constant risk of contracting the virus herself. But Rani was a very determined woman and maybe even God felt sorry for the young girl, which is why he was keeping her safe and healthy.
Next morning, Rani went to collect the report from the Urban Health Centre. Even though Raman had tested positive, since he was young and did not suffer from any co-morbidity, he was permitted to stay at home under medical supervision. He was however instructed to be under quarantine for fourteen days. The doctor prescribed the medicines with clear instructions to Rani as to how they were to be administered. He also advised Rani to take all precautions to avoid getting infected from Raman. Rani, who had surrendered herself to fate, nodded in silence.
Struggling with the infection, apart from difficulty in breathing, Raman also felt severe body ache. His coughing was persistent and painful. Despite the care and medication, Raman’s health deteriorated and on the third day, when he struggled to breath, he was evacuated by the CMC (Cuttack Municipal Corporation) doctors and admitted to the hospital. He was immediately shifted to the ICU and administered oxygen. In his semi conscious state, Raman dreamt that he was dead and Yama (the God of Death) had tied a noose around his neck and was pulling him upwards, while his father and sister kept watching by his sides. Rani on the other hand was pulling him back and pleading with Yama to leave him behind. It was dreadful dream. Time to time, he dreamt this scene play in his sub-conscious mind.
Over the next three days, his vital parameters declined, and the doctors had given up hope of his survival. In his miserable condition too, the same horrid dream of Yama played in his mind many times. Rani, prohibited from hospital visits, stayed at home and prayed to Lord Jagannath for her husband’s recovery. She informed her father and father-in-law of his health status, whenever she got an update. At this hour of peril, her landlady displayed immense empathy and provided emotional support, talking to her from time to time on the phone and sending her meals regularly, while maintaining necessary precautions.
Having a lot of time at hand, Rani pulled out the unfinished paintings and kept herself busy, giving them finishing touches. One of the paintings was a portrait of a young girl, the rising sun behind her. Her smiling lips and bright shiny eyes, exuded positivity and hope. The other painting was the mythological depiction of Savitri, holding on to her dead husband and pleading to God Yama, to spare his life. She hung both the paintings in the living room.
On the fourth day of admission to the ICU, as if by a miracle, Raman showed visible signs of improvement. Five days later, he was out of the ICU. On the fourteenth day, his sample was taken and he now tested negative. All the while, Raman contemplated about the dream that had haunted him for days. When he was discharged after fifteen days, he was advised to take certain precautions and medications to strengthen his respiratory and immune systems, for at least the next three months.
Now back at home, Raman was placed on bed rest to recover from weakness. Rani’s father visited them from time to time and would bring groceries and vegetables for the family disregarding his own safety. In his sober state, watching Rani and her father’s kindness on display made Raman feel helpless and repentant of his behavior, but he still could not bring himself to admit his mistakes to Rani. He had also realized that during the same time, his own father and sister had abandoned him. The last he had heard from them, was when his test results had come out and they wanted to know if he had tested COVID positive or not. The timing of their call was a testament of their selfishness.
A month into his rehabilitation, Raman had gained sufficient strength to move about the house. The first thing he saw was the painting of Yama and Savitri hung on the wall, which he had never seen earlier. It was the same scene that had been haunting for days in the ICU. Was it a coincidence or a heavenly message? Then he looked at the other painting of the girl with the rising sun behind her. Didn’t the girl resemble Rani?
Two weeks later, he was fit enough to open his shop after a gap of more than two months. Contacting COVID had been a blessing in disguise for both Raman and Rani. The break from drinking had helped him quit altogether and being sober all this while made him appreciate his wife a lot more. Not only had Rani been his ‘Savitri’ and brought him back from the jaws of death, she was also his Goddess ‘Lakshmi’ by whose blessings his finances were starting to look up. The money he saved by not spending on alcohol helped a lot in this regard.
Now a devoted husband, Raman was well aware of who his well-wishers were. As a result of his experience from the past few months, he was extremely cordial with his father-in-law as well. He had after all, cared for Raman like his own child. With an amazing wife and father-in-law to take care of, Raman called up his own father and sister to let them know that he was cutting off all ties with them. He let them know that they were not welcome back anytime soon, at least not until the COVID vaccine was out. He was after all worried about his wife’s safety and did not want them around lest they give the infection to her, the infection of ‘Inhumanity’.
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.
TO BE ON SAFE SIDE
Sunil K. Biswal
Engineers are the , who always add a safety margin to their designs and workings. Often such safety margins back fire and put them in un-anticipated situations. Here is an an account of one such amusing incident that happened (or almost happened?) in early fifties during construction of the new state capital at Bhubaneswar.
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Panu, the Chief boatman finally had to give in to demands of his team members. He and his team of five boatmen had been awake all night waiting for the PWD Minister. The Minister was supposed to cross the river Kathajodi between existing State Capital at Cuttack and the new Capital at Bhubaneswar. The bridge was yet to be completed. So, for the time being Panu and his team of five boatmen took care of the Government officers and once in a while VVIPs of state.
“Panu, we can’t rely on those lazy assistants of yours to reach the ghat in time and I want them at the ghat well in advance. The minister will cross the river at 5 AM.Tell me what time should you be at the ghat?” The overseer of the State Irrigation Department asked Panu.
“I will ask them to be at the ghat at 3.30AM. Do not worry sir. It is not every day that we ferry a VVIP in our boat. We will all be right on the boat” Panu promised.
The overseer handed over ten rupees to Panu from his contingency fund. Ten rupee was nothing compared to the big risk of failure to ferry the Minister across the river.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The telephone at the Chief Engineer’s office rang. It was a call from the PWD minister’s office and the PA connected the call to Chief Engineer.
“Sir, the minister wants to visit the construction site tomorrow morning at 9AM and wants you to accompany him”, 99the voice of private secretary to Minister of Public Works Department crackled over the phone.
The Chief Engineer’s office whirred to action and tried to make a foolproof plan for the visit to go through smoothly. The minister was known for his mercurial moods and also for his tongue lashings of the senior officials before whole gatherings. No one wanted to take risk of being cause of anything that would irk the Minister.
The Chief Engineer instructed his PA to call the superintending Engineer for an urgent meeting.
Soon, the Superintending Engineer, Jagannath Rao reported to the C.E’s office and was sitting across the C.E’s table.
“Rao babu, the Minster wants to visit the new capital construction at Bhubaneswar site tomorrow morning at 9AM. Please instruct your people properly so that the visit remains free of any problem. You know my retirement is just a year away and I do not wish to be dragged into any trouble.” The Chief Engineer said looking at the S.E.
“Do not worry sir, I will look into it.” Engineer Rao said.
“Arrange for the boatmen to keep the boat ready at the river bank positively so that we start our journey in time. Well begun is half done, what say?” The C.E had a reputation all through his career as a very good planner. He had climbed the hierarchy of public works department from Junior Engineer to Assistant Engineer, and then Executive Engineer, next Superintending Engineer and now finally the Chief Engineer of the 8te of Odisha precisely because he was very good at planning and executing things.
The work for new state capital at Bhubaneswar was on full swing. The existing capital at millennium city Cuttack was facing a lot of challenges in terms of infrastructure and there was little room for expansion. It was surrounded by major river system and there was a constant threat of floods threatening the very existence of the city. So, Bhubaneswar was chosen to be the site for new capital. There were two rivers between Cuttack and Bhubaneswar and one of them had a bridge on it erected recently. The journey from Cuttack to Bhubaneswar still entailed a boat ride across Kathajodi River, a branch of famed Mahanadi.
Jagannath Rao, the Superintending Engineer was a man who never liked to take chances when his reputation was at stake. He, like his boss, the Chief Engineer, was well aware of the proverbial bad temper of the PWD Minister and did not wish to put a black mark on his CCR. Any such negative reflection will seriously jeopardize his chances of promotion to the Chief Engineer’s post a year away.
Rao called his subordinate, Bijay Ghosh, the Executive Engineer over telephone and discussed with him how to ensure smooth visit of the minister.
“Bijay, ask the Kathajodi boatmen to be ready at least an hour before the Minister’s arrival. I am worried at the possibility that when the Minister arrives at the river bank, these boatmen are nowhere near the jetty” Jagannath Rao sounded worried and concerned speaking to Bijay Ghosh, Executive Engineer.
“Bijay, just manage the river crossing and you can relax for the day as the minister will stay for the day at the new capital guest house” Jagannath Rao, the S.E said.
“Sir, do not worry, I will ask them to be right on the boat from 6 AM. I will put the Sub-Divisional Officer on the job. I have found him to be as good at his duties as he was in his studies” Bijay Ghosh tried to comfort his boss who it seemed was unduly worried at such a small task.
The Assistant Engineer was a young man who was learning the way things happen at the workplace and how a last minute delay could jeopardize a well planned event. To be on safe side he instructed the overseer below him to keep the boat ready at the Ghat at 5AM.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Panu and his team discussed and found that instead of going home, and taking trouble of waking up and reporting at the ghat at an unearthly 3.30AM, they could stay back for the night and make good use of the money the overseer had given them. Once the minister was seen across the river, they could go home and sleep to their heart’s content.
So, they cooked food and enjoyed the special ganja that was arranged by one of the team members. The Ganja was said to be from a far away land, Koraput and said to be of best quality. It indeed was. Panu had to warn his friends to limit the intake else they become unfit to sail the boat across the river.
They waited and waited. There was no sign of the overseer, no sign of the Minister and his followers. They waited with groggy eyes, reeling head and suppressed call of nature. Soon, it was 5AM, then 6AM and finally at 7AM the boatmen could wait no longer. They all asked Panu to allow them to go home and relieve themselves.
Panu asked them to wait for one more hour. Did the program of Minister get cancelled? It often happened that way. Panu was at a loss to know the reasons.
At 8.30AM Panu was sure that the program might have been cancelled and allowed his team of boatmen to go home.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The Minister’s convoy arrived at the ghat at 9AM along with the Chief Engineer. The Chief Engineer found that his subordinate officers were all there but the boatmen were nowhere to be seen. The overseer was frantically trying to arrange an alternate boat to ferry the Minister.
And this was the occasion that triggered the proverbial bad temper of the Minister.
^^^^^ The End ^^^^^
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com
He was so cunning.
His smile crafted cunningly,
His eyes sporting cunningness,
His ears stretched cunningfully,
His tongue pointed, so cunningfull.
He was so cunning
All knew he lived cunningly,
So cautioned his cunningness.
Thus he who lived cunningfully
Couldn’t ever be, so cunningfull.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
I read your eyes
narrative of pain
unsaid, unheard
deeply moving
was it my pain
or was it yours
they both merge
and become inseparable
like water in water
pain has no colour
it is eternal
It is one and the same
though I was reading
your eyes.
Your thoughts
memories of tiny moments
spent together
flow in me
like a river
I bathe there to freshen up
all charged with vibrant energy
you and I resonate
inside me
like twin souls
one day
river will sing our song
boatmen will memorise it
and sing it to their babies
somehow I can
hear our song
in lonesome nights
waiting to sleep.
Crossing me out
from the page of your life
did it bring more joy to you
or you were only testing
your will power
whether you can live without
my all encompassing presence
from a distant land
or you failed
cutting all means of
worldly communication
deep satisfaction of taking away
my peace
may bring peace and solace to you
I sincerely hope and pray
I am not keen to know
just that this thought
crossed my mind
I have moved on
yet I do find myself
thinking about you sometimes.
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) of 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 8 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.
the advent
wreath
hangs on
the front
door frame.
my cuties
revel around
decking
their
Xmas tree..
joyous Xmas
waves
in their
little hearts..
in the
on line class
teacher tells
five year old
kids..
"children!
practise
joy of giving..
this being
Xmas time..
pack up
one of your
favourite toys
gift it
to the
poor, needy
child
around.."
I find
my little one's
young Mom
picking his toys
that fills
and spills over
the cupboard
asking him
to select
the best
which he
unwillngly does..
hah!
my child
agrees to give...
let little
minds
open up..
thank you
Teacher!
for moulding
minds...
your words
the last word
on things
to the little
ones..
packing over,
he flaunts
it to his
grandma...
whispering
in my ears
Grand ma..
when will
I get it
back...?'
I crack
my brains
to tell him.
giving,
real pleasure
of giving
is not about
getting it
back...
Hah!
if only
all of us knew...
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).
Growing up as
Papa's little angel,
I never realised
I was just a fool
until the day
the real Angel appeared.
Clad in silver,
diamonds glittering
from dainty earlobes,
palms smooth as silk,
She crooned sweetly, so very softly
"Call me Mummy, sweetheart."
Thereafter Pappa forgot
to call me his little angel,
the greatest fortune of his life.
Slowly, I learnt the trick of things.
Looked and learnt
how one grew into an angel and then
how one bewitched the vulnerable
how blinded by beauty others bowed before you
how minds worked beneath all beautiful bodies.It
I tookup research on the
myths of angels and fairies
And found, hidden between lines
cursed angels turning into malicious witches.
Beauty and ugliness living side by side,
naked feelings opening like sore wounds,
revenge and violence ruling the roost.
Daydreams and wild fancies
saw me through turbulent adoloscence
ugly duckling slowly transforming to
youthful beauty
a sleeping princess, cursed on birth
waiting for her own Prince
trapped in the house of smiling angels.
Years sped by
the spooky spinning wheel hidden away
the pricking finger and drop of blood forgotten as mere fairy tale
till one day I opened my eyes
and looked into His,
The Prince Charming of my daydreams.
Here to save me from the curse
of previous births.
I wear white silk sarees now
draped elegantly over the tumultous
passions pulsing within,
Tiny diamonds sparkle in my ears
My voice drips honey
My shy smile brightens the day
But buried deep within
under the layers of
angelic claptrap,
the fool still crouches
Waiting to rush in
precisely whereA
Angelsfear to tread .
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
(Udvada Atash Behram)
S. SUNDAR RAJAN
S. NEERAJA
The roots of Zorostrians
Is traced to Iranians;
Marginalised thru conquest,
Iran became Islamic.
To preserve identity
Of their culture and beliefs,
A group fled from Kharasan
To settlement of Sanjan,
In West coast of India,
As Parsees from Persia.
They carried fire, sacred
And had it consecrated
As Atash Behram fires
Made out of sixteen fires,
For bed of Sanjan temple.
It stands out very special.
Priests then preferred Udvada,
To house the temple, in awe.
Termed "Victorious Fire"
Unique that will ne'er tire,
Burning bright, eternally,
Hallmark of divinity.
Nine families so priestly,
Take time continuously
With heirs as the guardian,
To service this sacred shrine.
S. SUNDAR RAJAN
S. NEERAJA
On new moon days you hold me captive,
I am out of sight, many perceive.
Nay. I move out surreptitiously,
And ever so expeditiously.
I radiate as the crescent moon,
To adorn the sky, shaped like spoon.
The Earth’s shadow keeps me company,
With the stars joining the symphony.
I commence the next calendar month,
In tune with the Vedic lunar count.
Seeing me so ravishing and shy,
The yearning waves reach out to the sky.
I bid good bye to traverse my path,
Leaving you waiting, I’ll come unsought.
S. SUNDAR RAJAN is a Chartered Accountant and has established his independent consultancy. He is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled Beyond the Realms and collection of short stories in English titled Eternal Art, which has been translated into Tamil, Malyalam, Hindi, and Telugu. His stories in Tamil titled Sundara Kadhaigal are being broadcast on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station every weekend. His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate so easily. He is a catalyst for social activities. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He organizes medical camps covering general health, eye checkups and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and nature lover, he is currently organizing a tree planting initiative in his neighborhood. He is a member of the Chennai Poets Circle and the India Poetry Circle. His motto: Boundless Boundaries Beckon…
S. NEERAJA is a healthcare professional with a Masters in Chemical Engineering. She is multifaceted with a passion for art and Carnatic Music. She is an animal lover caring deeply about their welfare.
Nations conquered by mighty kings
Kingdoms flourished by wise men
The globe witnessed growth around
Art, culture, and customs glorified ahead
Did time alter bullock carts to cars?
Cities grew, citizens saw a change
Mankind was glad when there’s a glory
They’re sad whenever there’s strife
Growth defined rulers and kingdoms
Is the time a reason for the change?
Science changed the lifestyle of being
Machines ruled the lives of people
Faith in god satisfied the same folks
Advancement in medicine made miracles
Does the time soothe the soul of everyone?
Be the change you want to see ever
Men change as per the change in time
Wounds in body and mind heal in time
We name the good or bad as per need
Is time really the best healer always?
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
It’s her reminiscence that takes me back to my school days.
She, the angel of God, the almighty was a friend in need in all ways.
She consoled and congratulated me,
She set my creative wings to flee.
She put me in tune with the music of the fabulous language
Her spark of Divinity nurtured in my life’s vantage.
She was my guide, who swayed my way
She moulded and incited me for a new sway.
She unveiled the phases and faces of the world.
She enkindled me to look ahead to the horizon unfurled.
She felt my pulse with a heart
that knew not and never to hurt.
She lauded me for the way I am
transcending the transience of any exam.
In all my fortitude, frailties and flaws,
She stood for me with her applause.
Have you ever seen such a teacher like my sister
Who can move my mind in her sheer glister?
My past days ebbed into the bosom eternity.
Now I long for those days of teenage infirmity!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
How are we going to Bangalore aunty, asked my nephew who was all excited to visit the city (it was his first visit).
Well, we'll take a flight so that we will save on time and will be able to look around the city, I said.
No aunty, not by plane, let's go by train please, he entreated
But why do you want to travel by train, Karthik, I said.
Because I heard so much about the Brindavan Express and the lovely things we get to eat on the train, he said.
But you do get something similar served on flights too, don't you? I said.
No, aunty, it's not the same because we have no choice on flights since we have to eat what is served, he mumbled.
I could see the young boy's point but for me time was a constraint as I had to return to Chennai for an engagement the same evening.
As I was browsing the net for booking our tickets suddenly an idea struck me and I said, Karthik, if that's the reason for taking the train, I could suggest something that will please both of us.
O.K. aunty, was his half-hearted reply.
We reached the airport well in advance and I was glad when the flight was announced, more so because the airline had a reputation of being cancelled suddenly due to a technical snag. Karthik was happy when the air hostess told him he could sit wherever he liked and that he need not adhere to the seat numbers( The small plane was sparsely filled up ) .
Half-way through the flight the food trolley was wheeled in and I noticed Karthik's delight when he knew his favourite sandwiches and burgers were part of the menu apart from the various fruit juices. He insisted on treating me with his pocket money. Biting into the vegetable burger he was saying yum yum, nodding his head. Soon he polished off the large sandwich with a bottle of fruit juice.
Once out of the airport, Karthik wished to travel by an auto to our destination saying it was more adventurous to do so. Since I didn't want to disappoint him I took a prepaid auto and we bundled ourselves into it.
When we reached our destination I wanted to know whether Karthik felt that his wish had been fulfilled.
Yes aunty, I am very happy with both. The 'jerky Sky auto' ( with its turbo engine) and the 'Land auto'.
Sky or land, as for me, it did make a difference, I thought, in that I was able to save a considerable sum on the tickets (because the air fare of this airline was considerably less than the rest of the airlines) at the same time please my nephew and also be back for my engagement in Chennai.
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.
Like gossamer thread, the bubbles
well up on the surface of the brew.
Your stir the concoction of my twilight.
Outside the door I wait , an athlete’s
heart amidst the cacophony of the stadium.
The flowers, divan and the walls wait
in half-darkness for the doors to open.
A few books unread , sheaf of closed
envelops piled on the mantelpiece wait.
I wait on the dry river bed with morose pebbles.
Till the evening streamed in and whispered
in your ears to come another day .
And you walked in to debris outside.
In the harsh headlight of the taxi, I saw
an outline framed against evening sky
no emotion, no stir of leaf, song of birds.
Black soots filled the coffee cup as
I stacked the charred remains in ribs.
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.
I sit here for hours
With my helpless pen
Shut between my lifeless lips
With a weekly commitment clear
Your silhouetted frail features
Do appear, fade
And again appear .
A sense of loss, deprivation,
An imaginary lurking fear
Surround me, world appears empty,
Distorted images blink, nothing occurs .
I wonder like a ship wrecked sailor
How to link my anguished thoughts
In a flowing , rhythmic order .
Your swollen feet, drooping brows
Haunt me when I leave you
So disturbed, so shattered am I
Do only constantly hear
A crumbling sound in me.
A morbid numbness descends
That no God dare a cure.
I found myself in a dream
Clutching your small feet togother
To massage hot oil, some days before.
I owe everything to you
But not the fate, a traitor
As a thought to serve you
Stealthily drifting too far .
Bear with me, my dear mother
I rot in the moth hour of my careeer
To draw the curtains over .
You dispensed like a pleased deity
All your care, love and warmth .
You are my root, my ancestral hearth
A benevolent planet in my natal chart .
My poetic journey, a flickering candle
Need your cover, your veil
You only can bestow any favour
As woolen threads of affection
Are woven through your fingers
With aesthetic sublimity, artistic care .
My holy Basil plant, my sweet mother .
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
O , Ethereal Glider !
swinging on the wings of the wind
what an immense passion
in me you leave
turning me a green- eyed monster ...
(and a mad dreamer...)
O , Dweller of the Empyrean
conquering aerial heights
celebrating freedom unbound
you glide and glide
as if to nowhere
flying, without flying...
abounding in
asymmetrical symmetries
and geometrical symphonies !
Isn't it for an exotic view
tirelessly you fly
to the nearby heavens
on the pretext of eyeing your prey ?
Then on static poise-
enjoying ethereal bliss !
steady voyage -
divinely inspired !?
O , Serene Voyager !
bask in the Sun
Emperor of the Air !
bathe in his glory
Veteran Flyer !
rever his might
Amateur Swimmer of the zeniths !
n love with the blue loveliness !?
O, friend of the rain bows
musing in rhythm with the heavenly tunes
Glide ! glide !
and paraglide your imperial freedom
O , Conquerer of the Heights !
back to earth
come friend, come
from your land Exotica
swift shift ,
ski ...
ski to the earth's soily green calls
land here
land here and tell us dear ,
what your true love is .
O , Wanderer inimitable !
teach me,
teach me to synchronize
the soul's silent notes
With the notes of the silence unheard .
AS LEAVES FADE FAST
Pradeep Rath
I sit on my chair
and eye towards leafy banana trees.
A slice of blue sky,
attics, roofs of neighbour's house,
Kadamba tree,
purple December and saffron marigold flowers,
Elovera and Basil plants and butterflies hopping.
Never thought trees have so many leaves,
even banana trees.
A revelation.
An elongated bud
stands almost straight,
unruffled like an infant,
full of dreams.
Young leaves are so charming,
full of warmth and radiance, move in the wind
in graceful demeanour like blushing brides.
Slightly older leaves flaunt their scars,
like youthful soldiers,
bruised in the struggle.
Old leaves with grey yellowish colour,
thoroughly battered from head to waist
and beyond,
flutter helpless in the slight wind,
look morosely to mingle in earth,
the eternal mother.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor was born on 20th March 1957 and educated at S. K. C. G. College, Paralakhemundi and Khallikote College, Berhampur, Ganjam, Odisha. Author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry, two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His compendium of critical essays on trends of modernism and post modernism on modern Odia literature and Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim.He divides his time in reading, writing and travels..
It was a fine dawn in November 2016. Transition from night to day was beginning. Darkness of the previous night was receding. The sky was getting brighter. Morning twilight was heralding the beginning of the new day. The Sun was below the horizon. It was yet to rise. The chorus melody of bird songs was drifting in.
We were walking down to the Phoenix Bay Jetty, Port Blair. We had no reservation for sea voyage to Havelock Island. My wife was standing at the booking counter. The queue started from her. The counter opened at 5 am. She was confident and smart enough to get government ferry tickets.
It was a tourist season. There was a heavy rush of visitors. I was apprehensive - if no ticket is available, Havelock Island will remain a dream for us. I was sorry for not making advance booking.
The lady Assistant of the counter said- 'Few tickets are available. On the basis of urgency, one person will get one ticket only.'
My wife requested - 'Ma'm ! If you issue one ticket only to me, I cannot go alone without my husband who is standing by my side. Due to some unavoidable difficult circumstances, we could not make advance booking. Please see me, my husband, our Aadhar Cards and help us to have a glimpse at the iconic Havelock Island.'
The Assistant was impressed enough to give us two tickets. We thanked her a lot for her cooperation.
Distance between Port Blair and Havelock Island is around 70 km.
The ferry left harbour at 6 am. The Sun was coming out of the sea and casting its rosy hue on the eastern horizon, sea waters, sky and islands which were glamorously beautiful to mesmerize us. The smiling Sun was rising above the waters and our ferry was moving on the Andaman Sea. The chirping birds were flying from sky to sea in search of fish for their breakfast. The natural ambience was so beautiful and picturesque that it remained in our heart ever after.
Port Blair and Kala Pani were left behind. After an hour we reached the deep sea. We went up to the deck of the ferry to enjoy the blue sea with its lush green islands, floating ships and vessels. To our utter astonishment, flying fishes were flashing across our eyes. Such a scenery we had never ever seen in our life except in TV.
The ferry reached Neil island and some people got down and some others came into the ferry. After around half an hour, we left Neil Island. Havelock Island was 18 kilometers away. The flying sea birds and fishes were amusing us during our sea voyage.
The sun was rising above the sky, our ferry was approaching Havelock Island. Before 10 am, we reached Havelock Jetty and checked in a hotel. It's a small town with a population of around 6500. It was named after the British General, Sir Henry Havelock. Now, it is renamed as Swaraj Island since our first Swaraj (independence) was achieved by Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose on 30.12.1943 on the soil of Andaman and Nicobar Islands.
We hired a scooty from a man and went on exploring the natural splendor of the island. Me and my wife were moving by scooty from beach to beach enjoying its virgin beauty. We sat on white sand, sipped green coconut water and talked for hours on the seashore under the blue sky. The cares and anxieties of day- to-day life were not there to disturb us. My wife whispered in my ear smiling lovingly - 'Really we went back to our college days.'
Havelock Island is famous for its pristine beaches with crystal clear water and scuba diving, beautiful marine life, awesome underwear corals. We were captivated by the tropical forests and white sand of seashores. Its beaches such as Radhanagar, Kalapathar, Elephant and Vijay Nagar were in their best to amaze us. We enjoyed the sunset on the crescent-shaped Radhanagar Beach.
In the evening while returning the scooty, I told its owner - 'To get a small amount of hire charges, you have handed over your costly scooty to me. Had I gone away with it, what would you have done ?'
He smiled and said - 'The Island is surrounded by sea. Would you take my scooty in the flight? We know you, my tourist friend. You have come here to enjoy, not to steal. No such theft has ever happened. We are simple. Cheating is unknown to us. Greed and selfishness are beyond our imagination. You will be astonished to know - we don't know commercial fishing even, though fishes are plenty here. If we get a big fish, we distribute it among ourselves, but we do not sell it. Tourists are our source of livelihood. We never cheat them, nor they deceive us. We live on tourism. We have no other source of income. Hospitality is our service, habit and hobby. My friend! Love is returned in love only.'
Spontaneously, I told him - 'My friend ! You taught me a lesson which my university forgot to impart. Thank you.'
I was simply dumbfounded by his simplicity and frankness. I was so impressed by his dealings and behaviour that I hugged him with my best wishes, love and affection.
Next morning we came by ferry to Neil Island 18 kilometers away from Havelock Island. The coral reefs of Bharatpur Beach and beauty of Laxmanpur Beach were fascinating. Howarh bridge is a natural formation accessible at low tide. Its immaculate greenish-blue water, green vegetation and white sands were mind-blowing.
We could not get a hotel to stay in and we left for Port Blair (42 km away) by ferry after sightseeing at Neil Island. But it was a boon in disguise. The Sunset view in the Andaman sea was incredible. Our ferry was moving ahead. The Sun was going down the rosy western sky towards its Sea-home for rest after its day's work of giving warm light and life to all. The birds were returning to their nests with sweet chirping. We were gazing with unflinching eyes at the rosy setting Sun till it entered its Sea-home. The sea became dark and we reached Port Blair.
In the evening we came back to our hotel in Port Blair. We asked the manager about our next day's sightseeing.
He said - 'Please get ready to enjoy the amazing 'Human Safari'. I have already made reservations for you. The tourist bus will pick you up at 4 am tomorrow. Accordingly come down to the road before the scheduled time. The guide will receive you.'
My wife told him - 'We have the pleasant experience of Lion Safari and Tiger Safari in Nandan Kanan, Bhubaneswar. But you are saying - 'Human Safari'. What is it ?'
He said - 'Human Safari' is a delightful bus journey to enjoy the immaculate beauty of Jarawas in their native reserve forest. It is more fascinating and funny than Lion Safari and Tiger Safari. The Jarawas are preserved and protected in their natural habitat. They have been living there since time immemorial. They are the real beauty and attraction of Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Tens of thousands of tourists across the World see them every month. They have got an incredible and international reputation. Go and enjoy the Human Safari'
We slept early. Our passion for the Jarawas was so indomitable that we got up at 3 am to get ready for the Human Safari. At about 4 am we got into the tourist bus. After picking up tourists from the hotels, the bus ran in the darkness towards the Jarawa reserve forest. The unknown areas and forests were arousing a lot of interest and curiosity in us.
The Andaman Trunk Road was meandering through the tropical rainforests towards Baratang 100 kilometers away. The darkness of night was fading away. The Sun was rising and sunshine was seeping through the leaves of trees. We were eagerly awaiting to see wild animals. But they were running away. However, a few wild pigs, deers and birds came to our notice.
After some time, our bus halted at the Jarawa Tribe Protection Check Post. Permits and permissions were required for entering Jarawa reserve forest. There were penal provisions to deter unauthorized entry, hunting, photography, videography, use of alcohol, inflammable materials, weapons, etc. We cooperated with the checking authorities. Scrutiny took an hour. We took our breakfast and tea in the nearby eateries.
The bus entered the Jarawa reserve forest. Our anxiety was rising to see the Jarawas. All eyes were looking around in search of the primitive tribal. We asked the guide - 'Please show us the Jarawa.'
He said - 'We are approaching the Jarawa Buffer zone. Generally, Jarawas are found there. It will take around half an hour to reach the place. Please wait patiently. I will give you some indication to look at them. Our bus will go slow, but cannot halt as per the safari protocol. Please don't disturb or tease them, nor offer them any food or drink. Just look at them silently. Otherwise, we will be caught by the guards of the Jarawa reserve forest. Severe penalties are imposed for violating the safari protocol. See them calmly and quietly.'
The bus was moving. Our eagerness was rising. We reached the Jarawa Buffer Zone. All of a sudden, the guide exclaimed - 'Jarawa !'
We stood up on our toes and peeped through the windows. To our utter surprise and astonishment, three scantily clad Jarawas : one woman, one boy and one man were sitting on the roadside of the virgin forest and basking in the sunshine. Their short stature, black body and glittering eyes were miraculous. The bus was moving slowly. We saw - one Jarawa young man and one young woman were collecting honey on a lofty tree. Our eyes, mind and heart were fixed on them. Bus could not halt. The incredible sight passed by. After two kilometers some Jarawas were returning with fruits and roots in the virgin forest. Except enjoying their glamour silently we had nothing to do. Neither we knew their language nor we were allowed to interact with them. Their appearance was so picturesque that it remained in our mind forever. We were so spellbound by their typical beauty and lustre that we could not know when and how the Jarawa Buffer Zone ended. They were not available any more. We were lucky enough to have a glimpse and glance at them. Our mission was fulfilled. Our soul was satisfied. This was once in a lifetime experience.
The guide told us - 'Their habits and habitats are unparalleled. They are the primitive humans residing in the lap of nature's paradise and living on hunting and gathering what is available there.'
The speed of our bus increased. The Jarawa reserve forest was left behind. We arrived at Baratang jetty and went to the other side of the creek by ferry.
Dense virgin mangrove forests were on both the sides of the creek. We sat on the speed boats that started running, as if flying, in the middle of the creek. There was competition among our boats. No group was willing to remain far behind. Almost all of us were drenched by the sprinkling water formed by the speeding boats. We were not accustomed to such a type of high speed water sports. Our pleasure of running by boat was overpowering our fear of drowning in the unending deep creek. However, it was funny and amazing.
At last, the speed of our boats became slower. All our boats came closer. We entered a marvelous mangrove forest. Our speed boats were moving slowly like canoes in a queue underneath the mangroves. We were bending and leaning to escape from the mangrove branches and leaves, lest they hurt us. Of course, long hairs of some of our lady friends were touched and caught by some mangrove branches. As our boats were moving slowly, there was nothing to worry, rather it was funny.
A friend said - 'Really, you are so beautiful and cute that the mangroves are embracing you. You should feel proud of your glamour.'
The mangroves were smiling with us. It was an amazing journey.
We reached a small wooden Jetty safely. We came outside. A narrow moorum road was meandering through the fields. The place was unknown to us. Under the guidance of our guide we walked a couple of kilometers and reached the Limestone Caves. So many tourists were there. We also entered the caves. Limestones were dazzling. We were fascinated by their lustre. Drops of water coming from the limestones were falling on the floor of the caves. It was slippery. The high heels of a lady friend slipped. Her dress was soiled. It looked like the map of India. Though unhurt, she was unhappy.
A friend said smiling - 'The Limestone Cave has made you Miss India, Madam ! You should thank it.'
All laughed. Such funny things were usual and common in our hazardous journey. We enjoyed the amazing Limestone Caves.
We returned to the Jetty, took our lunch and went by small vehicles to a hill. The Mud Volcano was on the top of it surrounded by forest. We walked up to the Mud Volcano. At that time, there was no volcanic eruption.
The guide told - 'The last eruptions occurred during 2003-2005 and mud came out of the volcano. Due to its mud eruptions, it is called Mud Volcano. It's a tourist attraction.'
Our sightseeing was finished. We crossed the creek by ferry. Our bus started its return journey to Port Blair on the Andaman Trunk Road through the Jarawa reserve forest in the afternoon. We were looking both sides of the road, but no Jarawa came to our notice. We were disappointed and sat quietly in the bus.
Breaking the silence, the guide narrated - 'Jarawas are the wonders of the World and aloof from modern civilization.Their language is quite different from ours. Their tradition, culture, custom and religion are typical. Today, around 400 Jarawas live in groups of 40-50 people in their chaddas (dwellings). They had come out of Africa tens of thousands of years ago.'
We requested - 'Please tell everythingó about them.'
He continued - 'Jarawas are hunter-gatherers. They do not know cultivation and live on hunting wild animals, fishing in the sea and creeks, gathering fruits and roots in the virgin forests, collecting honey from the lofty trees. They use bows and arrows, adzes, and wooden harpoons to get their food.
They are now vastly outnumbered by outsiders who have settled on their land by encroaching it.
In 1999 and 2006, many of the Jarawas were wiped out by measles due to contact with outsiders.The human safaris have exposed the Jarawa to diseases to which they have no immunity. Still human sñ in joiningafaris are tolerated and going on as usual, as it is satisfying both the tour operators and tourists.
Nowadays, the Jarawas are getting government assistance and returning to the mainstream of the civilized World.'
The story of Jarawa was finished. We reached Port Blair at about 10 pm. Next day, we left for Bhubaneswar via Kolkata by flight. Our Andaman Safari came to an end.
Years after our Andaman Safari, my mind recollects the sweet memories of the virgin islands and crystal clear blue waters of Andaman sea with their flying fish, pristine white sand as well as the immaculate Jarawa and cordial hospitality of the islanders. Really, it's a heaven on earth.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
BURIED UNDER FOGS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Abandoned corpses
buried under fogs
do tell a story of someone
waiting for the return of their own,
in some hopeless corner.
A nation watches breathlessly
at the remnants of wretched lives
and quickly forgets them,
public memory is so short,
who has time for the dead?
But somewhere lives a mother
waiting for her son,
a wife longing for a touch,
a blinking child groping
for a firm finger to hold on to.
Someone walks, someone stops.
Someone lives, someone dies.
And the abandoned ones
lie on empty streets
washed by sad moon light.
Souls walk on in search of home
among the stars.
The ones who stay back
look for answers
from heartless men.
As hopes fade
and dreams melt in tears
they wish they had better times
fewer heart breaks, smaller worries
fewer spats and more smiles.
And the abandoned corpses
keep waiting
for cold funerals.
Buried under fogs, whose tears
were left behind in a grey sky.
In the midst of shehnai music and the din of an assortment of guests and relatives, I suddenly sensed a presence at my side. Our daughter Ganga’s wedding was just two days away. I turned and found my wife Shalini standing there. She looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears, a letter and a parcel in her hands. I panicked.
“What happened? Why are you crying? Whose letter is that?”
In reply she just handed over the letter and parcel to me. Her tears continued unabated. I opened the parcel. It was a red jewellery box. Inside was the most beautiful necklace I have seen in my life - a gold chain, with a string of vivid red stones joined together with loving care. The stones were blood-red, as if someone had squeezed his heart out and frozen it in pieces of timeless beauty. And the stones were sitting there spellbound, wondering how they could be made so eloquently charming.
Shalini had already opened the letter. The writing was familiar. Oh, the letter is from Chachaji! I was surprised. How did Chachaji know about Ganga’s wedding? I had not sent an invitation to him. In fact, for the last twelve years, I had never written to him, nor replied to his many letters. In my memory, Chachaji had become just a forgotten shadow in the canvas of life, a dim footprint in the journey of time.
Today with his letter, my mind went many years back - to our small house at Dhanbad, its open courtyard, the smell of jasmine in the evenings, and the incessant screams, shrieks, and chatter of our daughter Ganga every waking hour of the day. Our Ganga, the cute baby who had filled our life with so much joy and fulfillment. Pages from memory unfolded before my eyes, in the background of Ganga’s laughter, childish talks and our busy life.
It was 1984. I had just finished my degree in Metallurgy and got a job in a mining company in Dhanbad. Shalini and I were newly married. Dhanbad was new to both of us and we were looking for friends. Two days before Diwali, the Festival of Lights, my colleague Alok said,
“Come to Chachaji’s party on Diwali eve. Everyone from our company and many others will be there. You will find a lot of interesting people.”
I was curious.
“Chachaji? You mean your uncle?”?
Alok broke into a huge laugh.
“No my friend, he is not my real chacha. He is the universal Chachaji of Dhanbad. Everyone calls him Chachaji, even people across three generations. He is the owner of the Chacha-Chachi Saree Bhandar at the Chowk. The funny thing is, he is not married, says the saree shop is his chachi! Spends the whole day there and even the nights during festival times. He is a great guy, tells funny jokes, sings well and his parties are the best in the town - lively and entertaining. Both of you should come. I have already told him. He will call you.”
Chachaji’s call came within half an hour. From the throaty voice, I knew this must be an open man with a large heart. We were happy to accept his invitation. The Diwali party was a fantastic experience for us. More than a hundred people were presentand Chachaji had time for everyone. In his mid forties, he was a charismatic person, there was no doubt about it. He sang old Hindi songs really well. I am also passionately fond of old Hindi songs. I sang a couple of melancholic songs, ‘Ek wo bhi diwali thi, ek ye bhi diawali hey’ and ‘Sarangaa teri yaad mein’.
Chachaji had found out my name was Chhotu. He teased me,
“Hey Chhotu, you have just been married. Why are you singing such sad songs?Is Bahu torturing you too much?”
Everyone burst into laughter. Shalini’s face became red with embarrassment.
That was the beginning of a deep friendship between us and Chachaji. He had this wonderful quality of striking a friendship with everyone and make him feel great about it. We visited each other’s home quite frequently, in the company of mutual friends. And gradually, Chachaji became like a family member to us.
When our daughter was born seven months later, Chachaji was overwhelmed with joy. He named her Ganga, saying that was his mother’s name. We accepted, out of respect for Chachaji and his departed mother. Despite our mild protests, he loaded Ganga with dozens of toys and dresses. We spent some of the happiest evenings with him, he singing beautiful lullabies for Ganga, his eyes moist with emotion.
Time passed. Ganga grew up to be a cute, active baby, full of pranks and laughter. Chachaji was her favorite person, more so because of the abundant supply of toffees and toys. We used to tease that Chachaji was making sure Ganga would grow up to become a government official, fond of bribes and gifts! Chachaji disagreed, “Our Gudiya will become Miss World one day and spread joy and beauty wherever she goes!”
Three years into our friendship with Chachaji, something unexpected happened, and Chachaji’s life took a completely different turn. His elder brother, who was in politics, represented Dhanbad in the Legislative Assembly. He was also the Revenue Minister of the state. He suddenly died of a heart attack.
Chachaji went to Patna to bring his dead body for cremation in Dhanbad. His brother was extremely popular and thousands of people came for the funeral. There was a huge crowd and Chachaji got lost in that crowd. That was the last time we felt he was within our reach. He moved away, sucked by the whirlpool of events. The Chief Minister made him the Revenue Minister to fill his brother’s place. He contested the elections and won hands down.
Chachaji got extremely busy with his work and political activities. Initially he came to Dhanbad once every week, but gradually the frequency became less. The shop was handed over to his sister’s son to manage and whenever Chachaji came to town, he remained busy with phone calls, meeting local leaders and the people. But he always made it a point to see us, and spend some time playing with Ganga, telling her stories and listening to her chatter.
But we could see the change in him. His mind was always preoccupied. He remained absent-minded. Sometimes he would remove himself from us, talk on the telephone, giving instructions in a harsh tone, the language bordering on offensive.
Whenever we visited his house, we found strange kind of people, sitting in his chamber or outside. We had the sense to know that some of these chaps were not desirable types.
Gradually, we felt a bit uncomfortable in visiting Chachaji at his home. He also understood our discomfort. In fact, he was very happy when we invited him for dinner at our place, to meet Ganga and play with her. But his timings were so uncertain that it was embarrassing to include others in the dinner. Sometimes he would turn up close to midnight, keeping others waiting from eight o’ clock. So finally it came down to a one-to-one dinner with Chachaji, even late into the night. Ganga, surprisingly, would keep awake, waiting to play with him, and grab toffees, chocolates, and toys from him.
Late at night, after dinner at our home, Chachaji used to feel relaxed. Ganga would have gone to sleep on his lap, after listening to his stories. Chachaji would narrate to us his experiences in Patna, and share with us details of state politics and secrets of a few of his admirers and detractors. One day he was feeling expansive after a sumptuous dinner.
“You people will never imagine the kinds of things we have to do in politics. It is a game of cut-throat competition and survival. You need money and God knows where one has to dip his hands to get it.”
Shalini smiled and asked jocularly.
“Chachaji, why don’t you reveal those secrets to us? You have told us so many things! Let us also know the secret of making money!”
Chachaji shuddered,
“No Bahu, it’s better not to know those things. Some of them are like figments of a horrible nightmare. Good that I am not married and I don’t have a family. At least I won’t have to feel guilty before my own family!”
Shalini pounced on the opportunity to pull his legs.
“So, Chachaji, we are not your family? You have been lying to us all these days, saying all of us are like one big family!”
Caught off guard, Chachaji felt a little embarrassed.
“Arrey Bahu, what are you saying? You people are more than a family to me. And Ganga Bitiya? She is the throb of my heart! God bless her!”
Another evening, after dinner, Chachaji gave us a rude shock.
“You know a professional killer has been given a supari to kill me!”
Ganga had gone off to sleep on the sofa with her head on Chachaji’s lap. Shalini was dozing off. She got up with a start.
“What, Chachaji? What are you saying? A supari? You mean a contract to kill you? Is it true? How did you know? Do such things happen in real life? We thought that is all filmy stuff.”
“Yes, it is true. The DGP himself called me last week, saying he is sending the I.G. Intelligence to brief me. That I.G. is from Dhanbad and is a great fan of mine. He disclosed that a don of the coal mafia here has put out a contract for my killing.”
“Why Chachaji?”
“Political ambition, what else? These days a special security squad is following me everywhere. It is a bloody nuisance.”
Shalini was curious. She moved towards the window,
“You mean some squad fellows are standing outside our house? Wow, Chachaji, we have become famous, thanks to you. Can I take a peek at them, through the window?”
Chachaji smiled at her childlike excitement.
“You can’t see them. It is their job to remain invisible and watch for danger.”
“How long will they be with you?”
“I don’t know. As long as the danger persists. May be till the don gets bumped off in an encounter.”
Shalini was shocked.
“Bumped off? What do you mean, bumped off? How can somebody be bumped off in cold blood?”
“It’s either him or me. Now that he has put a contract for my killing, only one of us will have the chance to live.”
I couldn’t hide my disgust.
“Chachaji, why are you going through all this? You had such a happy, carefree life before you became a minister! Why, we haven’t heard you singing an old song for more than a year now.’
Shalini nudged me and added archly,
“And for more than a year, you haven’t talked about the Bollywood heroines, which you used to do so often with a rare glint in your eyes.”
Chachaji and I laughed, a little defensively, remembering the happy banter we used to exchange, fantasizing about the raving beauties of the film world, the way adult males with colourful imagination usually do. I continued,
“Why don’t you simply give up this world of cut-throat politics, Chachaji? Is it really worth, all this money, power, and admirers, if your life is at risk?”
Chachaji flashed a sad smile.
“It’s difficult to make you understand Chhotu. Politics is like an addiction. Once you are in it, you are in a different world, floating in a cloud. There is money, tons and tons of it, often easily acquired. There is comfort that you cannot imagine from outside. And above all there is the power - power over people, over things. The power that comes with unabated adulation, and the power to decide people’s destiny with a mere signature on the file. That is a heady feeling, rare in life, reserved for the few who get political power and lord over people’s destiny. It’s impossible to give it up. A person who loses political power lives in constant torment, like a drug addict without drugs.”
I am not sure I understood the feeling fully. But after Chachaji left, Shalini and I talked late into the night. Where have we lost our cheerful, innocent Chachaji, who used to crack jokes with his friends, whose eyes used to get moist while singing, ‘Chalri sajani, ab kya soche.’ The Chachaji of today is a different person entangled in a labyrinthine maze of power, intrigue and senseless violence, where he might be killed or few others might be bumped off so that he will live! We were worried for him.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Around three years after that evening, Bihar was seized with a new problem. Incidents of kidnapping became very common. Almost every day there were reports of children getting kidnapped. With elections to the State Assembly approaching, the government held the opposition responsible for engineering the kidnappings to discredit the party in power. The opposition blamed the government for staging the kidnappings with police help to collect money through ransom. Nobody knew for sure how it happened, but the kidnappings continued unabated.
In those days of uncertainty, on a cold December afternoon my phone rang at the office. I picked up the phone. It was Shalini, crying. My heart sank. Was there a problem? I asked her to compose herself and tell me what was wrong.
What she told me broke my heart to pieces. Ganga, our eight-year old daughter,
the throb of our life, was missing. She had not returned from the school. Voice choking with worry, I asked Shalini, hasn’t the school bus come? How about the other children? Has she asked the other parents?
Between sobs, she told me that in the morning Ganga insisted on going to school on her bike and since the distance is only half a kilometer, she had let her go. Shalini was hysterical, blaming herself for our daughter missing after school. I too broke into uncontrollable crying, fearing the worst. After a minute or so I told her not to lose hope and promised her no matter how much ransom it costs us, we will get back our daughter. Beyond any consolation, she kept down the phone. I felt as if someone was cutting my heart to pieces and every passing minute was a moment of excruciating pain. I folded my hands and prayed to God to save our Ganga from any harm and renewed my pledge that I will spend any amount of money to get her back.
The phone rang again. The kidnapper! Must be asking for ransom! With shaking hands I lifted the receiver. It was Chachaji on the other side! With trembling voice choked with sorrow, I told him,
“Chachaji, something terrible has happened. Ganga has been kidnapped while returning from school!”
There was a reassuring laugh from Chachaji.
“Chhotu, don’t worry. Ganga is safe. Her kidnappers had stopped at a traffic light, when my chaps spotted Ganga and gave a chase. Finally my men overpowered them and brought Ganga home. The kidnappers had made her unconscious. Now she has recovered. She is sitting with me, having pastry and biscuits and chatting merrily with me. Come and take her home.”
I called Shalini immediately and informed her. And then I took out my car and rushed to Chachaji’s home. Ganga was sitting near Chachaji, giggling and merrily drinking coca cola. When she saw me she ran towards me and jumping up, dangled herself on my neck and kept on kissing me. My eyes flooded with tears. I came to Chachaji and thanked him for saving Ganga from the kidnappers. Chachaji was furious.
“Chhotu, are you an idiot? How do you let Ganga go to school on a bike?’
“Sorry Chachaji, Ganga usually takes the school bus. Today I had left home at seven in the morning. Shalini says Ganga was insistent, so she allowed her to go to school on bike.”
“Tell Bahu not to make this mistake again. You know how bad the times are. What is the guarantee they would have let Ganga go even after collecting the ransom? Just think how terrible it would have been if my chaps had not rescued Ganga Bitiya!”
I started shivering with fear. Just the thought of Ganga in the clutches of the kidnappers made me sweat, like I was having a stroke. There was a common toilet between the drawing room and Chachaji’s office. Out of panic I ran to the toilet.
When I came out of the toilet after a few minutes, I heard Chachaji’s voice from the office room, as if he was quarreling with somebody. Curious, I glanced into the office. Chachaji was standing near his chair. His face was red with anger. A man in black trousers and a red tee-shirt was sitting calmly on the opposite chair, munching some nuts from his pocket. From his looks he appeared to be one of those slimy, vicious goons who look like any other man on the street, but capable of inflicting extreme violence without batting an eyelid. Chachaji was shouting at him.
“Get out! Get out immediately. Who let you in?”
The man didn’t care, just went on munching the nuts.
“The day I need permission to enter someone’s house, I will be out of business. Now that I have got in, if you have guts, throw me out.”
Chachaji was furious.
“I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave. Otherwise I will call the security guards who will shoot you down.”
“Chachaji, don’t shout. Don’t threaten me. For a crook like you, it will take me just a minute to crush the life out of you with my bare hand. Now, listen to me. I heard that you are going to return the packet?”
Chachaji panicked and looked at the drawing room, his eyes showing naked fear. His voice croaked.
“Run away, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t care if you want to talk to me or not. Just listen to me. Whether you keep the packet or return it, I want my fifty thousand rupees. That’s the price your men have fixed with me for picking up the packet. I want the money delivered to me by eleven tomorrow morning.”
Chachaji was now choleric, with anger, anxiety and nervousness.
“Just get lost. I don’t want to hear anything now. Leave my house.”
The man emitted a derisive laughter looking at the panicky, helpless face of Chachaji. Scorn poured from him, like unwanted garbage spilling from a broken bin.
“Don’t try to act funny with me Chachaji. If I don’t get the money by eleven tomorrow, I will pick up the same packet again and sell it in Calcutta, to roam on its streets, begging for alms with her amputated hands. Remember!”
The man left with the assurance of a professional who knows his job. I entered the room. The moment Chachaji saw me, he knew I had heard the conversation. All the blood drained out of his face, he started sweating and sat down on the chair. Unknown to him, his hands folded and he looked at me with the helpless gaze of a person about to climb the gallows for execution. It appeared as if with his pale face and folded hands he was begging my forgiveness.
Without a word, I left the room, picked up Ganga and drove home, my mind filled with a sense of deep anguish. I felt like I was returning from a burial ground after burying a close, dear relative. Ganga tried to cheer me up on the way with her pranks, but I had no words left in me. Ganga ran to Shalini the moment we reached home. Shalini picked her up and showered her with a thousand hugs and kisses.
After a listless dinner I narrated the whole story to Shalini. That night we made Ganga sleep between us, holding her in a tight embrace and reassuring ourselves that our heart-throb was back with us, with a new lease of life for her and for us. We didn’t let her out of our sight even for a moment, as if we had the moon from the sky in our fist and the moment we loosen it, she will jump out and escape again.
Next morning the phone rang at ten. It was Chachaji.
“Chhotu, where is Ganga? Has she gone to school?”
“No, we didn’t send her to school today.”
“Good. Chhotu, you, Bahu and Ganga come home this evening. We will have dinner and I will sing some choicest old Hindi songs for you.”
“Aren’t you going for your election tour today?”
“No! Haven’t you watched the news this morning? It’s in the TV, in all the channels. This morning, I resigned from my ministership, and from my Assembly seat. I have also quit politics. I am back at my shop, selling sarees.”
“Quit politics? Why, what happened to your famous addiction, for which you get ‘packets’ lifted from schools and roads?”
There was an audible sigh after a long pause. The sadness in Chachaji’s voice was palpable.
“Chhotu, yesterday my wayward, battered spirit was purified by Ganga. No amount of power or money can take me back to politics again, now or ever. Come home, we will chat in the evening.”
We didn't go to Chachaji's home that evening, then or ever. Instead in the afternoon we packed our luggage, locked the house, handed over the keys to a neighbour and boarded a train to Surat. Since I had a degree in Metallurgy, I got a fabulous job in the diamond industry here. For the past twelve years, I have never gone back to Dhanbad, not even once. The memory of Dhanbad and all that was associated with it, has remained locked in the deepest recesses of my mind like a forgotten scar of an old wound. After we had settled down in Surat, I had received a few letters from Chachaji, but I never opened them.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today, after all these years, the letter and parcel from Chachaji revived those memories and brought an aching pain in our heart. Shalini had already read the letter. I sat down, Shalini by my side, and started reading the letter.
“Dear Chhotu,
I know you will not reply to this letter. In the past twelve years, you have never done that. I also know why you left Dhanbad on a cold December day and never set your foot again on this grey town. Your old friend Alok told me about Ganga Bitiya’s marriage. I could not restrain myself. I am her Chachaji, as much as yours. There was a time when she used to reign over my heart like a celestial princess. And how fond she was of me! In any crowd, if she saw me, she used to come running to me for a hug. I have often wondered, didn’t she ever enquire about me after leaving Dhanbad? Hasn’t she ever asked you about her Chachaji, how he vanished from her life?
Chhotu, had you invited me, I would have come myself and put this lovely necklace around my Gudiya's pretty neck and blessed her, with every drop of goodwill from my heart. In my absence, please give it to her as a token of my love and blessings. This small gift symbolizes my years of repentance and regret. It is as if, I have been waiting for this touch of salvation to liberate my tormented soul from the pyre of self-abhorrence and purify it with a sense of redemption.
Yours
In anguish, Chachaji.
By the time I finished the letter, my eyes were moist with tears. I looked at Shalini. Her face was contorted with grief. Grief, in the memory of that dark December evening, when we almost lost our dearest daughter, our heart-throb and the very essence of our being. And now the grief of the impending separation in two days’ time, when she will leave us and go away to a new home, tore our heart to shreds. We held hands and silently cried away, drowning the sorrow that every parent goes through at a daughter’s wedding.
Ganga saw us from a distance and came to us. She took our hands, locked us in a tight embrace, and burst into sobs. Like many unforgettable moments in our life, we got drenched in Ganga's tears, purifying ourselves in the reassurance of our abiding love for her, today, tomorrow and forever.
(This story had appeared in an earlier edition of LiteraryVibes.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
Interview
HAPPY SATURDAY WITH AN EMINENT POET - Ravi Ranganathan
A weekly Interview Program of WRITERS’ MIRROR, ASSAM, INDIA
Good Morninmg & Welcome dear adorable readers to “HAPPY SATURDAY WITH AN EMINENT POET” a weekly Interview Program of WRITERS’ MIRROR,ASSAM,INDIA and its unit Mirror’s Literary Criticism.
Today we are happy to present the interview with honorable poet Ravi RanganathanJi.
Bipul Ch Kalita:- Good Morning dear Sir. I’m happy to welcome you to my Interview Program. Would you say in brief about yourself, dear Sir?
Ravi Ranganathan: - I am a retired Banker turned poet. Interestingly, during my 36 years of active service in the Bank till I formally retired in 2012, I did not write a single poem. I can compartmentalize my poetic outputs into two phases. First the ‘juvenile phase’ in my college days before I joined the bank when I used to scribble something which was accepted in monthly English magazines like ‘Mirror’ and ‘Caravan’ and in Sunday poetry sections of newspapers. During my college days. I was in the editorial board of our college newsletter ‘Torch’. My output then was comparatively little. Second phase, i.e. is after being superannuated from my Bank in 2012 where I started writing poetry seriously. This is a ‘happy phase’ which continues and would hopefully continue.
Bipul Ch Kalita:- Why do you write, dear Sir?
Ravi Ranganathan :- It may be a clichéd answer but I write because I must. I feel helpless or insecure if I don’t write. It may be a poem or an article or some random lines but I have to write them to keep me going. I feel so restless and uncomfortable on the days I don’t write! I am happy to write poems. So I write. When I find readers liking it, it motivates me immensely.
Bipul Ch Kalita:- What/Who inspired you to be a poet?
Ravi Ranganathan :- I credit my dear father for this love of writing. He was my first inspiration. He left this world in 2002 but whenever I recollect his memories , I always get a picture of him either reading or writing something. Also, during the early seventies when I was studying at Hyderabad, the Telangana agitation disrupted our studies a lot and it was at that time that I spent long hours at the City Central Library reading, absorbing and mulling over thoughts of great minds. My all time favourite poet who continues to inspire me is of course, William Wordsworth. Take his Lines on Tintern Abbey. It has everything that a beautiful poem should always have. Or his Nature poems. Such poems have withstood the test of time… Have also enjoyed Coleridge, Shelly, Keats and Byron. And Pope’s Poem Ode on Solitude! The opening lines ‘Happy the man, whose wish and care/A few paternal acres abound/Content to breathe his native air/In his own ground’.
These lines convey feelings so wonderfully. How deceptively simple the lines are! I am a great fan of writer Somerset Maugham too. I do read frequently books on Vedas and Upanishads. So, reading has always been my inspiration to write.
Bipul Ch Kalita:- How would you like to define Poetry?
Ravi Ranganathan :- Poetry has enabled me to express my innermost thoughts in a concise form, bringing out sublime emotions felt deep within. It may be an instant thought. It may be a fond recollection… an overflow of emotions waiting for release. I fully agree with Robert Frost who said” Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words”. I have always felt expressions continuing to trouble me until I have constructed an edifice of words with it.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What do you prefer- rhyme or free verse ?
Ravi Ranganathan:- I write free verse. My verses are not long, though I have no aversions with it. I try to convey thoughts in a subtle way which when understood well, carry deeper dimensions. I always try to write in a natural style, simple to read but giving the reader a good food for thought… Most of my poems are between 15 and 20 lines. I write in a way the thought dictates me but finally I do give it a shape by chiselling and fine tuning the lines.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- How do you feel to be one among the global poets, specially through Facebook?
Ravi Ranganathan :- The concept of ‘global’ has now lost its relevance or is marginalized now due to the instant digital reach… but yes, I have used the social media Facebook a great deal to post many of my poems and they have been well received by my friends and relatives and I am able to hone my skills because of this wide reach. However one must never be under the delusion that merely ‘likes’ and favourable comments in FB will make you a big time poet. FB is just one medium to showcase your skill but one needs to constantly keep evolving and improving to reach a tolerable level of competence.
Bipul Ch Kalita:-How do the Facebook poets differ from others?
Ravi Ranganathan :- As I have already mentioned FB is just another medium. All poets do not post their works on it. Some may post it on webzines, magazines, or self publish their poems. So a balanced comparison cannot be made. However, it is unfortunate that anything and everything is posted in the name of poetry and it is so difficult to sort out wheat from the chaff. This is only a temporary phase .Ultimately, as they say, class is permanent and mass will wither away soon.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What is your opinion on the overall standard of contemporary English poetry?
Ravi Ranganathan :- All good poems are not posted in social media. We read some very good poems being posted and some very bad poems too!. Of late, too many poets are springing up from everywhere and we cannot possibly read all of them. Contemporary poetry is dynamic and different genres are being attempted, to suit the needs of the time. We need to welcome this trend and as I have mentioned earlier, class will last and mass will vanish fast.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What is your opinion on the overall standard of the Indian poetic literature?
Ravi Ranganathan:- I read mainly English poetry and poems in my mother tongue Tamil. I have attended some webinars where multi lingual poetry recitation is encouraged. I can safely say that contemporary poets on the whole are coming to grips with the modern ethos, situations and emotions quite admirably.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What is your opinion on religion as a whole, dear Sir?
Ravi Ranganathan :- In a heterogeneous set up that we live in, to ensure harmony, it is better to keep religion as a purely private matter and not make a show of it .
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Do you think that our global poets have succeeded in bringing peace to andpromoting humanism in the war-prone zones?
Ravi Ranganathan:- Most certainly Yes. I firmly believe that poets are the best people in the world and their religion is humanism. Poets are for Peace and they write to encourage, uplift and inspire the quality of thinking and living. Many organisations including UNICEF are often active organizing World Poetry Day where young people in war zones across the world share heart-wrenching poems calling for peace.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Do you think that the Facebook poems in general and your poems in particular have been properly appreciated?
Ravi Ranganathan :- Yes, many of my poems have been well appreciated on FB but it is secondary. One must concentrate on improving your craft and not crave for appreciation. How you can improve your skills as a poet and evolve for the better on an on-going basis should remain your point of focus all the time. This applies to me as well as to all the poets who post their works on FB.
Bipul Ch Kalita:- What is your opinion on the awards and certificates issued by various Facebook groups?
Ravi Ranganathan :- Yes, of late I see a proliferation of awards and certificates galore in FB groups. I see some groups holding competitions on a monthly, weekly and even daily basis. If one is forced to write, spontaneity and creativity becomes the victim. Awards and appreciations just for the sake of it is certainly not a good trend. In order to thrive, the FB groups would do well to promote poetry in a better way like selecting poems and getting it reviewed by a peer group etc…
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Do you think that govt. and non-govt organizations are doing their best to promote world class literature?
Ravi Ranganathan :-Yes, Sahitya Academy and SAARC Cultural centres are doing their bit which is not enough. Non- Govt organizations are restricted by fund constraints. There is need for literary minded people with affluence to sponsor creativity in a very big way.
Bipul Ch KalitaWho are the Classical, Romantic and Contemporary poets that you like the most?
Ravi Ranganathan:- Some of the classical and Romantic poets that I have read include Shakespeare, Marlowe, Milton, Wordsworth, Shelly, Keats and Coleridge. Haven’t read much of Beckett, Eliot and Ezra Pound, though I would want to. Among the post colonial poets, I have liked the works of Nissim Ezekiel, Shiv.K,Kumar, Keki Daruwala and of course Jayanta Mahapatra. There are some very good poets writing regularly in Face Book and other webzines which I read , enjoy and appreciate.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What are the subjects and themes that you normally like to take up in your poetic Creations?
Ravi Ranganathan :- I am never obsessed with a particular theme like love or romance as some poets are. I write on LIFE – various aspects of life. There is everything in LIFE. You just have to explore it. The three books I have written so far abounds in its inclination towards spirituality although it covers other aspects like childhood, growing up amidst variegated moods, apart from extolling the perennial beauty of nature.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Please let us know about your published books. What about your upcoming books?
Ravi Ranganathan:- The three poetry books I have written are 1) Lyrics of Life 2) Blade of Green Grass and 3) Of Cloudless Climes.
Upcoming books? Well frankly speaking I don’t know. After my retirement, I never planned to write books for publication but here they are – three of them. Recently, I have written what I have coined as ‘myku’ poems, which has come to stay. This is not exactly a sequel to ‘haiku’ poems but they are micro poems not restricting themselves to the structured syllables of a haiku. A myku with my own views and hues! Many of my myku writes are scattered here and there. May be I shall collect them and publish them into a book. I may make a foray into prose and publish them as a bunch of articles written during different times. There is also a desire to write another book of poems. None of these are in the realm of serious planning. I am content to accept what happens naturally.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Please share one of your latest poems.
Ravi Ranganathan :- Let me share with you and the readers a small poem that I wrote recently:
WAVELENGTH
Humongous wave it is; rather waves within the wave
Form within the formless, splashing and urging,
Surging to reach out: They are never here nor there
They are everywhere, and very much within us
Like a rebellious tide, always on the ride
Insistent, impatient, unruly and restless
Far away from the route of a remote shore
Or seeking Sea’s depth from heart’s core!
Even if they are hounded and always on the run
Even if not visible on the contours of their fleeing face
Waves must have dreams and unquiet fantasies
They must chase them and trace them in the race
Unravelling themselves, discovering their blissful tears
Till they sync with a restive Sea, and bid bye to shores!...
Bipul:- What suggestion would you live to have for our groups WRITERS’ MIRROR, ASSAM, INDIA and its unit Mirror’s Literary Criticism?
Bipul Ch Kalita :- I really enjoy the postings that I come across in Writers’ Mirror, Assam as well as in its unit Mirror’s Literary Criticism. You have your regular Saturday interview with poets. Recently I enjoyed reading the interview with esteemed poet and friend Dr. Bina Singh. Both your groups are acting as a bridge not only to promote budding promotes but also fosters known poets. You are doing a splendid job. You can encourage more book reviews of not only poetry books but also prose books as well. My very best wishes.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- What suggestion do you have for your co-poets?
Ravi Ranganathan :- Do not write poetry like prose. My heart bleeds when I see some writing bland sentences and divide them into lines to seem like poetry. A poem should be undoubtedly endowed with elegance, eloquence, beauty and a rhythmic flow.
Rhymes must seem to grace it naturally.
To me, what is required in a good poem is Its readability, its theme, its style, message and the engaging manner in which it takes the reader along. One must keep on reading not only classical poems but also contemporary poems and attempt to learn the art of writing an engaging poem.. It is not easy but it is not difficult either. Just like a dance or music, expression of poetry will become better and with practice. I extend my best wishes to my co-poets in the same way as I wish them to extend their best wishes to me.
My advice to aspiring poets- Read more to write better. Keep on reading. Keep on writing. Enjoy doing both.
Bipul Ch Kalita :- Thank you very much dear Sir for your kind response to my questions. You have shared your precious views frankly. I hope to meet you here again with some more important issues for discussion. I wish you a great literary career ahead.
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.
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