Literary Vibes - Edition C (25-Dec-2020) - Volume 2 - SHORT STORIES
(Title - Literary Vibes 100 - Picture courtesy Dr. B C Nayak)
VOLUME - 2 - SHORT STORIES
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE BOARDED WINDOW
02) Geetha Nair G
LESSONS
03) Dilip Mohapatra
PACKAGE DEAL
04) Sreekumar K
REUNION AT CHRISTMAS
05) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
POMERANIAN
06) Prof. Gangadhar sahoo
REALISATION
07) Ishwar Pati
AN ANGLER’S TALE
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 18 :: MATTAMMA
09) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING
10) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE OBSSESSION
11) Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal
SLOTH BEAR Vs. Mrs.JHAMLAL
12) Dr Prasanna Sahoo
A PEBBLE FROM THE OCEAN OF MEMORIES.
13) Dr. Molly Joseph
MERGING TERRAINS..
14) Satya Narayan Mohanty
ALONE TOGETHER
15) Sulochana Ram Mohan.
IMAGES WITHIN MIRAGES
16) Hema Ravi
NATURE'S CHILD
BOREDOM AND SUFFERING
SUMMER
17) Setaluri Padmavathi
INTROSPECTION
18) Sheena Rath
LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL
19) Meera M. Rao
THE RAPED BRIDE
20) Ranju
A MUDDY NIGHT’S DREAM
21) Thampy Antony
THE MEXICAN WALL
22) S. Anilal
THE DNA FACTOR
23) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE DEER CUBS
Aditya walked with his friend Arun along a main street of Guwahati town. They entered a side lane. The buildings and trees looked strange to Aditya. He was visiting the town after so many years, might be fifteen, as told to him by Arun an hour ago. His memory prior to that fifteen years, though not very old, but appeared like ink pen writing rubbed by a passing hand before it got dry. In addition to the tricks of a lapsing memory, new constructions and widening of roads had added to changes of the town’s face.
Now, they were turning left to enter a magnificent crumbling portal on the left side leading to an old double-storey mansion, he could recognize from the past. The crumbling building belonged to Arun’s joint family. Even then, before one and half a decade, it had looked the same way, walls patchy with dead moss, ancient, musty, and tufts of fern, grass, and twiggy peepuls poking heads out of building’s cracks as if to take a peek at what was going on around. It had not changed at all from outside, and the big house looked the same, an ill planned, badly maintained granny building, humping like an ancient animal.
They went in, Aditya could recognize, from the main entrance, Arun’s mother who was dusting articles in a large drawing room with her back to them. He recalled having tea and snacks almost every morning in that very room after he had shifted into the mansion lock-stock-and-barrel from his hostel to live with Arun’s family for almost two years, the last two years of his schooling.
Arun’s mother had aged, put on weight, but was still a pretty woman, judged from her profile. “Wait, why was she wearing a white sari, and didn’t wear any ornaments?” Aditya felt inquisitive. Then, his eyes moved to what she was reaching with an extended hand at that exact moment, a blown-up photograph of Arun’s father. The big portrait of Arun’s father was hanging on the wall with a garland of jasmines on it. The flowers were looking stale and wilted, might have been put there on the previous day.
Arun’s mother now put aside the duster, took off the garland of stale jasmines and put down the wilted flowers down on a side table. She took the photograph down from its peg, dusted it lovingly with the hem of her sari, put it back on its peg. She took out a garland of fresh jasmines from a leaf packet and put the string of white flowers on her husband’s photograph with caring hands. It was a heartwarming scene.
Aditya avoided asking the embarrassing questions… when, how, etc., it was obvious about Arun’s father. He felt tears burning his eyes. He had a great wish to meet this nice friendly benevolent uncle too, besides Arun’s mother and other members of the family. Aditya recalled Arun’s generous father, his affectionate pats on his back whenever they would meet. Arun’s father had been good to all, an overall good human being.
He stood at the entrance to the room with his childhood school friend Arun patiently till the latter’s mother turned to them at the other end of the room. In the meantime, he had shut his eyes for a few seconds to send a prayer to the almighty for the old good Samaritan’s soul to rest in peace.
Finally, Arun’s mother looked at them. As her eyes fell on Aditya, she squinted in concentration, cringed visibly, but then seemed to collect her wits, and broke into a big smile, “It is Aditya, my boy, isn’t it? You have grown. I see you after a long time, may be fifteen years. But, ….” She stopped abruptly, swallowed her words, and added like a soliloquy, “Oh, me and my wild thoughts! A mistake for sure, only a rumour churned by overheated grapevine!”
Aditya had not missed her squinting in concentration and cringing when she had cast her eyes on him, standing with Arun, her son, at the door. She had taken a minute before breaking into a big smile. He had not missed her swallowing words she wanted to speak subsequently. He was really curious to hear what she had to say before changing her mind and diverted the subject.
He hesitated but finally asked, “What might be a mistake, auntie? What rumour are you referring to? Did it concern me?” But the lady gave another frank smile and moved a hand in a sweeping gesture like removing certain cobwebs in front of her, “Oh, it is nothing son. Might just be a story from a grapevine. Gossip mongers had become most busy after that big disaster fifteen years ago, if you remember Aditya, the mega cyclone of 1999, that had pushed the sea into the land and had wiped out thousands of people in the coastal region of Odisha.”
Aditya, in fact, couldn’t make head or tail of the disaster Arun’s mother was referring to. He could not recall a thing about what all had happened in 1999. But he didn’t want to show his ignorance. He bobbed his head in agreement. He smiled back, walked to her, bent to touch her feet in salutation to her.
Charulata, Arun’s mother, blessed him, “Live long my son, to a matured age of hundred.” She then diverted the topic, “We will tie loose ends later, Aditya. Let me fix a lunch for the two of you. Go and sit at our little table in the kitchen. It is almost one in the afternoon, and it’s too late to give you snacks. While waiting for lunch I can give you a cup of lemon tea that you had always loved to sip.”
Aditya hesitated, collected his wits, and said, “Sorry auntie, I will have lunch and tea with you some other time. I have to rush now. I wanted to meet you, and I have fulfilled that wish of mine and have an eyeful of you. I have promised to have my lunch in my cousin’s place. They would be waiting for me at the lunch table and not eat until I joined them.”
He didn’t know why he said that white lie to Arun’s mother. He had no lunch invitation from his cousins. In fact, they didn’t know he was in the town. But he carried in mind the trouble that had happened to him that very morning. He had entered the Suleiman Restaurant, one of his old haunts of school days, sat at a table, and ordered for a plate of toast-butter with a cup of tea. He was hungry besides badly wanting his morning cup of tea.
A shiver climbed his spine to recall what had followed thereafter. That weird unnerving experience spurred him to refuse Arun’s mother for the lunch she was offering. To be polite he took the name of his cousins. He was scared of a repeat of that embarrassing incident in Arun’s house. What would they think if he couldn’t lift a morsel of food to his mouth? Aditya doubted his own sanity, “Am I suffering from some sort of dementia? Did it really happen to me, or just I imagined the whole thing.”
Very early that morning, after alighting from a bus, though he couldn’t remember from where he had taken the bus, he was loitering about the streets and looking at various sites of the Guwahati town of his school days. Most areas had changed but some appeared to retain their old identity. Even he had found Suleiman Chaachaa, as had been his old habit, still snoring on a tape-woven-cot placed outside his earlier ramshackle restaurant that looked new and spritely now. The day was just breaking and the restaurant had not opened.
A new big Bill Board proudly declared ‘Suleiman Restaurant’ in bright and prominent lettering in the place of the old smaller discoloured one saying ‘Suleiman Dhaba’. Suleiman Chaachaa had greyed, grown fat, almost to the size of a grizzled bear, but still had his old handsome face. Aditya smiled to himself, and thought, “Ah, the sleeping beauty.” He sat on an empty chair kept by the side of Suleiman Chaachaa to bide time until the restaurant opened. He would like to have some snacks and tea before exploring more of Guwahati. While sitting on the chair, he dozed off.
Sounds woke him up. He found himself sitting alone like a guard at the open restaurant gate to a side. The town was churning around him with people and vehicles. Sleeping Suleiman Chaachaa and his tape-woven-cot had vanished. He peeped in, and found Suleiman Chaachaa sitting at his restaurant’s counter. He got up, and entered the restaurant. On his way to the wash basin, he raised his right hand to greet Suleiman Chaachaa in salutation, but found him ignoring him. He took it as the old man’s lack of attention.
He washed his face at the washbasin fitted to the far end of the eatery, and sat on a smart looking chair at his usual corner of school days where there used to be half-broken chairs. The restaurant was filling up, and waiters were running helter-skelter catering to the patrons’ orders for snacks and tea, or other beverages. The interior had quite an upmarket look, might be apparently owing to recent renovations. He also placed his order of toast-butter and a cup of sweet black tea with a waiter who came ambling to his table. Even the Suleiman Dhaba of Aditya’s college days was famous for the combo of toast-butter and the sweet black tea.
But the waiter seemed to ignore him. Aditya repeated his order louder with an angry edge to his voice, but was again ignored. The waiter took orders from a customer who had come after Aditya’s arrival, and had taken the seat at the opposite side of Aditya’s table, and promptly served him with snacks.
Aditya was upset, but felt very thirsty. His throat used to parch whenever he got angry. He lifted a glass of water from the water-filled four glasses kept on the table to wet his lips and soothe his burning throat. But nothing happened, the glass didn’t move, his empty hand reached his mouth. Repeated attempts failed. He felt a panic. He forgot to throw a tantrum like earlier times when a waiter had dared ignore him, and serve someone else out of turn.
His last straw was rather scary. At that crucial moment when Aditya was very worried for the weird behaviour of the glass containing water, another customer came walking in his direction as if to sit on the same chair he had been occupying. He left the chair and went away a few feet by reflex with an unusual hasty movement, otherwise the upstart might sit on him. The new customer took the seat he had just left for him. The ungrateful fellow neither thanked him, nor acknowledged his polite gesture. “How impolite the town has become during my long absence!” with this parting thought, Aditya hurried out of the eatery. He felt insulted, besides feeling very disturbed by the weird behaviour of Suleiman Chaachaa, the wicked waiter, and the customer who all ignored his presence, as if they all had ganged up to harass him by some secret agreed plan.
Aditya went out of the restaurant to the street, feeling very worried, and walked along the road with fast steps, to be as far away as possible from the embarrassing restaurant. He made out, it was Bhangagarh area, and he was walking along the broad avenue that went to the bridge across Brahmaputra after the fork to Kamakhya Temple on a hillock.
He then changed his mind, turned and walked in the opposite direction. In his distressed state, he took many twists and turns, as if trying to get as much away as possible from bad memories and ill omens of that early morning. But what happened next was rather spookier and more unnerving than the earlier events, and compelled him to doubt his own sanity.
Aditya was walking carefully on the left edge of the road, keeping himself at a safe distance from the speeding vehicles in the street. Many were walking, carrying bags with their purchases, and officious looking briefcases, or walking empty handed like him. Aditya still could not free himself from the grip of that uneasy sensation of half an hour before in Suleiman eatery. The thought kept bothering him.
He noticed a young man of his age walking on the same side of the road, but quite a few steps ahead of him. The man was tastefully dressed with jeans and a T shirt, and his gait and shape looked familiar to Aditya from behind. But he could not place him. Suddenly a vehicle on his right veered to left, speeding towards that familiar looking man.
Aditya, by reflex, jumped ahead to pull the young fellow from the path of the vehicle. But nothing happened. He could not pull him to safety, rather in the process, lost his own balance and fell to the ground by the side of the road. Luckily, the vehicle surging towards the man, he could not save, veered away to the right at the last second, sparing the man from being run over.
The emergency had stalled on its own. The man appeared to have understood Aditya’s intention to save him from being run over. So, uttering many thanks, he came over and extended a hand to him. But by then Aditya had recovered himself from the shock and stood up on his own effort. He thanked the man. His worries however increased, for he had again failed to pull the man from the path of the vehicle, the same as his experience with the glass of water. In the meantime, he had taken a good look at the face of the young man. Suddenly recognition dawned in his memory from his school days.
“Aren’t you Arun? Yes, you are Arun.” He said as if talking to himself, and shouted, “Arun!” It was his school day friend Arun, only grown taller and broader, and had become a very handsome man. Arun responded to his shout and his eyes were twinkling with pleasure of recognition. He whispered, “O, Aditya?” The school day chums went for a big hug but desisted from hugging out of shyness, when they found that curious onlookers were gathering around. They recalled a school teacher’s reprimand, “No, big boys don’t hug.”
That was how Aditya and Arun had found each other after the hiatus of about fifteen years, as Arun fondly recalled. Both had grown into young men of around thirty. They were close school-day chums. Arun demanded, “Aditya, we have to tell each other what all has happened in our lives in these fifteen years we have stayed apart.” Aditya felt a wave of chill bordering panic. He couldn’t remember a thing that had transpired in those fifteen years in his life. Where had he been, what had he been doing during those years. It seemed to Aditya, he had no command at all over the memory of those years.
The long fifteen years seemed to be erased out of Aditya’s mind and he felt helpless. It appeared to be a hazy mist that made things and events like shadows in fog. If Aditya tried to remember something from that blurred period, he felt an uncomfortable heaviness of head, and he let it pass. He had read somewhere or heard of people suffering from a psychological condition called amnesia, total forgetfulness over a span of time. He hazarded, perhaps he had been suffering from some such syndrome.
Arun was very happy to meet his school friend Aditya who in turn felt a similar surge of emotion towards Arun. The two friends chatted excitedly. Arun proposed to go to Suleiman Chaachaa’s restaurant, their regular haunt in school days, but Aditya shook his head with an extra vehemence. He felt a phobic fear of eating or drinking anything in others’ presence that day. His experience of that morning rankled. He wanted to take Arun away from all eateries in the town.
He pulled Arun to the Christian cemetery, almost a park in its getup and maintenance with tastefully done gardening; and cement benches thrown in under bigger trees on its four inner edges where visitors visiting their dear departeds’ last resting places could sit and reminisce a while. The beautiful graveyard was not very far from where they were walking. Aditya hoped the place might still be maintained in its pristine state. Arun said, he also had a liking for the place, where they could sit and gossip for hours without stepping on anyone’s toe, none asking them to leave, something that always happened in crowded eateries.
Aditya took the initiative to ask Arun about how he had spent his fifteen years. He insisted that he wanted to know every bit of it, even the smallest of the details, the most insignificant incidents in Arun’s life. He listened intently, looking for links to tie some loose ends of his missing memory from Arun’s reminiscences. Also, his efforts were to bide more and more time in Arun’s narration, so that no time would be left for Arun to ask him to narrate his part of life story that day. “Who knows, I may feel better by tomorrow, my memory restored.” he thought to himself. So, he kept asking questions for greater details, and Arun was sport for that.
After two hours, Aditya got up, and said, “Chum, the rest can be enjoyed in our next meeting, as early as possible. I will be staying with my cousins and planning for a long stay, and look for a job here in Guwahati. It is approaching lunch hour now. Before saying bye, I badly wish to meet your parents.” Arun followed Aditya reluctantly to go out of the graveyard. Even, fifteen years ago, Arun recalled, Aditya had been very assertive, and he used to follow Aditya in most decisions between them. Both the friends started walking towards Arun’s house that was not very far.
Aditya would recall, he was from the village Sarangpur, a few kilometers from Guwahati township, across river Brahmaputra. As his village had no good education facility, his father had got him admitted into a good higher secondary school at Guwahati, and it was decided that he would study, staying in the hostel from class eight to ten, three years. His father’s cousin lived in Guwahati town and acted as Aditya’s local guardian. Aditya would often spend time with his cousins, his uncle’s children of his age group, during the weekends.
By and by, he developed closeness with Arun, one of his classmates, and he spent some weekends in Arun’s house too, a palatial but a bit irregularly built and ill-maintained old rambling mansion, falling to pieces for its age and lack of repair.
Arun lived in a joint family with his parents and an uncle, his father’s elder brother, and that elder brother’s wife, the couple being childless. Arun’s uncle and auntie looked upon Arun, the only offspring of his parents, as their own child. Arun was family’s apple of the eye. When Aditya, started visiting them on weekends and holidays of short durations, he also was accepted like a second child in the family.
Aditya liked the warm friendly members of Arun’s family, and became a regular visitor to their crumbling mansion. He was, by the starting of his second year at Guwahati town, allotted a room at the corner of the large verandah of the upper floor of the old mansion of Arun’s family, by the side of the room of Arun’s uncle and auntie, and the room of the family’s permanent inhouse maid Shanti Masi (auntie). The senior female retainer was older to all family members, and was accepted and respected as their family’s unofficial senior in all matters. Aditya found a grandma he never had seen, in Shanti Masi. Aditya’s own grandma had died before Aditya’s birth.
Shanti Masi would keep Aditya’s room dusted and mopped, supplied with fresh sheets and quilts, and made his bed on his single cot afresh daily. His bed was by the window, boarded up from inside to avoid its fall into pieces by disrepair. The finance of Arun’s family had not been good enough in those days to afford a thorough repair and colouring of the huge mansion. So, the building had a granny look, old and worn, from outside, most of the windows boarded up. But Aditya loved its warm and cozy interior, and its affectionate inhabitants. He loved his single creaking bed, a pair of table and chair for his study, the small cupboard-cum-wardrobe, and an Indian style washroom attached to his room.
Returning to the present, Aditya recalled, he and Arun spent a little time loafing around the graveyard after their talk and before starting to walk towards Arun’s house. Aditya had asked Arun, “Do you feel the presence of the poor fellows that lie below the slabs bearing their names?” Arun shook his head and asked back, “Do you? Why do you ask such a scary question, Aditya?” Aditya didn’t reply, but felt the overwhelming murmur incorporeal beings around him. Instead of a scary feeling, he felt at home as if standing in familiar presence.
On the way to his house, Arun did a little shopping for his mother, the main purpose of his visit to the market so early that morning. At Arun’s place, after meeting Arun’s mother and knowing about the sad demise of Arun’s father, and most politely refusing the offer of a lunch, or even a cup of tea from Arun’s mother, Aditya had stood up for leaving, promising a revisit soon. After showing appropriate courtesy to Arun’s mother and taking her leave, saying a few affectionate words to Arun again, Aditya had ambled out of the room towards the outer big portal-cum-gate of the walled compound that would lead him to a side lane going to the main road.
In Aditya’s hesitant gait, while he was going out of the room and walking towards the gate, the experienced eyes of Charulata, Arun’s mother, noticed something amiss, like Aditya was walking as a man with little weight or no weight would walk. She found in Aditya’s not walking but sort of floating away reluctantly. Hairs on her nape stood up with a funny sensation.
Charulata now had a strong urge to know what had really happened to Aditya and his father while on a work-related visit to Paradip port town in Odisha’s east coast that got devastated during the 1999’s Mega-cyclone, when the duo was reported missing. What her information said, the two were never traced to that day. Then how Aditya could materialize that morning without the hint of being found, was a mystery to her. She presumed she might have missed some reporting in newspapers or TV that finally one of the missing two had been traced.
Aditya’s mother had gone mad in her deep sorrow and died in a lonely rented room in Paradip port town in two years’ time after her day and night search for the husband and son had yielded no result. People called her mad, but Charulata knew, Aditya’s mother had been a broken woman after her great loss, and her broken heart had claimed her life. Charulata kept watching Aditya until he floated out of her gate into the lane, and went out of her sight.
Aditya stopped in the lane at a distance from Arun’s gate, stood hesitating, and turned around. He looked affectionately at the old discoloured mansion with most of its windows in disrepair, boarded up to prevent the woodwork from collapsing down. There was a look of immense fondness in his eyes, especially when he identified the window of the room that was set aside for him, where he spent two of his prime years after shifting from his hostel. Now it seemed to him, his visit of Guwahati was primarily for finding his old room in the dilapidated mansion, and all the rest like meeting Arun and his family were just after thoughts.
He suddenly felt very tired and wanted to have a while of rest on his own familiar bed in that room of his. He had a doubt, would the bed be there at all? Also, he didn’t know what he would explain to Arun and his mother to justify his return to their house immediately after leaving, and about missing the lunch in his cousins’ house. But his urge won over his hesitation, and before consciously knowing, he found himself at the sitting room’s entrance. But to his luck, neither Arun, nor his mother was there.
To check the position and the state of his room, he entered the mansion, pussyfooting carefully not to attract attention. He conjured up arguments for curious aunty and Arun for his immediate change of mind, if he happened to meet them. Some cock and bull story, perhaps, like a pain in stomach requiring lying down for a while.
A look of doubt and a peculiar surprise on auntie’s face when her eyes had fallen on him for the first time that afternoon had not escaped Aditya’s notice. Though auntie had diverted his questions, auntie’s surprise had added to the mystification of his morning’s experiences in Suleiman Restaurant, and subsequently, on the road. Though Arun’s mother had controlled herself and beamed with pleasure to see him, but some sort of doubt kept creasing and clouding her face that had not escaped Aditya’s eyes. Something had been bothering her about him, and that very thing now started bothering Aditya.
Surprisingly, on his way to the staircase to climb to his room on the upper floor, he didn’t meet any one. Arun and his mother were conspicuous by their absence. He also didn’t see Arun’s senior uncle Bipul Sarmah, the uncle’s wife Minu auntie, or the old in house maid Shanti Masi. Before going to his own room, he had wished to say ‘hello’ to them.
He reached the staircase that would take him to upstairs. The staircase was inside a tiny room with locking arrangement to cut off, if necessary, the upper floor from the ground one. He peeped inside that little room housing the staircase. It looked dusty, dirty, and unkempt. The staircase was in a similar state of grime and filth, no one seemed to have used it over a long period.
As he stood on its entrance, the room smelled of rat shit and of a dank old moldy interior. It seemed none had bothered to clean the damned area over quite some time. Aditya couldn’t hazard a coherent reason for that utter neglect. Whatever might have happened, he was surprised to notice, he loved the grime and musty smell all the more like a fond past. It, sort of, rendered him with an assurance of repose and rest in that building.
Before going upstairs, he felt an urge to walk along the verandah, and have a look at other nooks and corners where dank darkness resided. He walked gingerly keeping close to the wall and eyes wide open, so that on the first hint of anyone’s appearance, he could duck out of sight. After a few steps, he heard voices from the kitchen that had its door open, and it was just a few feet away. He could hear and decipher from the voices and sounds that Arun and his mother were having lunch in the kitchen and talking about him. He knew it was bad manners to eavesdrop on others, but his built-up curiosity overpowered his sense of good manners. He listened intently what Arun’s mother was saying. He learnt -
Apparently, in the supper cyclone of 1999, when Aditya had been visiting Paradip port town of Odisha with his father who had gone there for some sort of family business, went missing along with his father, possibly both had been washed away when the sea had surged inshore for as far as thirty-five kilometers into the landmass from the coast because of the wind speed exceeding three hundred kilometers.
Later two disfigured bodies, fished out of a water-logged ditch, were presented to Aditya’s mother who stayed in their village Sarangpur in Assam. She outright rejected the un-recognizable rotten corpses to be her husband’s and son’s.
She kept visiting Paradip town and its surrounding landscape, searching for her missing husband and son for two long years before one morning, her corpse was fished out of the same ditch where the two corpses were found earlier. It was therefore never known if the two, Aditya and his father, were lost, alive, or dead. They had never been declared dead by the authorities as far as Charulata knew.
Aditya felt simultaneously a chilling fear and heaviness in his limbs not known to him so far. An overpowering lassitude was gradually taking possession of him. He presumed the dying individuals might be sensing similar sensations. He was afraid, “Am I dying?” His urge to lie down increased manyfold.
Aditya dragged himself back to the stair case. He now was hardly careful or caring any more who would notice his presence or ask him his reasons to be there in the old mansion. He dragged himself up the staircase on melting feet to reach the upper floor. All the way and the verandah upstairs were sweetly dirty and dank, inviting him to lie down anywhere he liked. Everything looked so restful.
He pushed open the doors of Arun’s uncle and auntie with shaking lifeless hands. What he saw was only a tragedy foretold in his mind already. He found the two inside photographs with plastic floral garlands on them, the garlands looking years old, dusty, and full of grime.
He expected the same luck in Shanti Masi’s room. Only difference was that the flowers on her photograph were real. They looked utterly dry, withered, and dusty, crumbling with time, but when he sniffed at them, he found the flowers preserving an aroma of Shanti Masi’s kindness for him. Aditya, however didn’t have tears to shed for his love for her, he was like a piece of rolling petrified fossil stone with no wetness. He felt that his eye sockets were ancient and mummified. A funny and uncanny feeling.
The rooms had layers of dusty cobwebs, live spiders sitting at the old webs’ strategic centres like divine deities. The rooms seemed haunted, redolent with spirits of their earlier occupants clamoring around Aditya for company. He loved the situation more especially for this unearthly sensation of crowding souls. He had to fight with his exhaustion not to linger anymore there, especially in Shanti Masi’s room where her memory and kindness from the past were entering his being like a possession. He forced his feet towards his own room.
In his room, Aditya felt a melting lethargy. His bed was sweetly dusty, he could sense it crawling with invisible dust mites that sent a creepy sugary sensation all over his body. The room felt cold and damp like an underground cellar where the dead were laid to eternal rest. He felt at home, a feeling he couldn’t exactly place. The life and afterlife were two shores across a foggy blur. Without stirring a breath, he quietly climbed into his bed, and lay down on its dusty, damp invitation and pulled over him the dirty motheaten quilt. He closed his eyes, and sighed with peace and repose a loud long sigh. Surprisingly, he heard no sound of his own last sigh, rather heard the wind’s shrill sighs like a death rattle at the boarded up window.
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
It had seemed like any other Saturday when she woke up. She threw open the kitchen window. The kitchen faced the east. A streak of golden light turned her vessels to gold. It awoke in her a memory of childhood when the vessels at home had been golden in colour. Now all was clay or steel. She sluiced a large vessel, set the rice to cook and started cutting beans and carrots. A change was in order. The same red rice and veg curries were such a bore after a while. Today, it would be fried rice and chicken curry. Saturdays were better than other days because Abhijith got back by 2 pm from work. But Sundays were the best of all because they woke late, relaxed in bed all morning and went out for a movie in the evening. She switched on her morning radio programme. There were a few plates and dishes in the sink. She had left them for the morning. A movie song of her youth filled the sun-lit kitchen. My jasmine bud, will you blossom for me tonight? She had blossomed; for Abhijith. She remembered the passionate words and deeds of their young days. Youth. Had it drained away like the water in the sink ? She was thirty four now, neither here nor there. She looked at herself reflected on the glass pane of the cabinet. Not bad, she thought, reassured. Still youthful, pretty, desirable.
Sweta worked in a government organisation and enjoyed the company at work and the money it brought her. But now, she had joined her husband who had been posted to this city quite a distance from her place of work. It was too far for her to commute. He had fretted after a couple of months alone in the flat he had taken on rent. No home-cooked food, no company. He had urged her to resign and join him. But she had demurred. So, they settled for a compromise. Two years of leave. She was on leave; Leave Without Allowances, as they termed it. She had joined him in the flat less than a month back. It was very good to be with Abhijit again; he was a sunny human being and great company. But in the long daytime she was lonely. No fun with colleagues, no friends, no companions.
Abhijit has left for work as usual, at half past nine. All the cooking is done. The waste is sorted. Now to deposit the two bags in the bins on the landing. She opens the front door and crosses to the bins squatting like enormous frogs. One green. One brown. As she pushes one bag into the brown one, something sharp rears up from it and pierces her right middle finger. Blood starts flowing from it, dripping on to the bag and to the floor. The condensed milk can ! A jagged edge. When would they learn to make a can with smooth edges? She presses her bleeding finger helplessly.
That is when a woman lets herself out of the flat opposite hers.
Something about Sweta’s awkward stance must have alerted her. The woman comes swiftly up to Sweta and looks at the blood staining the grey floor.“You must stanch the flow and put some antiseptic on it,” she exclaims.
Sweta looks at her, still a little dazed.
They walk into her flat together, Sweta and the strange woman. The woman puts her shoulder bag on the table and turns to Sweta… .
In no time, the bleeding has stopped. The wound has been neatly dressed .
“Thank you,” Sweta says. “It is really kind of you. Have a soft drink or some tea.”
The woman motions these choices away.
She smiles and says, “I must be going. I have another music class at noon.”
But Sweta makes her stay a few minutes more. She likes this stranger, her modestly-draped sari, her neatly clipped hair, her air of refinement. She seems to be about the same age as Sweta. Maybe she will become a friend.The woman says her name is Rema. She earns her living taking music classes. She lives on the outskirts of the city and has an old mother and an ailing father to support.
“I must go now!” Rema exclaims, looking at the big round clock on the wall. Sweta has almost forgotten her finger.
As they wait for the lift, she asks Rema, “Who is your pupil in that flat ? I have seen only a middle-aged man going in and out.”
“You are new here, aren’t you ? Joined your husband recently?” says Rema. “That man’s family used to be with him and I used to teach his child. I came today for the fees they owed me.”
They are close to the lift now. The lift is groaning its way up. It is an old squeaking monster. The lift stops, the grille crashes backwards and someone comes out. Sweta exclaims, “Abhijit! What’s happened? Are you ill?” He shakes his head. “No, no, I forgot a file. I need it today… .” His words taper and end as his eyes fall on the woman who is about to enter the lift.
“This is Rema; she is a music teacher,” Sweta says. Abhijit is strangely immobile. Rema has a little smile on her face. And on Abhijit’s face is an expression his wife has never seen before.
Swati waves to her new friend as she disappears into the abyss. “Nice meeting you!” her voice echoes. “So lucky for me that she was there. Look; I cut my finger badly and Rema bandaged it for me,” Swati relates as they enter their flat.
No sooner has the front door shut on both of them than Abhijit turns on Swati in fury. His eyes are livid. She has never seen him so angry.
“ Why do you invite strangers into your house? That woman could be a robber, a murderess ! You stupid idiot, you will find your throat slit one of these days… .” he raves on until he locates the file and storms out.
The deep silence that descends on his departure has swathed Sweta’s mind. Then the silence transforms into a monstrous creature whose icy tentacles invade her entire being. At last, it turns into a completed jigsaw puzzle… .
She is still seated on the sofa when the doorbell rings, hours later. Her husband has returned. He wraps his wife in a warm hug. “I am sorry, dearest,” he whispers in her ear, “I was in a foul mood; forgive me for taking it out on you.” “My middle finger,” replies Sweta. “What?” exclaims the man; then he notices her middle finger that she holds up.
“It isn’t deep isn’t it?” he asks her, in concern,” I had forgotten about it.”
She only smiles by way of reply.
Every day, Sweta waits. She finishes her cooking very early. Then she bins the waste, pulls a chair on to the landing and sits there; every morning till noon.
A week later, her vigil is rewarded.
The creaking lift disgorges Rema. She makes for the neighbouring flat without looking at Sweta. Sweta calls out to her new friend.
“Rema! Just a second. I have something to ask you.”
The woman stops and looks apprehensively at Swati.
Then Swati clasps Rema’s hand in hers and and asks, earnestly:
“Will you give me music lessons?”
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.
"Hello, don't forget, you have an appointment with the eye specialist at 9 for your glaucoma follow up review," yelled Sujata from the Kitchen.
"Oh, I had forgotten. Just a moment, let me check if any eye hospital is offering any package deal," replied Sujit.
" You and your package deals ! I don't know when will you really come out of your middle class mentality. I want no compromise when your health is concerned. Only the best for you. You slogged the whole life. Brought up the children in the best possible manner. They are all settled now and are on their own. And I think we have saved enough for our sunset years. Why scrounge and live miserly now ? " chided Sujata.
" Oh, you will never understand. Let's be practical. It's Christmas time now. Come, I shall show you variety of online deals that are going on. We would be foolish if we don't take advantage of that. Filipkart, Amazon, Myntra, TataCLiQ... each is trying to outbid the other," interjected Sujit while browsing the net, " Hold on, here is a great offer. It's high time you throw your old walking shoes and go for a new pair. I also would like to change mine. There is an offer from Fila: 70% discount for two pairs bought together as against 30% on one pair. Hold on, let me just complete the transaction," said Sujit and clicked the payment button on Amazon.
" You are incorrigible. Even you expected my parents to offer you a package deal: marry one and get one free. How I wish you got that deal. My sister would have really put you in your place. Look at poor me, I rave and rant, I request, I pray, I threaten to leave you for good but finally I just hang around, and keep tolerating all your nonsense."
" Hello madam! Just imagine what a great threesome we would have made! Nothing to beat a package deal."
Sujit and Sujata celebrated their golden wedding anniversary last year. In a small gathering of family and friends, their two daughters screened a video that they had compiled from old photo collages augmented with catchy captions and message clips from near and dear ones. It was a trip down the memory lane for both: how they first met in the college corridor, how they fell in love and got married against their families' consent, how they started their professional lives : Sujit an officer in State Bank of India and Sujata a teacher, how the children came in due course to enrich their lives and grew up to stand on their own legs, and how they finally settled down post retirement in a modest flat of their own in Pune. Sujit considered Sujata a complete package: a perfect blend of beauty, brains and boldness, an ideal life partner and Sujata always felt incomplete without Sujit. They were so very different yet so very compatible: while individually, Sujit was like the high octane, effervescent Atlantic and Sujata in contrast was equally calm and composed like the deep Pacific, their life was not as turbulent as the Drake passage where both the oceans meet. Together they formed a necessary paradox, not a senseless contradiction. People said that he was toast to her butter.
As a gift to the parents, the girls offered them an overseas vacation at a place of their choice. Sujit spent considerable time browsing through multiple travel and vacation sites till he could manage to locate a package deal to Venice, Prague and Budapest. Sujata was keen to see places in India that they had not experienced. But Sujit promised to do that later and convinced her the 'value for money' aspect of this package deal, since the offer included free upgrades of economy class to business class, four star hotel accommodation to five star hotels, free breakfast and few free visits to places of interest in the European cities. When they returned after a delightful time abroad, they had to undergo two weeks' quarantine since the entire world was reeling under the onslaught of Corona virus. Soon came the enforced lockdowns. Although they were used to staying indoors after their retirement, this imposition appeared like imprisonment. They had to accept the norms of the new normal. Within no time Sujit got used to online shopping of daily essentials. He was seen spending considerable time with his laptop exploring the best deals from online suppliers for day to day essentials like groceries and fresh food items. What started as a compulsion, soon became an adventure and then an obsession. Sujit loved exploring the virtual corridors of Flipkart, Amazon and many such online dealers offering their ware. He discovered sites like Lootdeals, Dealsheaven, Snapdeal, etc. to gain knowledge of the best deals of the day. To start with, he compared the price offers for various brands of hand-wash and sanitisers and picked up the one with the best discount. The next item he ordered was a set of cleaning gear consisting of a plastic bin, a mop with a handle and a brush. During the lockdown the house helps were not permitted to enter the housing society and Sujit had offered to help Sujata out in the household chores. Floor cleaning, mopping and bed-making came to Sujit, while Sujata took charge of the kitchen and bathrooms. To make them more efficient Sujit kept looking for improved technology in all household items. In fact some items and commodities not only came with a discount but along with a free gift. While he could understand the combination of 5 kgs of Basmati rice discounted by 31% with 1 kg of free sugar, he couldn't figure out why a mosquito repellant was paired with a free gift of Hershey's Milk Booster or an OTG of a popular brand with 29% discount came with the free gift of a Stayfree Dry Max All night XL Dry cover sanitary napkins. But soon he got used to such absurdities and continued to look for the best package deals. Sujata had to designate a new shelf in the store room for all the free gifts which had no use for them. Sujit sometimes couldn't resist the temptation of heavy discounts offered on some items like sneakers and walking shoes and soon his shoe racks were bursting at their seams.
"Hello, will you please leave your laptop for sometime and listen to me? You wanted me to remind you about your Life Certificate," Sujata said while patting Sujit on his back to draw his attention.
" Just a moment, I was looking for a delicious offer from Dominos. Here, look: 'Avail Domino's Everyday Value Offers and get 2 Regular Pizzas starting at Rs.99 each or get 2 Medium Pizzas starting at Rs.199 each. Chips and dips free. Try the new Paneer Makhani Pizza or the Chicken Tikka Pizza, the latest additions to the Domino's Menu. View all the Everyday Value Offers & Pizza Deals below. T & C apply.' Tell me what should I order?"
" I have already cooked lunch. We can order something on Sunday. Now get ready and go the bank to sign your Life Certificate. Otherwise your pension will be stopped. The last date from 30 Nov is extended by one month. It's approaching soon. By the way, why don't you send your Life Certificate online?"
" Oh, I tried but failed. My current thumb print doesn't match with my ten year older thumb print stored in the Aadhar data base. Now that the lockdown is relaxed, I will go to the bank and sign it physically."
" Looks like they want to make sure that you are alive and kicking."
" Kicking? Yeah, during these uncertain times, who knows when one kicks the bucket ! Who knows next year you may not need my Life Certificate but perhaps the Death Certificate. By the way let me show you something. I just worked on my will and compiled some details of information that you will need in case something happens to me. Look here, all that are inside this folder on the desktop. I have named the folder Sujata01."
" How are you sure that something would happen to you before something happens to me?"
" Hello sweetheart, don't be sentimental. Let's be practical, just in case. Someone sent me an interesting message today. It reads 'After a whole year of stress, we now have a strain!' With the new mutant strains of Corona virus on the horizon, one never knows. We should be prepared."
" Alright. As always, you are right. But tell me what is this second folder named Sujata02?"
" Oh that? Please promise that you will open that folder only when I am not there. Right? Not before that. I can only give you a hint. You always told me that I look for the cheapest package deal for my middle class mentality. This contains a surprise package deal for you that would disprove your hypothesis. Open it only when I am not there. "
Sujit downloaded the Life Certificate, filled it up and started for the local branch of State Bank of India which disbursed his pension. Sujata saw him off at the door and rushed back to the study. She muttered to herself, " He told to open the second folder only when he is not there. Let me interpret it to my advantage. Right now, he is not here. So it won't be wrong on my part to open the folder." She drew a deep breath and double clicked the folder marked Sujata02.
The folder contained a link to a website: pathtoheaven.com. Her password was also indicated. Her heart pacing faster, she entered the password and clicked on the link.
The home page featured a logo showing a path from the earth to a bright halo marked as heaven. It's basically a funeral service provider. Amidst some modern graphics to depict souls from the lower rungs of the ladder transcending to the higher supreme source, a drop down menu showed a total of five packages of services offered. Sujata clicked on each option one after the other.
The first and most expensive option was the Platinum package. For an investment of ? 5 lakhs, it offered an embroidered silk shroud and a mahogany casket for the body, a Mercedese hearse, a digitally controlled crematorium with an air conditioned lobby, tulips and orchids for decorating the body, prayer meeting with professional Bhajan singers, embalming and professional mortician's services. The second package was named the Gold package priced at ? 3 lakhs offered similar services but with muslin shroud, Tata hearse, an ordinary electrical crematorium with no air conditioning of the lobby, rose and marigold flowers for the body decoration, prayer meeting with amateur singers. The next in line was the Silver package for ? 1 lakh, which provided plain cloth shroud, marigold flowers, a tempo for transporting the body to the municipality crematorium, and a feast for ten Brahmin priests. The last was the Terracotta package which was priced at ? 50000 and offered four pall bearers to the Hindu funeral ground, wood for the pyre, marigold flowers, cotton shroud and feast for five Brahmin priests. The special package, the 5th one was named Terracotta Double Bonanza and offered all the ones offered by the Terracotta package for two bodies simultaneously at the cost of ?70000.
Sujata checked the status to discover that Sujit had booked and paid ?5 lakhs for the Platinum package. She paused a while and found the 'modify the package' option.
Sujit was waiting in the bank lobby to complete the Life Certificate formalities. Suddenly his mobile pinged to give the message alert. He clicked the message folder to find an alert message from Pathtoheaven.com which read, ' Your package has been modified from Platinum to Terracotta Double Bonanza by one Sujata, authorised by you to access your account. An amount of ?4 Lakhs 30 thousand being credited to your credit card account.'
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
He was like a single mobile in a joint family. Everyone needed him and no one could ever have enough of him.
My elder brother Elias insists on these annual visits which happen at Christmas. He has been very punctual about it for more than a decade now.
My children who never knew him otherwise, look forward to meeting him for weeks in advance. Such a soul! He was everyone’s darling.
This year, we gave our home an extra cleaning, changed the curtains and the table cloth and dusted the carpets. It is good that he comes this close to Christmas. One preparation serves both occasions.
He is one person who resists changes. Let everything be the same, I hate missing things, he says. We were to treat him the way we always did, no matter how many years passed by.
We were happy that somehow the little ones never asked dumb embarassing questions about this uncle who visits them only once year.
More than a mobile phone, he is like a dream we all enjoyed together in different ways. May be we are also so possessive of him that we do not entertain other guests or let in the next door neighbours when he is here. A Santa who himself is the gift.
As usual he was very punctual. He had been like this all his life. He valued time, others’ and his own.
We were all there to greet him as he sailed in and hugged me, pecked my wife on her cheek and kissed my two kids. He looked behind them for my sister Mary who used to be a nun. She too greeted him and he acknowledged her as if she were still in the nunnery.
He went to his room. I had inherited our ancestral home and even when I altered it drastically to fit my wife’s taste, I kept his room as such. He thanks me every time he comes for having kept it as such. He went there and stayed there for few minutes, probably nursing his old memories. We waited. We were used to that ritual.
When he came out, my kids claimed him. In fact, that was'nt the order. He will be with them for hours on end. As my wife and I were very busy with our business, we never got enough time to be with our kids and over the years, they kind of stopped seeking some time with us. They had their fair share of patient listening offered by a close relative only when their uncle came for the annual visit. They too are ritualistic in that and might be boring him to death with complaints about their parents, teachers, friends and what not. I hope they might have some good news also for him like the new garden we have managed to put together with a fountain and all, the lab we were planning to buy on New Year’s Day, the visit we had to this wonderful but unheard of waterfall up in the high ranges and the car we have just bought.
While he was in the kids room, I got a chance to think about all the things I myself wanted to tell him. What a pity! Only sad things come to mind. All bad news and sad news. Of death, debt and loss. Fights I had at my firm. The troubles I ran into with the police on a money deal. How three of my best frieds voted against me at the Lion’s Club Zonal President election.
I could hear endless giggles of my kids from there room. They were having fun, for sure. So, his visit was not going to be so depressing for him this time. I decided to be very careful about what I would tell him later that night.
Next in line to claim his company was my sister. I could hear her sobs from her room when he was there with her. She had only worries in her life so far. It was her own decision to choose the nunnery. It was mostly my decision to yank her out of it. It was not easy. I worked like drops of water on a stone surface to make her see light. Fear kept her under its shroud for long. Embarrassment counseled her against me for longer than that. But finally, by God’s grace, she decided to leave it all and come to stay with us. She wanted it to be a totally quiet affair.
Years ago she was about to get married when her lover met with an accident. She was also there when it happened. We tried our best to bring her out of her trauma but nothing worked. Four psychologists worked on her and left her for dead. That was when she herself came up with the idea that she wanted to be a nun.
As of now, I can’t say she is happier because she is a person who always lived in the past. I am sure that was her problem in the convent too. She could forgive easily but she could never forget. Like kids she had stored a whole year’s grievances and was now pouring them into my brother’s ears.
I used to be like this long ago. It was my brother who showed me there is quite another way to live. Out of his love for me, he promised to meet me no matter where I was on a certain day every year and he has never broken his promise so far. Over the years, with his God-like affection for me, he has shown me the long road to happiness. I can’t say I am racing on it now. But I know I am on the right path at least when I look at how the others are doing.
My brother came out of my sister's room and asked my wife whether dinner was ready. My wife smiled and said the table was laid. He nodded to me and we went out to the garden for brief chat.
We discussed how business was badly affected by this epidemic. He asked me not to worry. He nodded at my ideas on some changes I was brooding over. Everything was going online and the expensive competition on offline advertisements and infrastructures might just disappear.
My wife called us in to dinner and we had such fun at the dinner table. As usual my sister ate something which disagreed with her and couldn't breathe for an anxious minute. When that happens nothing works but she tries everything including jumping up and down. My younger kid munched on a chilly and started hollering with a drooling mouth. My wife silently looked at everyone fishing for compliments about her cooking. I didn’t quite like the food this year. There was the taste of cardamom in everything. When I mentioned it my wife asked me to try the duck. When I said that too had cardamom she said that was impossible. Probably it was the cardamom she had put in the drinking water. Its smell might be making me think I was tasting it in everything.
But food was not the only thing we had on the table. We had our fair share of small talk too. My brother never really appreciates it and so he kept smiling at us. Slowly I caught on to it and stopped short when he asked me whether I have checked whether the window panes were clean on that side. My wife stared at him and I laughed. Got it.
After dinner my wife claimed him and spent some quality time with him in the kitchen. She was laughing out loud, probably going over all her petty achievements for the last one year. She had set up her own boutique and spa and was a moderate success at it. While I was dethroned as the the Lion’s Club Zonal President, she got enthroned as the secretary. She has good interpersonal skills which helped her turn the tide in her favour.
On the other hand, her own life was really a mess. Her racing mind is affecting her health rather dangerously. Only that she is either unaware of it or turning a blind eye to it. Mainly, she is suffering from Exophthalmos, also known as proptosis, which makes her eyes balls bulge out so much that she is not even able to keep her eyes open.
It might be past midnight. I was feeling sleepy. My wife was still in conversation with my brother in the kitchen and washing the dishes at the same time.
I picked up a magazine and browsed through it. I turned on the TV too just to keep me awake. The TV showed only bad news about the epidemic and a stock market crash. I switched channels and started watching a comedy show. It was deplorable. Why do people think such things are funny? Are we still such a primitive society that we think body shaming is fun? I again switched the channel to Animal Planet. That was interesting.
The more one thinks about the animal world, the more one marvels at the intelligence of the universe, especially the biosphere. How well- engineered life really is! How environmentally conscious the environment itself is! It reuses, recycles and reduces relentlessly with no consideration whatsoever. Death like a scythe chops us when we are needed no more and when new sprouts are needed. Of course, nature has a big responsibility of feeding its young ones and it is highly responsible there. Even this epidemic is a strategy. Since it affects us, we curse and run for cover the way the extinct animals were running for cover since we started walking the earth.
When my wife was done with him, they both came out of the kitchen. She said good night to me and went to bed. She knew that I wouldn't be going to bed anytime then. With my brother there, it was going to be a night of revelry. A sleepless night. He doesn’t drink, but I do.
However, it is not the drink but his intoxicating presence that I love. I wait patiently for everyone to have their time with him so that I can claim him for my own for the rest of the night.
That night too I went on letting go of myself. It was like dictating my autobiography to a patient scribe. He nodded at a few things, smiled at a few others and laughed out loud at times. There was never a moment of dissent or disagreement. He is not judgemental all all. That was why he was a darling to us all.
There is no point in describing what I told him. It is enough to say that it was a night-long confession. Only that there were good things also to talk about, not just the nasty things I did and then regretted.
I was so drunk that I did not realize when I went to sleep on the chair itself. It was my sister who came to wake me up early in the morning. As usual my brother had had to leave early in the morning. Everyone including the kids were waiting for me down there.
I went down from the terrace. My brother was all set to leave. We all hugged him and said bye. He promised to visit us again on the same day next year.
Seeing him leave, I wondered whether there was any certainty about such meetings. Who will be around even the very next day? How can we be sure of anything in life?
We all went back to bed for a quick morning nap.
We have to get up after an hour or two to attend the special morning mass at the church.
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.
POMERANIAN
Krupa Sagar Sahoo
(Translated from Odia by Malabika Patel)
2UP Mumbai Mail arrived at Bilaspur station on time. It was seven in the morning. During the fifteen-minute stop, the train staff receive a change in duty and the passengers, a good breakfast.
Once the train arrived at the platform, it was a replay of the usual scene. The familiar “chai-garam, chai-garam” call of the half-running, half-walking chaiwallah with the clanging of his kettle and his crackling plastic cups as he made the rounds. The creaking fruit cart with overripe bananas and guavas came rolling, mouth-watering dum-aloo poured over sizzling hot pakodas served in sal leaf katoris flew off the hawker boy’s basket in minutes; all the while, people got in and got out. Amidst the melee, relatives hovered around doors and monopolized the windows to pamper their dear ones with their endearing ta-ta-bye-byes.
Tearing through the crowd on the platform was a lady rushing towards the brake van. The train was about to leave, and her pace had increased. She could have broken into a sprint but for the high-heeled sandals adorning her feet and a cute Pomeranian in her arms. In between speeding up her pace, she was smothering the doggy with kisses and whispering sweet nothings into his ears.
The lady was middle-aged, attractive and fashionable to boot. Past her forties, she looked well-maintained. Following her quick steps was a uniformed railway staff, otherwise known as the Parcel Babu.
Before blowing the whistle, the train guard was checking the seal of the luggage van and the tailboard of the last bogie, when the running duo reached up to him.
“This dog will go in the dog box,” Parcel Babu indicated, breaking through the concentration of the train guard.
“Actually, you see, I had a first-class ticket. My doggy would have travelled with me. But some unkind passengers protested,” explained the lady with the doggy.
“True! That Madam had a first-class ticket. But a rule is a rule. These days, people are quoting rules for everything,” added the Parcel Babu.
“I have to go today anyway. There is a dog show at Nagpur. There is no other alternative.”
“Madam! Please give twenty rupees.”
“What? I have already paid for the booking of my doggy. You ask this man.” She pointed her finger at the Parcel Babu.
Parcel Babu’s gaze was on the platform scene. The green light was already on, signalling for the train to leave the station. Only the whistle of the Guard was left to blow. The ASM started to announce, “Guard and Driver of Mumbai Mail, start your train.”
The Guard Babu in a muffled and harried voice said, “Madam, this is not a bribe, it is baksheesh.”
“What did you say? Baksheesh? Wait, I will take away your job.”
Some more expletives flew through the air. The Guard was not able to hear any more of it.
The dog was reluctant to get into the dog box. He was whimpering and licking the feet of his owner, hoping for some form of relief. Madam gave a kiss to the doggy, caressed his back before handing him over to the Guard, she then returned back to her first-class compartment. To be separated from a loved one can lead to heartache; while walking back to her compartment, our lady was found wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Guard Babu! Please sign the delivery book.”
With a whiff of irritation, the Guard signed on the Parcel Babu’s delivery book, without even glancing at it and blew the whistle. The wheels started rumbling.
Once in the dog box, the doggy continued to whine.
On the right side of fifty-five, the Guard Babu’s long beard was more salt than pepper. The colour of his hair was not visible, concealed as it was by a white cap. The winter overcoat on his white uniform made him look like a Vasco da Gama.
Mulling over the dog owner’s comment, the Guard kept blabbering and started rustling through the things in his cabin, the doggy’s tin of biscuits, a bundle of newspapers, the railway dak among others.
The doggy, which had been making a sound like a drone, had stopped and now looked as if it had settled down in the dog box. The Guard also let out his stress with a puff and took a deep breath.
“I told your Madam that it is not a bribe. It is a baksheesh. What did she hear? Instead, she started to shout ...”
“Arre, Babu, listen …... is there any place where no money is min play? The peshkar is taking a ghoosh right under the nose of the judge. The Minister, Chief Minister … they are all taking money! Which is why there is so much brouhaha about corruption? See how many commissions—lokpal ...?”
“When they don’t take for themselves, they take for their party.”
“You will see—vigilance people, RPF, GRP staff, accounts inspector, commercial inspector—all will come to this cabin. They will check the records. Luggage van, personal cash etcetera; I have to satisfy all of them. Without a handful of baksheesh, how am I to do it?”
The doggy now looked a bit livelier. It perked up its ears, sized up the guard. Perhaps he understood that either he or his Madam was the subject of this outburst.
“Hey, your ears are up! Do you know the consequences of not greasing palms? Then listen. Once what happened … Konark TV was transporting hundreds of television sets in the luggage van. Before unloading, the coolies asked for a baksheesh of two hundred rupees. The officer of the TV company boasted that his is a government company; no question of bribe, no baksheesh. Later on, half the TV sets were found damaged; the coolies had smashed them on the platform. Who can reform these coolies, tell me?”
“All this bribe-baksheesh in the railways … When will it stop, you know? When there will be three or four railway companies. The guards and conductors of the trains will be like bus conductors, shouting Raipur … Nagpur … Kanpur … Come aboard my train! But this is not going to happen in this lifetime—neither yours nor mine.”
The next station arrived. A police inspector came into the cabin. The state police are required to aid with security support to the guard.
Seeing the Inspector, the doggy started to bark. The khaki uniform, the cap and the baton of the Inspector along with his curled moustache made him look like a Veerappan.
“Guard Babu! you seem to be taking a nice companion today.”
“Duty, Sir. Duty.”
Now the doggy started to bark louder.
“Your police uniform and moustache are what is making him bark.”
“No, it is your beard which makes him bark.”
Next was Raipur station, the police inspector got down from the luggage van with a loud remark: “One can’t sit here.”
Then came the accounts and commercial inspectors.
“How is it that today one can see a combination of a cat and a mouse?” commented the guard.
“Inspection of the joint team, you see.”
“Hey! Why does the compartment smell foul?” the accounts inspector was screwing up his nose.
“Can’t you see? A doggy is on board. Quite a plump one at that; has worn a nice coat too.”
“But why does it smell?” the Commercial Inspector commented, sniffing at the dog box.
The guard, who happened to be an Odia settled in Bilaspur, was suddenly reminded of his school days. He started to hum a poem he had dug out from the memories of his schooldays.
“Red kohl on the eyes,
Playing in the mango foliage,
Mastering the tunes, plucking the mango buds,
Can the crooning of a crow be that of a cuckoo?
The world will only laugh at the effort.”
Then he started translating the Odia poem for the benefit of his non-Odia visitors. “As much as you bathe the doggy with expensive soaps and shampoos, he can never smell as nice as his memsahib.”
A roar of laughter reverberated through the cabin. In response, the doggy started barking louder. Perhaps he did not like the derision in their talk—as a customer of the railways, he was not supposed to be the butt of their jokes.
In the next halt, the two visitors got down. The guard then looked into the dog box. Really, the place was stinking. The doggy had urinated, and the liquid had flowed across and wet the bundle of newspapers. Shit! What a mess! He bemoaned and spat out laments. Cleaning all this by himself was a new worry. When there is work to be done, all folks will vanish. Only when there is no work, people will surround him, squat on his trunk and sip tea served by him, along with hot potato chops.
Now he felt like whining and crying. But you need a shoulder to cry on; that enhances the value of crying. But where is the shoulder? Suddenly, he felt he was all alone. Then his thoughts wandered. What is the life of a guard? It is worse than a dog’s life. Leaving behind wife and children, one has to roam around like a gypsy, no regularity of eating or sleeping. Whatever fish or mutton one buys for cooking in the Running Room, it tastes so insipid after it has been handled by the railway cook’s hand. Sleep in the dormitory is so disturbed, what with all kinds of sounds emanating from the inmates—some snoring, some hollering. The Guard was overwhelmed with self-pity. He could not think further, his mind was so agitated that in protest, he gave a big kick to the dog box. In provocation, the doggy barked even more, got more restless and valiantly moved around inside the box. Then he defecated in protest.
“Hey, I have no time to play with you, you understand. I have to prepare the parcel summary. Then fill up the detention notebook. And so many other sundry tasks are pending for me to attend to.”
This set him thinking. One has to make friends with the doggy; otherwise, the journey will be unbearable. He remembered the biscuit tin given by the lady. He opened the box and offered one to the doggy. It didn’t touch it.
“Hey, are you angry? Or don’t you like my face? Of course, I don’t have a smooth cheek like your memsahib. In our house, the beard is hereditary, you see. Even my grandfather sported a beard. They all did for some reason, call it disease, detachment. I don’t have any such reason. Only thing, my cheeks are rough like that of Om Puri, because of a bout of chickenpox I had during my childhood. To conceal that, I sport a beard. I am a regular domesticated person, you see. I understand your plight. I know how it feels to be separated from your loved ones.”
Now he caressed his beard. It was unkempt and dirty, but where would he find the time to groom it?
The train was chugging along, carousing through the jungle, midway between Darekesa and Salekesa. Whenever there was a bend or a crossing, the train zipped along with long whistles. One could see the sky-kissing sal trees, thickets of bamboo passing by on both sides of the moving train.
From the bushes could be heard the mating calls of the peacock, the shrieking of monkeys and some sweet twitters of unnamed birds. The doggy now tore open his belt. His coat slipped off his torso. The Guard saw that he was a male. With his plump and cute look, he had guessed it was a bitch.
“Oh, that is why you are so adamant! Didn’t like the biscuit with all the shit around, na?” He now felt sorry for the doggy.
“Now, come. Have some fresh air.” He then opened the latch of the dog box. “Come and sit here and have your biscuit.”
The train was now entering a tunnel. It got pitch dark. The doggy came closer to the Guard, made himself comfortable near his feet and even took a biscuit from him. The Guard Babu then poured some water from his bottle into his mouth. The animosity was turning into friendship.
After the tunnel, came another spot of dense jungle. The trees were even taller and shadier. In between the movement, one could hear the peacock’s call and the monkey’s shriek.
“Babu re! Don’t go near the door. The wheels will run over you. Your tender legs will get cut. Whole life you will become crippled.”
Suddenly the train stopped. To know the reason Guard Babu came to the door and holding the handle leaned out to know the reason why the train had stopped.
On the side-lines, not far from the track, a peacock was strutting around with his blue-green feathers. The peahen was picking grains from the ground. From afar, two rabbits were watching the feathered creatures around the bush. Their eyes fell on the fluffy dog. Thinking it to be one of them, they came forward and started running across the rail line. The doggy also thought of them as his clan brothers. Just a long jump from the cabin and he was one of them!
Suddenly, the whistle blew and the train started to move. The Guard came from the door and sat on his seat and looked around.
“Arre … where is the doggy?”
Next, his eyes fell on the outside, where the doggy was sprinting along with the two rabbits into the jungle.
His head started spinning. He did not know what to do. In a split second, it had escaped. Can he pull the chain and run after the doggy? No, he cannot leave the train. But, what the hell? I am the train guard, he thought. I am the king of the train. I will stay put. You idiot, you go wherever you want to go.
But was it so simple? Thinking about it, he felt stressed. When there will be an enquiry as to what had happened to the dog, which had been under his charge? What would be his reply? He might lose his job. Five people at home were dependent on him. His eldest son is yet to get a job. The daughter is yet to be married off. His anxiety became palpable.
Next halt was Gondia. It is known for its delicious potato chops, fried stuff, and good tea. Passengers got down from their compartments and hovered around the stall and carts, ordering hot savouries. To catch some leftovers and crumbs, an emaciated street dog was hanging around, shaking his legs and salivating.
From the cabin, the Guard Babu’s eyes scanned the platform. They fell on the cart. An idea struck him. He got down on to the platform with two biscuits in his hand, went near the dog and tempted him. “Chuchu … chuchu … chuchu …”
The smell of the biscuits was too much for the hungry bedraggled street dog. His entire life he had survived on food wasted by the passengers. Forget about the taste, he had never even smelt something so delicious. Attracted by the bait, he came behind the Guard and jumped into the cabin. Seizing the moment, Guard Babu pounced on him with the velvet coat of the “phoren” doggy and tied the belt on him. Then he pushed him into the dog box and latched him there.
There was not a hint of the slightest protest from the street dog. Fed with delicious biscuits and with warm clothes on, he fell into a nice snooze.
The Guard Babu was smiling, thinking about how there are people who are peaceful and happy even in captivity. No wonder some people like to remain even in jail. He was reminded of a person called Natia from his village who used to steal coconuts and small items, and would frequently land up in jail only to get free meals.
Nagpur arrived. The Guard Babu had packed his luggage well before and was well-prepared. The halt was for half an hour, as the engines would have to be changed along with a change of duty for the guard. Handing over the parcels, along with the dog box to his reliever, the Guard Babu quickly got down from the train and started walking behind the box boy, towards the Running Room, humming a tune, a whistle on his lips.
A group of friends and well-wishers had gathered to welcome our fashionable lady in the first-class compartment. It may have been that the welcome greetings of her friends delayed her arrival to the guard’s cabin.
Negotiating between the carts full of oranges, bananas, guavas on the platform, the Guard Babu kept briskly walking towards the Running Room while visualizing the scene when the lady would discover the contents in the dog box—a scruffy, dishevelled, emaciated street dog instead of her white-as-milk, fluffy, cute Pomeranian. She might shout and scream, “Oh my God! Where is my Bunty? Whose dog is this? Where is the bearded guard? Wait and watch … I am going to take away his job.”
But how could she? No details of the dog had been mentioned in the waybill—not the colour, the type, or the breed of the dog that had been left in charge of the guard. Who will catch him?
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Broken Nest’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
In the first week of December in a busy office hour Smita and her daughter Sidhi came to my office. I was surprised to see them coming to meet me without prior intimation. I got worried because Smita had undergone a life saving surgery in 2013 by me when I was in Burla. Smita probably read me from my expression. To pacify my anxiety she told me "Nothing serious Sir. it's just a normal courtesy visit to Bhubaneswar as demanded by my daughter Sidhi." Both of them touched my feet. Then Smita told why they had come to meet me. "Sidhi's school is closed due to Corona pandemic for last eight months. She is getting bored, staying alone at home. Young adolescent mind needs some change and relaxation. She was daily asking me when to go and where to go for an outing. Are we going to Bhubaneswar to meet your God? It was her long standing demand since she knew about my last operation. At the time of the operation she was too young to understand. Now she has understood that you had saved me on that fateful night. I had told her that you are my God. Not only me Sir, all my family members worship you as God. She always asks me where is your God? Will you show me your God? I always tell her that my God is in Bhubaneswar. I will definitely take you to the temple city one day and you will meet him. From that day she's after me.
A few days back she almost broke down,started crying accusing me to be a cheat,always promising and breaking. 'I know, you will never take me,' she said. Then I consoled her and assured her that I will take her to Bhubaneswar shortly. 'Is it so Mama?' She almost got mad. 'Mama, can I see him? How does he look? Will he talk to me? How do you talk to him?' She bombarded me with so many questions. The day before when she came to know that we are coming to Bhubaneswar she got so excited that neither she slept nor allowed us to sleep that night. She went on dreaming of you and showered thousands of questions about my operation and about you. Bolangir-Bhubaneswar bus starts at 7 pm. Before boarding the bus, she bowed down before the bus, probably telling herself, 'Oh chariot, take me to my Mama's God. You must be knowing where he stays.' Today Sir, she's with you. Her dream got fulfilled".
Sidhi with a mask on, fair, tall, charming, which even the mask could not hide, eyes full of curiosity, was standing quietly in front of me. I asked her to remove her mask and come closer. I hugged her and kissed her on her forehead. She was too shy to speak, but I could read her language from her eyes. "Oh! You are that God? You don't look like a God. But my mom says you are and my mom can never be wrong. I'm really confused." She was just looking from my head to toe and toe to head and probably thinking, "How can it be? Here is a god who sits in the office, not in a temple. Nobody offers him flowers and coconut. Looks as simple as an ordinary man. Might be I am in delusion, might be I am too much immature to understand. I will ask my mother to dispel my doubts." Then Sidhi and Smita had photographs with me. I said, "May God bless you." They departed.
After they left I rewound the event that had occurred on the first January 2013. In the evening I was operating a case in a nursing home at Burla. I got a phone call, "Smita has fainted in the bathroom. She's serious. We are shifting her to Burla in an ambulance after primary treatment at Bolangir hospital. We will be reaching there at about 9 pm . Hopefully we will meet you there." Smita was known to me since long. At present she was under my treatment for her second pregnancy. I thought most probably she might have severe internal bleeding due to which she had collapsed in the bathroom. I started praying to God for Smita to reach safe in the nursing home. I was passing through anxious moments waiting for her arrival. Fortunately she reached the nursing home at about 9.30 pm. I was about to finish my other operation. Anesthesiologist was present. Apprehending the danger I asked the sister in charge to prepare the OT. So in no time we were ready. After admission formalities were completed, blood sample was sent for necessary investigations, grouping and cross matching, ultrasound done on her way to OT. When we received her in OT she was responding, wished me by raising her hands. Fortunately her vitals were stable, bed side hemoglobin showed 6 gm%. Requisition was sent for 3 units of blood. She was high risk for anesthesia. However I convinced the anesthesiologist to administer anesthesia lest we may lose her if we will wait for blood to be arranged. We took the risk and started the operation without any delay. By that time all reports had reached the OT. Ultrasound revealed massive collection of blood in the abdomen cavity. When I opened it, I saw cavity was full of blood. About 3 liters of blood had accumulated. With much difficulty we spotted the site of bleeding and excised it. Haemostasis was maintained, abdominal toilet was done. By that time 2 units of blood was received in the OT, which was transfused. Smita was stable. She was kept under manual monitoring as ICU was not vacant. By the time my team left OT it was 2nd January. Really it was the most memorable new year celebration in my life.
That day might be the day of rebirth for Smita, but for me it was a day of transformation when she could discover a God in me. I was not aware of this until she along with Sidhi revealed their thrilling secret. They left me alone in my chamber no doubt, but left innumerable questions and an ocean of puzzles to be solved by me.
Am I really a God?
What speciality did Smita find in me to worship me as God?
What do others feel about me?
These questions created ripples in my mind, which forced me to dream the live pictures of my past, starting from my first patient Nandini in early 1980s, a laboring mother from Sambalpur town brought to the head quarters hospital in a comatose condition following three bouts of convulsion at home, fortunately both mother and baby survived, to my last difficult case Mrs Pradhan, a cervical cancer patient operated here at Sum Hospital five years back. She was known to me since her childhood. Many of her influential VIPs dissuaded her to get operated here for so many reasons. But she was too stubborn to be demotivated. She simply surrendered before me and I obliged. She's fine, ties Rakhi every year without fail.
During this time period of 40 long years of clinical practice I must have treated lakhs of patients, operated more than thousands of cancer cases excluding the innumerable conventional surgeries and must have given motherhood to hundreds of childless women. Never before somebody had worshipped me as God. Yes people say, "You have a healing touch, safe pairs of hands, I have kept the name of my son Mohadev; same as your name and so on and so forth." I never mind those words. But today what Smita and Sidhi gave me was something special.
I was totally confused. I went and stood in front of the mirror to find any transformation in me. But where is the change ? The same Gangadhar is looking and teasing me from the mirror. Neither river Ganges is flowing from my head, nor I have an elephant head, nor I have four hands decorated with Sankha,Chakra, Gada (club) and Padma (lotus flower). I went home and asked my wife if she found any change in me. She simply ridiculed with a smile, "Why this question today?" But Smita definitely brought some change in me. I started believing in me that I am all together a different man. In my profession at least I haven't done any harm to anybody. She reminded me the story of a lion cub reared by a mother wolf and what the cub did when it saw its reflection in a well. I understood my potential. I realized the role and contribution of a physician. Every physician has a divine link. In some it's expressed, in some it remains dormant to be activated by special messengers like Smita and in a few it's abnormal due to some epigenetic influence.
So my appeal to all physicians, "Introspect within and realise the heavenly Truth. You will discover the hidden God in you. Only you have to be ethical and empathetic . Do no harm, should be your motto. "
Sarbe bhabantu sukhinah
Sarbe shantu niramaya
Sarbe bhadrani pashyantu
Ma kashit dukhvak bhabate.
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..
Buds were sprouting into tender leaves, celebrating winter’s demise, when I got down from the bus at a tiny town in the tribal belt of Odisha. Forested and hilly, the place would have remained an overgrown tribal village but for being the district headquarters with a Collector, a Superintendent of Police and a few government officials. Thanks to its British legacy, the town had paved roads, spacious bungalows and a few rest houses with gardens meticulously maintained by a battalion of gardeners or ‘malis’. Precious little had been done for the headquarters town after Independence.
My uncle was one such official posted there and he invited me to spend a few days in the ‘wild’. He didn’t mention the other attraction—his wife’s cooking! I indulged myself in aunt’s delectable fare, followed by siesta in the afternoons. What a welcome change from insipid hostel food! The quiet roads lined with tall trees were pleasant for long walks any time of the day. A mountain stream girdling the town on three sides was ideal for someone keen on a quiet swim on a sunny day.
One afternoon I was strolling along the river bank when I came across an angler sitting patiently with his fishing rod in the water.
“What have you caught so far, old man?” I asked genially.
“Sh!” he motioned me to silence. But I saw no bite on his line. Then I noticed that his eyes were in fact focussed skywards. “See that eagle circling round and round against the blue sky? How gracefully it glides with the clouds—a ballet on wings! I never get tired of such a sight.” After this dramatic introduction he looked me over. “New to our place, are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you regularly come here to fish?”
He nodded. “For over a year now,” he replied and added, “Never seen a single fish though, let alone catch one!”
I was baffled. “You mean, you do it for time pass?” I couldn’t decide whether to label him a mad fellow or a philosopher.
He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, it’s not the fish I am after. The fishing rod is only an excuse, a ruse, for seeking out Nature’s company—the green trees, the birds and the gurgling waters cascading over hidden rocks. You see, if I were sitting here alone doing nothing, passers-by would surely take me to be mad. But they see the fishing gear in my hand and let me be. I am left alone to ‘fish’ from the beauty around me to my heart’s content.” He looked at me. “You are the first one to go out of his way for me. I don’t know why.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to disturb you!” I was most apologetic.
“That’s all right,” he assured me. “You must be a fellow with great curiosity if you can barge in on an angler’s meditation.”
“If you are not really fishing,” I asked, “why do you catch worms and destroy life?”
He was taken aback. “Is it? But, but…if the eagle can snatch away animals and kill them, what’s wrong if I catch worms?”
“You are not catching worms for food,” I tried to clarify. “You’re killing them for sport.”
His soft eyes appeared hurt. “Suppose you are right,” he conceded with a deep sigh. “There’s no point in using worms for bait when there’s no fish to catch. From tomorrow, no more worms for me!” he declared.
“Oh, please don’t take it seriously,” I hastened to assuage him, and added with a chuckle, “A few worms this way or that won’t make any difference to the world. It’s not an endangered species, so far; still plenty of them wriggling around.”
“Yes, they are everywhere.” He laughed and swung his arm behind him in a semi-circle. There was innocent wonder in his eyes. “Scratch the riverbank anywhere and you see them slithering in the moist earth. There are so many varieties of creepy-crawlies too! I can never catch the elusive crabs as they dart into their holes. Not that I am after crabs, you see,” he added sheepishly.
I smiled. A strange, uncanny rapport was growing between us.
“My personal favourite is the ladybird,” he continued, “you know, the red crawling variety with a glossy, velvety shell. Looks like the flowing red cape of a queen at her coronation. Have you seen them tottering over the dew-laden grass, their striking red colour glistening on the green grass under a mild blue sky? So exquisite! I go a little further down the riverbank and stumble on a hidden trove of sparkling pebbles. I pick up the flat stones and send them skipping over the surface, one after another, and they hop right up to the far shore. So much fun!”
The child-like thrill in his voice was infectious. I wanted to share his joy for nature. “You come here early in the morning?”
“Not always. Normally I start after breakfast, except when I am unable to come.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“Man needs bread to live, you know,” he twisted the old saying with a sly smile. “My source of livelihood is my land, which is tilled by share-croppers. Even so, I have to run after them to collect my share. How can I afford my leisurely lifestyle otherwise?”
“Of course.”
He pointed at the forest behind us and said, “I like to meander my way through the trees, away from the beaten path. Who knows what sort of new revelation would be in store for me? A branch or trunk of a tree twisted in a macabre fashion, or a deer staring at you with its innocent face and trusting eyes. There’s nothing ‘artificial’ in nature’s show, unlike programmes staged in theatres and on dance floors. The beauty is simply there for me to savour! You have to make the choice—whether to lose yourself in nature’s glory or to run away from its monotony.” A sudden surge in the river current made his fishing rod bob up and down, as if endorsing his words.
He went on, “I walk through the woods, listening to the crush of fallen leaves under my feet and the fluttering ‘living’ leaves overhead. How they dance in tune! I can hear the crackling mirth of bamboo plants as they rub against each other; it makes my hair stand on end. Then the air is filled with bird cries—cuckoo’s cooing, woodpecker’s pecking, pigeon’s crooning, parrot’s screeching—always accompanied by the shrill orchestra of the crickets. Their music comes floating to the edge of this stream, where it mingles with the lilt of the dancing waters. I sit down on the riverbank and drink deeply from their symphony—the music of the spheres. Oh, God, I can go on listening to it for hours!”
He paused and his words scattered in the wind. The natural sounds of the forest seemed to have acquired a greater intensity and struck a dormant chord in my heart. Both of us sat there, in silence, till dusk fell and it was time to make our way back through the woods along the ‘trodden’ path. “Are you here for long?” he asked while parting.
“Only a couple of days more. I have to be back at college for online classes. Like you said, the business of earning one’s bread is relentless.” I hesitated before venturing, “If you don’t mind, I would like to come with you again, tomorrow.”
He gave a benign smile. “Most welcome. Why don’t you join me on a pre-dawn ramble? I want to show you something ‘special’.”
“So early? Well, okay. When do you want me to come?”
“Shall we say six? The beauty of dawn unfurling on a wintry morning is quite impressionable.”
“Impressionable?”
“Yes, because it imprints an eternal impression on one’s sensibility, a picture that your heart can recall at leisure with abiding pleasure!”
“I see. Where will we meet?”
“In the market place, near the bus stand.”
In the fading light I could barely make out the range of hills that encircled the green valley below us. The crimson glow of sunset sharply pierced the thin air before the sun fell down, to be swallowed by darkness. Only the hilltops remained lit by the sun’s last rays, reflecting the radiant face of a blushing bride on her wedding night.
“Don’t you think sunset is one of God’s most beautiful creations?” my angler friend asked. I nodded.
The air grew chilly as night came on. Fireflies clustered around the dark forms of gigantic trees, adding to their mysterious facade. Were their blinking lights signals from aliens in outer space?
“There’s no moon tonight,” my companion observed. “The moon here is so close to us, as if a guardian angel were watching over our sleeping children. Even on a cold night, I feel warm walking in the shadow of a huge cosy moon.”
By the time we reached the deserted market place, the enveloping crispy air made me tremble. It was as if I was walking on clouds. I literally sprinted home through the silent and deserted streets.
I couldn’t sleep well that night, fearing I would oversleep if I fell asleep. I was up and heading for the market place even before the appointed hour. It was very dark and foggy. The streetlights wore a fuzzy look like ghosts. I vaguely wondered what my angler friend could show me in such dim weather.
By the time I reached the bus stand my sweater was drenched with condensing water particles. Soon my angler friend, fishing rod in hand, ambled out of a thick wall of fog. It was exactly 6 a.m. “Hello,” he shouted affably, his breath coming in great white puffs.
“You are particular about punctuality, I see,” I remarked.
“Why, is it wrong to be punctual?”
“No, no. I thought, well, being in tune with eternity and all that, time in the functional sense had little worth for you.”
“My dear friend,” he explained, “you see the street lamp there? The fog blurs its glow and so it looks enchanting. But how can I appreciate its charm if my eyesight is clouded?” Impeccable logic!
As we made our way to the river, I could make out the outlines of houses and tree-trunks, giving the surreal look of a misty dream or a mystic horror story, depending on one’s ken. We passed an early morning rambler perambulating with his walking stick. He smiled and we returned his greeting before his receding figure was again swallowed up by the mist. Soon sunlight filtered through to drive away the fog and form tiny droplets of moisture on tree leaves. The pattering of the dewdrops falling to the ground sounded like the beating of soft drums.
My angler friend looked at me and smiled. “Vibing with the music of the spheres, are we?”
“More correctly ‘vibrating in my skin’!” I jabbered, referring to my chattering teeth.
“Here,” he threw me a shawl, “wrap this around you.” I nodded my thanks.
“Your next visit should be during the rains,” he suggested. I looked at him quizzically. He explained, “The dense forest here draws very heavy clouds to our town, covering everything with its fluffy moisture. Soon the broad leaves of the gigantic sal trees are dancing in abandon in the wind, before torrents of rain come pouring down in a crescendo of ethereal music that has to be experienced to be believed!”
“I will come,” I promised. I felt the clean, morning air in my lungs. The colourful flowers on the lawns of the bungalows looked breathtakingly bright as if freshly painted on a canvas.
“I will not hunt for worms today,” my angler friend smiled and swung a ‘bait-less’ fishing rod into the river. I sat down by his side and put my hand in the ice-cold water. Oh, soooo...cold! I looked up at the noisy birds starting their shunting movements for the day. We were mute spectators to the sights and harmony of the wilderness unfolding before us.
“Do you think,” my companion asked with a faraway look, “I am making a fool of myself sitting here all day? Now I’m fooling you too. All this talk about pristine nature is very fine. But really, can someone withdraw and build his entire life on it? Or is it an addiction that bamboozles one’s senses into nonsense? Sometimes it makes me doubt my own sanity.”
I was astounded by his sudden confession. “Does it matter?” I countered. “When you are in the presence of something so sublime, so overwhelmingly pleasant, does anything else matter? How can I explain how glorious and fulfilled I feel in these surroundings? For the first time in my life I find a purpose, a vitality injected into me. It’s like a child rediscovering the joys of sucking its thumb. Here, in an inconspicuous but lofty corner of the earth, I feel I have found my mooring! Nothing else in this universe will ever excite me any more.”
“I am glad,” he responded softly. Our eyes met in a glance of mutual comprehension. Absolute calm reigned around us except for the chirping of birds and the trickling stream. The day progressed lazily, with water leaping over the rocks and the eagle circling in the blue sky. I must have dozed off, when a sudden cry from my companion jolted my slumber. “My God!” he was shouting. “What’s the matter with this fishing-rod?”
It was trembling like a leaf. I knew instantly what was going on. I grabbed the rod and gave it a backward jerk. A small fish popped out of the water and landed on the grass behind us. It was barely six inches long. Its scales glistened in the sunlight as it lay kicking helplessly.
My friend stared, as if he had never seen a fish before. Then he broke into excited chatter, “I have caught a fish! I have caught a fish! After months of baiting and waiting, I have caught a real fish! To think that the river was barren. Now I know my method was to blame. The fish here are allergic to worms. Who knows how many fish there are in the river’s belly—big ones and small ones, long ones and fat ones? Thank you, my friend, for showing me the way!”
He embraced me and bent down to pick up the glistening fish by its tail. With trembling fingers he removed the hook from its mouth and put the fish inside his bag before rushing back to position, to swing the fishing line into the stream. So blinded was he with his new-found passion for fish that he forgot I existed.
I didn’t stay to find out whether, overcome with pity for the poor dying fish, he threw it back into the water—or took it home.
Next morning, the cheerful sun was already up by the time I left my bed. The fog had vanished. I strolled down to the river to take leave of my friend. The grass was still moist under my feet and the birds were as chirpy as ever; but something vital had vanished.
He was at his perch, peering into the water. He waved to me. “Do you know,” he jabbered breathlessly, “the trout in this place are that big? My neighbour, he told me last night. He said the fish are plenty. In fact, he was surprised that I had never caught anything. But when I told him how I had nabbed a fish without any bait, his amazement knew no bounds!” His body shook with child-like mirth.
“Did you catch anything else yesterday?” I asked.
“No,” he shook his head. “I haven’t had a bite this morning too. But one has to be very, very patient, you know, in this business of angling. I may not get a bite for days—months even—and then have my line tugged by a whole school of fish! Yes, Sir, I will get them by and by.” He sat chuckling to himself.
I had come to thank him for his precious gift of opening my eyes to a beautiful vista of nature. Instead, I simply wished, “Well, good bye then, my friend.”
“Oh, leaving already?” he asked, expressing surprise.
“Yes, my college reopens tomorrow.”
“I see. God bless you!”
When I turned around and looked back, his eyes were not gazing at the trees and the eagle. Instead, his bowed head was glued to the fishing line in the water, deaf to the rustling sounds of the wilderness all around him. I left him, determined to carry on his aborted tryst with the road less travelled by mankind.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 18 :: MATTAMMA
"Miss!" Jademila looked up.
Devu stood before her with a beaming smile.The evening bell had gone for the dispersal of classes and Jademila had just returned to her seat. She was checking up the next day's time table for preparation when Devu came.
" What is it child?". Devu stood silent, Jademila looked up. She was a pre- degree history group student. It was a class of 90, Jademilla knew almost everyone in the class but Devu always stood out. She was always in the front bench and Jademila felt she was her cheergirl as well as the mirror that told her whether the class was following what she was teaching.
The Head of the Dept of History was very particular that Jademila should be there to teach her girls' English. When they set the time table, with hawk eyes she would wait to see if Jade's ( as all her colleagues and friends called her) name was there to teach her students. She had a belief that Jade would be soft and patient with them. Dr. Mridula liked this young lady who had joined the Department of English two years back. She was so outgoing in her desire to teach the students who were weak in English. She always found time to do remedial classes for them, after class hours, as she stayed in the College hostel.
Jade too loved the history group girls, most of them were from rural areas and did not know English. They had to be taught from scratch and needed a lot of patience and time. Jade taught them without translation. She would explain everything slowly in simple English many times, yet it was a struggle for them. One day they told her,
"Miss, please explain at least once in Malayalam, then it will be easier for us". "OK", Jade agreed.
She read out a paragraph and in her best malayalam she explained. She noticed their puzzled facial expressions and asked,
"Now what?,Can't you follow me". Utter silence.
"Tell me girls, what is it?"
Devu jumped up and asked "What language are you speaking Miss?"
Jade replied "Malayalam, why?"
"We can't follow your Malayalam, it sounds like a strange language to us, closer to Thamizh ".
Jade burst out laughing and the whole class joined her, "This is my best Malayalam." When the class settled down she asked,
"Now tell me in which language should I explain?"
"In English", they chorused, "In simple english".
From that day onwards Jade chose even more simple words to explain to them the meaning of the text she taught. And she made them learn the vocabulary daily. Within two months they could follow her easily. Jade stayed back after class to teach the very poor ones in English. Devu also belonged to that group. Because she was bolder than the others and more active and talkative she was given the charge of arranging the evening classes. Thus she grew closer to her teacher.
"Yes Devu tell me".
Miss, will you come to my house, I want to show you to my amma".
"Bring her over one day".
"Amma doesn't travel. But she wants to see you".
"I shall come one day, Devu ".
"Miss, will you come tomorrow?"
Jade always kept her Saturdays' and Sundays' free. She would work from Monday to Friday, from preparation for classes to personal chores like washing clothes and cleaning her room etc. A habit she picked up from home. Saturdays and Sundays were for enjoying, lolling about, reading or watching a movie. It did refresh her a lot and made her ready to tackle the demands of the following week energetically. As she was totally free, she agreed.
Devu offered to come in the morning and escort her to her remote village which was a village of temples and she promised that it would be an unforgettable day in Jade's life.
Yes, what Devu said was right.
It took them one hour to reach that village of temples on one of the tributaries of Poorna River. The village boasted of everything including an LP school and a Public Health centre. Life moved very slowly there. An experience she enjoyed
whenever she went to Fort Kochi. But in kochi there was also a sense of dejavu. They got down the bus and walked through the roads encircling the temples. At every turning they saw a temple. The devotees had all gone as they had reached late in the mid morning. Not a soul was seen on the road or the surrounding places.
"Where are the people Devu?"
"They are all busy, Miss."
"Women must be in the kitchen and men mostly farm labourers must be at their work now."
They walked through dirt roads with hedges made of shoe flower (hibiscus) plants and Nandiarvattam ( crepe jasmine) full of flowers. Jade guessed it must be for garlands for the deities. Every house they passed had a Thulasi-thara too where the basil plant flourished thick and bushy. The yards looked so neat and tidy. Children in groups were having a whale of a time here and there. Occasionally the air would be shattered by their boisterous screams and the sounds of the chirping birds. Otherwise the village looked like a sleepy one. But Jade enjoyed the walk. Often her mind would slip back to her own village on the hillside.
"Oh, we are there," Devu's excited comment broke her reverie. They had stopped at a small wooden gate that led through a winding path to a rambling cottage, roofed with red tiles. It looked so quaint and cute, more prettier than similar buildings they had passed by. This house had an aura of its own from which exuded a welcoming warmth which only few houses have.Yes once more Jade was assured of her conviction, that houses do have an aura of their own.
"Ammae, ammae," Devu called as she ran towards the front door. The door opened, a motherly looking lady with sandal paste on her forehead and in traditional kerala dress came out. It was her smile that hooked Jade, so full of warmth and love. She came down the two steps and took Jade's hands in hers and said "Come teacher, I was waiting to meet you. I have heard of you so much that I was eager to see you." She took Jade into the small cosy drawing cum living room. After the refreshments and initial round of small talk, Devu came full of excitement to drag Jade away to explore the village of temples.
Going from one temple to the other, with Devu running a commentary about the temples, with myths and legends replete, time flew by. The one temple she waxed eloquently was the Siva - Parvathy temple where they saw separate shrines for Lord Siva and Goddess Parvathy. The main Shrine of Siva faced the East and Parvati’s Shrine on the other side, faced west. There were also other minor shrines, for Ganapathy, Dharmasastha (Swami Ayyappan), Mahavishnu, and Durga Devi. According to a legend the Siva idol came from a far off land where a brahmin devotee worshipped him everyday without fail. As he grew older he bade farewell to Lord Siva tearfully saying that he would not be able to go there to worship Lord Siva again as he had become too weak to make the long journey. The Siva idol, it is believed, followed him on his journey home. It was found in the place where the temple stands now.
Another legend she narrated was about Goddess Parvati who cooked the Naivedyam ( offering to God) secretly in her shrine. One night, a devotee saw her cooking the naivedyam. Upset by this, Parvati decided to close her temple doors. However, after the Brahmin apologized, she allowed her shrine to be opened for 12 days each year. Thus listening to all the legends regaled by Devu, they finished going around the nearby temples. Then Devu took Jade to the bank of the Poorna River where the Siva Parvathy temple was situated. The vastness of the river was breathtaking at the same time frightening. When they reached home Devu' s mother had prepared a traditional sadhya with payasam. Her love and warmth overwhelmed Jade. The framed picture with a garland on the wall told Jade that Devu's father was no more. But what really surprised her was neither the mother nor the children including Devu spoke about their father and the house too did not look as if it had lost its back bone.
There were four children, three boys and one girl. Devu was the second one. Her elder brother had gone to town on some errand so Jade missed meeting him. The other two boys were busy playing with their peers that they rushed in for lunch and ran off. They were very shy to meet their sister's teacher. After spending another one hour talking to Devu's mother, Jade decided it was time to return. She talked mostly about Devu and the love that oozed out of her showed that Devu was her whole world. She loved Devu more than the boys and Devu too expressed the same. The way she cuddled near her mother like a kitten said it all. That night as Jade went to sleep she was thinking of the soft spoken, warm hearted woman she had met. She had something in her that drew people to her, though she was totally an unassuming, ordinary woman. Yes, like Devu said it would be an unforgettable day in her life.
Monday being a hectic day, Jade was totally busy. After the last hour, as Jade was going down the stairs, she saw Devu racing up as if she had forgotten something.
"What is it, child?" she asked.
"I was coming to see you, Miss."
" I came to the Department twice Miss and you seemed to be very busy. So I went off without disturbing you."
"Tell me now, Devu."
"I came to ask whether you liked my Amma and my home," she dimpled in all her innocence.
"Yes dear, you have such an adorable amma who is also a great cook."
"Yes miss, I love my amma so much more than my mattamma (other mother).
"Mattamma" who is that Devu?"
"My own mother Miss." Jade stopped astonished.
"Miss I have two mothers. This is my foster mother, the other mother whom I call mattamma is not here. She is a nurse in New Jersey. She left to work when I was a baby and my father brought this lady to look after me. Having lost her husband she was finding it very difficult to live with her two little boys. It was then that my father happened to meet her and he liked her so much that he brought her home with her children to keep house and to look after me. Ever since she has been with us. And when my mother came to know about it she stopped visiting us and would not have anything to do with my father. She wouldn't even come to see me."
"I was smothered with love by this mother that I hardly missed my own mother or yearned for her. But when my father passed away my mother came down. She too instantly liked her and decided to stay back. But soon money became a deciding factor and my mother realised that she should return to work in order to meet all the demands of the growing children, especially our education. So the two mothers decided that they would together look after the children. My mother went back to work and earns money and this mother runs the house and takes care of us. So I have two mothers Miss and I love this mother more than my biological one."
Jade was overwhelmed, what a strange tale!
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
WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
(Clockwise from top – Lido Tank, Walking the Plank, The Lido Jump (Photos Courtesy Veer by Discovery)
During my eventful career of thirty-nine years in the Army, the most memorable times have been at the Commando Wing, first as a trainee and later as an instructor. The Commando Course for the Army Commandos is conducted by the Commando Wing at Belgaum. In February 1977, when I attended the course, Belgaum was a small, quiet, neatly maintained town bordering Maharashtra and Karnataka. With jungles and hills around, it is the perfect place for training on special operations. Though the rainy season is long, on the whole, Belgaum is a nice cozy place. Today, it has grown into a small prosperous city and an educational hub.
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going” – this catchy slogan is displayed prominently at many places in the Wing. The course has aduration of thirty-five days and nights and is regarded as one of the toughest course in the world, calling for extreme physical and mental strength. The PT (Physical Training) session starts early morning at the unearthly hour of 2 AM. In the BOC (Battle Obstacle Course), the trainee must negotiate twenty-two obstacles in eighteen minutes and thirty seconds, carrying his rifle and an additional load of 3.5 Kg (a sand filled bag, nicknamed chota Paploo) in full combat dress. Every weekend forced endurance marches are conducted progressively for 10, 20, 30 and 40 kms, with personal weapon and a load of 17.5 kgs (consisting of one chota Paploo and a bada Paploo). Confidence exercise, unarmed combat, explosives handling, special operations and survival training are other parts of the curriculum. To be graded as ‘QFI’ (Qualified, fit to be an Instructor), a trainee has to clear all parts with excellent timings, which very few trainees with highest level of physical and mental ability accomplish.
For me, the course followed three years training at the National Defense Academy, one-year pre-commission training at the Indian Military Academy and six month's Young Officers' course at Pune. I was in peak of physical fitness and better placed to go through the rigors of the course. I excelled in the course and was graded 'QFI’, a very proud achievement for a young officer.
At the Command Wing, the most daring part of the course is the confidence exercise, called the ‘Lido Jump’, conducted in a huge pool sized square water tank named as ‘Lido Tank.’ A trainee must climb a tower 50 feet high and then walk on a wooden plank 24 inches wide and 40 feet long, while negotiating two flights of stairs. While negotiating the walk, looking down at the rippling water makes you feel as if the plank is shaking and vertigo hits you. The trainee must keep his nerve and keep looking straight ahead. Some trainees do impressive stand up comedies up on the plank and have to be coaxed to take the walk. Having walked the plank, the trainee gets on to a horizontal rope at a height of 55 feet and monkey crawls a distance of 20 feet. After that he hangs from the horizontal rope while locking his feet on another horizontal rope below. Both the ropes are tugged vigorously with two vertical ropes by the staff on ground to dislodge the trainee. The trainee stabilizes himself between the ropes and jumps into the water below at the crack of a rifle shot. Thereafter, he mustagain climb up a 50 feet high platform and slide down into the tank, keeping his body in a taut ‘L’ shape. The Lido exercise is designed to help overcome vertigo and develop self confidence in a trainee.
A Commando Instructor is to be alongside the trainees during all activities and that demands very high level of physical fitness on part of the instructor. In 1985, when I was posted to the Commando Wing, at the age of twenty-nine, my physical standards were no longer the same as they were eight years ago. I was skeptical about my own abilities to match the job requirements. The other officers posted there were at least four to five years younger and in excellent physical fitness. To fit into the team would mean being able to operate at the same level as others.
Admission to the elite group of instructors is subject to clearing the Lido jump. After a day of familiarization, it was time for me to clear the ‘Lido’ jump the next day. Whosoever named it as ‘Lido’ must have had a sick sense of humour. The feeling was nothing akin to being near Lido, the famous beach in Venice. I felt as if I was an errant pirate, ordered to walk the plank into a watery grave. I passed a tense evening, managing to hide my apprehension. I did not tell my wife about the event, fearing loss of face, should I fail the test. So, next morning I was there at the appointed time at the Lido tank. All the staff and colleagues, some with their families were also there to witness the event. To execute a successful jump in front of the spectators, called for a lot of courage on my part. That’s when I recollected – “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear”. In this case, my professional reputation was at stake.
At the appointed time, I stood on the edge of the tank, fully dressed in combat dress, including the heavy drill boots. All the while, I did not let my fear show on my face. On the word of command, I took a deep breath, jumped into the water, and swam up to the pylon.The heavy boots were doing their best to drag me down. I climbed up the pylon and was soon on the plank. I rose, stood firmly on my resolve not to look down, come rain, storm, or hail. Looking over the roof of adjacent buildings, I walked the plank, negotiated the steps and reached the end of the pylon, without any hesitation. I grabbed the horizontal rope, crawled the ten feet and placed myself firmly between the two horizontal ropes, hanging from the top rope and firmly gripping the bottom rope in between my two heels. The ground staff down below, kept tugging the ropes vigorously with two vertical ropes. I was not prepared to give them the satisfaction of dislodging me from my position. When the rifle shot was fired, I loosened the grip of my heels from the bottom rope, released my grip from the top rope and let gravity do its part.
Thereafter, the rest of the test was a cake walk. As I emerged out of the pool on completion of the test, I felt like a hero who had accomplished a very difficult feat. That’s when I saw my wife and daughter, seated amongst the officers. I was not expecting to see them there. As a good Army wife, she wanted to be there to see me in action butdid not wish to raise my anxiety by revealing to me that she would be watching the event. I could see the look of pride in her eyes when I emerged out of the pool after successfully executing the jump.
Apart from excelling at their training, the Commandos also knew how to have fun. As days passed by, I was amazed by the energy and passion of my young colleagues. On the training ground, they were serious professionals and off working hours, they were a crazy lot. A common practice was to carry out night raids on married officer's houses at unearthly hours. Ten to twenty officers along with their spouses would swoop down on their two wheelers, late at night, like a pack of wolves, on their target. Once admitted into the house, they were all over, helping themselves to the liquor cabinet or kneading dough for the dinner or preparing a snack. Such raids continued till early morning. No one, including our Commander was spared and everyone involved took it very sportingly. Such informal interaction helped create bonhomie amongst the officers. Surprise is the essence of Commando operations. The raiders maintained secrecy of their target till the last moment. ‘Catch the enemy off guard’ was their motto. We fell victim to their antics as we were settling down in our apartment. The midnight entry of eight to ten officers and two to three ladies followed a ransacking of the bar and the kitchen. After a meal of paratha and egg bhujia, they moved to their next target, with self and my family happily obliging. .
Belgaum is the place for fish eaters, being blessed with plenty of both river and sea fish. Unlike Odiyas, the people of Belgaum prefer sea fish over river fish, driving the price of sea fish four times than Rohu or Bhakur priced at ten Rupees a kilo at that time. The fish market therefore was my favorite hunt on Sundays. On one of my visits to the revered place, I found Jallha (Jarada), a type of river fish of small size being sold at Rupees two a kilo. After buying my usual quota of fresh Rohu fish, I also bought half a kilo of the small fish and came back home. Next day, I had a plateful of fish fry for lunch. The trick to eat the small fish, which is cooked whole, is to chew the bones properly and savor the juice. Years of rapid eating exercise in the academy had unfortunately made me a habitual gulper than a chewer. Halfway through lunch, to my utter dismay, I found a fish bone stuck in my throat. Despite best efforts, the bone did not get dislodged down the food pipe. The usual gulping of banana or rice ball did not help either.
Since the discomfort no longer bothered me, I set off to take an afternoon class of the trainees. As my lecture progressed, so did the discomfort in my throat. Somehow, after completing my class, I rushed to the Military Hospital. The medical officer on duty examined me but expressed helplessness in the matter since the hospital did not have an ENT specialist. He was however helpful in giving me the address of an ENT clinic, opposite the District Hospital. As it was getting dark, I lost no time in locating the clinic and was relieved to know that the doctor was in his clinic. After examining me, he administered a local anesthesia through a tube attached to a bulb, took a long pair of forceps, and extracted the culprit before it could cause more damage. It was a small ‘V’ shaped fish bone. He charged only twenty rupees for the treatment. Even today, though I still gulp food as a habit, but when it comes to fish, I don’t take a chance.
Goa being close by, the young officers found it convenient to go and spend a few days whenever they got a break. Try as much as I could, I did not find the time to take my family on a trip to Goa which I had been promising time and again. On 22nd Jan 86, while attending a dinner at the Officer's Mess, we received the news that the next day i.e. 23 January had been declared a holiday in honour of the birth anniversary of Netaji Subhash Bose. The next few days were consecutive holidays and a Sunday. I thought it would be a good opportunity to take that long pending holiday to Goa. That very morning, my wife had fallen off the scooter and scraped her knees and injured her ankle. Despite her limp and knee injury, she readily agreed to undertake the trip. Early next morning, we took off on my Bajaj Chetak with my wife riding pillion, my three-year-old daughter sandwiched between us and a couple of bags near the brake pedal. Our daughter had a blast on the beach, and we had a good time tasting the sea food, for which Goa is famous. Of course, we did not forget to visit all the beaches, the Fort, and many famous churches. It was an unforgettable experience for all of us, not the least because my wife kept reminding me from time to time of my carelessness in causing her the injury.
One important curriculum of the Commando course is 'Survival Training'. Trainees are taught how to lay traps, live off the land, trap water from the atmosphere and of course catch snakes in jungles. Specially trained instructors teach all about snakes, how to catch them and make a meal out of the unfortunate creature. The demonstration is carried out in an open enclosure, with the trainees seated around the enclosure. After the demonstration, the trainees are sent to the enclosure with the implements and practice catching snakes. Towards the end of the class, the instructor skins a snake, and the skinned snake is chopped and cooked. Pieces of the meat are passed around the class for tasting. Believe me, it tastes like chicken. Readers please don’t try this. It requires special training and killing of snakes is taboo now.
Visitors to the Commando Wing find much delight in watching the Lido jump and snake catching demonstration. During one such demonstration conducted for the local schoolgirls, one of the snakes, finding a colourful audience decided to have a closer look at the girls. It jumped the barrier and slithered into the seating area of the visitors, causing a pandemonium. By the time the errant creature was caught, it had shaken up quite a few of the damsels.
Capt S was one instructor who was deft at handling snakes, besides being a tough and daring officer. On one occasion, during his leave at his native place, Capt S was called upon to catch a snake which had entered the house of a farmer in the nearby village. Capt S caught the reptile, which was a fully grown Python, to the great relief of the grateful farmer. Then he put the reptile in a steel trunk and carried it in his first-class coach all the way to Belgaum. Of course, he did not forget to makeseveral holes on the trunk for passage of air. Such was the passion of the young officer towards his profession. A little wonder then that he rose to the rank of a Lieutenant General and retired.
In the Defense forces, an officer on posting out is given a farewell in the Officer's Mess. It is called ‘Dining Out’. After the dinner, farewell speech and handing over of the memento to the officer, he is escorted out of the Mess, tossed on a chair, by all the officer's while they sing “For he is a jolly good fellow”. It is actually quite uncomfortable for the jolly good fellow, being tossed up like a salad leaf, after a sumptuous dinner. The Commandos have taken it a step ahead. The tradition in the Officer's Mess was to keep tossing the poor fellow till he punched a hole in the false ceiling. The Mess secretary had a harrowing time, getting the ceiling repaired after every ‘Dining Out’.
My tenure with the young infantry officers was a new experience for me and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Commando instructors have the proud privilege of wearing the Commando Dagger badge on their uniform throughout their service career. In fact, many of the commando trainees and instructors have taken an active part in carrying out overt or covert actions against our adversaries along our frontiers or against ruthless terrorists, militants, and extremists, very often putting their lives at stake. But as the Commandos believe and live by, everyday of their lives – ‘When the going gets tough, the tough do get going!’
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.
A PEBBLE FROM THE OCEAN OF MEMORIES
The service period in one's life is just like walking on the edges of a sword. You are to pass through phases of ups and downs; you are to face many untoward situations. You tackle the problem fruitfully, you are the winner and life passes merrily in a joyous manner. You fail; you perish, life will be miserable and a hell for you.
Can I ever forget the day of 11th June of 1983 till the last breath leaves my body? At 1pm of that hot summer I got down at Bhawanipatna bus stop from the Jeypore-Bhawanipatna bus and went to the CDMO's ( Chief District Medical Officer) Office. Though it was approaching lunch hour I fortunately located the Head Clerk and wanted to talk to him. But looking at me he was shocked, as if he was falling down from the sky and seeing a ghost in front of him. His instantaneous reaction was, "My dear Sir, What are you doing here? Why are you loitering at the CDMO Office when you are needed urgently at your place at Kesinga? Are you not aware of the situation? Kesinga is in turmoil. The CDMO and a team of doctors are already there." Listening to his array of questions, I was utterly horrified and could smell that something grave has happened at my place during my brief absence. I asked him to let me know the status. He narrated, "Sir, near Kesinga many people have died in a road accident and many more are injured and admitted to the hospital. The team of doctors is providing treatment to the injured under the supervision of the CDMO. Please proceed to Kesinga without any delay."
To me it was as if ground was falling from under my feet. As if all misfortune was waiting for me at that dreadliest hour and the Almighty was watching me and putting an acid test before me. To my bad luck, I couldn't find any means of transport to proceed to Kesinga as there was no bus service at that hour. But I had to reach my destination immediately.
I was clueless. I prayed to the Goddess Maa Manikeswari, the reigning deity of Kalahandi to help me and suddenly an idea dawned on my mind. I approached the head quarter pathologist, a good friend of mine, borrowed his Bajaj Scooter and proceeded to Kesinga. In front of the CDMO Office I luckily met the Vice Chairman of my locality and he agreed to accompany me. But during that hour of urgency I couldn't rely upon his driving capability and decided to drive myself as my immediate goal was to reach Kesinga without any delay. Each minute was important for me. I did not consider my safety and drove in such a high speed that I could manage to cover the 35km distance in just 32 minutes. When I reached my destination at the hospital, the Vice Chairman got down from the scooter and with folded hands told me "Pardon me Sir, in future I would never dare to sit upon a two wheeler you are driving. Was it a two wheeler or a helicopter you were driving Sir? I was trembling with fear and apprehending that one more casualty would be added to the list of accident victims in the form of my corpse. O my God! I can't believe that I have reached here safe with all my bones intact. Am I not dreaming? It is a rebirth for me." I assured him saying, "Look Mr. Das. When your intention is noble and beyond doubt, you take it for granted that nothing bad will happen. At this hour I had to reach Kesinga immediately to take care of the injured and allay their sufferings. How can God allow any misfortune to happen to his warrior who is going to deliver service to the injured?"
I entered the indoor hospital ward. At that hour calmness prevailed upon the hospital campus. The Medical Team, after rendering treatment to the needy, had already left for the headquarter. But I could not notice the team on the way as I was in a hurry and my attention was focused on driving. Only one senior doctor Dr Ayer was waiting for me with a vehicle to help and guide me for further course of action. Noticing me he was relieved and happiness dawned on everyone's face. CDMO had left the campus to attend to some other important business. Dr Ayer and I examined all the injured in the hospital and I took over the charge. Until then I did not have my lunch, so both of us had our meal and Dr Ayer left for Bhawanipatna.
The news of my arrival spread like wild fire in the town. People thronged to meet me and there was competition amongst them as to who would first deliver the detailed news to me, their beloved and efficient physician.
And this was the story. Some people from Belgaum, a village in the neighbouring Titilagarh Sub-division, had to attend the Judicial Court in the morning hours at Titilagarh but they could not find any conveyance to proceed. Kesinga, a railway head, was only 20 km away from Belgaum and was connected to it through a fair weather road on the river bed of River Tel, which separates Kalahandi and Balangir districts. Intending to board the Visakhapatnam Raipur Express train at Kesinga railway station and reach Titilagarh, the next station, 32 persons, male and female, sat upon a truck, loaded with cement bags. But as ill luck would have it, the truck,on the way to Kesinga broke open the barrier of a narrow bridge on a rivulet and fell down on the sand killing 17 people and injuring another 15. As I, the only doctor, was not present in the hospital there was pandemonium. The CDMO was contacted by the local authorities and he rushed from Bhawanipatna with a team of doctors. The situation could be successfully tackled.
Those days, Kesinga had only a single doctor manned 6 bedded hospital. I was the doctor in charge. In 1982-83 I was the President of the local Lions Club and during my tenure our club had sponsored a new Lions Club at Jeypore in Koraput district. On the evening of Sunday, the 10th June, the Charter Presentation Ceremony was scheduled at Jeypore and being the President I had to conduct the function. So four members from our club including me boarded the Kesinga-Jeypore bus in the morning hours of Sunday, the 10th June, so as to reach Jeypore by evening, attend the Charter Night Celebration and again board the same bus at 11pm to reach Kesinga by 6am on 11th. I was to remain absent only on Sunday, a weekly holiday. On Saturday I contacted the office of the CDMO and as he was away on another official programme, I informed the ADMO and took headquarter leaving permission from him. As an added precaution I also informed madam, wife of the CDMO, regarding my journey since I had a close friendly relationship with their family. both of us being from Cuttack district. I ordered the pharmacist Mr. Sethy to manage the hospital in my absence and also requested the Medical Officer of Pastikudi, the parent CHC, to depute Mr Joshi, a senior Health Assistant for 2 days to help Mr Sethy.
Nothing wrong seemed possible. Programme was meticulously planned. Everything was apparently perfect. But the Almighty had a totally different plan altogether. He must have thought "Man, o man; you think yourself to be Omnipotent and Omniscient? To you, your plan is without any lacunae but I am sorry my dear son; you have not taken into account the power of the unforeseen. Let me taste your potential, let me see how you can manage the ensuing catastrophe, which is waiting to happen. Let me teach you a lesson!"
And behold ! The unforeseen did happen! At Jeypore everything went smoothly as per the schedule, but the Kesinga bound bus got cancelled at the last moment due to mechanical problems. The next bus was at 6am to Bhawanipatna and no other conveyance could be arranged at that hour of night. On compulsion we stayed at Jeypore that night, boarded the bus next morning and reached Bhawanipatna at 1pm to face the catastrophe!
Because of my dedicated and selfless service at Kesinga everything passed uneventfully. The Executive Officer of the local NAC and the Officer-in-charge of the local Police station, being good friends of mine, co-operated fully. The District Administration came to the rescue and managed the situation perfectly.
At the end I bowed before the Almighty and prayed, "O Lord, saviour of mankind; you were right and found the flaws in my plan. I had not planned any alternative for my return journey. We four could have hired a taxi for our tour."
Friends, if you believe in PRARABDHA (the good and bad deeds of yours in the previous birth) and DESTINY, the unfortunate incident was bound to happen and I was merely a character in that play. And to my good luck I learnt a lesson for times to come.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo,MD (Pediatrics) is a retired Joint Director Grade 1 of Health and Family Welfare Department of Government of Odisha and now a practicing Pediatrician at Vyasnagar, the Steel City of Odisha. Besides being an eminent Pediatrician of Odisha he is also a prolific writer in Odia. He pens down the real happenings around him and his characters are his patients, the parents and his colleagues. He has contributed a book in Odia " BABU SAHOO KALAMARU " which is an unique characterisation of human values and nature and is adored by one and all. He is also a Columnist in Health Problems and writing on different aspects of current health issues since last several years in a local monthly Newspaper " The Kalinga Nagara Bulletin". He has represented the state in several National Platforms. He has a record number of 24 Awards, Local, State and National, noteworthy being PURBANCHAL SISHU BISESANGYA SHIROMANI AWARD 2017 and MAHATMA GANDHI AWARD 1997 by Government of Odisha. He is Life member of many Organisations including Indian Medical Association, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and National Neonatology Forum. At present he is State President of both, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and Pediatrics Allergy and Applied Immunology Chapter.
The otherwise sleepy platform number-4 of Bhubaneswar Railway station got suddenly alive and activated. Passengers along with their escorts, who had gathered to see them off, ran helter-skelter listening to the ringing of the 2nd bell which signaled the arrival of the Chennai bound Coromandal Express at around 11PM.The coolies carrying the luggage were heading for the predetermined place of the long platform where the boggy would usually stand. The melee continued as the scheduled stoppage of the train was only five minutes. The train arrived. Duryodhan and Rabi were frantically searching for the compartment S-8 for boarding in the fading light of the platform. Suddenly they could hear the screams of their friends coming from Howrah from the other door of S8 compartment and being assured, they entered and occupied the reserved berths of the 3 tier coach.
This was the first super first train for the state. Odisha was lucky that it was situated in between two big Presidencies of the British era i.e. Calcutta and Madras, for which the state received the rail connection as a straight Touch line (Sparshak) passing through its coastal districts like a scorpion with amputated legs.
Duryodhan and Rabi were bank officers and executive members of the Officers’ Association, a trade union body in the bank. They were travelling to Chennai along with the other leaders to participate in a “dharna” before the Head Office of the bank.
The trade union of bankers had also a peculiar nonsocialistic hierarchical structure, allowing special comfort to different level of leaders. The central leaders had the privilege to travel by air, the zonal leaders could travel in AC compartments, where as the grass root level leaders could only travel by 3 tier sleeper coach. Although a leftist outfit affiliated to the leftist apex level trade unions, such discriminatory practices were followed for years. Similar disparities were also assiduously followed for booking different types of hotel rooms and paying different daily allowances, defying logic.
Both the colleagues spread their beds and wanted to retire when a call came from their zonal leaders to be awake till Berhampur, where another leader, Subas would board in. Rabi volunteered to be awake asking Duryodhan to sleep. At Berhampur station, he could help Subash enter into the compartment in the wee hours of the night and relaxed. But the loud snoring of Duryodhan, matching with the speed of the train, was not providing any comfort to Rabi to go for a slumber. The morning arrived and there were quite frequent movements in the compartment. All the collegues, who had boarded from Kolkata, greeted the leaders of Odisha, with flattened superiority as if they were going for “Kanchi Abhijaan”. Tea and coffee were served to them and after regular fresh up all had breakfast together. There was a volunteer, who jotted the detail expenses to be shared by all after the journey. It was a rare occasion for bank officers to be free from the routine works and to remain away from the hawkish eyes of the boss and the customers. So everybody was in a relaxed environment and wanted to make the best use of time, other than doing credits and debits.
Subash was accustomed to such journies, being the leader of the officers’ association of the state. He had his distinct plan to spend time in destressing the comrades under the circumstances. He had brought with him two sets of playing cards and called for the volunteers to take part in playing the common game “29”. Duryodhan, Rabi and Asish, who had boarded from Howrah, made arrangement for the turf by keeping luggage in between the lower berths matching with the required height. A bed sheet was neatly spread over platform and the turf was made ready for the use. Within no time all were fully engrossed with the game which was also enjoyed by other friends as audience cum advisers. The play continued uninterruptedly with frequent sounds of numbers starting from 16 onwards, yes, pass, doubles, redoubles, singles etc.with occasional acrimonious exchanges between partners. The vendors selling refreshments were too much pleased to get their ready made clients among these comrades and sold out their stuff in regular intervals. Time was passing out without the knowledge of these comrades, fully engrossed in the cards-war. The train slowed down signaling the arrival of a major station and finally stopped at Vijaywada.
The scheduled halt at the station was 10 minutes and lunch was about to be served to the passengers who had booked it. But the warriors were not concerned for lunch “thalis” and their appetite was more focused on “Chhakas”. Some new passengers boarded the train at that station including a pretty modern looking lady with her child. Probably, the lady did not have berth reservation and she innocuously occupied a seat belonging to one of the comrades.
Rabi was some what uncomfortable after the new entrants boarded thecompartment. His attention on the game got bizarre, much to the disappointment of his partner, in spite of getting rebuked. Finally, his partner asked him to vacate the seat for the onlooker comrade who used to advise him. Rabi felt pleased to leave the company of his dry-wood friends and moved around looking for a new wicket in the train, mapping the new passengers of his interest. His eyes suddenly got glued to a stylist lady with her child occupying one of the berths of his friend.
“This berth is reseved by us”, he emphatically informed the lady in chaste Hindi, and the lady was apologetic for having occupied the seat but informed in Hindi , ‘‘I shall go up to Chennai and I do not have any confirmed berth. I have the kid with me and we would not cause any problem to you”. Probably, Rabi wanted this typical reply from her. As a good Samaritan he made her comfortable to occupy the berth and he himself sat opposite her, giving her an impression that he was there to take care.
The marathon card players noticed the bizarre mind of Rabi and assessed the reason of his abrupt lack of concentration in the game. Some of his comrades were well acquainted about his nature and suspected his next move. They booed him and called him to be with them, but Rabi obsessed on his plan, ignored their calls. The train was scheduled to arrive at Chennai in another 4 hours and Rabi wanted to make optimum use of the available time. He started talking to the Lady in Hindi even though the lady apparently did not show any interest. He hurled at her many inconvenient personal questions on her address, purpose of visit to Chennai, address of her stay at Chennai, etc etc. The lady was hesitatingly replying since she was occupying a berth of the group and wanted to bear the brunt of the unwanted trespasser to her personal life for a few hours more. Unfazed at the uncomfortable body language of the lady, Rabi resorted to other gimmicks like reading magazines with porn photos and showing the same to the lady.
The torment continued for the lady, but at last train started slowing down and the comrades stopped the card marathon and returned to their individual berths. On seeing the other members of the group, the lady felt relaxed and looked at Rabi with noticeable vexed eyes. The friends were taken aback at her staring gesture and realized that something shoddy had occurred. They looked at Ravi who was unfazed and projecting innocence.
Finally, the train stopped at its last destination and de-boarding started. The lady swiftly came down the compartment holding her kid and luggage, followed by the other co passengers, including Rabi. There was a reception desk for the comrades installed by the local outfit of the trade union with a big banner. All the comrades assembled at the reception desk, by the side of which the lady happened to pass. She stopped at the reception desk and looked for the man who tormented her in the journey. Rabi sensed something fishy and could hide before the mercurial body of a local Union leader. Finally the spurned eyes of the lady spotted Rabi and asked him in chaste Odia, “don’t you have mother and sister in your home, man?’’ The comrades were certain that Rabi had created some ugly affairs with the Odia lady and banged him . Subash was vocal and reprimanded him to amend his nature which spoiled the image of the union. He reminded him how, on two occasions, union had salvaged him by procuring an instant transfer order when he trespassed to his neighbor’s house for an immoral act for which the local goons were after his flesh. Duryodhan and others also rebuked him how he misbehaved with women in the branch and most of the time he was caged inside a cabin doing back-house works. All had opined that Rabi was totally obsessed with the act of lining before ladies, irrespective of age and was incorrigible.
Slowly she was moving towards the exit gate, but the guilty eyes of Rabi could not focus her gait beyond a point. Others felt relieved as the matter ended there without any intervention of administration.
The comrades attended the protest show before the HO of the bank and returned back in the same train, i.e.Coromandel Exp after two days. All their eyes were glued on Rabi who was completely isolated sitting at a corner silently. Comrades were astonished to see his stoic silence with occasional folding of hands in prayer mudra. He was seen chatting over phone expressing grief and helplessness. Seeing the complete change in his face, some comrades wanted to know the reasons of his abnormal behavior. Rabi could not look at the friends’ eyes and began weeping. When pressed to reveal the reason behind, he informed, “My wife is seriously ill and hospitalized” and he received that message in the train.
His sobbing increased and he was heard praying to Lord Lingaraj, “ Oh Lord Shiva, Please save the life of my wife, I shall offer you hundred coconuts and one lakh Jasmin flower etc etc.”. Others felt very sad over the happening and tried to console him. He did not have lunch or dinner during the journey. But Subash was not reacting at all, immersed in his mobile conversastion.
It was very early on the next day’s morning. The long train slowed down and stopped at Bhubaneswar station. The Bhubaneswar bound comrades de-boarded with luggage. Subash helped Rabi to climb down with his brief case and brought him near the exit gate. Rabi could not believe his eyes, when he saw his wife standing with his daughter to receive him at the gate with a wide beautiful smile. He hugged his wife and daughter and thanked God for seeing his family safe. When he looked at Subash, he just winked his eye and left thinking,” this fellow will now be recovered from obsession for ladies”. Duryodhan complimented Subash for having arranged for hoax messages through a local colleague, to teach a lesson to Rabi and cure his obsession.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
You can be pretty sure that when Jhamlal is involved with anything, trouble will follow. Just yesterday his wife had a miraculous escape from a life threatening situation, all due to careless and cavalier attitude of Jhamlal. Sloth bears are not exactly friendly animals and if you come out unscathed from a face to face encounter with one, in the middle of night, you thank God first and then hound for the person who put you to that situation.
Before we delve further into the “drama in real life” type story of Sloth Bear Vs. Mrs. Jhamlal, we will take a short tour of few past episodes of Jhamlal’s case sheet. This will brief you enough to preside over a reconciliation meeting, should Mrs. Jhamlal ask you to. But, a word of caution, please, please stop reading the story this moment, close your eyes and take a vow not to spill my name in spur of the moment when you are trying to pacify the sloth bear surviving wife and Jhamlal, the incorrigible.
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Please do not forget that you have vowed not to spill my name. Soon after Jhamlal married the girl who is the main complainant today, they went around the town in a brand new scooter that came with the bride as a wedding gift. There is nothing unusual about the gift of scooter or a newly wedded couple going around on such a scooter. The first case for grievance rose when Jhamlal was accused of intentionally causing his wife injuries.
The couple was rising along the highway in one full moon evening and Jhamlal wished to heighten the mood. He sought permission of his wife to switch-off the headlamps of the scooter while it still was moving with considerable speed. He wished to be the first man to drive in a full moon night with headlamps off. Before his wife could give a learned response, Jhamlal switched off the light and kept riding the scooter. It really was enjoyable. The light seemed enough and they could see the moonlit night that appeared like a scene out of the bollywood movie.
Indian roads are notorious for potholes and that evening our hero Jhamlal and his heroine Mrs. Jhamlal were laying flat on the road barely a minute into their headlamp-off driving spree. Their scooter had gone out of control as it fell into a pot-hole in middle of the road. Mrs. Jhamlal suffered more injuries and to this day, she complains of neuralgia pain in the right ankle.
They were rescued by passing trucks and it became talk of the small town with people teaming up to gherao the public works department for causing the accident. Jhamlal could never explain how he could not see such a big pot-hole and to be on safe side he committed another blunder, he said that he could not balance the scooter as his wife was far many times heavier than him.
The case is still pending for a suitable judgment and it goes on trial time to time clubbed with many other such cases. Both Jhamlal and Mrs. Jhamlal are on a lookout for a suitable arbitrator to preside over their cases.
This is the reason I am trying to brief you on the back ground. Personally I am not an enemy of Jhamlal. I have not borrowed any money from him, nor has he from me. I even have experience of a failed reconciliation between the parties.
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The other case in which you may be asked to give your impartial judgment is regarding one instance when Jhamlal was engaged as an exorcist’s assistant. A girl in the neighborhood was supposedly possessed by a witch. The girl behaved in a strange manner and the village folks decided that they needed the services of an accomplished exorcist to free the girl from the unwelcome witch. The father and mother of the girl went without food for two days and were worried like hell for their daughter.
Finally, an exorcist from a nearby village came and took stock of the situation. He was confident of catching the ghost from the girl’s soul and carry it away in a sealed bottle.
Among the onlookers who crowded around the room, he selected Jhamlal to be his assistant as a strong and healthy person only could contain the force of the witch while the exorcist extracted it from the girl’s body and put it into a coconut.
“You have to jump and hold with all your strength when I throw the fistful of consecrated rice”. The exorcist with all seriousness looked Jhamlal in the eye.
“I am banking on you as my regular trained assistant is on leave” The exorcist told Jhamlal while asking all others to leave the room except Jhamlal’s wife. They both stood there with folded hands.
Jahmlal was scared of the whole thing, the witch, the exorcist and the rituals that were enacted one after another. He was too confused and didn’t dare ask.
The puja went on. The girl in question was sitting before the exorcist and was swaying side to side, hair dangling on her face. The room was filled with smoke coming from ample amount of agarbattis and the small yagna being performed.
Jhamlal was watching the exorcist and waited for the moment when he would throw the consecrated rice on the girl.
The people who were asked to go out of the room were peeping into the room through the windows and the door.
Finally the exorcist looked at Jhamlal briefly as if to signal and took a fistful of rice and mumbled some abra cadabra.
Jhamlal’s heart missed a beat seeing the red and glowing eyes of the exorcist.
The exorcist threw the fistful rice at the girl shouting at top of his voice prodding the witch in her to come out. The exorcist held out his hand with open claws as if to snatch the ghost.
It was signal enough for Jhamlal who lost no time and jumped on the girl holding her tightly and that’s all he did. The more the girl tried to free herself the tighter Jhamlal held her.
There was a look of surprise on face of the exorcist and people could see that he was looking like a maniac. He sprang from his sitting position and as if some unseen force is kicking him with a great force he was thrown out of the room. He clashed against the door and fell to ground letting out an indescribable scream.
Soon, people in the gathering who probably had witnessed similar incidents earlier, came rushing in and sprinkled water on face of the exorcist and he came to senses. The first thing he did was to rudely call Jhamlal who was still holding onto the girl with all his force.
“You idiot, I asked you to hold on to me, not the girl. I would have died because of you”, the exorcist fumed with anger at Jhamlal.
Jhamlal tried to speak something but didn’t get a chance.
Mrs. Jhamlal, who was eye witness to the ongoing, became suspicious of Jhamlal’s intentions.
Detractors of the exorcist say that he is a fake man and he had to act just to save his credibility. He had to make it look like some unseen force was pushing him, throwing him at the door. The injury that he suffered in the process was a small price he paid to keep his trade going.
This case of Jhamlal willfully jumping, pouncing on the girl is also pending a suitable adjudication and I hope I have already apprised you that you may be called in as an arbitrator.
Just a reminder, you are under a vow not to disclose your source of this historical information to either Jhamlal or Mrs. Jhamlal.
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The occasion for the present grievance as we started the narrative with, is a near death situation that Mrs. Jhamlal escaped unhurt. The charge on Jhamlal is that due to his sheer negligence and probably willful negligence he created a situation where Mrs. Jhamlal came face to face with a bull sized sloth bear that are seen aplenty in highlands of Koraput.
Mrs. Jhamlal already was on wrong side of the “body mass index” during her pre-wedding days. The rumor was that her father had agreed to make up for each extra kilos of his daughter’s weight by additional ten thousand rupees with baseline at 50Kg. The fact is Jhamlal pocketed two lakhs rupees extra in addition to usual dowry that every youngman of those days got.
But do we all not know that when there is a will there is a way? So Mrs. Jhamlal wished to shed all the extra kilos of fat from her body and went out for a morning jog along with her friends every morning before sunrise.
Jhamlal’s house had a big jackfruit tree in the front and it attracted sloth bears during winter season. Mrs. Jhamlal had asked many times to remove the tree and it fell on deaf ears. Jhamlal had spent his entire childhood climbing, playing and sitting under the tree. He turned a Nelson’s eye to the request from his wife.
So, on the day when Mrs. Jhamlal came out in wee hours of the morning in full winter gear, she came face to face with a sloth bear. She gave out a shrill scream that might have woken up many from their deep winter slumber including Jhamlal.
Everyone who came running to the scene could see little in the thick fog. Some said that there were two big bears; some say one was a bear and other a man or woman. Jhamlal only saw one woman quickly moving away from the front of his house, the other being his wife.
“Did I not tell you to cut that darn jackfruit tree a million times?, hollered Mrs. Jhamlal.
“Relax, who was that other one? Was that a bear?” Jhamlal asked.
I need not elaborate more on the exchange of words thereafter as you might already know that Mrs.Jhamlal never would back out from calling a spade a spade but in an unprintable choice of words. And she does have an amazing choice of words that conclusively, unambiguously explains a situation.
So that being the case, she is on a look out for a suitable arbitrator to preside over her case.
In case you are the one, feel free to go ahead, but please do not spill my name as the one trying to bias you.
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
Life stretches out on the immediate, the present, that straddles between memories of the past and the pulsations of the unpredictable future.. Your being is like a float swept away by forces beyond your control. Caught up in the flux conscience shreds out the layered contours
..... ..............
In the confines of her little room, Ammachy lay on her faded bed and favourite cot, under the all seeing eyes of the framed Christ. Her eyes were firmly shut: She was adamant in her refusal not to see, not to open them out. Seeing is a kind of naming, ordering. She had given that up for years, or rather was forced to give that up.
That was a world, all fostered, taken care of by her..the one acre land, the house, three sons, a daughter, the tall looking Tamarind tree , the very well numbered spoons, the faded wall hangings, the smoky kitchen crowded with utensils. There were days she reigned supreme shadowing the less worldly Gandhian husband. For securing anything she had to fight it out, against his passivity, his bland, blind faith that left everything to Providence.
......... ...... ……
It was the dim hour of the early dawn. Something kept Malu awake, a strange sense of something amiss. The phone was ringing in the hall. With trepidation she took it up. Cold came the message slicing off the morning waves of anxiety.
“ Ammachy gone at 3.30 a.m “
A voice that had gravitated into itself...
Suddenly the phone went dead.
Silence on both sides.
…… ……..
The train chucked in, out passengers…people eager to get into, people anxious to get out
People, people, people…
There was a grave looking self absorbed middle aged man opposite the seat of the self indulgent couple, giggling out frivolity and the philosopher like overgrown student in the adjacent berths. Confined to the corner of her berth Malu looked through the window. The evening darkening into the night, the glimmer of distant lights and lamps.. households brightening up with human presence. People fatigued with a day’s work returning to rest, recuperation.
............ .…….. ....... .
Far out in the east in her allotted corner, under the dim light of the lamp, Ammachy was reciting her rosary. For her daughter, only daughter travelling alone. The previous night over the phone she had solicited prayers.” Sure, my child! My prayers are with you.”
The next morning would be the much awaited bright day .A glimpse of her daughter, her sweet voice calling out ‘Ammachy,’... that would do. There was somebody to listen to her aching self..to care for, to understand..
What time would she reach ? How would she be like now, meeting after so long..
The young ‘Mom’ that she is now, she is just my darling daughter with curly hair and mischievious eyes. Reminding me of everything I admired in her Father. To listen and respond to her sweet call, I .. I would first pretend not to hear her..
Hah! a biological urge to hold her to my bosom..! Yes, clinging on to her hand, I will walk to my sons,to show how important and proud am I with my daughter who values me beyond anything, I would move around those houses of my sons and family.
Here where I am denied my place, treated as a nuisance, an old disgusting stuff.. how rude were they, especially the one inlaw I lived with. Others living close by, were behaving politically
right, a clever strategy.
Just yesterday she fanned a spark up to a flame. Sitting alone, unperturbed by her uproarious handling of her child and household affairs, just jotting down something in an inland to Malu, she stormed in outrageous , snatching away the paper. "Concocting tales to your daughter! Fond daughter as if she would be here all time caring for you or asking her to come and take you over, to fly away with her ! PhooH !”
My Son always was diplomatically silent. One shuddered at her shouts and fierce expostulations..how ruthless she was in denying communication to an eighty year old!
O. Malu, my daughter ! how much I suffer in your name!
My heart pounds fast.. I feel giddy…
Last time when I had this, I fell unconscious. There was no one. All gone for work. After a while when I woke up, there was my second son who had come for his mid day break from work to check on his Mother.
What to say, children have to go to work to make their living. Yeah, I remember going to work leaving my aged Father and Mother in law and coming during mid .noon break to check on them.
You receive what you gave. Life is a circle!
Yet, it is the insult and injury that shatters me and their attempts to smother my communication. O, Malu , come and take me away from here to somewhere so that we can talk and talk, sharing my sorrows.. Other wise, one day I will fall unconscious and dead , unwanted, uncared..
Malu , deliver me from this torture!
The sound of the Bike..
my youngest son is returning from work
What new cooked up tale would be today’s dish, the storm in the teacup.. Sure, he comes back tired, exhausted, a bit boozed ( a habit he had picked up of late) The first thing that would be served will be his mother’s atrocities.
He my youngest on whom I showered all my love.,he is no longer the pleasingly soft, naughty artistic son of mine but a fat looking weary, volatile middle aged house holder. One who has to dance to the tune of his shrewish wife for domestic peace.
Yes , Mother or no Mother, let my sons live in peace. Let them be happy. I am like the candle burning itself out.. no. already burnt out..
But my eldest, I doted on him so much..
Babu, Where are you?
Malu where are you?
..... ……..
A dry wind blew through the palm and banana leaves. It swept through the one acre land, the smoky kitchen and created ripples in the old looking wall hangings .It reached the coffin and whispered something into the ears of Ammachy who lay with closed eyes.
The crowd thronged the hall, verandha and the yard crushing the jasmine that was reaching out to the canopy to peep at Ammachy. Only the straight Chembarathy stalks and their flowers ( which Ammachy loved so much to see in full blossom describing them as simple and sweet...may be this fascination for the simple and sweet attracted her to her Gandhian husband) could get a fine view of her profile, with her broad forehead, neatly cut, long nose, and well curved lips that graced her visage.
Elbowing each other, her children stood with her grandchildren, uncles and aunts vying with each other in their blacks putting on a grieving look, fake or real! It matters much when the crowd is watching you.
Now that Ammachy needed no help there were a number of people to appropriate her, do things for her. .Standing in a corner next to the coffin, Malu wondered how much this person mattered to her , how much she mattered to that person.
Yes when you leave, , you leave behind a sapling of your own stem cell, to imbibe what you were, what you felt.
In a flash Malu’s eyes were in search of Ammu her little daughter. Where was she ? Too young to realize the gravity of the situation, she might be playing somewhere around, or getting lost in the crowd or holding on to her Dad. A biological urge to hug her close and press her cheeks to say,” Ammu, I need you.”,
Holding Ammu’s hand, Malu inched along with the funeral procession. It went past the one acre land, the familiar rural walkways shaded by Sheemakonnas and Chembathys reaching up the road, and made its way into the church and cemetery Ammachy returning to Mother Earth, the safe abode of peace and rest and her weary life’s journey
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).
There was a country wide curfew for a pandemic. It was a strange curfew, an all day long curfew. The P.M. came on national TV to announce that no one could get out of his house or go for a jay walking except for collecting essentials. Twenty one days of detention with the family members? It was called social distancing though the intention was physical distancing. For years, every member of the family was busy with his/her life. Each one of them claimed that crawling through life like a grub worm for meal ticket motives took a lot away. They barely met on the dining table except for holidays and at best for dinner. It was a great opportunity for the family to spend some quality time together, even though confinement was a great restriction on the freedom of movement. It was quite a different story when the kids were tiny and the parents gathered around them, cuddled them and played with them. For nearly five years, almost five years everyone was on her own. Their pathways, their trajectory, their aspirations and solicitude were different. This was an opportunity for family bonding, but everyone had their own plans and this disruption was a surprise. All the family members would have to stay together. .
I am Joey, the family golden retriever. I looked forward to this opportunity. When I was adopted into the family everyone together used to spend time with me. Now they only do it occasionally. But mostly each one earmarks some time for playing with me. How I wish it was like the old time. All together and I in the middle getting all the attention.
Dad wakes up earlier and sleeps later. He is busy reading and writing most of the time. But that is what I have always seen Dad doing. Doing less or more. But now he is doing more. The drawing room where he spreads out his books now looks like an extended metaphor of chaos. Loose papers, newspaper cuttings , stapler, eraser and books thrown about. Now since no one is coming home, Dad has claimed it to be his den, his space. Somehow he does not like working in the study room which is smaller. Well, his empire of study requires very large space
But it would be wrong to say, he was only reading and writing. Mornings he woke up earlier, browsed through the newspapers, separately kept them making mental note of what is to be read later with greater concentration. Then it was time for our walk together. The dog walker had stopped coming as he stayed in an area declared as a containment zone now. Since he could not come now, the responsibility fell on Dad.. I also looked forward to our morning walk.. It was always fun, there was urgency in his strides.. He needed to walk too. That was doctor’s advice. Now during curfew he would take me out thrice during the day, manoeuvring in a manner he would avoid the police van. Forty five minutes of walk, twice daily in Aravalli Biological park became the routine. But given a chance, he would have liked skipping it, smoking his cigarettes and reading something more. I have always liked spending time with him when he was writing. There is always a strange coolness pouring out from his mind and body concentrated on the work at hand.. He first writes and then types. While writing his pen moves much faster keeping pace with his thoughts. When he types, it is so much slower. His typing speed is not great and needs practice. That’s why he likes writing on a piece of paper first. He is old like that, you see.
After he has worked for a while, mom calls him for breakfast. Breakfast normally takes ten minutes followed by a cup of tea and a cigarette outside. When he steps out, I step out into the lawns too. Breathing in fresh air, rolling on the lawn and killing all the new soots of grass and peeing on Mom’s potted plant is always a fun when not many people come home.
Around 10:30 am, I am given food. Then Dad takes me around for a short walk, a second walk in the morning time. When he is not too happy, I can sense it. But I bark, so he can’t go on ignoring me. While eating my food, I do a lot of nakharabaji demanding that everyone be around. Mom and my sister come over. I only eat when everyone is around and everyone is part of the ritual. Dad gives his time, but he is clearly disturbed by this new insistence. Mom sometimes feeds me by hand . I also wait for Dad to feed me a morsel or two. Usually I refuse to touch the last part so that Dad comes over to hand feed me. Otherwise , he would stop his routine connect. This is when I am taken for a second walk I mentioned earlier.
When we come back. He starts working for an hour or so and Mom reminds him of the mopping the floor regimen. He gets up and does the work. The whole house takes around 30 minutes or so to mop after Mom has swept the floor. I sit down and watch. There is no happiness in his face. Clearly he is doing it very, very reluctantly. When someone does not like doing something and is forced to do it, she tires first. I find Dad tired and not so happy. Where is the time for me?
Mom, particularly has become busy. She is doing most of the work. No one is there to assist her. She cooks, takes care of the laundry, makes sure food is laid on the table, and my food is served in time. When she cooks , nice smell wafts out of kichen. I like it . I lie down outside the kitchen which is a no go area for me. I wonder why she is not feeding me the stuff she is cooking rather than the bland stuff I get everytime, everyday. Mom tells me that sugar and salt are not good for me. But she can always give me the stuff without sugar and salt. Can’t she ?
Dad could have been a sphinx in his previous birth. When he is not exactly doing anything, he sits like a sphinx, thinking out his stories, poems and columns. There is a poem even on me - “Joey , my retriever”. He ended his poem “But he does not know/ who will be first to go/ or what will happen after he goes.”’ I do not understand what he means by “first to go””. You stay in a family and stay put. Where is the question of going? Kuni Mama( younger sister) explained it as something like not waking up from the sleep. But I barely sleep. An ever so faint noise can wake me up. I do not know what the family is talking about. It all sounds so confusing.
Around 2 pm, Mom calls everyone for lunch. Everyone assembles at the dining table. Evening dinner and morning breakfast are also times when the family is together, chatting and cracking jokes. But what do I see? Dad has not taken his bath. He was so busy in writing that he didn’t have time to. He understands most things without I having to draw his attention. Why does not it occur to him to set time for everything? Like he does for food and ambulatory habits. If he can be with me for them with near punctuality, he should be able to do it for his shower as well.
But that was not his routine earlier. After lunch Mom went go to the bedroom to watch some Netflix shows on her I-pad. Dad would read his WhatsApp messages, slept on the setee in the drawing room for sometimes and then took bath. He would have his cup of tea. He wouldn’t disturb anyone and he made his tea with ready mix. While taking his tea he petted me a little bit. I know he loves me, But why does not he give more time to me.
Thereafter, he would get busy with cleaning the utensils. It is not something he is used to. Something like I being told to do fire jump. The best thing about him is you can tell whether he is not enjoying, taking it as a chore as a bad weather. The philosopher in him accepts that it would pass. I don’t like the idea of he doing it on a continuous basis. He wouldn’t like it and get tired faster. He will end up playing less with me and that is not a great prospect.
Kuni Mama is my sister. She is fond of me. I am fond of her as well. She is reclusive, reticent and does not like to interact with others much. Her bed is the only bed I am allowed to sleep on I am allowed to sleep on. I know my being around is soothing for her. Her timings are different. She works in the night and when others get up she sleeps. She is busy doing something or other on the computer. Her reading, writing, communication and exchange of idea and impression happen over the computer. Mom goes into her room off and on and carries out conversation. Dad has earmarked time for everything, but he departs from it for Kuni Mama. But sometimes he finds it difficult to communicate because of mismatch of time. And writes letters to her advising and guiding her. Kuni Mama says Dad is too didactic and I do not know what it means. But I feel she does not feel great about it..
6.00 PM- Mom would cal Dad from verandah so that he would be around when I eat my food. This is what I insist on. What is the point if the whole family not being around when another member eats. They eat together, I stay there. They should be around when I eat. After that Dad will be taking me for a walk to Aravalli Biological Park. I have some followers, but Dad does not allow them to come close by. When we come back, Dad reads his newspapers. Sometimes he fixes a drink for himself. Mom watches TV. These corona days, all news are about covid-19. Dad does not watch TV often, but he writes about covid-19. Kuni Mama knows the maximum.. I guess she gets to know all up to date information from the internet.
9.00 PM- Dinner is complete. Mom and Dad speak for 20-30 minutes before Dad gets down to serious writing, Mom is a serious Netflix watcher and Kuni Mama is known for for serious computer browsing lying on the bed. I have also become serious and I divide my time with all three. Each one pets me a little bit but are into their work mostly..
No. I think I am getting ahead of myself. How can I forget Shreya Didi. , the eldest daughter of the family. She is the one who plays the maximum with me, buys treats and sometimes allows me to her bed. She is good fun in the family where everyone is low on mobility. I was very happy when she stayed with all of us. But two years back she moved out of town to work and only came back six months back, She has moved out of the house to stay with her friends closer to her office. She did not come home before the lockdown as one of the girls in the apartment had travelled out and she thought she should not increase the risk for Dad. Now there is lockdown and she cannot come. Only 10 pm she does video conference and insists on talking to me. I can see her but there is no smell. All members talk to her on the mobile screen. Dad speaks the least. I get a feeling that Dad misses her the most and he would have been so much happier had she been around. She used to come during the weekend and after the lifting of lockdown she would come. I would be so happy, but I would be happier if she stays here with us completely.
Most happy families are similar, but all unhappy families are unique. My problem is I am speaking from a happy family. But they don’t spend time together except on the dining table of course,.My ploy has worked in bringing them together on some occasions. A holiday means more work for them, more of solitude, more of their desired work. And More they work in their ‘working corridor’, less reaching out..
Lockdown time meant that the whole time will be family time. I looked forward to it. I would have lain somewhere close by and heard their gossip, arguments and endearing talk. But it looks when the lifestyle is set, work load is overwhelming and no one was ready to surrender their priority. They keep on doing more of the same. Each in his own world while being thrown together. All of us were together, but alone together.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
“Madame”, It was only when the young man raised his voice, a sense of urgency in his tone, that Sathya came out of her reverie to look at him in bewilderment. She realized that both of them had been standing in the hot sun for quite a while, with no umbrella or any other covering for their bare heads. She saw that the young man was perspiring badly, his light cotton shirt damp, the stiffened cuffs and collar beginning to sag, giving him a rather bedraggled look. But it suits him, she mused, gives a humane touch in keeping with the young age, the otherwise projected image of a brash and confident business school graduate was not in tune with his personality, no, not at all.
“Mam, can we go inside now? Its too hot here, after all it’s the height of summer” he said, and she heard the unvoiced admonition underlying his request, surely only a loony woman would stand here gazing at nothing, daydreaming while sweating out through all pores?
Poor boy, how can he see all these images that I do, within the mirages that dance in the heat of the sun? He was so young, must have just passed out of some first grade B school, eager to practise his text book theories on this middle-aged client who might not know even the basics of starting a new business but had enough money to throw away on her dreams. Sathya had been hesitant to seek the help of this management consultancy firm but her colleagues had advised her to listen to them at least, even if she did not want to follow all their technicalities, she could get an idea of how things were done effectively. Since she was relocating to her native place after a long stint in Dubai, and intending to start an enterprise on her own for the first time, she did need some help, she knew that. But little did those who had worked with her for so many years realize that this dream of hers had been flowering within her for as long as she could remember, that it was more a passion, a fulfillment than just a different experiment or a vision of success and profit.
“Mam” the boy was getting impatient, tired too maybe, he had taken a large, pristine white handkerchief to wipe the sweat that was dampening his face, she saw with some amusement that he was becoming red like a beetroot too. He would never have expected a rich client to stand in the sun like this, gazing at nothing in particular, daydreaming like an infatuated teenager. He must be wondering whether I will ever start a business, whether all the work he puts in will be wasted, whether the increment he is hoping for will ever materialize, Sathya felt a maternal sympathy for him, she always did when she saw how confused they were inside for all the bravado and confidence they exuded when in company. “Yes, yes, it’s too hot here, let’s go in.” she smiled at him and hurried into the restaurant where they had found a table and started on their discussions before she had felt the need to go out and look around.
Inside the air-conditioned café it was cool. On the table two tall glasses of cold orange juice was kept ready for them. Sathya saw the boy looking greedily at the ice cubes floating on top. As if the very sight cooled him down. The new generation was so very fragile, she mused, growing up in the luxury of AC and other electronic equipments that made life easy they had lost touch with Nature, with the basics of life, in fact. She sipped her juice, which tasted excellent, the oranges well picked for the right degree of ripeness as well as freshness, the right measurement of water and sugar added so that the taste of the oranges stood foremost, the glasses chosen for a good volume to quench the thirst of summer and above all everything clean and looking as if care was taken over every little aspect. Looking around at the empty tables, waiting desultorily for customers, draped in white lacy cloth and adorned with bowls of flowers, a decorative jug holding spoons and straws, another glass jar with drinking water, Sathya saw that someone had indeed painstakingly arranged everything, paying attention to each minute detail. The clean washed napkins were folded into various attractive shapes and exhibited proudly. Someone, maybe the owner, maybe a senior steward or supervisor, was genuinely interested in the job, she felt, else with not much sale being done they would not have bothered about the detailing.
The boy, energized by the cool drink as well as the soothing ambience, began on his selling spree once more. “Mam”, he used a more aggressive tone now that it was time to close a deal, “According to the market survey we conducted before preparing an estimated balance sheet and project report for you to start with, this business here is running at a loss. So your endeavor to start another one of the same kind adjacent to this is not a viable project. For one thing, this café is very close to the girls’ school here. So all thirsty students will gather in here first. You cannot build a new café closer to the school as it is not permitted. So as per our survey the best option would be to rent out a space in the new shopping mall on the opposite side of this road and start some business that is sure to attract girls. Fancy jewellery, gift articles, stationery items, study material, or maybe a mix of all such things with cool drinks, bottled, and packed snacks too. Another option would be dresses or stitching centre, you might get bulk orders for uniforms or teacher’s sarees for special occasions, lots of opportunities, and once it gets a reputation….”he shrugged his soldiers and waved his hands, indicating that it could all reach heights she could not even imagine.
Sathya glanced at him, smiling inwardly. Little did he know that she had learnt the basics of running a business from her uneducated mother, not from Google or any other information center. Looking out into the street, she could still see those haunting images that flitted within the mirages, her mother, wearing a battered hat to ward off the burning sun, standing beside the auto with a trailer that she had bought with the loan from Kudumbasree project for empowering women. She had started in a small way, when Father had begun to lose interest in running the vegetable and fruit shop he had inherited from his family, Amma had sensed that it was all going to break down soon. With some innate business sense she had, or maybe it was just common sense, she had begun to go to the shop in the evenings, when father would be in a hurry to close and go off on his drinking spree with the earnings of the day and with the excuse that she needed things for home, she would check all the commodities and do some sorting and arranging of her own. The overripe fruits and decaying vegetables would be taken away and the fresher ones would be displayed in front, heaped in a way to attract passersby. She would bring the second rate things home and use them to cook jams, pickles, or some sort of puddings of her own recipe. In the day time when we had gone to school, she would pack the prepared items in clean and presentable wrappings and go for door to door sales in neighboring residential areas. Soon she had a few steady customers who found her products tasty and hygienic enough to rely on. She kept on adding other home made products, like tapioca and mashed green chilly, chapathi and dry vegetable masala or sometimes bujjis with chilly or raw plantains or brinjal and combined with coconut chutneys. She would go from door to door with no rest or even stopping for refreshments, till the last commodity was sold. She could not stand to see anything going to waste. She taught us to value food, to eat fruits as they started to spoil, to enjoy whatever she endeavored to make tasty with available condiments. By the time Father closed shop unable to pay back loans with what little he was able to sell, Amma had established her business to the extent that none of us had to leave school and find work.
“Mam, aren’t you listening”, again, a hint of reproof in the B school product’s voice. He must be sure now that this dreamy woman would never run a business as successfully as her mother had, not that he had any inkling of her background. But what he could not know was that I am as determined as my mother, Sathya mused, maybe even more, because I need this venture to be my dedication for my hardworking, exceptional, model mother. Who saved all of us from utter poverty and degradation by her foresight and perseverance.
Sathya looked at the boy and smiled again, wondering if he could discern the hint of mockery in it. All his theories were from the A grade school of his, while she had all information gathered from practical life. Start small, grow tall, keep a common standard, don’t cheat your customers for speedy profit, keep a firm hand on the profits so that it is used to better the business, not for personal luxuries. So many tips. Amma too learnt it all the hard way, making mistakes, suffering losses, being cheated, but not once did she give up or accept defeat. Maybe she enjoyed many aspects of the daily grind and so was prepared to put up with the difficulties too.
“Do you know the first requirement to start a business?” Sathya had forgotten the name of the youngster, she would have to look it up on the card he had given her when introduced. He looked at her rather blankly, as if her question was so out of place as to be ignored. “Patience” she said, smiling again so as to put him at ease, not an interrogation to assess his skills, but small talk to keep things going. The boy was rather put out, she felt, but he did not show it openly, which was good, he was a fast learner, sure to go far. “Sorry Mam, of course take your time, I just felt I should keep on giving out data, else you might think I am not doing any work”. Sathya was impressed, his looks belied the sense of humor deep within, maybe it just needed to be brought out. “I don’t make such hasty estimates, dear boy, I wait patiently for results”, Sathya laughed, hoping to make him more relaxed. “Sure, I do see that.” He replied, tongue in cheek, “You know Mam, the first thing required for a consultant?”
Sathya had now entered wholeheartedly into the repartee game, it was fun indeed, so with faked innocence she asked, “What would that be? No doubt, lesson one in your syllabus must have been on that”. The boy smiled back in the same mocking way as her and said, “True, the first lesson, the basic one, Impress your client, don’t let her get away”. This time, both of them laughed out together, breaking the ice totally. “I am impressed, really, not that you have learnt everything so well, but that you have not lost your sense of humor, the first requirement to survive in this harsh and cruel world of profit and loss”.
Thereafter an easy camaraderie was established. The boy said, “Seriously Mam, about the market survey I talked of, it shows that even this is a losing business, the bank loan taken for starting this has not been repaid, the interest is mounting and you can see for yourself that the place is half dead. No other table is occupied”.
“Yes, I did notice that. I was wondering why no one is attracted to this cool clean interior when it’s so hot outside. And the juice was a quality product. Obviously there is a good chef and an interior decorator who has taken pains to see there is a soothingly pleasant ambience too. So why is it running at a loss?” Sathya was puzzled. But obviously the B school boy had studied the ins and outs of the business really well. “Mam, the crux of the problem lies in the choice of place. True, there is a girls’ school nearby, thirsty students should be rushing in during the breaks. Even parents, who wait for them or come straight from work places to pick them up. But we don’t see anyone even looking in. Do you know why? The school is a public school with very low fees. Rich people would not send their offspring to such places with too many students and too little personal attention. So the students and parents coming and going would not come into an air-conditioned, class café of this sort, they cannot afford the prices here”.
Now Sathya was hooked. The boy did know some things. He too observed, drew conclusions of his own, made assessments before spouting theories learnt by rote. “Yes, you are right”, she agreed. “But it would be a pity if they had to close down because the loan cannot be paid back. If they are willing, we can rent it out to start our business, we could save on the capital that has to be invested to build up a new shop.”
“But Mam, it would still be a losing proposition, unless we attract more wealthy clients, nothing is going to change”.
“Hmm, we do have to find ways and means to surmount that hurdle”, she murmured to herself. Again, a vision of her enterprising mother rose in her mind, how she had stopped her door to door sales when she had difficulty walking long distances, how she found the Kudumbasree scheme and secured the loan to buy an auto with trailer to continue her business, how she found this as a viable space, right in the main road, near a school with more students than any other, how it proved a success mantra in the long run. Amma had grown darker, standing in the sun the whole day, her arms and legs blistered, her hair dry and tangled, but she found pleasure in seeing girls in green and white uniforms hurrying into the sacred venue of Goddess Saraswathy, the deity of learning and arts. She stood mesmerized by the prayers, the national Anthem, the bells ringing after each class, girls reciting verses or mathematical tables, for a woman who had never been in a school, it seemed a second best option to see and hear and savor those elements that enriched a child so. She must have made a vow to herself that her three daughters would get proper schooling, that their lives would be so much more cultured and successful, that they would never have to live on the second best commodities on sale.
“I want the café in this very same place, its in memory of my late mother, the most dedicated business person I have ever seen” Sathya said to the boy, “We just have to plan for it to succeed”.
“If that’s what you want, Mam, my duty is to get it for you”, the boy put his hand over heart, as if it was a promise for life. “I think you must talk to the person who has kept it so nicely, Mam. As you said, she has a real passion for this. Maybe you can start as a joint venture”.
The boy was intelligent, Sathya had to admit that, and so, soon they found themselves in the inner office, which was even more beautifully decorated, with personal touches, pictures, photographs, curios from sightseeing, more flowers, the lot. And the young woman sitting before the office table was well dressed, pleasant and interested enough to discuss the future of the place. The boy was impressed to hear that she too had attended a B school, that she had put in her share from her family to start the café, that she worked as an interior decorator to earn enough to get by, and she seemed equally enamoured of the boy’s resume so far. Sathya felt she was not needed there anymore, both of them together would turn the business around in no time, and the future together was enticing them in other ways too……
The grand design always eludes us, she thought a few months later, as she looked around at the redecorated café, we just see the pieces here and there, puzzled as if working on a giant jigsaw, but gradually when we lose ourselves in the game, they fall into place. Now we are a threesome, the three muskeeters starting on an adventure, the future beckoning us with its mystery and maya. The girl’s name was Maya, the B school boy was Jeeva, and she was Sathya, Truth Ultimate. Amma, we need your blessings, she prayed silently as she looked out into those sifting images, and saw her mother, fruits piled up in her shabby auto, laughing at her customers as they argued about the weight, the price, the freshness, of the products. Learn, daughter, look and learn, keep learning, that’s the success manthra, she semed to say.
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.
Romi is a gypsy woman. She is a rag picker. Every morning, she walks on the streets, picks up plastic covers, bottles, newspapers, cardboards and other waste and sells them.
Many a time, the street dogs bark at her menacingly. So, she has her long stick and her companion with her.
The other day, Uncle Ravi wanted to photograph her. Telling him to wait, she called her pet dog. He wagged his tail and came up to her. Together, they posed for the photograph. Romi’s service is so important to all. She plays an important role in picking up stuff that can be recycled.
Even in this time of the pandemic, they are managing amidst all odds to make ends meet; occasionally they stretch their palm for some rupee note to buy food.
Without looking away, it is important to appreciate their silent contribution to the environment, appreciate the life of dignity they lead.
The other day, I came across this quotation: The pendulum oscillates between these two terms: Suffering that opens a window on the real and is the main condition of the artistic experience, and Boredom...that must be considered as the most tolerable because the most durable of human evils -Samul Beckett
Suffering can be associated with agony, torment, tortuem pain or distress. Boredom implies dullness, doldrums, weariness, or ennui.
Who is to blame for boredom? Today, there is a wealth of information explosion, range of distractions promoted by the audio visual media, yet, an adolescent of today is often bored with life and keeps grumbling. Suicides by educated youth are on the rise. Is there a reason> Yes! Purposeless, aimless, self-centred living (also called Tamasic existence), without a goal in sight.
For yet another, despite achieving high accolades, there is an emptiness that stares. Possessiveness is yet another cause. We associate ourselves with certain objects, persons and situations. When we have to let go of these, then Suffering or Boredom begins to show its ugly face.
Physical Suffering is caused by diseases and ailments. But, it can be endured by controlling the mind largely..Mental suffering occurs when the mind is not balanced, and is egoistic.
For the last two years of his life, the 'Maharishi' suffered from Cancer and experienced great physical pain, but even towards the end, he maintained the same tranquil poise and same radiant smile. When he was suffering, a disciple ran away crying because he could not bear to see his master in pain. Ramana only smiled and spoke to a disciple nearby. He thinks I am suffering agonies! My body is suffering but I am not suffering. When will he realise that I am not this body?
When Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa was nearing fifty, he developed Cancer of the throat and it got worse; his disciples had to force him to eat, though he was mostly unaware of the body in its higher state. When his condition worsened, his disciples pressed him to ask the Mother to cure him. But he was content with his state saying:
"Let the body and its pain take care of one another
Thou, my mind be always in bliss."
He resisted them at first, but later thought that for their sake, he would ask 'her' for healing. Ramakrishna recounts: 'I said to Her, I cannot eat anything for this pain. Please so arrange that I may eat a little.' She showed me a vision of ALL and said, 'Why, you are already eating through so many mouths, why be concerned with this one!''I was ashamed and could not utter another word.'
A pendulum that is displaced from its resting equilibrium position swings to and fro till it comes back to the equilibrium position, no boredom or suffering, complete rest.
To conclude,
bored psyche
seeks out newer fare
nothing on earth satiates
(This won the BEST AUTHOR OF THE MONTH prize in www.writersglobe.com, August 2010)
The sweltering summer and the blazing heat from the pyre was menacing enough to char her as well. Beads of sweat lined up on her sooty, wrinkled face, yet, she stood stoically, with no trace of any emotion. She had come to accept life with all its twists and turns. It would be dusk by the time she cleaned up the place, and even afterwards, the stench of rotten flesh would be lingering.
Years ago, many a time, she had foregone the only meal of the day as she felt so nauseated after the rigmarole. Over the years, the body and the mind had gotten used to the arduous life in the crematorium. This was Thangamma’s daily bread and it had been this way for years. Each day was a struggle, grappling with angry people, particularly those who came with the bodies that had faced untimely deaths either in accidents, suicides or in mob frenzy.
When he was around, the daunting task seemed less formidable. Muthu was a reasonably decent man, only that he occasionally took liquor, after which he would just doze for hours and when he was sober again, he would get back to his job at the burial ground. After all, Thangamma had spent most part of her life there, after she became Muthu’s life partner at an early age.
What else was the recourse for a widowed woman to save her young daughter from the clutches of evil eyes! Thangamma’s mother worked as a bonded labourer under a landlord of the village after her husband’s death. Earlier, the little money that they as poor farmers had was all spent in the medical expenses of her sick husband. Continual drought left them without crops. Ma sold their cottage, their cow and then the land. Penniless and homeless, the poor lady had no cash left to give her husband a decent burial. She borrowed a few thousands from the landlord of the village to save herself and her daughter from the pangs of hunger. And, became bonded for life!
During the final rites of her Baba, Thangamma met Muthu. Although he was young, he looked hardened and tough, his body was smeared with soot; his eyes, however, had tenderness. Orphaned when young, Muthu was nurtured by his uncle, a crematorium worker. He grew up watching his uncle stoke fires, wash dead bodies, clean the debris, bathe in the nearby river, wash his torn dhoti and then eat a meal. On occasions, relatives who accompanied the corpses gave them rice, lentils and vegetables.
Muthu was a loner until he met Thangamma. She would visit the graveyard in the evenings, spend some time with Muthu. Young Thangamma was not afraid of the darkness or of the ghosts that the villagers spoke about. Ma realized her daughter was growing fast and would require protection from predators. There was no better alternative to protect a girl’s honour! She approached Muthu and arranged a simple marriage for them in the temple at the end of the village. The participants were the other bonded labourers, who, amidst all odds managed to get a few hundred rupees for the wedding. One good samaritan who had come to perform the last rites of his wife heard about the wedding and offered them his departed wife’s mangalsutra and a new cotton sari and dhoti.
Thangammal’s new home was a thatched roof just beside the cemetery. Her other companion was Muthu’s mongrel Raju. In her younger days, when they had better times, they had a cow in their tiny farm. Severe financial constraints had forced Thangamma’s parents to sell the creature off. Thangamma loved Raju as she loved the bovine. Whatever food they had, was shared with the dog. And Raju zealously followed her wherever she went, whether it was to the jungle to gather wood and berries or to the entrance of the village to buy sabzi, milk and oil.
In that uncommon world, Thangamma was an embodiment of contentment. Her life amidst corpses made her immune to smell, taste, feelings too…. but, not before the biological need made her a mother. A few years after her son was born, Thangamma’s mother left her mortal coil. And then, one stormy night Muthu breathed his last in his sleep. Thangamma had no tears left, all her tears had dried up, consumed in flames.
One cold evening, she saw a stranger cycle down the path that led to her house. He was a government official and brought news that all the bonded labourers had been granted a sum by the local authorities and were free to lead lives of their own. Thangamma, as the legal heir, had inherited her mother’s fortune. Her joy knew no bounds, as there was hope for her child, he was not required to continue in his Papa’s footsteps.
The government official was childless, he offered to take the boy under his care, educate him and provide him a comfortable living. At first, Thangamma was reluctant, but she relented. She knew in her heart that even if Muthu was alive, they could never give their child a secure life. Even if they did, the stigma attached was something the child would have to reckon with throughout his life. She did not take her eyes off the man and child until their shadows disappeared in the trail down the river.
The sky turned a flaming orange and crimson, Thangamma spotted a lone crow flying hurriedly towards a tall tree in the distance. The flickering flame of the candle resonated with her gentle heartbeat. The rigour of the day forced Thangamma to shut her eyes involuntarily. Raju opened his eyes, let a yawn and cuddled himself closer at her feet.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Are you responsible for your duties and slogging constantly? You strongly feel and say, “Yes, I am.”
‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ Mankind requires fulfilling the needs of family members and satisfying them in different ways. Life is full of obstacles, hurdles, puzzles, and muddling situations, but despite having negative feelings, everyone feels that life is beautiful. At the end of the day, the success of human beings defines who they are or what they want to do.
Every day is a new beginning with new thoughts and new assignments. Most people prioritize their schedules in order to complete the task at the given time. Time is valuable and money. The moment we start the day, we move on and keep doing things. These busy programs make us as busy as a bee. We keep ourselves busy mentally and physically throughout. “Those who are wise won't be busy, and those who are too busy can't be wise.”
In my eye, the heart is a mirror that shows you all your feelings, imagination, mission, vision, and the way you lead your life. Look into your heart and see whether you’re happy with what you’re doing or what you’re speaking. It’s good to spend some time to introspect and realize the happenings around. If you’re happy inside, you will be joyous outside! It is very important to look at the activities we do and reflect on them or observe conscious thoughts and feelings. Introspection often compared with perception, reason, memory, and testimony as a source of knowledge. “Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” People often believe that whatever they say is right and whatever they do is right in their perception, imagination, or assumption. It’s the other way round that one has to look into others’ minds too to know whether he’s right or wrong either in his speech or action. Thus, one should introspect in order to reflect on feelings and thoughts. Introspection makes everyone to change his lifestyle, thought processing, and attitude. In this way, introspection is a gateway to a new way of life or to begin deeds that help us have a fruitful life or peaceful time.
I strongly feel that it’s so important to list out all the strengths and weaknesses. It’s called self-analysis; self-realization and self-judgment which help you understand your path or destiny. Thus, resolution begins within. Topics vary money, marital life, education, luxury, lifestyle, celebrations, etc. One should ask himself/herself certain questions! Am I misusing my money and time? Am I satisfying my boss with my job? Am I always right in my word and actions? The list is endless! “You can't lie to your soul.”
We meet different types of people in our life. Some people advise us or teach us good lessons, and we do observe bad qualities among a few. Advice is heard keenly, followed practically, and implemented methodically. In the journey of life, you acquire certain qualities that make you design your way of life. You plan for a long time and short term goals which may be or may not be achieved. “When you see a good person, think of becoming like her/him. When you see someone not so good, reflect on your own weak points.”It’s essential to discover the answers and move on!
Books, places, people, and situations will teach us plenty of lessons, but introspection molds us into a better personality! “The problem with introspection is that it has no end.”
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. 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. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com.
Every parent understands that looking after a special needs child is arduous and exhausting with endless routines and sleepless nights,and to top it all if you have a Husky as your four legged friend then you are finished,as they are hyperactive and can be all over you if their energy is not channelised in the form of running, playing as they are working dogs used for running sledges in Siberia,they need to be exhausted or engaged at all times to get a breather. Despite all these stories they are extremely adorable and lovable. Ours has taught us what family bonding is all about and has kept us on our toes innumerable times.
Rahul ,my autistic son has settled down well with him but there are those moments when he wants his own quiet space.
Many a times he refuses to get down from the car after a long drive but our pet will not calm down, gives us a stinker saying... "How can you leave Rahul Bhaiya inside the car? go and fetch him!! "and thus the pandemonium begins until he gets back home. Pets express their emotions appropriately including the use of body language and facial expressions. Hushkoo would wag his tail and go upto Rahul saying... "finally you are home, by just fondly rubbing himself against his long slender legs. His love for my son is unconditional, his understanding that he is special is far more than humans.
Every now and then to elevate Rahul's mood, I would start singing like a parrot....." Rahul!! hakku notty (naughty) doggy, always sleeping and jumping. Rahul v. v. (very) good boy, always sitting, smiling and happy. This would do wonders and bring a smile on his parched face. As far as skin conditions go, he has taken after his mother, who invariably digs holes into the expensive intricately designed cream bottles and slaps it all over her face and his every now and then much to our relief- wonder how I survived the Delhi winters then for as long as as twenty five years.
Mumbai winters though mild, plays havoc on my skin and at this stage in life i always feel the need to carry one wherever I go, pockets would be a better idea. In case if anyone wants to gift creams and lotions, hey there!! don't miss out on me.
Well the grey winters are best enjoyed with hot soups, pepper chicken, veggies in white sauce along with buttered buns accompanied by Trifle pudding or Gajar ka halwa....over the years have amassed an arsenal of food ideas.
Now as we are stepping into the New Year I'm full of optimism,with new beginnings and new opportunities.
Nothing more comfortable than a pair of t-shirt and track pants during this pandemic and all ill fitting clothes out of the door with a hugging goodbye for all the comfort they provided me when I needed them the most.
As I turn my thoughts towards happy eating, despite the bulge thanks to the lockdown, more focus on deep breathing, meditation, leisure walks, eating right, phew!! easier said than done.
Until then pamper yourself, be surrounded by positive vibrations, connect with family friends and coworkers, focus on what you can create and control, don't allow yourself to burn out this Christmas.
I end up here as i need to rush into the kitchen to prepare peanut chikki, my first this winter, surrounded by the aroma of freshly chopped coriander leaves for chole and Rahul cajoling me to play.... "Every breadth you take",while Hushkoo runs upto me asking.... "mommy did you call? "and as usual I start singing... "Hatuni Patuni "....mommy no kolli kolli(calling).
Merry Christmas!! and may this season fill your home with joy, your heart with love and your life with light.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
She has been writing articles for LV for the past one and half years. Recently she has published her first book.. "Reflections Of My Mind",an ode to the children and families challenged by Autism.
Her wedding was drawing near and there was just a week left but to Kalpana, it appeared like one whole year. Anything might happen in these seven days, supposing Kailash changes his mind. There is always the possibility, one can never trust men, one moment they are all sugar and honey and the next moment harsh and dominating, she thought with a sigh. Only the other day her aunt, who was an inveterate gossip, had remarked, "Kalpana, don't think it is easy for girls like you to get married, you are lucky that Kailash agreed to marry you, but would suggest you keep your fingers crossed till the marriage takes place, you can't say about men, they are easily influenced."
These were her actual words “Easily influenced." And they kept coming back to her , however much she tried to forget. "Oh God! Let not Kailash back out from this engagement, she prayed with all her heart. Kalpana tried to relive the day Kailash came to see her. His tall frame, with broad shoulders and a very expressive face had impressed her, she also liked the relaxed way he went about asking her questions regarding her studies, her hobbies, interests, etc. From the moment he entered her house along with his elder brother, he felt quite at ease with its atmosphere and her folks , unlike other suiters who appeared ill at ease all the while they were there.
Her parents also liked him and said she would be very lucky if he agreed to this alliance. To the joy of everyone, word came within only a fortnight that Kailash had accepted the proposal. Needless to say, she was most excited and could not sleep that night, she was thinking of Kailash every moment. Her earlier suitors had come and seen her and there it ended. After going through several interviews she had almost given up hope, deciding that it was futile to entertain the very idea of marriage , especially girls like her should reconcile with this truth. She would remain a spinster all her life, she thought.. "Amma, this is going to be the last boy I am going to see,’ she said, but never dreamt that, he would be the last for a very different reason!
Well, now all the initial excitement was over and it has given place to some other feeling in her, the feeling of fear, fear that her pleasant dream would get shattered one fine day and she might after all have to remain a spinster all her life.
The sound of a cycle bell followed by the postman's voice awakened her from her thoughts and she ran to get the letters. As the day of marriage was drawing near , her fears and apprehension increased.
She had to tell her husband the ugly secret. Would he forgive her or would he recoil in disgust?
She dreaded to open the letters. One of them might be from Kailash to convey the bad news in a few lines!
But to her relief, she found they were all from her friends saying they would come for her wedding. She was very happy at the prospect of meeting all of them again. They were all married and well settled. Here she was the last to get married in her group of eight.
At last, it was March 28, the expected and much looked forward day. Kailash was tying the holy knot around her neck and she could feel his fingers touching its nape. Her mother was busy ushering in guests one moment, saying something to the priest the other moment. "What could she be saying to him?" she wondered. Her father was as usual cool and calm. Even his daughter's marriage didn't seem to excite him, Kalpana thought, and smiled within herself. Oh! how indifferent men could be, or was it that they never exhibit their feelings? she mused.
After the wedding her life was nothing short of ecstasy. Her honeymoon to Darjeeling, then the numerous parties hosted by Kailash's friends, oh, it was a gay and carefree life, full of fun. She hardly had time to be alone with her husband. Thereafter they were busy setting up their new home which was located close to Kailash's office.
After the first few months of mad euphoria, Kalpana began to feel uneasy again, fears coming back to fill her mind with dread and anguish. She had known Kailash for quite a while now and she seemed to like him more and more as days passed. His happy-go-lucky attitude appealed to her and his laugh was infectious. She noticed that seriousness had no place in his mental makeup, he always took things lightly. And he was devoted to her.
But the uneasiness persisted and several times she tried to say something which was gnawing at her mind, but he never gave her a chance to be serious. What was even more puzzling, the question she expected as inevitable one day or the other did not come at all. She was sure one day Kallash would corner her and find out the ugly truth and she would lose his love, his respect. Supposing, he was ignorant of it all, she wondered, but how was that possible?
Her mother would never have lied to her ,she had said that whoever came to see her, did so knowingly and Kailash could not have been an exception. But now doubts started creeping in and she feared that in her anxiety to get her married , her mother would have decided not to reveal the dreaded secret. Too many proposals had been wrecked on hidden rock in her life.
When Kailash agreed to marry her, she had thought that he was not like other men, that he was broad minded and had agreed because he was magnanimous, his love was deep enough to forgive, yes, even forget the ugly truth about her. Thank God a few magnanimous men like Kailash existed in this world, she thought, but this optimism did not last long. Most of the time it was dread and not hope that filled her heart.
Kallash's job took him on frequent tours. He was out half the month. In the beginning she had missed him a lot, but now she was slowly getting used to these brief spells of absence. But her loneliness only intensified the old memories and the gloom that encircled her.
No, she must ask Kailash and be done with this miasma of uncertainty once for all. She could not torture herself any longer and live in perpetual fear like this. She decided to talk it out with Kailash when he returned from his present tour.
The next evening she heard the cab drawing up at the gate and he was shouting, "Hai, Kalp, did you miss me ?" even as he entered the house, but seeing her strained face, he sobered instantly and asked, "what happened? where has your smile gone? Why are you greeting me with face so grim? what's wrong?" Untying his shoes, he went on and on firing questions at her and giving no chance for her to say anything.
“Are you not giving your husband some hot tea, darling?" he then asked smiling and she went into the kitchen, her footsteps heavy, As she watched her husband enjoying the hot snacks she had prepared, her heart was almost breaking. But she had decided to end this ceaseless tension and plucking up courage, she asked, "Kailash, do you know everything about me?'
This rather unexpected question took him by surprise, but in a moment Kailash was leaning back in the chair and laughing. "I think I've known you for the last eight months, my sweet, charming, shy, modest..." and he seemed to be searching for more adjectives.
Please, Kailash, this is serious.
I don't mean these past eight months, I want to know if you know anything about me before my marriage?"
“Well, if there is anything interesting, I shall be happy to know about it although frankly, I am quite content with what I know.”
He was making it difficult for Kalpana to carry out her resolve, but she was at the end of her tether and had to have it out.
'Oh, Kailash I don't know how to begin and ….”
Again he interrupted flippantly, "why not begin at the beginning? Simple isn't it?"
"You know, you were not the only suitor I had," she said, ignoring his levity.
“That happens with every girl, doesn't it? What's so important about that?'
“No, no, that's not what I meant. All of them rejected me and you were the first person to agree to marry me."
"Well, that's obvious, isn't? I mean, otherwise, you wouldn't be here with me, serving me delicious snacks, and tea. 0,K., what's troubling you? What terrible confessions do you have up your sleeve?"
“Kailash, be serious for once. You know why they rejected me?'`
"Their bad luck and my good luck, I suppose,"
"No,, it was my good luck to marry someone so broad minded and kind hearted like you," she said, “And I don't know how to express my gratitude to God for giving you as my life partner. But tell me, aren't all men possessive ,suspicious and whatever they may have done, don’t they insist on their brides being virgins? So who would care to marry someone like me, who has been wronged for no fault of hers that too when I was not yet out of school?"
The words had come out in a rush, She dared not look at her husband for fear of what his face would reveal. Fearful of his out-burst of anger, she continued hurriedly, "Kailash, my mother obviously has not told you, and you don't, know” .Saying this, she looked up, ready to face his hatred and contempt. She had burnt her boats and must face her future with a brave heart.
His face was serious, and the softness had vanished.
Suddenly she felt frightened, “Kailash, please don't look like that I can’t bear to see that expression on your face, I know you hate me, which man wouldn't. But I love you Kailash, believe me I do. What happened was not my fault. I didn't even see that man. I fainted away, and when I regained consciousness he had vanished. I realised what had happened because of the blood and the pain. I was...” and then she broke down, her sobs tearing her chest.
But Kailash, instead of a bitter tirade, instead of slapping her and pushing her out of his presence was holding her in a tight embrace and saying, "My poor dear girl, did it never occur to you that although you were unconscious, the man must have been fully conscious and seen you and also that there was every possibility of recognising you if he saw you again? Don't think there are any exceptions to our sex, we are all alike—possessive, suspicious and harsh—but in one thing I am not like others, I do not believe in double standards and I have a conscience”.
Slowly his words began to sink in and Kalpana felt faint and dizzy. As she was about to collapse she felt a strong pair of arms carry her to the bed, the same pair of arms she thought and this was not the first time they were holding her in a state of semi consciousness.
(The above story was published in Eve’s Weekly ,a leading woman’s magazine(now extinct) whose editor was Gulshan Ewing, (she passed away recently) in the issue dated 3rd December 1977.She wrote a letter to me saying one Virat from Alwar wished to translate it into Hindi for a magazine and he wants my permission for the same. I replied to her saying he could go ahead. I feel the story is relevant even today after more than four decades.)
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.
A strange melancholy lurks in the settlements. The plantation labourers live there as a community, but dream in isolation. Their life remains mundane and destiny unknown.
Kunhayyappan dreams like everyone else in the settlement. A small mud house appears in his dream. He moves around through its interiors. A muddy smell enlivens him and he falls on to a bed and heaves a sigh of relief.
He shares it with Eli, his life partner. She laughs and makes fun of him.
“Honey, please get out of your bed first and go to the party office to meet the Comrade. Else no point in dreaming every night!” she blabbers.
“Eli, it’s my dream… A mud house of our own!” he moans as if reluctant to get out of his unfulfilled dream.
It is indeed a delight to watch him dream. His eye balls move fast, face turns red, an unfound calmness settles on his wrinkled cheeks and a smile appears on his otherwise morose face. And then he wakes up breathless as if getting choked by an unknown force.
It is not only him, but most of the workers living in the settlement also see such weird dreams which in turn makes them relive a moment, sometimes it brings happiness and sometime sorrow and pain.
“It’s a valley of dead dreams!” someone shrieks while asleep.
An unfound fear creeps into them and they sit in dismay pondering over their fate.
The temporary settlements, in which they live, look like a cemetery of zombies. A long stretched out shack with an asbestos roof built on fragile pillars, it burns like hot iron during summer and rattles when it rains.
Under a housing scheme offered by the ruling party as part of their election promise, the company had offered to provide separate houses to everyone. But it remains an unfulfilled promise, a thing of the past, a bygone moment in which they all had turned into a mere vote bank. An allure of immediate identity breeds in them, giving a false feeling of being worthy at the time of elections. And they haggle for their rights in vain.
Politicians and their funders throng the settlements with suitcases and liquor bottles. The moment they leave, whatever little money they receive for voting a particular candidate, evaporates like hootch bottles.
Now that the people have learnt the tricks and trades of the game, they have begun to bargain with the politicians. They know how to behave diplomatically, can even go to the extent of deceiving their own brethren, hoping to achieve something in life. But none succeeds.
After a prolonged pestering by Eli, Kunhayyappan musters courage and encounters Com. Thomas, their trade union leader.
“Comrade, when shall we get to live in a proper house?” he enquires.
“Let the rainy season go… We will get it done,” comrade smokes a beedi and tries to evade his question.
“This is the nth time you try to fool us with this same statement!”
The moment he retorts, Thomas hurls an abuse and disappears into the party office.
They had joined the party in the hope that it would stand by them in times of crisis. But many had already left the Union after realising that it is of no use and joined the Joint Action Committee (JAC), fighting for labour rights, led mostly by women workers under the leadership of Mala Akka. Their struggle goes on.
All of a sudden, those who have left the Union turns out to be enemies of the working class. Their names are blacklisted and the company sacks them without serving any notice. Jobless, they go out and engage in menial jobs in the nearby town.
Kunhayyappan and Eli did not join the JAC for the fear of losing their job. They preserve a dream to build a mud house of their own, which they cannot afford without a regular job. There are many like them for whom even bonded labour sounds better than nothing. And they live in these settlements in the hope that the company may get them a proper house someday if they remain loyal.
When it rains for weeks and the level of water increases beyond normal, Kunhayyappan suggests that it is better to move out of the valley. But Eli prevents him as she had never experienced life outside the settlement.
He steps out of his room, drenched in rain and unties the dog kept at the front. It runs amok around the settlement, refusing to leave them, and barks at the raining dark hills.
At night, he once again smiles in his dream and raises his hands as if in a prayer. All of a sudden, the sky explodes and the hill falls on them, washing the whole settlement away in a gush of muddy water.
The rescue team arrives after some time and begins their operation. They discover the body of Eli along with others. As the rain continues to pour heavily, they withdraw from the rescue operation temporarily.
The place where the settlement stood remains as a muddy terrain full of uprooted trees and broken bricks. Submerged human bodies remain breathless, many dead and wanting to be cremated.
A dog is seen loitering around looking for someone, visiting the site every day and sniffing on the debris. After a few weeks of continuous search, the dog begins to bark as if it has discovered something innate.
A pair of hands are seen protruding out of the debris. People throng around. They struggle hard to remove bricks and mud and try to lift the dead body. A stiff muddy body of a man appears with hands held high, looking up in the sky. A frozen moment of prayer seems etched on it.
“Anyone knows him…Any relatives?” a policeman looks around, his khaki turns crimson red in muddy wind.
“It’s Kunhayyappan… None alive in his family!” someone murmurs.
The dog wags its tail and wails.
They carry the body to the common cremation ground.
The dog follows them. It stands there for days, refusing to leave, howling and fasting.
When people try to shoo away the dog, it barks back and disappears into the wilderness. An unfulfilled dream bubbles up from the soil and follows the dog.
Months after the tragedy, the company sets up a new settlement for labourers at the same spot. Someone or the other, in the settlement, continues to see nightmares in which a dog charges at them barking incessantly. Frightened, they share it with one another after waking up in the morning: “It’s him… That Kunhayyappan’s dog!”
And they get ready for work as usual.
(A free English adaptation of my own Malayalam short story titled ‘Mannu Kondoru Aakasham’.)
Ranju is a bilingual writer hailing from Thrissur, Kerala. His short stories and flash fiction have been published in literary magazines in English and Malayalam such as Literary Vibes, Delhi Sketches, One Frame Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Madhyamam and Mathrubhumi. He is the recipient of the Charles Wallace Research Fellowship, 2018.
The breaking news of the day was that Carlos Lopez, the notorious Mexican drug dealer, was under United States Border Patrol custody.
Carlos was reportedly picked up from an orange orchard near the Rio Grande which serves as a section of the Mexican-American border. The Mexicans cross the river under extremely hazardous conditions. Many families, including children are lost to the temperament of the Rio Grande. Such stories appear in the newspapers often. But no matter what, they risk their lives to reach a promised land.
Across the river in America, the vast orange orchards that stretch far into the horizon is their first refuge. They feed on raw oranges and water from the river for weeks on end.
From a helicopter, the US Border Patrol police spotted Carlos in such an orchard. The chopper flew low and the canopies were pushed aside by the wind from the its rotors, exposing the fugitive running for cover. Based on reports, the police closed in on him fast, and pounced on him quickly when they got the chance.
I was curious.
Who was this Carlos? The name was not specific enough, given how many Carlos’ exist in both the US and Central America. There is a story by John Abraham, titled ‘How many in Kottayam go by the name Maththayi?’ You could say there are enough of them in the tiny city of Kottayam to fill in the entire city ball park. Carlos, though, is the next level. It would be a bit more difficult to trace out a Carlos in the US than to trace out a Mathew in Kottayam. There are a lot of people named Carlos.
But as his face flashed on TV I noticed that there was only one Carlos that I knew, and and I could barely recall his face. I tried to trace out the name and the face. Back when I was a real estate agent in McAllen in southern Texas, I used to meet Carlos regularly. Then one day when I returned to work after a break, he was missing. I barely knew him, but I kind of missed him. Initially, I made some enquiries, but eventually decided to forget it all. Now that the news filled the social media my interest was piqued. The breaking news continued to flash on my screen. Memories of this little known Carlos came to me like a movie.
So I drafted this short note for Facebook.
Who is this Carlos Lopez?
Back then I was at the border city of McAllen. The city being closer to Mexico, most of the people in there were of Mexican origin. My Carlos was a homeless man there. I first met him on my way to my regular lunch spot. He used to sit by a vegetable stand which was placed unobtrusively amidst the short maple trees. There were three other stores along that road, but only two were open. One was an ice cream shop, and the other was a barber shop. Carlos sat at the doorstep of the closed shop. The door of the vacant storefront had a billboard that said the space was available for rent. His presence probably had something to do with it.
But he didn’t look homeless. Close to him a was a cardboard sign, turned over. I was curious as to what was on that sign, but I didn’t really make an effort to find out. He had on decent clothes. He never looked at me. He sat there leaning on the glass door, looking down. He had a leather bag, one or two plastic bags, holding what I assume were his belongings and water bottles, close by. There was a walking stick propped against the pillar, though he didn’t seem to need a walking stick. He wore grey pants, a yellow t-shirt and an ancient black grey jacket. His hair was left uncombed, flapped in the wind, and his beard was untidy. He always looked the same except for the t-shirts. Each day he had a different one, all brightly colored.
Once I stopped near him on my daily walk. Pretending to search for something on my phone I observed him on the sly, but he didn’t seem to care. It was not easy to catch his attention, so I tried greeting him. I offered him a five dollar bill and he accepted it stoically with a cold ‘thank you’. He peered into my eyes and said, ‘I’m hungry.’
The poor fellow was starving. He never really begged, so I was surprised. He never even held up his cardboard sign. From then on, I shared half of my sandwich with him, whenever I happened to pass by him. Or, I would keep his share in the fridge in my office. The Hispanic woman who worked at night would throw it into the waste bin in the morning. In America no one really cares that much about half a sandwich. So many sandwiches end up in restaurant garbage cans. So much food is wasted in this country and yet here was Carlos starving on this storefront.
But on certain days I did not buy a sandwich, and he would stare at me aggressively when I went past him with empty hands. His glance probably meant something like, ‘Where is my share, dude?’ and I would feel guilty and give him five dollar bills. Repeated gifts become rights, so say the wise. Though I had spoiled him like that, I was happy about it.
Only once I bothered to ask his name. He grunted ‘Carlos’ and then looked at me and finally lifted the cardboard sign. It read, “Please help me go to hell,” and it was signed “Carlos Phavela.” It was written in two lines, so that one would read it as,
Please help me.
Go to hell.
That message piqued my curiosity, but I was not surprised at the shock value. Another beggar at Wilmar junction had a sign that said, ‘Please help me find my wife.’ You could say it was a common tactic of the homeless in the city – the sign was an eye catcher, probably nothing more. Not sure why Carlos was hiding his message — that was a little strange.
Once, I came back from a weeklong trip, and Carlos was missing. I hoped that he would be there in a day or two, and continued to keep his share of sandwich in the fridge. The Hispanic custodian at work kept throwing away the leftovers in the waste bin.
A month later in front of Carlos’ storefront, a billboard appeared in bold letters, ‘Paradise Spa’ and in small letters, ‘Walk-ins, welcome.’ Another sign said, ‘Open.’
Inside the shop there were a lot of busy people. I peeped in from the other side of the road, and realized that it was a massage parlour. A pretty receptionist was talking to someone. He must be a new customer. Then another girl appeared and gave him a glass of water. He had apparently been massaged. He had his water and sweet talk with the girls, and another man entered the parlour. He hugged and kissed one of the girls and left the room. As he had kissed her on the lips it was obvious that he was her boyfriend.
In any case they would not let Carlos beg in front of the business. They might have complained to the police. The police might have rehabilitated him in a shelter for the homeless. Does anyone report a homeless person missing? In the US, every city has its share of the homeless. Even President Trump had no solution for that. This being a free country, people have the right to be homeless, the constitution guarantees that. They live as the children of the streets. Still, in the back of my mind, I was worried about him.
The receptionist at the Paradise Spa informed me coldly that he had killed himself. He had been chased away from the spot many times, and on a certain day he was found dead at the doorstep. She had called the emergency number. It felt like she was making some of this up. I guessed that the poor fellow had died of starvation as he refused to beg. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I felt remorseful. I felt I should have let him open up to me. Maybe I could have even saved him. He used to cough time and again, it might have been an incurable disease. I should have asked him. But he was a strange creature. If anyone bothered to talk to him, he would lift his sign. Though the message was ‘Help me go to hell’, the ‘go to hell’ part was obviously meant for the visitor, if his body language had anything to do with it.
Still, I could not trust that too-beautiful masseuse. So, I went to the ice cream parlour. I know Alberto, the proprietor of the shop. I was a regular customer there. He greeted me warmly when I entered the shop. He had missed me. At the cash counter I asked about Carlos.
‘He was crazy, he was selling drugs. Somebody informed the police, and they nabbed him for drug trafficking,’ Alberto informed me happily.
That version seemed more believable to me. On looking back, the story seemed to fit. His red eyes and drugged visage became more revealing. The poor fellow took to drugs and drug dealing to make a living.
‘Sounds plausible,’ Alberto agreed.
Alberto also told me that one of his legs was paralyzed. This was news to me. Apparently, at night his cronies used to come with a wheel chair to take him away. He might have shared his cash collection with them. Then they might have gone to a bar to drink with all the money he had made that day.
I told Alberto that the girl next door told me Carlos committed suicide. Alberto said that it was one of the Carlos’ acts, occasionally he liked to play dead. The girls might have been scared at that sight. When she called the police they came with an ambulance and scooped him up, possibly making a scene. Probably, Alberto was guessing it all. There was no news about him after that. And nobody was bothered.
The barber next door may come out with another version. It all looked like a cock and bull story.
People are so gullible. They concoct impossible stories out of nothing. Even our gospels are nothing but that. The historic and ultra-historic characters are given super human powers and they become theology for our consumption. A gifted writer could deify Carlos too with no difficulty, if he tried. Carlos was homeless and disabled. I had only sympathy for him.
The reality was that Carlos was missing altogether. Truth had to be snuffed out. I thought of going to the police station. One Saturday I went to the city police. Though I explained everything to them, it was of no use. He never existed in their records. He was probably an illegal immigrant who crossed the Wall and was shot in the leg while running to safety, I guessed. So, he was incapable of other jobs. For a living, he was forced into drugs. Seemed quite likely.
Thereafter I was gradually forgetting Carlos. Still, I wanted to let the world read about it on the social media. Maybe, somebody would enlighten me about Carlos upon reading this post.
This was the draft for the post. Time and again the face of Carlos on TV flashed on my mind. Something was missing. Years have gone by, hence changes are natural. Anyway, he is nobody to me.
How did Carlos Phavela become Carlos Lopez? Probably he was wrong; still it was a puzzle. Who is that man, really? There are numerous people in that name in Mexico. They conquer Trump’s wall in their fury of hunger. He may be one among them, another Mathew of Kottayam, another village Jack.
The next day I drove to the border of the city with all my memories of Carlos. I explored the shores of the Rio Grande, the orange orchard, and reached the wall. The river and the wilderness were covered in darkness. I saw many people swimming across the river, but nothing was clear. Their faces were alike. They had the same clothes and whispered in the same language. When night progressed, people increased in numbers, and I kept seeing Carlos there, making his way across. Nothing was clear.
And nothing will ever be.
Antony Thekkek, also known as Thampy Antony, is an Indian-American film actor, writer, activist and producer, and a dear friend to many. He has published books in Malayalam and English. His latest books ‘Lady biker’, ‘Vasco da Gama' and The Devil Mountain are available on Amazon. Brother to Babu Antony, the famous Malayalam movie star, he to is active in films. He is also a prosperous businessman in healthcare in the US.
What would it be like if you came to know that your future had been taken away from you? It could be like being trapped in a dark cave, not knowing what to do or what would happen to you in time to come.
What would it be like if you came to know that a cherished part of your history is not what it you thought it was? It would be a crisis!
It was with these emotions that Malathi, with her little daughter Kunjulakshmi, stood on the 34th apartment balcony of the Sheridan Apartment, facing Lake Michigan. The inconstant breeze gave her goosebumps, yet there was a touch of empathy in it
It was getting close to night. Lake Michigan stood still, hiding its depths in a heavy blanket of darkness. The sky, on the other hand, was a beautiful painting, with its brilliant colors in varying contrasts. Malathi could easily see how beautiful the sky was if only she raised her head. But she didn’t. She kept looking down at the still water. People who lose their hopes are often indifferent to the colors and vitalities of life in front of them. It was like she was driving down a familiar country road and was suddenly faced with a ‘Dead End’ sign. At some point, she even thought of jumping off a cliff.
When her mind was finally tired of all the racing thoughts, she was shocked at the unexpected rush of an unrelated memory. Her college professor, Huxley, late after midnight, rises up from the concrete bench after emptying a full bottle of Vodka and taking the last puff from a cigarette. He walks ahead and slowly slides into the freezing waters of Lake Michigan only to freeze to death.
Suddenly with a shock, Malathi became aware of the present. A sudden rush of fear struck her. She felt Kunjulakshmi in her hands, kissed her on her forehead, held her close to her chest and rushed into her room from the balcony. Perhaps Huxley had no one to live for, but Malathi had Kunjulakshmi and she could never leave her. After carefully placing Kunjulakshmi in the crib, she lay on the bed with her face up, still in her jeans. She felt isolated in the pale yellow shade of the Chinese lamp that hardly lit up the room. There was no energy left in her body, no spirit in her mind.
Malathi was simply staring at the decorative fan on the ceiling. After some time, she could bring her mind back to the present. She realized that she had to catch a flight to Mumbai the next night. She felt hopeless when she realized that she wouldn’t be able to sleep even for a short while. She could feel the wretched memories beginning to crawl in her brain.
She had come to her parents’ apartment two weeks ago after learning that her mother needed an emergency kidney transplant. Her mother had diabetes from a very young age; it was hereditary, they believed. According to the doctors, it could be the effects of medicine she had been taking that brought it so fast. Then it was a quick decision. May be, that would be a decision any daughter would take if she found that her mother’s life was in danger. She doubted whether any daughter would have shirked the responsibility. Anyway, it isn’t all that risky since a person needs only one kidney.
Surprisingly, both her dad and mom vetoed her idea when she told them over the phone. They just repeatedly said that her idea wouldn’t work. They had no good reason to cite why Malathi shouldn’t give one of her kidneys to her mother. Then, Malathi took the issue directly to her mother’s doctor, and got his consent. Now only the tests stood in the way. Two weeks ago when she returned to her apartment with the doctor’s consent, she was so happy. But when the test results came, she felt like she had been shoved mercilessly off a cliff.
There was no match between their genetic molecules. At least, from the test results she wasn’t her real mother.
She felt that the land on which she stood upon gave way. If her mother was not her real mother, all the memories and experiences she had as a child were also not the real ones. They were fake. But she could not think of them as unreal. Since all the memories she carried forward were the ones related to her mother, her childhood, her intermittent long stays in her ancestral home back in Kerala, the temples and festivals would also be unreal like a dream long remembered. The test was a test of her past in which it failed. What future would there be for a person who had had no past?
As per the doctor’s advice, no one tried to explain things to Malathi because they knew there was no convincing her of anything at that time. Malathi left the next day to her apartment which was only a few miles away from her parent’s apartment.
But after reaching home she did not hear any consoling words from Ravi, her husband. Ravi only had accusations and bad mouthed her and her family.
There was some rationale behind Ravi asking why her parents hid all her past at the time of marriage. According to him, it was not about her past and he affirmed that he was least concerned about it. But his biggest concern was the feeling of being cheated as no one had ever made it clear to him until a medical test revealed it involuntarily and unconditionally. So, he strongly believed that he was defrauded and he kept harping on that. But Malathi made it clear that she had had no role in it. How can she bear the responsibility for something that she did not commit? His only response was to take it to court.
A suit for divorce was filed. Ravi seemed deeply hurt. Malathi understood it too. But she was saddened by the fact that Ravi did not even bother to think about her or listen to her. What was he punishing her for?
They had big fights for the next few days. Those were the days and nights that she cried a lot until there was no tears left in her. Ravi too lost his sleep. He took a few days off from the work. Most of the time, he locked himself in his room, discussing secretively with his parents back home at Thiruvalla, Kerala about the different aspects of upcoming court trials.
It could have been because Malini had never lost anything in life until this incident or because the fact that she always got what she wanted that this separation caused a big trauma for her. After all, such was the closeness and love between them. But it happened, it would happen to anyone. False pride could be like rust that could tear away love like it does to piece of rag. In a matter of days, they became strangers. He completely stopped talking to her, even ignoring his beloved Kunjulakshmi.
One day she decided to leave the house temporarily and come back after a few days. She took Kunjulakshmi in her hands and hired a taxi to her parents’ apartment. It had been few days since her last visit.
“You could have held on to it for a few more days, dear. Everything would have settled in course of time, ”said her mother.
It was like an ember falling unexpectedly on a pile of fireworks. Malathi exploded. She shouted at her mother with all her vigor, used words that she never thought she knew. She had lost her cool and words came out of her just to hurt and harass her dad and mom. They didn’t say anything in reply. What occurred after this incident was totally unexpected but it caused a lot of guilt in Malathi.
Malathi’s mom was admitted in hospital for low blood pressure. She was already going through all sorts of health troubles, and with this incident she reached the verge of a collapse. After her mother came home from hospital, the house plunged into a cemetery-like silence. No one talked. Her dad spent most of his time beside her mom, looking after her with all the care he could show. A huge wall of silence and suffocation separated Malathi from them.
It was a couple of days before this that her dad talked to her for the first time after her coming home.
“It was not because your mom couldn’t bear children. There were a series of shocking riots next to the place we stayed. We could only read reports of arsons, rape, and kids who become orphans when their parents were killed in front of them. We only thought how we could be of help. That was how you became ours.”
Malathi stood shocked in silence as he continued.
“You also need to know why we didn’t have a second child. We were afraid that a second kid could distract us from you, at least for some time. We both thought that could be a bigger sin that we do to you. So, it was your mom who insisted that we should not have a second child. And just to let you know of her sacrifice, she left her full time job to give you enough attention at that time when you were going over panic attacks. You can tell me anything…but I can’t bear you using words that hurt her. There was no deliberate act of hiding anything from you. It is a fact that we never felt we should tell you anything of your past. Don’t you think it occurs to us, only when you feel that you are different from us?”
Towards the end, words started getting stuck in his throat. For the first time in her life she saw her dad in tears
She turned into a statue with all her emotions drained away. Somehow after regaining her composure, she walked back to her room. From then on, she had no will to get out of her room. It was like she wanted to be in some womb, left unborn.
She started thinking about her childhood, her upbringing and the wonderful time before the revelations from the genetic molecules, like some aggressive virus, cankered her mind and shattered her dreams.
Before coming to the United States, she was staying in Hyderabad with her parents. But her memories were stuck in the long holidays she had at her mom’s ancestral home back in Kerala. Every vacation, she packaged a bunch of memories to be shared with her friends at school in Hyderabad. Most of them were glorified stories just to make her friends jealous. She would talk proudly how the servants kept their distance and discipline when her dad was at home. She remembered how she had to translate the Malayalam word ‘thamprattikkoche’ (a colloquial way the so-called lower caste servants greeted their masters who belonged to the so-called upper castes) into Telugu to make her friends aware of their social status back home. After all, her ancestral home was a school that trained her about right and wrong and groomed her to be a better woman blindly following rituals and traditions. After all, it gave her the personality to live with a positive self.
Her pride and status had ballooned to a large size, but the negative DNA test pricked it like a sharp nail.
It was during her conversation with her dad, that she heard for the first time about Karamchedu, a village near Vijayawada in Andhra Pradesh, a place that Malathi never heard of until then. It turned into her most favorite place on earth in the shortest possible time. She got expectant! She felt like visiting the place as early as she could. But why? Who was there for her? Possibly no one. It was just the name of a village. At the same time there had to be some reasons why she felt that way, why she was in a hurry to visit the place.
1985 July 16, the day history was marked with the weakest defenses women could have amidst harassments they faced, left with smashed heads and scattered brains from the axe blows. It was that day that such a village became hers. At night, about two thousand men with axes, swords, and long sticks attacked a bunch of helpless villagers who remained marginalized even after decades of national freedom. She held on to her mother’s chest while her mother like many others ran into the fields to escape from the murderers and ruthless rapists. Yes, it was from here that she became Malathi and a darling to her mom and dad.
She longed to get there first. She would ask around and find where to go, whom to meet, etc. She did not feel that was impossible. Everything is possible when one is set to find the womb that bore her and the heart that fed her. There should be no obstacles that she couldn’t overcome. The mission was to find the past, the past the truth, what had slipped between he fingers like fine sand a few days ago. She felt calm and confident after making the decision to visit the place. Her mind was excited and her happy thoughts were like small ripples formed by the wind in the lake.
Malathi decided to keep her week-long stay in Vijayawada and visit Karamchedu by taxi if needed. It takes about two and a half hours from Mumbai by Air India. She finalized her plans with the help of the Internet. Then she switched off the lights and closed her eyes hoping she could get a good sleep.
ANILAL SREENIVASAN (S. Anilal), hails from Neyyattinkara, near Thiruvanathapuram. Anilal completed his masters in Electronics Engineering from Cochin University of Science and Technology. After working as a professor in NYSS College of Engineering, Navi Mumbai, he worked as a consultant for Tata Consultancy Services. Migrated to United States of America in 1997. Anilal is working in NOKIA (Chicago) in the LTE/5G Technology (Mobile Networks) area. He has an MBA from Northern Illinois University, Illinois, U.S.A.
Anilal writes short stories, travelogues, life experiences, and OP-EDs in Print and online media. Two short stories collections to his credit - ‘Plaque’ (2011), ‘Sabrina’ (2020). He has written and directed documentaries and a mini cinema, ‘Manasariyathe’. He was news anchor/editor for the Kairali TV USA – An Indian regional language television channel.
(On his first day in office Abinash meets his personal assistant Jharna, a stunningly beautiful girl. Life changes for this mature, married man in a way beyond his control. Her overpowering presence unsettles his every waking moment, disturbing his life at home, in the office and wherever he is. His obsession reaches its peak when he invites her to accompany him in his official trip to Paris. She agrees, after checking with her husband and their little daughter. The next few days are spent in an ecstatic euphoria, planning for the trip and dreaming about Paris…………..)
“May I come in Sir?”
I looked up from the report I was reading. It was my first day in the office – as the Director of Textiles. I kept staring, wide-eyed, mouth open, speechless. The young lady standing at the door was the most beautiful woman I had seen in my life. With a light yellow saree, a matching blouse, a small bindi on the forehead, and a faint smile on the face - she looked every inch the stunner that she was.
In a minute or so, I collected myself and stood up, assuming she must be another officer like me. She entered the room.
“Sir, please don’t get up. I am Jharna, your Personal Assistant”.
I sat down, a mild sense of joy slowly spreading in my being, like a soft glow of light.
“Come Jharna, the Head Clerk had told me that he will assign you to me. ‘The boss should have the best sir’, that’s what he had told me. But I find he was making an understatement. You are even better than the best.”
“Sir, you haven’t seen my work, how do you pass such a judgment?”
Jharna looked at me, a naughty smile playing on her dainty lips. She had the self-assurance of a person who was conscious of the power of her beauty and wit.
I was a bit embarrassed, caught unawares. She tried to put me at ease.
“Sir, don’t worry, you will have no reason to complain about my work. I have earlier worked as P.A. to the Directors for more than eight years. Only your predecessor kept a male P.A. because he wanted to work late in the office.”
“Don’t tell me you have been in this office for more than ten years!”
“Yes sir.”
“I can’t believe it! You look like a just-out-of-the-college young girl!”
Jharna giggled like a just-out-of-the-college young girl. I felt a new radiance spread over her, making her look even more ravishing.
“Sir, before you joined, everyone said you are a very smart officer. Now I know why.”
Jharna went out of the room. I couldn’t take my eyes off her retreating figure. I felt as if the room had been flooded with a dazzling light a few minutes earlier, and suddenly became desolate and forlorn after she left. For the next five days time flew by and I was not aware of anything other than Jharna’s overpowering presence in my life. In my college days I had read a story about a magnificent obsession. What I felt for her was way beyond that.
In the evenings I wanted time to take new wings and fly by, so that morning would come quickly and I would rush to office to be with Jharna. Looking at my eagerness to get ready and leave for office, my wife Madhavi was impressed. She complimented me for getting a good, interesting assignment after a long time.
At the office I wanted to spend every single minute in the company of Jharna. On some pretext or the other I called her to my room many times a day. I kept dictating memos, most of which were quite unnecessary. During dictation, I took long pauses between sentences, just to make her stay longer in the room so that I can gaze at her radiant beauty. Half an hour before five, my mind would drown in a suppressed sadness, with the unbearable prospect of parting company with her for seventeen long hours, till ten o’ clock next morning.
My eyes never left her face for the entire duration when she was in my room. I pretended to concentrate on the words for dictation, but the mind kept floating in a mild concoction of intoxicating desire. In other words, I – Abinash Ray, a seasoned man of the world, a responsible husband of ten years and a doting father of a loving son, a senior officer with a brilliant track record - simply lost myself in a haze of unruly obsession. Deep feelings of unfulfilled passion swept over me and like the slipping sand under retreating waves, my feet kept sinking into a swamp of boundless insanity.
Jharna was truly one-in-a-million kind of girl. When she entered the room, with her slim body draped in a chiffon saree, hair neatly in place with a few tufts blowing in the wind, a small dot on the forehead, a faint hint of kajal in the eyes, and a light dash of powder on the cheeks, one had the illusion of a silent lightning leaving a lasting glow in the air. And interestingly, she knew the kind of effect she had on people, and her ability to break a heart into million pieces and join them together with her deft touch.
And deft she was, in everything she did. Quick in dictation, flawless in typing, polite in conversation, she was efficiency personified. In no time Jharna learnt about my friends and talked to them so nicely that out of curiosity they dropped in from time to time, like tourists going to visit a monument, and on some pretext or other started chatting with her. After a few visits my classmate Radhakant told me,
“You are lucky Abinash; throughout the day you get to drink the sweet water from Jharna, the lovely fountain; but when we come to meet you we have to be satisfied with only a cup of tea!”
Although I pretended to be irritated by such innuendo, secretly I felt happy, as if I was the sole owner of a rare artifact, which everyone else envies.
Within a month of my joining the new post, my life went haywire. I kept thinking of Jharna all the time, at home, in the office - while taking a walk, while humming during the bath and even while doing the morning prayers! A sweet intoxication gripped me all the time, while talking to her, teasing her, or admiring her work. I started asking the driver to drive fast on the way to office, lest I get delayed and lose ten minutes of my seven hours with Jharna.
For all meetings outside the office I kept deputing the Joint Directors. In the office I delegated work to others. Everyone said, ‘look at the new Director, what a great administrator, he wants to build so much confidence in the subordinates’! I told every one, ‘boss is the ultimate authority. Only if a problem goes beyond the competence of the JDs, I will interfere. Otherwise let them handle responsibilities’. Another act of greatness! Nobody suspected that I was only looking for an excuse to palm off work to others so that I can spend more time with Jharna on the pretext of giving dictation!
In my previous posting I used to go home for lunch. Now I started getting lunch to the office. Madhavi asked,
“O my God! You have to work so hard in the new job?”
I nodded and added,
“Yes, but frankly speaking, I want to avoid coming home. You are already into the seventh month of pregnancy. You should take rest. I don’t want you to get disturbed.”
“You really care so much for me!”
“Of course I care! You are my one and only wife. Who else should I care for?”
“Then give me a tight hug and show me how much you care!”
Madhavi comes very close. I try to escape.
“Oh, please let me go, I am getting late for the office!”
I run away to office, hiding the truth from Madhavi – it is not my devotion to duty, but my crazy obsession for Jharna that drags me to office! Madhavi has gained a lot of weight during pregnancy – her bloated body repels me these days. I have started sleeping in our son Mridul’s bedroom now a days. When Madhavi questions me, I tell her, I must avoid sleeping with her so that no harm comes to the baby by my accidentally putting a leg or two on her stomach!
And strangely, I have no guilt, losing myself in sweet dreams about Jharna, despite Madhavi sleeping in the next room.
More than two months have passed since I joined the new office. Jharna has become quite free with me while talking. She tells me about Gagan, her husband, who works as a clerk in HDFC Bank. And about her cute little daughter, the five year old Aparna, who loves to talk, who sees a lot of things in her dream every night and spends half an hour in the morning, giving every detail to Jharna, sometimes making her late for the office.
I take every opportunity to shower praise on her and she simply loves it. A smile of content spreads over her dimpled cheeks and I feel she is imploring me through her soft eyes, ‘Sir, please keep talking to me, say those nice things again and again, I am dying to hear them from you!’.
In turn she admires my manners, my kind heart and most of all my impeccable English. “Sir, you must have been the topper in English literature in your university. Your English is perfect!”
I feel hugely elated, hearing those words. I feel like telling her, Jharna, so many people have praised me for my good English in the past. But coming from you, it assumes a new beauty and gives me a rare thrill.
My wife Madhavi is in a very advanced stage of pregnancy now – the expected date is only three weeks away. She hardly moves out, and the time has come to book a room in the nursing home for her.
Suddenly on Wednesday evening, I was about to leave the office for home, when a letter came from the government, nominating me to attend the TexExpo at Paris starting next Thursday. First I thought I would refuse, but then, I had never been to Paris and the trip was only for four days including journey time. I decided to opt for it.
I remembered, my last foreign tour was to Australia, two years back. Since I was travelling in club class where the companion ticket was free, Madhavi had come with me, leaving four years old Mridul with my in-laws. We had enjoyed a lot. At the Sydney beach we were taking a stroll romantically, hand in hand, when an old couple had beamed at us and asked, “Newly married couple?” Out of mischief we had nodded our head!
This time Madhavi was not in a position to travel. The free companion ticket would go waste. Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, an idea came to my mind. Why not ask Jharna? May be she will agree to come, since there is no expense involved. Ah! If Jharna comes with me to Paris, all the joys of the world will fade in comparison! It will be pure bliss!
The thought of Jharna and me in Paris gripped my mind like a vise. The more I thought about it, the more attractive the idea appeared to me. But when I reached home and looked at Madhavi, the expectant mother, my heart sank with guilt. For the next few hours my mind moved back and forth between Jharna and Madhavi. Like a pendulum it swung between excitement and guilt, joy and despair
Three times during the night I got up from my bed and went to Madhavi’s room, stood near her and kept looking at her peaceful face, adrift in her own twinkling dreams of a stable life, a mature, steady husband, a loving daughter, and a new baby on its way. The third time I stood near her bed, she suddenly opened her eyes and saw me,
“What! What happened? Why are you standing here?”
For a moment I was startled, but composed myself.
“Nothing. I am just worried for you. You are in such an advanced stage now. I want to make sure every thing is ok.”
Madhavi pulled me to her side.
”For so long you have not slept near me. Please lie down here for sometime. I always find your presence so reassuring.”
She wrapped her hand around me, put her head on my shoulder and went off to sleep, a soft, calm confidence on her face. I felt a deep sense of love and kindness for her and decided to drop the idea of inviting Jharna for the Paris trip.
But when I reached office in the morning, I was again a changed man. By some strange coincidence, Jharna had put on the yellow saree with small green flowers, the one with which she had stunned me on my first day in office. When she entered the room in her usual dazzling way, and said “good morning sir”, my heart leapt up and got stuck in my throat. With a choking voice I asked her to sit.
“Jharna, government has nominated me to attend the TexExpo at Paris starting next Thursday. You have to arrange visa, ticket and foreign exchange.”
Jharna squealed in excitement.
“Paris, sir! You are really lucky. Going to Paris, the loveliest city on earth!”
Before I could control myself I blurted out,
“Jharna, why don’t you come with me to Paris? The lovely city will feel like a paradise with your presence.”
“Me? How can I come sir?”
“Look Jharna, I will travel by club class where the companion ticket is free. So there is no cost on travel. Out of my allowance I will book a room for you. It is a matter of only three days there. We will enjoy a lot. I can assure you, we will make it truly memorable for us.”
“Sir, let me ask Gagan. I doubt if he will agree. I will also have to persuade our daughter Aparna to spend four days with my mother. Is it ok if I tell you tomorrow?”
“O yes, tomorrow is fine, but let’s not delay beyond that. There is lot of planning involved. We have to find an airline which will offer a free companion ticket in club class, get the visa and complete lots of formalities.”
“Yes sir, I understand. I will tell you tomorrow for sure. What are the things worth seeing in Paris sir?”
“O, there are lots of places to see, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d’ Triomph and many more. We will walk down the lovely avenues, see the monuments and watch the river Seine flowing into eternity. I am told there are artists near the Louvre museum who will make you sit before them and produce a sketch of yours in ten minutes. But I am sure even the best artists in the world can’t capture your beauty. You are simply superb, as beautiful as Paris!”
Jharna’s eyes shone with a new excitement, both at the comparison and the likely prospect of visiting Paris. She left the room in a dreamlike state, weaving fantasies of Paris. With a light head I also found myself dreaming of Paris, a city I had never seen and never dreamt to see in the company of a stunning girl like Jharna. My heart gradually came out and started floating, moving from the potted plant to the lovely painting and then to the framed photograph of Konark – as if it was an innocent butterfly which has lost its sense after drinking a few sips of red wine.
But when I reached home that evening a new uncertainty gripped me, with hope and despair playing hide and seek in my mind. Will Gagan agree to let Jharna go? Will Aparna agree to stay with her grand mother? I didn’t feel like eating my dinner. I was restless.
After Madhavi and Mridul went off to sleep, I came to the living room and started pacing the floor listlessly. Will Jharna come? Will she, won’t she? I found myself greatly agitated. Suddenly I had an idea. I took out a coin and thought of going for a toss – head, she comes; tail, she doesn’t. Taking care not to wake up Madhavi, I tossed the coin on the carpet, and lo and behold, it was head! O my God, she is coming! Jharna is coming with me! Yes, yes! I pumped my hand three times and went off to sleep, happy that I was probably the luckiest man in the world!
Next morning I was in the office by nine thirty, waiting eagerly for Jharna. When she didn’t reach by ten, her usual time, I took it to be a bad omen. Probably she had a fight with Gagan over the issue and will disappoint me. At ten past ten, she entered the room. Even before she could say her customary ‘Good morning Sir’, I shot the question at her.
“So, what’s your decision?”
She smiled.
“Initially Gagan was reluctant. But when I told him you are going to book a room for me out of your allowance, he agreed: ‘Lucky you! Go and see the most beautiful city on earth! Don’t worry, enjoy. We will manage here. Such opportunities don’t come often.’ And Aparna agreed to stay with my mom, on the condition that I bring ten pieces of chocolate and four toys for her!”
I started seeing stars and moons in the room. I felt like jumping up and down and doing a jig. But somehow I restrained myself.
“Sir, give me your passport. I will arrange for your visa. Last year I had got a passport for myself just before the elections because I didn’t have the Voter’s ID Card. I will apply for my visa also. I have already checked from the internet. Swissair offers free companion ticket in Club class. I have already blocked a ticket for you and put my name as companion”
Jharna looked at me archly, a playful smile on her lovely face.
“I hope you approve sir?”
“Yes, of course, why are you asking that?”
“Sir, your room is booked in Hotel Cascade. Let me also book a room for myself in the same hotel by using your credit card, if you permit.”
I hesitated for a few seconds.
“Jharna, I have never been to Paris, but my friend Ajit had gone there last year. I had checked with him last evening. He says it will be better to book a room on the spot. Since the hotel management will not like the room to go unoccupied, they will offer heavy discount. We will get it at half the cost.”
For a fleeting moment Jharna’s face clouded with a shade of doubt. Next moment it passed.
“Ok sir, you are right. After all, you are going to spend out of your allowance. So let’s save as much as possible. That will leave us more money to roam around in Paris.”
Jharna left the room. There was a new spring in her walk. For the next two days we kept making plans for the trip, the places to visit, the things to eat and the evenings to spend on the bank of river Seine. Jharna downloaded information on all the important monuments of Paris and was truly excited about all of them, like a child about to visit a circus for the first time.
“Sir, it seems there are vineyards on the outskirts of Paris and visitors are offered sips of wine to taste. Will you take me there sir? I want to taste wine for the first time in my life and that too straight from a vineyard! Wow, that’s really exciting!”
?I promised to Jharna all the joy and pleasure a trip of three days can offer in the loveliest city on earth. We were lost in our own personal world of fantasies.
We were to leave for Delhi at two in the afternoon of Wednesday and take the Swissair flight at midnight from there.
I booked a room for Madhavi in a nursing home in case she needed to go there in my absence. Her two brothers promised to take care of her till I returned. On Tuesday night Madhavi told me,
“You are going away for five days. I will miss you badly. Please be with me for the night. Put Mridul to sleep and come. We will talk late into the night.”
Long past midnight when I came to Madhavi’s bed, she had gone off to sleep. I lay down next to her. I had a restless night, sleeping in fits and starts. Towards early morning I drifted to a deep slumber and had a dream. In my dream I went to the Himalayas, and then to my village where I had spent my childhood. Finally I found myself in a deep forest, driving a jeep, a rifle in my hand, on a hunting trip.
I spotted a beautiful female deer in the distance. Ah, what a beauty, God has made her for me and me only! I lifted the rifle, took aim and was about to fire, when she ran away. I felt sad, have I lost her? I kept driving and spotted her again, at peace with herself, grazing quietly, her beautiful head bowed to the ground.
I fired a shot at her. Suddenly from nowhere a cub came near her and the next moment, fell on the ground, hit by my bullet. The deer lifted her head, and went still. She looked in my direction. I could clearly see a drop of tear in her enticing eyes, the kind of eyes only a stunningly cute deer can have! She was telling me; kill me, if you must. Spare my cubs, please!
I felt mad. How can the cub come between me and my lovely deer? She is mine and only mine. I will take her. Nobody can stop me!
I lifted my rifle again and fired. Again another cub jumped forward and fell to the ground.
I heard a loud cry, like the cry of a deer cub and woke up with a start! Oh God! Was that sound real?
It was. I found Mridul standing by the bed, and calling me,
“Papa, why did you come away? I am scared. Can I sleep here with you?”
I gathered him in my arms and put him by my side. I tried to go back to sleep.
I felt listless. My heart was heavy. The two deer cubs came to my mind again and again. Sleep had vanished from my eyes. I got up. A new day was starting, but I found no joy in it. The dream had shattered my heart, breaking it into myriad pieces of jagged glasses.
I had to be at the office for an hour in the morning to clear some urgent papers before leaving for the airport. I went there at ten, with my mind tormented by an undefined sadness. I never knew a dream could affect me so much. But it remained vivid in my mind and refused to go away.
Jharna walked slowly into the room. Her face looked sad and her eyes were swollen, as if she had cried in the morning. Looking at her, a sense of melancholy swept over me.
“Jharna, you know, madam is in a very advanced stage of pregnancy. She may have to be taken to the nursing home any day. I don’t feel like deserting her at this stage. Will you mind too much if we cancel the Paris trip? I am sorry.”
A look of awesome relief came over her face.
“Not at all sir. I myself wanted to request you to spare me from the trip.”
I looked at her, with questioning eyes. She spoke slowly, and her words were laced with a tinge of sadness.
“Sir, do you remember my telling you my daughter Aparna gets so many dreams in the night? This morning when she got up, she told me, ‘Mummy, you know, I had a dream last night about you, me and Papa going on a picnic to a hill. There I saw so many colourful birds, singing for us. You asked me if I want a bird. When I said yes, you looked up and tried to catch a bird. Mummy, you lost your balance and fell down the hill and vanished. Mummy, please don’t go anywhere. I don’t want any bird. I want only my mummy, always near me, within the reach of my small hands.’ Sir, good that you have cancelled the trip. I was wondering how to get out of it without offending you. Let me go and cancel the tickets.”
Quietly, I left the room. Tears had welled up in my eyes. Walking away with heavy steps, I silently muttered to myself, “Jharna, I also had a dream last night. In that dream I mercilessly shot dead two cute deer cubs. How sad! But you know Jharna, in the tragic death of those two innocent cubs, you, I, and both our families got the gift of a new life!”
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Notes:
Jharna: Literally, a fountain. A common and beautiful name for girls in India
Saree: The lovely six-yard cloth Indian ladies drape their body with, adding charm and ?beauty to their personality
Kajal: A kind of black mascara applied in a thin film on the lower lid of the eyes. It has an exquisite effect, adding beauty and seductiveness to the face
Bindi: A colourful dot put on the forehead by women in India.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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