Literary Vibes - Edition CI
Title - Summer Colours (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the first monthly edition of LiteraryVibes. I am not sure about you, but I have missed the weekly editions. I had got used to a certain working pattern when LV came out every week for close to two years without a break. I still feel lost and empty, but I accept the wishes of the readers to see LV as a monthly magazine. Hope you have had ample time to read and enjoy the more than sixty articles that appeared in LV100.
We are indeed lucky to have five new contributors in the 101st edition. The youngest of them is Vishakha, a student of eighth grade in Chennai who has amazed me with her prodigious talent. Her poem and two short stories in today's edition hold tremendous promise. I have no doubt that she will scale incredible heights of literary success in the years to come. Ayana, a student of Grade ten from Bhubaneswar is another talented, diligent poet, whose poems resonate with deep sensitivity and earthiness. I wish her tons of success in her literary pursuit. Ms. Sindhu Rammohan, a prolific poet and writer from Trivandrum has been busy meeting the Corona pandemic in her own way - by writing poems about Covid, Life and God! I am sure we will have more poems from her in future, pandemic or no pandemic. Ms. G. K. Maya, a retired banker has a penchant for short stories and writes in a simple, captivating way. Her touching and superbly written story 'Kabhie Kabhie' in today's edition promises to be an unforgettable experience for the readers. Here is to wish her happy reading and writing in the relaxed days of retirement. Ms. Asha Raj Gopakumar from the Middle East, an ardent fan of LiteraryVibes who has always sent her considered feedback regularly, has submitted a beautiful poem. I look forward to more from her pen to enthral the readers of LV in the coming days.
As I had mentioned in an earlier edition, although LiteraryVibes will come out as a monthly magazine henceforth, I will be happy to publish anthologies of poems and short stories or other critical articles during the intervening period. I will circulate them among the regular recipients, the same way as LV and will also provide the links in the monthly edition. I invite the contributors to use this facility as often as they want.
I had, in the past, referred to the wonderful work the Government of Kerala is doing for women's empowerment through Kudumbashree, its unique initiative. I have just published in PositiveVibes a very informative article on the success story of a Tribal Apparel Park in Kaniyambatta panchayat of Kerala under the auspices of the Wayanad District Mission. Readers may access it at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/368
We just celebrated the 72nd Republic Day of India. There is so much to revel in the glory of this great country, yet there are so many unfulfilled promises, so much more to achieve. On such momentous days we remember the sacrifices of our freedom fighters, our brave soldiers and pledge ourselves to the service of our nation and its people. It's a time to recall what the immortal poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) wrote many decades ago:
If I can stop one heart
from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one Life
the aching
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting Robin
unto his Nest again
I shall not live in vain.
Hope you will enjoy the January edition of LIteraryVibes. Please give us your feedback in the Comments section, located at the bottom of the page. And don't forget to share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/369 with all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous 100 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe.
Keep smiling till we meet again on the last Friday of February, 2021.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A LEXICON SPEAKS
02) Salabega
I EXIST, FOR MY PEOPLE EXIST (EKAA MO BHAKATA JEEBAN)
03) Haraprasad Das
THE FAMILY MAN (GRUHASTHA)
04) Geetha Nair. G
SHADES
05) Dilip Mohapatra
MIRROR MIRROR
THE BROKEN MIRROR
06) Bibhu Padhi
SOMETHING ELSE
07) Sreekumar K
INTO THE DARK
08) Ishwar Pati
THE MYSTERIOUS WILL
09) Ajay Upadhyaya
THE FIRST KISS
10) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
LETTER FROM A FATHER
11) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
OUR HERITAGE: BRAHMA TEMPLE AT PUSHKAR
12) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 19 :: THE RABBIT SYNDROME
13) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
JOYS OF LIFE
14) Madhumathi. H
HANDMADE GIFTS...
BEAUTY OF THE UNKNOWN...
15) Vishakha Devi V
THE CHOSEN ONE
WHOLLY HOLLOW
HER TRUE NIGHTMARE...
16) Ayana Routray
STARS FOR THE SKY
BEING AN AESTHETE
STAY HOME: STAY SAFE
17) Sindhu Vijayan
A CONVERSATION WITH GOD!
SELFIE
SHHHHHH!
SOLITUDE - I
SOLITUDE - II
18) G.K Maya
KABHIE KABHIE
19) Asha Raj Gopakumar
MY KEYSTONE AND BACKBONE
20) Gokul Chandra Mishra
HATHIKO HOMEOPATHY AND EXTRA LARGE OMELETTES
21) Satya Narayana Mohanty
WHEN GOD WAS A BUSINESSMAN
22) S. Sundar Rajan
GLOBAL CALL
23) Runu Mohanty
SAGA OF MOONLIT NIGHTS
24) Sangeeta Gupta
LOVING HERSELF
25) Dr. Molly Joseph M
A NEW WORLD
26) Padmini Janardhanam
IN CONVERSATION
27) Supriya Pattanayak
DEAR NEOWISE
28) Dr. Aparna Ajith
MY LITTLE WONDER
29) Setaluri Padmavathi
MOTHER
30) Sheena Rath
PIZZA PIZZA
31) Vidya Shankar
THE PANCHAJANYA
32) N. Meera Raghavendra rao
DOES COLOUR MATTER?
33) Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle)
SPLASHES-BRIMMING ENERGY
34) Pradeep Rath
BLOSSOMS
35) Ravi Ranganathan
SAUNTERER
36) Abani Udgata
MONGREL NIGHTS
37) Prof. Niranjan Barik
TWO IN ONE OR THE ONE IN TWO!
38) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MANDAKINI
Book Review/Foreword
01) Ishwar Pati
CREATURE TALES
He runs to me, ruffles my pages,
I lie lethargic, contented
under his fingers. He smiles
to find gems strewn
among the pebbles on my beach;
goes thoughtful, picks up the latter.
He weighs the pebbles against the gems,
decides in the former’s favour; drops the gems
back into me, to pick them
some other day to craft a crown.
The gems do not understand his love
for their worthless peers over their sparkle.
I cringe back when he doubts
his own grammar, looks at me. I let him know,
“I am only a bay, I swing day and night,
throwing up my wealth – my solids,
fluids, my burps, and belches. I pause,
I rush, rise on crests, go down on troughs.”
I invite him to choose his choice,
create his own world of syntax and diction,
his makes and breaks, be
the creator of a new texture. I say to him,
“Sorry my boy, I am no god.
But you can be one, a god of words.”
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
I EXIST, FOR MY PEOPLE EXIST (EKAA MO BHAKATA JEEBAN)
(Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
In a devotee’s heart
I build my home, guard it
with the divine conch and whirl-blade,
the talisman of their faith.
Like a calf, hungry for its mother’s milk,
I follow my people for their love.
Strung to their devotion
like flowers on a thread
I exist in the garland
of their love.
For my family and friends
my heart bleeds.
I defended my followers at Hastina;
didn’t hesitate
to have my meal with Vidura,
a humble charioteer.
Blisters from carrying my devotees
feel like balm to my shoulders.
How I long for the kicks
of their mock fury*!
Says Salabega, a devotee from Islam,
my pilgrimage to Vrindavan
awaits the express sanction
of my Lord, sitting at Puri.
Foot Note - *A folk legend claims that Radha once physically kicked Krishna out of her bed, and the lord accepted it as devotional love of the highest order.
(The poem appeared in the anthology of bhakti poems “EATING GOD” edited by Arundhathi Subramaniam, published by Penguin. Salabega, a Muslim devotee of Lord Jagannatha, lived at Puri and wrote in 16th and 17th century AD.)
(Translation from Odia – Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
He drives his wife around.
Besides, being her driver,
his manhood remains reserved
for her exclusive use,
he never sows his wild oats
barring accidents.
His machismo shines only for her
as ‘yours most faithfully’
except his amnesiac slips.
He ignores sirens and whores
walking the streets.
In wife’s sedate bed
their chemistry rhymes
for procreation.
But his wife reserves
all her fruits and flowers
for a little brat,
who is expected,
the flesh of her flesh!
What she keeps aside
for her husband exclusively
are her troubles,
the drudgeries of life,
her pangs and pains!
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
Picture to yourself a little town set amid blue mountains. A town that was born out of the yearning of some sweating white man in power, homesick for the climate and sights of his own dear England. And so a tiny summer retreat was born and grew till it became a busy town with white Anglican churches posing amid groves of fragrant pines. An English town set on Indian hills. A haven.
The year is 1957. The British have been gone for exactly a decade but they are still very much there.You cannot make more than two hundred years of domination vanish in just one decade. They are in the names of the houses, in the golf course, the orchards of plum and peach, in the trout-filled streams. They are in the Hendersons, Robinsons, Smiths and Taylors, Bakers and Grays who still move over this little piece of earth. Above all, they are in the minds of the brown-skinned inhabitants who have yet to fully take in 15 August, 1947.
White clouds hang over the brown earth.
My father ran a restaurant called "Gopalakrishna" in the town. It
served South Indian food, mostly. But chicken cutlets were the special item the place was known for. I attended a nun-run school for girls. There were girls of all shades of brown there, in addition to several shades of white. There was no rule about segregation but the whites tended to keep to themselves. I was rather popular because of the goodies I brought from my hotel to school almost every day. On rare occasions, I would triumphantly display a few cutlets reclining royally in the steel container. The aroma would alert Sheila Wood. She would saunter over to where we, the Brownies as they called us, sat.
Sheila was almost-white; she was a blonde with silky, waist-length hair which she wore loose like a golden waterfall. Her eyes were a bright shade of blue with silver twinkles in them. Sheila's father was an Englishman who had chosen to stay back when India was handed over to Indians ten years ago. His wife was a very fair Anglo-Indian woman. I had seen them often when they stopped outside our hotel to take home hot chicken cutlets as my house was an extension of the hotel. They would wave to me as I stood by the gate or in our garden.
In time, Sheila and I became friends, after a fashion. Perhaps it was the cutlets that did the trick. At recess, we would sit together, while the others played Seven Tiles or Bounders, whites against browns. Neither of us cared for games. We would rush to the playground only when the cry went up that a human bone had been found. Our playground had once been a cemetery; skulls and other bones were providers of excitement and fear when they periodically peeped out of the sand. The dead white men and women who had ruled and lived in this tranquil hill station returned eerily in this way.
After the bone was taken away by the odd-jobs man, Sheila and I would amble back to our classroom. We talked books; both of us loved reading. And we shared an ambition as well - both of us wanted to be doctors when we grew up.
The Christmas exams were going on. We shivered in our cardigans worn over our winter uniforms. It was Science that day. Both of us had prepared well and hoped to do well. When the question papers were given out by Miss Andrews, our dreaded class teacher, I found to my joy that the Life Cycle of the Cockroach figured - a question Sheila and I had hoped for. Sheila was sitting to the right, two rows in front of me. She turned a little, waved the question paper slightly and smiled. I nodded, smiled back happily and bent to my answer sheet. Then, a grey whirlwind blew up to me. A slap landed on my left cheek, the sound of which made every head look up. I was pulled to my feet and through the haze of pain and shock, I heard the teacher say, “ Skinny cheat. You started it.” Then, she dropped me onto my bench and zoomed back.
That evening, we had visitors; Sheila and her parents. She came up to me; and stroked the weal on my cheek. There were no twinkles in her eyes now. Her parents had brought me chocolates; Sheila had brought me love.
That love keeps us together even today, so many decades later. Sheila and I work in the same hospital in the UAE. Each day, they come to us to be healed - the white, the brown, the black, the yellow. All the colours and shades that blend into one entity called human life.
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.
How I adored you
in my heydays
when I looked into you
the silent question in my mind
mirror mirror on the wall
who’s the handsomest man of all?
And you looked back with
so much adoration
or perhaps I thought so
and when I winked
you promptly winked back
massaging my ego
and making me feel
at the top of the world.
Meanwhile lot of water
has flowed under the bridge
but you stand steadfast
though the mercury coating
beneath your shining face
has started showing blotches
here and there
but you have been still faithful
to yourself
though with a little
perverse pleasure
you throw back at me
a face that looks almost alien
hardened with time
with my crowning glory
blown away strand by strand
gone with the wind
and with dark freckles
nesting on my once upon a time
radiant cheeks
while deep furrowed crow’s feet diverge
from the corners of my eyes
and as I look into those
translucent eyes
and enter the narrow corridors
of my memory lane
sometimes I find walking
the red carpet and
sometimes I find myself
sunk upto my chin in
the quagmire of shame
holding on to the feeble creepers
of my reputation
that perhaps keep me afloat
and then I extricate
myself and start chipping away
the damning decadence with
a blunt chisel
bit by bit
till the sympathetic impact
cracks you to pieces
for the good old question
has lost its relevance
and you exist no more
to taunt me
to scare me
or to remind me
what I was
what I am
and perhaps what I will be.
A grotesque face
peers at you
with multiple eyes
and a crooked jaw
and you wonder
if it’s your hideous side
the Hyde hiding within
and that was hibernating
all these years
and now
has come out in the open
staring at you
and daring you.
Or is it just
the fragmented mirror
mirrored on your retinae
playing tricks on you
prodding you
taunting you
pushing you
into the wilderness
of doubts and dubiousness
and the twilights
of incertitude ?
You need not light
the seven white candles
at the midnight
or pick up the shards
and pound them to a fine dust
just look within
find your soul
that no one can stone
that no gravity can pull down
and that suffers no aberration.
Frame it with
your conscience
and look into it
and there you are
in your true colours
and real self
no longer enslaved to
nor tormented by
a fragile
fractious
and fractured mirror.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
Remembering Raymond Carver
There is always something else
to these lines, always someone
behind you, watching.
You and the women and men
who are elsewhere, sharing
our children’s request to be
near them, all the time.
The things you use
every day, without prior thought.
The bed on which every night
you await your sleep, your
very own hours of the night,
your ill-timed sleep,
desired rest of a lifetime—
there is always something else
to these, something
other than ourselves or objects
we pretend to possess.
There are times when we feel
something else slowly
coming to its fruition and flourish
through us, accomplishing its greenness
in the leaves’ abandon, smiling
through the lean dead branches
of an old banyan tree, now
waiting for its conclusion.
At the end of a period of defiant
cheer, when we lie exhausted,
thinking of what other line
might return us our plain human
pride, it hangs above us,
smiling at our absences.
Who are we to think of others
anyway, or even ourselves,
our children and friends,
our days and nights? It seems
all of them belong elsewhere, only
faintly nurturing that place’s
true character, maturing into nothing
beyond their own frail forms.
Something is always missing
in the things, the persons
we care for. Something that
teases us to believe that we’ve come
to the end of things in its
absence, amid its withdrawing
ways. Something which
caused these lines, pushed
every word to a place that was
a lie long before it took its
stanzaic place. At this time,
elsewhere, a lone house-sparrow
is calling out for someone
who isn’t anywhere around,
a slight voice speaking to
itself, consuming each moment
of its mistaken time.
You know, it is always something
else, something other than
the words in these lines.
The poem was first published in Remembering Ray (Capra Press, USA)
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
By the time the police came, cut the rope and brought down Narendran’s body, it was ten o’clock in the morning and the Panchayat siren blared ever more loudly like a heart rending wail.
I squeezed in through the crowd and took a last look at his face. There were no signs of such death like I had heard before. I thought it even looked happy, at least pleasant. Since the knot was on one side of his neck, death would have been instant. He would not have known any pain. The sudden jerk breaks the medulla oblongata and kills a person letting him know nothing.
His father Chippanannachi had died a few years ago. Then his mother went back to Chekalpettah. So, there is no point in waiting for her. A jeep has been sent to Mampazhathara to bring over his only sister. By the time she comes, the post mortem would also get over. He should be buried somewhere here.
The police had found a strange note on his desk in his rented room where he lay hanging this morning. 200 ruled sheets, the kind you use to write school exams. He had been filling them in for the last eighteen months. Each page has the date and time when it was written. A policeman who browsed through it told me there was a picture of a joker at the very last page. Below it was written: What will you think of me if you heard about me in your next birth? Fool?
Even yesterday the five of us were at Shanthan’s home enjoying a dinner and then watched two movies back to back. We also finished three bottles of brandy Narendran had arranged. Now it seems like it happened a long time ago. Such are the tricks memory plays.
Narendran had taken a large helping which made Rahman stare at him and tell him to leave something for the rest. He also showed us a thick yellow plastic rope he had bought to draw water from the well. Who knew he was only joking and disaster was waiting round the corner.
Hari came and pulled me aside. He smelled of liquor. So early in the morning.
“How come we suspected nothing? He had been writing his suicide note for two years, Sankar tells me. He always knew what we were upto. True, we never had had a good idea about him.”
I didn’t say anything
Narendarn was a highschool dropout. When his teacher asked him to bring his father to school to make him accountable for Narendran’s behaviour at school, and his father couldn’t make it since he could not stay away from his work, the curtain fell on that school drama.
The panchayat member then procured for Narendran a fake tenth grade certificate and told him to use it only for local purposes and it helped him take a loan to buy an autorickshaw. But between one police case and another, all in the name of the party in which he was not even a member, but only a supporter, Narendarn couldn't keep his autorickshaw for long.
The party used him as much as possible and in return arranged for him a shop outside the Ayirivilli Temple. The shop was a multipurpose one. It was a restaurant, provision store and a place to keep the footwear of those who went to pray at the temple without trusting the other devotees with a pair of battered slippers with worn out soles. His life was back on rails.
Before that he had a strange habit of running away. In our village with no bus route or train service, this habit had been quite unheard of. Thus the term ‘dive’ to mean running away got attached to his name. Diver Naru was what everyone called him. No one had any clear idea about the thickly crowded cities he dived into. But he had visited those migrants from our village in places they had settled long ago.
“He might have gone nuts taking all that he read in books too seriously. He finished our panchayat library and started reading books online. It is hard to beat him in arguments.”
Hari’s words sounded like an accusation. I recalled one argument I had had with Narendaran. We argued about what we live for.
“Radhakrishna, just think again. We love our relatives and friends because they belong to us. Unknowingly we have taken possession of their lives. They too do the same to us. When this mutual slave-master relationship comes out in the open, conflicts start. So, my point is, we are all incorrigibly selfish. There is nothing one can do about it. All we can do is not hurt others with that.”
I knew I had lost the argument but I went on arguing, hoping that he might relent at some point. We used to pick up the same argument for days.
Later I found that he had strengthened himself with a fair dose of Camus and Sartre. Arguing with him was like arguing with him. I felt cheated. I was not sure why it was cheating, though. That year when he stood for the co-operative society members election, I voted for our opposing party for the first time.
I was dying to read his suicide note. I was sure there wouldn’t be anything new other than what we already knew about his idiosyncrasies. He was an enigma for all of us. Why was he so fixed on jokers, buffoons and fools. His own nature was just the opposite, dead serious to such a point he could never appreciate a good joke or a silly prank.
The memory that we all cherish about him is how he behaved when we went on a picnic with him to a remote hillside in the high ranges. Someone had told us there was a fantastic pool there and we could not resist visiting it though it was expensive and time taking. First we did not invite Narendran to go with us. He could be a real spoilsport during merry moments. Finally we took pity on him and invited him too. The real reason was that we wanted at least one tough guy in the group since we were going to such a remote place. The locals could be troublesome.
We took Mathew’s jeep. Mathew, a nitwit, blurted out halfway through the journey that we had not intended to invite Narendran when we planned the trip. Narendran did not react. He simply mumbled: Expected. Typical of good friends.
That picnic sucked, or would have, had it not been for Narendran. Of course, there was a pool on a huge rock on a hillside. But not wide enough or deep enough for all of us to get in. The water was hardly knee deep. We all lost our cool and blamed each other for the plan. We had thought of a whole day of fun and had taken food and drink with us, hot drink that is.
Narendran took it all too coolly. Even if we had blamed him for the whole thing, he wouldn’t have said ‘mind you’.
Like the veteran captain of a sinking ship, he took charge. He plucked some wild leaves and served food. He took out the glasses and served the drinks. He went to everyone to yell ‘cheers’.
He began to dance and sing.
When he began to sing those familiar songs (and the bugger could sing so well), the atmosphere changed as if by magic.
After food, with another round of drinks, we sat around the shallow pool, with our feet dangling in the cold water and splashed water on the others, splitting ourselves into teams. We were so loud and boisterous, a few locals came over to silence us.
Narendran served them too and made them sit among us. Then they were the loudest among us.
Thus, Narendran made it such a memorable day that each of us individually decided not to drop him from any group thing any more.
Moreover, for me, it was a personal lesson.
I had been into Osho those days and I was sure Narendran would never have touched Osho. He was a diehard rationalist. Once I listened to him blabbering about structuralism. I got jealous. I had yawned so much in my PG classes to take in even a bit of Saussure. Still all I remembered about it was a lame joke. “What is structuralism?” “Sorry, I am not so sure!”
Smiling at him, more because I recalled the joke and not because I wanted to express my appreciation, I asked him where he had got all that.
He grinned back at me.
“What! Why should someone tell you this silly stuff? Isn’t this all too obvious? Now that we are sure there is no God, what prevents us from choosing the next of kin as the sole proprietor? Man. Happiness is a choice, I have heard you say. Since it is a choice, it is a product in some sense. Like god is a product, dirt is not. You can be happy or sad, live or die.”
“Well, it is high time you got married. Then all your questions will come to an end.” commented Vijayarajan.
“That is true. There won’t be any time left after answering her questions to me.”
Narendran looked at me and continued.
“But didn’t you tell me once that Nachiketas showed that a journey might lead you to answers more surely than a marriage or something?”
Though an atheist, he always admired Nachiketas, the one who went beyond the beyond to gain knowledge.
“Yes, yes, but that is not like a journey we had for that picnic,” I quickly retorted to hide the fact that the picnic he was referring to was the biggest lesson in my life and he had earned some kind of a guru stature in my mind after that.
“Obviously!” Narendran agreed.
Hari had to attend a party committee and so he left. I was still thinking about him when Reghu arrived. He too is a panchayat member. He was not on good terms with Narendaran and there is a well known reason for that.
Raghu’s elder brother and Narendran’s elder sister were in love. One day they eloped. At Mangalapuram in Karnataka, some people attacked Reghu, reportedly wounding him severely and kidnapped his girl.
The girl came home a week later, her life draining out of her. Rajan, Reghu’s brother, never came back to the village. We were not sure whether he was even alive. Most of us believed that Rajan had sold the girl to someone. There were several rounds of fight between Reghu and Narendran over this. Finally, somehow they patched up and became thick friends. However, some of us thought that Narendran runs away from the village to look for Rajan when he gets some information about him. But no one was sure and he never said anything about it. He was always all clammed up. He opened his mouth only to argue with people.
Narendran’s sister, the one whom Rajan cheated, drowned in the Kallada River. From the railway bridge Reghu and Narendran could only watch her flailing her arms for help. Her body was found three days later. Kallada River is very treacherous.
As soon as Reghu came, he started making the arrangements for Narendran’s burial.
He had quit drinking and grass, I heard. What happened all upon a sudden?” Reghu asked me.
Instead of responding, I looked away.
In his teenage, Narendran had a crush on a doctor’s daughter. But the doctor took it seriously and got the sub inspector to beat him up.
He was very depressed, drank a lot and grew a beard for some time and then let it go from his mind. He didn’t even mention suicide then. So, this came as a total surprise.
Since I didn’t respond, Raghu answered his own question.
“He would have caught some disease. He was wandering everywhere, right?”
The way he uttered the word, I knew which disease he meant.
“I don’t think so. He was always the strongest among us. You remember how hard he worked during the floods for the relief operations?”
I put an extra emphasis on the phrase relief operations to remind Raghu that he himself was away in Delhi during the two times it flooded.
Narendran could not swim but he was at the head of the relief operations. He didn’t want to give one more life to the river which had taken away his sister.
The post mortem report confirmed that it was a suicide.
His sister came in the afternoon and was screaming at the top of her voice. There wasn’t much age difference between them and grew up like twins.
Instead of burying it was finally decided that it should be a cremation. His dress, a few books, old newspapers and whatever we could find in his room were also thrown into the pyre.
Since it was a suicide, there were no other customs to be followed.
Because of Covid very few people attended the cremation.
That night, the three of us sat near the river bank for a long time reminiscing our old days with Narendran. Hari sobbed several times. It was almost day break when we decided to go home.
Hari hugged us hard when we said bye. So, we had to accompany him to his home.
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.
MANY an Agatha Christie mystery is based on the plot of a murderous heir eyeing a huge inheritance, for which he doesn't hesitate to 'engineer' a chain of homicidal events. To unravel the whodunit, the author' engineers' from her imagination strange circumstances linked to various characters that may appear implausible at times. But she does it so brilliantly that a story of the inheritance passing onto an obscure relative from a far-flung land sounds quite reasonable! But even Agatha Christie's accounts of mysterious windfalls would pale before the yarn spun by my friend Hari about such a character after we had watched an episode of Poirot in action:
Ramu, a factory worker near Agra, met a merchant from Mumbai by the name of Seth on a train journey. The disparate duo established instant chemistry between them and drew so close that Seth prevailed on Ramu to come with him to Mumbai. In no time Ramu was elevated from the position of Seth's servant to his companion. Seth could do nothing without Ramu, whose native intelligence made him an asset for Seth in his business. Seth had no children, nor any close kith and kin. When Seth fell sick, it was Ramu who cared for him with unflinching devotion and also managed the business at the same time. Because of his poor health, Seth had to confine his movements locally and it was left to Ramu to go places to procure orders from customers and also to deliver the materials to them. One day Seth was taking a stroll around the building he lived in when he met a couple of his lawyer friends. While talking of this and that, the conversation veered around to property. One of the lawyers could not help asking Seth about his vast wealth and what would happen to it after he was gone. Seth sighed and pointed his finger at the sky. The lawyers looked up and saw Ramu standing on a balcony.
Seth died and his wife followed him shortly thereafter. In the absence of a written will, an affidavit sworn by those lawyers, declaring that they had been 'witness' to Seth's mute expression of his 'will', ensured that the entire property was passed on to Ramu. To Ramu's credit he had been eternally loyal to both Seth and his wife till their last breath. He had done much more for them than what their own offspring, if they had had one, could have done. Ramu never forgot his roots as well and opened a school in his village near Agra as his contribution to its future prosperity.
"Some people seem to have all the luck," moaned Hari as he ended his tale, "as if they were being dogged by good fortune!" I smiled in response. "You know," he added as a postscript, "one of Seth's lawyer friends admitted to me candidly that he wasn't quite sure whether Seth had been directing his finger specifically at Ramu on the balcony or generally pointing to heaven. But he had had to give the benefit of doubt to Ramu. Imagine Ramu's providential presence on that balcony at that precise moment-the right place at the right time! For all you know, Seth was pointing his finger at God, as if he meant to say: Everything is in His hands."
"Well," I mentioned, "God did listen to Seth's prayer, didn't He? From His hands came a saviour like Ramu for Seth and his wife, and not a potential murderer from the leaves of Agatha Christie!"
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.
Over the years, Tonmoy must have visited the deserted ruins of Bhangaa Gada, many times. Literally meaning, “Broken Fort" it was a nondescript place, attracting few visitors, for as long as he could remember. He had no clue to its history; he often wondered when it was built and how it came to be a derelict site. Although by name, it was a fort, it was hard to tell whether it was a royal retreat or a garrison. Nonetheless, Tonmoy had a connection with Bhangaa Gada, which he could never fathom.
Sited not far from his hometown, Bhangaa Gada was a cluster of structures, in varying stages of dilapidation, adjoining the River Subarnarekha (literally meaning “Streak of Gold”). The grand arched gateway was crumbling but its massive rampart and prominent bastions attested to its gravitas in bygone days. Impressively, two tunnels connected the fort, in secret passage to the river bank.
He was returning to Bhangaa Gada, after a gap of some years. This eagerly awaited visit was filled with excitement, bordering on a sense of adventure. The prospect of looking, through fresh eyes, at his old haunt, now loaded with knowledge of new facts, made him feel like an explorer on a trip of discovery.
He was pleasantly surprised to see that, since his last visit, Bhangaa Gada had received a makeover. The path leading to the ruins, from the highway, which used to be a dirt track, had turned into a concrete road, with sign posts, saying: Bhangaa Gada-3 kms. More surprises were waiting for him, when he reached the site. There was a small office, with a sign, saying, Information Centre. For a change, a small crowd of locals and foreigners were milling about.
From the official, manning the Information Desk, he gathered, it was the UNESCO money, which had transformed the long-neglected Bhangaa Gada into this historic attraction for international visitors.
Tonmoy has memories of wandering round this complex, often all alone, imagining the lives of people it housed, perhaps hundreds of years ago. The secret tunnels, connecting the core building to the river bank, gave a hint of the exalted status of people, living in it, who needed to get away from danger, via the river. A sense of sadness would come over him, thinking of the departed hubbub of activity on its grounds, leaving its corridors and gardens lifeless, even for birds or animals. As if to beat the melancholy, his mind would drift, giving his imagination a free run, conjuring images of the fort’s grandeur in its hey days.
Tonmoy had moved out of his native Odisha first to Delhi and further on to England, where he was settled for quarter of a century. However, all along, his fascination for Bhangaa Gada had undiminished, and his curiosity about life in this forgotten fort, never left him.
By a stroke of luck, one day, Judith, a colleague at work, mentioned her Indian connection. As they got talking, Tonmoy spoke about his home town, in Eastern India. Its name was not worth a mention; it was too insignificant to be known inside India, let alone abroad. The nearest city, rather well known in England, was Calcutta. As he mentioned, Calcutta, Judith’s ears perked up; her great grand father lived in India for many years, somewhere, not far from Calcutta.
On his next visit to Judith’s house, conversation eventually turned to the topic of their common interest, India. She and her family talked of fond memories, his great grand father had, of his time in India, which were passed down the generations, to her via her own parents.
“You know, Tony (shortened version of Tonmoy, for obvious reasons), it’s difficult for us to imagine the lives of Englishmen and women who called India, their second home. For many, it was truly their home as they lived the best part of their life in India, and some, of course, died there" Judith said.
He nodded in affirmation, adding, “It must not be easy, to live in a faraway land, among people with strange customs and unusual habits. But all said and done, their lives certainly did not lack excitement, as the place was full of action….”
“Yes, we have heard many tales of romance, betrayal and intrigue. One of them is a touching but tragic love story, my grand father told us” Judith said.
Tonmoy never forgot the jaw dropping experience of that evening, when he first had the sight of the rare treasure, a hundred year old love poem. It came from an Englishman, Alfred Stanbrook, written by his fiancé, while they were courting. As the story goes, Alfred fell in love with a local woman. They were about to marry, but their love ended tragically with her premature death. Alfred spent the rest of his life in India, single. He did not have any family either, and upon his death, it came to the possession of Judith’s great grand father, who was his closest friend in India. Ever since, it had been a part of their family heirloom.
“Their love was the stuff of novels and films; a saga, sublime and tragic at the same time. This poem was thought to be the epitome of love expressed in exquisite words. But, it is written in an Indian language, no one can read. The original paper, it was written on, is gone. This is a copy," Judith said, before handing the poem to Tonmoy.
He stared at it in amazement, his eyes popping out in disbelief. “What was the name of the place in India, where your great grand father worked?”, he asked.
“We don’t know really. Can you read this poem, Tony?”, Judith’s replied.
Tonmoy said, “I never imagined, I would find a poem, written in my mother-tongue, more than a century ago, in a land thousand of miles away.”
He continued to read it silently, before looking up. All the eyes were glued, expectantly, to his face. He was not sure, he grasped the poem fully. He read it again, mulling all along, over how to paraphrase it for the audience.
“It is high poetry, making it hard to translate," he uttered finally, continuing, “A woman in love has poured her heart out, but there is a touch of ambivalence in her feelings for her beloved. It seems she is uncertain, or she feels unworthy of the love of her beloved. But, it’s clear why it was so precious to Alfred. It’s a masterpiece of poetry, a treasure, in its own right.”
The love story of Alfred Stanbrook fuelled Tonmoy’s curiosity about history of East India Company and the British Raj. He noted down, from Judith, as much details as he could, of her great grand-father and Alfred. After toiling many hours in the Indian section of British Library, he gathered, Alfred worked somewhere close to his home town and his resting place was by River Subarnarekha, an area he knew very well. In the process, he learnt a lot about Bhangaa Gada’s history. His research pointed at the tantalising possibility for the location of Alfred’s grave, to be somewhere around the Fort complex of Bhangaa Gada.
The new getup of Bhangaa Gada pleased Tonmoy; at long last, it had received its due recognition as a historical monument, he thought. His curiosity about the newly erected official plaques was nudging him. But, all that reading had to wait, until he first checked the tomb stones in the cemetery, which lay at the farthest end of the complex. As he remembered, the cemetery section was in total ruin; little more than a heap of rubble, where a handful of tomb stones were left standing.
As he was rushing to the cemetery, his excitement continued to grow. In the past, these tombstones were not worth a second glance. But, in this visit, the cemetery was the central attraction. Previously, the names, which sounded European did not mean much to him; it did not matter whether they were British, French, or Dutch. Now, they are people in flesh and blood, like Alfred Stanbrook, not some faceless foreigners. Alfred’s love story had given his imagination some material for building his mental images.
“Do you need a Guide, Sir?” A voice came from behind, while he was hurrying towards the cemetery. He continued, lost in his own world, after a cursory, “No, thank you.”
Tony was relieved to find the cemetery, little changed from how he remembered it. After wading through its labyrinthine passage, he reached the tomb stones. Parts of the stones had fallen off, obliterating the names. The remaining letters in most of them had faded, obscuring details of the epitaphs.
Moving briskly, he scanned the names, until he spotted one, which he could read as Alfred Stanbrook. Although many of the letters had disappeared, he was in no doubt. The name, Alfred Stanbrook was shining across the stones, thanks to the amazing power of brain to create illusions. Only two digits were visible - 1 and 8; all other numbers and letters were gone. The plaque was too damaged to give any clue to what these digits meant.
Tonmoy stood staring at the grave, imagining the life of Englishman Alfred Stanbrook, spent in this remote land, more than a hundred years ago. He did not know how long he was standing there, until his reverie was broken by the same voice, he heard earlier, on his way to the cemetery.
He turned round to see a middle aged woman, with a beaming smile, asking again, “Do you need a guide Sir?” She was of average height, dressed in a blue skirt with flowery patterns, which suited her complexion. Her face was long, set in bob cut hair, which bounced gently as she spoke.
“I never thought, I would see guides in Bhangaa Gada I have been visiting this place for ages and usually I would be the only visitor. Anyway, I am so glad, you are here”. Tonmoy continued, “But perhaps, for a change, I shall be your guide today”.
She looked quizzically at him, as she did not quite follow him.
“I bet, you don’t know much about this tombstone," Tonmoy told her, turning his head towards the remains of Alfred’s epitaph. He recounted his long association with Bhangaa Gada, while he lived in India and the extensive research into its history, he had undertaken in England.
“You know, I could write a Doctoral thesis on Bhangaa Gada. But that would pale in comparison with what I have discovered about Alfred Stanbrook’s life”. Pointing at his tombstone, he said, “This is his final resting ground”.
With great excitement, he went on to relate the love story of Englishman, Alfred Stanbrook, who lived his short life in India, working for East India Company. He fell in love with a young local woman, whose life was a litany of woes. She was given in marriage as a child bride, and upon attaining puberty, was sent off for matrimonial union with her husband, at a tender age of thirteen.
Sadly, her conjugal bliss did not last long; it was shattered in less than a years time, at her husband’s tragic death. She returned to her parents, for a condemned and miserable existence. Widow remarriage was rare those days and she knew her prospect of marriage was bleak. By a twist of fate, Lady Fortune smiled upon her, when Alfred entered into her life. Alfred was enamoured by her beauty and charm and soon a relationship blossomed.
The Guide listened to Tonmoy in rapt attention.
“Alfred was sincere in pursuing her, but to his surprise, found her response, lukewarm. Apparently, she believed that she was jinxed and she would bring misfortune to anyone she loved. So, she resisted his advances for a pretty long time.” Tonmoy said.
The Guide was watching Tonmoy’s face closely, while he was engrossed in Alfred’s story, totally unaware of her reactions to his monologue. “Are you, by any chance, from Austin Hubback High School?”, she asked rather suddenly.
Tonmoy was taken aback by the question, something he was least expecting. His mind had floated back in time, by more than a century, to the world of Alfred Stanbrook. When he looked at her, his eyes were drawn to the name badge, on her dress, which read: Alice. The name of his high school and the name, Alice, put together, jolted his mind to his school days.
“Yes, how did you guess?”
“And, you finished high school in 1985?”, she asked.
“So, it’s you, Alice," he exclaimed, “of course, how can you forget 1985, the year of the super-cyclone in Bay of Bengal, which devastated coastal Odisha? Oh Alice, you did recognise me, before I could place you”.
He was embarrassed, it took him so long to recognise her. But, thirty odd years is a long time, by any stretch, and she had changed. As he started thinking of Alice, memories of their school days came flooding his mind. He was lost again, now, in a world of his own, about forty years into the past.
For four years, teenagers, Alice and Tonmoy, were class mates in school. Those days, contact between boys and girls was restricted; physical intimacy was limited to holding hands. However, their friendship took a romantic turn; by their final year, their mutual attraction had reached its peak. He remembers spending hours, daydreaming of their romance progressing beyond the initial feeling of craze. But, he found Alice holding herself back, never fully reciprocating his advances.
Tonmoy was not blind to Alice’s predicament, he knew what was troubling her. Their cast divide was deep and their social standings a world apart. His father was posted as the local Collector while Alice had a more humble background. Tonmoy tried hard to reassure Alice of his love for her. But she just could not see herself fitting into his world. He found it increasingly frustrating that his sincere love was not enough to dispel her doubts.
After finishing high school, their ways parted. Tonmoy went off to college in the city. His father got posted out and eventually retired in their ancestral town. He remained in touch with Alice through letters for months, trying to woo her, in hope of eventually winning her heart. However, it came to nothing as Alice’s ever-growing hesitation was souring his feelings for her. A time came, when Alice stopped replying to his letters. He realised, between them, he was more of a dreamer and Alice was the logical one and a better judge on future of their affair. He came to accept the finality of their doomed love.
With passage of years, they lost all contact and this chapter of his life became a distant memory. Demands of his studies, job and career gradually took over his life. He never imagined, in his wildest dreams, of meeting Alice again.
This meeting after so may years, got them sharing their life stories. Tonmoy had moved on in his life, settled in England for decades, where his profession took the centre stage in his life. Alice was the first girl in their family to pursue a degree, choosing the life of a working woman for herself.
Alice found herself totally absorbed in Alfred’s story. “Are you not going to complete Alfred’s love story?”, she asked.
“Yes, Alfred was not one to give up easily. He pursued her doggedly and it took years to shake her off her superstitious ideas. His love had already won her heart; finally his patience and perseverance changed her mind. She was eventually convinced that their love deserved a chance to live on and they were set to marry. But their love affair was truly jinxed, as she suddenly died of a mysterious illness when she was barely in her twenties. This dealt a devastating blow to Alfred, who never married and spent the rest of his life as a single man. He died in India and was buried here in Bhangaa Gada.”
Tonmoy never forgot their rendezvous on the seashore, a rare opportunity, they had managed to steal, which allowed them to talk at length. Beforehand, they could meet, in privacy, for barely a few minutes, at a time. He had been living in hope all along, convinced that his love for Alice would ultimately prevail. Once again, they went over all sorts of challenges, in store, for their life together, and considered the compromises necessary for turning their dream of marriage into a reality. Tonmoy understood the basis of her apprehension but found her stance unduly pessimistic and her approach to exploring solutions, half-hearted.
He was well aware of his parents’ opposition to their marriage. However, he was confident that he could eventually persuade them to accept her. He just needed more time to work on his their objections. However, his mighty persuasiveness, which he knew would work on his parents, turned tame against stubborn Alice.
All his pleadings fell flat at her resolve. Nothing could shift her from the view that their love had no future. Her unwavering position was that the best they could do was to give it a decent burial. Tonmoy could feel the last vestiges of hope slipping away. The bleak reality was finally dawning in his dream world.
He could visualise Alice’s face, lit in bright moon light, from that evening. He could hear the lapping sea waves in the background and feel its gentle breeze. He vividly remembers, being drawn closer to Alice, next. When he cups her face in his palms, his entire body gets electrified. As their lips met, he could feel the quiver in Alice’s body. The rest of that evening is a blur in his mind.
Tonmoy’s trance was broken by Alice, saying, “Wow, what a discovery, Tonmoy!”.
Dragged back to Alfred’s love story, he said, “Ah, you haven’t yet heard the exquisite poem from his beloved, which Alfred treasured all his life”.
While Alice looked at him in surprise, he pulled out a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. Unfolding it in his shaky hand, he was about to hand it to Alice. In stead, he went on to read it.
*My heart murmured…
My heart murmured,
but, did it utter anything?
That’s how hearts speak.
And my heart heard something;
but how, it was almost inaudible!
Such are the ways of the heart.
My heart getting restless in anticipation;
it’s beyond me to contain it.
I fear, my yearnings might force open my eyes,
only to bring disgrace.
Better to let the dream-fairy sleep,
undisturbed, on my cosy eyelids.
Such are the ways of the heart.
I adorn myself with fake glitter and sparkle,
just to console my heart.
Everyone taken in by facade of spring in my life,
despite the void within.
Yet, nobody bothers to check
if the crying buds’ tears
are from joy or sorrow.
Such are the ways of the heart.
My heart murmured something,
I can barely decode.
Such are the ways of the heart.……
Alice was listening intently, spell-bound.
“Somebody, more than hundred years ago, could read my mind……," she said to herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted by his question, “Did you say something?”
“Could you hear it?” Alice asked.
“I am not sure of what I just heard”
“That is how, I felt that evening, on the seashore," Alice whispered.
* This poem is embroidered on Kaifi Azmi’s lyrics for the song, Kuchh dil ne kaha…., from Hindi film, Anupama (1966).
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
In the 1st week of july 1976, I completed my internship in SCB Medical College, Cuttack. By that time the postgraduate entrance test examination results were out. Many of my friends had qualified. I got Obstetrics and Gynaecology in VSS Medical College, Burla. My friend Ramesh (Chaki) got Ophthalmology in the same college.
I contacted my friend, BJB mate Bata, who was an intern there, to take care of us once we reach Burla. We had to join our postgraduate course by 15th July. So both Ramesh and me surrendered our hostel rooms, took college leaving certificates and booked our bus tickets for Sambalpur. At that time there was no direct bus service to Burla. It was the only Sleeper VIP bus running from Bhubaneswar to Sambalpur via Cuttack.
We boarded the bus at 9.30 pm and reached Sambalpur bus stand at 5 am in the morning. There was only one private taxi waiting for the VIP passengers for Burla to be loaded. The taxi was unique for many reasons.
The Punjabi owned Ambassador car can accommodate as many passengers with their luggage as the driver can push inside. Neither the dicky nor the doors get closed, someone has to continue to pull the doors from inside. The taxi runs at the speed of maximum 20 kilometres per hour making an orchestra of music. It doesn't run but jumps and sways, helping the loaded passengers adjust inside. It runs point to point, nonstop, from Sambalpur bus stand to Burla bus stand as it is impossible for anybody to get down midway. It takes around one hour to cover 12 km.
My friend Bata was waiting there to receive us. We went to his room, got freshed up, went to the department to join. Got room in the. hostel allotted the same day. Our hostel life and Postgraduate chapter started from that day.
Burla is a small town, almost like a village, surrounded by hills. In the east flows the river Mahanadi, in the west there is a range of hills one of which connects another hill on the opposite side of the river by the famous Hirakud Dam. Burla is called Vidya nagari as in such a small town, existed an University, a medical college named after the freedom fighter Veer Surendra Sai (VSS Medical College) and an Engineering College (University College of Engineering (UCE)).
My Obstetrics and Gynaecology department was headed by Prof U.K Nanda with 10 more facultie members.
Prof Nanda was one of the best teachers, clinicians, surgeons and the most disciplined man. Duty schedule for us was very tight, started at 8 am but when it would end nobody could say.
It was 3rd week of August 1976. I had emergency duty, which meant means 8am to 8am of next day. You will be relieved after your substitute comes. Then you will join your regular duty after one hour break. Following hectic emergency duty, I had duty in outpatient department on that post emergency day. After finishing duty I went for lunch at about 1.15 pm.
I was totally exhausted. The moment I went to bed, I fell asleep.
I woke up when I heard somebody knock on my door. Again there was knock that too more severe and more prolonged. With much hesitancy I woke up from bed and the time was 3.30 p.m, when I opened the door I was surprised to see Panigrahi Babu, the Head clerk cum PA to principal standing , "Get ready and come with me. It's the order of the principal", said Panigrahi Babu. I was dumb founded. It was the principal’s call. What the hell had I done? Who had lodged a complaint against me? I felt as if the sky was about to fall on my head. Whatever it might be, I had to go and meet the Principal. I got ready and went to the principal’s office accompanied by Panigrahi Babu. Prof. Prafulla Kumar Kar was the principal. In MBBS, he was taking our Pharmacology class as the Head of the Department. He was a fantastic teacher. His class was very informative, humorous and interesting. One who has attended his class neither can forget the subject nor him. One need not open the Pharmacology book after attending his lectures. He had made such a dry subject so entertaining.
I had no interaction with him as an administrator. I had just joined for last one month and I had the opportunity to go to the principal's office only once, that too during admission. This was the 2nd opportunity to go to the Principal's office and 1st opportunity to meet the Principal. I waited in front of the office and Panigrahi Babu went in to get the permission. In no time he came out and called me in. I greeted Prof Kar with a namaskar and took my seat like an obedient student. There was nobody else in the office chamber. Prof Kar in his artistic style enquired about me, starting from my permanent address, past academic history to the present feelings about the course, department, teaching and learning, hostel life and many more queries. I answered each just like a nervous candidate in an interview.
I could not guess till then what for I was called. Gently Prof Kar brought out an inland letter from his shirt pocket and put it on the table in front of me and asked, “Can you identify the sender from the hand writing? Do you know the sender? "
I nodded and said, "My father, Sir."
"Please go through the letter." said Prof Kar.
After finishing the reading, I was about to leave. "No! No! Be seated please. What is the content of the letter?"
"Why a father will write such a letter to a Principal?" asked Prof Kar. The letter was written in English. It was full of emotions of a father. The summary of the letter was, "We have not received any letter from our son since he has gone to Burla. He is the only son of ours. We are apprehensive because of the track record of violence between Medical college and Engineering college students there at Burla. Even I had posted him two letters in his departmental address. We are yet to get any reply from him. Daily I go to post office and return empty handed. Since I don't know anybody there, I was forced to write to you Sir. Please excuse me for putting you into trouble.
Namaskar.
A father, Bhimsen Sahoo"
Then Prof Kar addressed me, "You guys in your youth, forget your parents. You can't understand the feelings of a parent. How much pain and strain they have taken to educate you and to make you a gynecologist? You have no time to write a letter to them. You have no feeling for them. You can't understand it unless you become a father. "
"Sorry, Sir. It will not be repeated." I was about to leave again.
"Please seat down. Your work is yet to be done," said Prof Kar. He took out another inland letter from his pocket, handed over to me and ordered, "Sit down here. Write in front of me whatever you want to write. Write the address of your father and give it back to me. I will post it. I don't believe sons like you." I did that and took leave from him
When I was returning from the principal’s office it was around 4.30 p.m. It was hot. Hot air was blowing; dry leaves were falling as if they were showering sympathy on me. Every word of the letter written in such beautiful English was conveying the emotion, apprehension and parental love. Words after words were rolling in front of my eyes as if I was watching a movie. My father was right. Every word of Prof. Kar was beating my eardrum very hard. “I don’t believe sons like you,” was harsh but true. As a principal the way Prof. Kar handled the situation was brilliant. Then I introspected, “Am I at fault? If so where is my fault?” At that time I thought that perhaps my father over reacted. But now once I am a father, I can read and understand the mind of a father. I was too immature a young man to realize the emotion and love of parents at the age of 25. A father like my father and a principal, like Prof. Kar opened my eyes that day, “If you can’t understand the pain of the heart of your own father, how can you feel the pain of a patient”.
Be a human being first, then a doctor.
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..
OUR HERITAGE: BRAHMA TEMPLE AT PUSHKAR
In Hindu scriptures the Trinity (Brahma the creator; Vishnu the preserver and Shiva the destroyer) has a great significance. There are large number of temples for Vishnu and Shiva but very few temples to Lord Brahma exist in the world. The temple at Pushkar in Ajmer district of Rajasthan is the abode of Brahma. Other places where Brahma temple exist include (i) Bithoor in Uttar Pradesh; (ii) Khedbrahma in Gujarat; (iii) Asotra of Barmer district in Rajasthan; (iv) Uttamar Kovil near Srirangam, Tamil Nadu;(v) Carambolim near Valpoi in Goa, (vi) Mother Temple of Besakih in Bali, Indonesia; and (vii) Prambananin Yogyakarta, Indonesia.
Legend
The main legend is as follows: - Once upon a time Brahma realized that not only Shiva and Vishnu but also all the other major deities had their respective places for worship on earth while he did not have any. Such absence gave rise to the atrocities of the demon Vajra Nabha who killed children and even intended to eliminate Gods. It is Brahma holding the lotus flower had the power to kill demon Vajra Nabha. In Pushkar Mahatamya (as part of Padma Puran) indicates that Brahma decided to search for a place on earth where he would perform a holy Yajna after killing the demon. Thus, all Gods and Goddesses looked forward to Brahma’s descent. Shiva even suggested that he should choose the place where the lotus strikes. The sacred search began. Riding the white swan, Brahma flew over the earth holding the divine lotus in one hand. As he flew the lotus fell from his hand and bounced on the earth thrice. It was a magical moment – water gushed out from those three spots in a valley surrounded by mountains. Delighted, Brahma started to descend and while descending he chose to call the area Pushkar. Three spots in a radius of 6 miles are known as Jyestha (elder), Madhya (Middle) and Kanishtha (Younger). Brahma decided to perform the yajna on the 11th day of the bright half of Kartik (autumn). All the deities and the sages were invited to the yajna. Each God was assigned specified duty. The atmosphere was filled with divine spirit when Brahma appeared with the jar of Amrit on his head. The yajna could still not begin on time as Brahma’s consort Savitri not only took long time in getting ready but also refused to come without Lakshmi and Parvati, consorts of Vishnu and Shiva respectively. The delay and weight of the Amrit jar on Brahma’s head enraged Brahma. He ordered Indra to search for a girl whom he could marry to perform the yajna. Traditionally, he could marry a Brahmin girl. Indra, however could only find the daughter of a milkmaid. He purified by passing her through the womb of a cow. Vishnu described the act as the second birth of the girl. That accounts for the sacred status of the cow. Shiva named the girl Gayatri. When Savitri arrived, finding Gayatri in her place was angry. Brahma couldn’t pacify her. Savitri went to Ratnagiri where her temple stands. The yajna witnessed many turbulent moments. Finally the yajna commenced and continued till the 15th day or the full moon. Shiva wanted a temple for himself at Puskhar as Atmateshwar. Shiva went into trance.He was supposed to guard the sacrificial fire. The uncontrolled fire spread so fast that the entire world appeared threatened. Brahma himself extinguished the fire with a handful of sand to which many attribute the existence of the amazing sand dunes of Pushkar. Thus, Pushkar acquired holiness. The 11th day to full moon day of Kartik is the most auspicious period for the pilgrims.
History
Pushkar has a long history. Pushkar finds mention in Ramayana and Mahabharata,. A point in the Nag Pahar known as Panch Kund is said to have been a stopover of Pandavas in exile. With the rise of Buddhism Pushkar became its strong hold as the significance of lotus was believed to have been associated with the birth of Buddha. It is said that his mother inter alia dreamt of a lotus. The stone inscriptions of the Buddhist Stupa at Sanchi mention about the donations made by the inhabitants of Pushkar confirming the importance of Pushkar in the 2nd century B.C. It is stated that the Jain rulers governed the territory of Pushkar. Narhar Rao the Parihar King of Marwar rediscovered Pushkar in 9th century. It is said that while on a hunting expedition the thirsty ruler desperate for water came to a pond. When he tried to quench his thirst and touched the water the white spots on his hand disappeared. Wonderstruck by the healing powers of the water he decided to discover the history of the place. After he became aware of its divine origin he decided to restore the lake and construct the embankment. Gradually different parts of the temple were constructed.
Emperor Jahangir was captivated by the beauty of the lake and visited frequently. In his biography Tuzuk-I-Jahangiri he recorded that he went nine times to the Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti and fifteen times to Pushkar to look at the lake. Ruins of a pavilion built by Jahangir still stand there as a reminder of his fascination. Other Mughals destroyed the temple during the reign of Aurangzeb. As the British acquired a dominant role in India many of the important officials and European travellers visited Pushkar. Later on the temple was renovated by Hindu rulers.
The temples that we see are all recent constructions. Even the most important temple of the town dedicated to Lord Brahma was constructed in 1809 A.D. by Gokul Parikh, a minister of the Scindia rulers of Central India. The largest temple with impressive architecture is Brahma temple or Rangji temple .The architecture blends the south Indian style with the Rajput architecture. In the large compound the main temple is surrounded by several temples and residential quarters. The temple complex has a hall, with painted ceiling, known as Utsav Bhavan. These houses the cradle brought from Varanasi for Lord Krishna. One of the temples considered important is the Atmateshwar Mahadeva, a Shiva tem¬ple. The phallic image of Shiva is said to be of antiquity. The temples of Gayatri and Savitri stand on the two hills on either side of the lake and com¬mand a picturesque view. Savitri temple is visited by women pilgrims. The statue of Saraswati also exists there. The divinity attached to Pushkar drew every ruling family of the region irrespective of their religion. They not only constructed the bathing steps and temples but their own buildings with different style of architecture. There is picturesque collection of porticos, rounded domes and pagodas. The Chhatri has the Panchmukhi or five faced image of Mahadeva. Amongst the Hindu architecture stands the mos¬que constructed by Aurangzeb in 1679, after the demolition of the temple.
Ponds and Ghats
According to Hindu theology, the pond at the Katas Raj temple of Pakistan has a theological association with Shiva; it was formed by the tears of Lord Shiva which it is believed that after the death of his wife, Sati, Shiva shed tears and the legend is that when Sati died, Shiva cried so much and for so long, that his tears created two holy ponds – one at Pushkara in Ajmer in India and the other at Ketaksha in Pakistan.
With temples and bathing ghats Pushkar is called as the Varanasi of Rajasthan. The pilgrims undertake holy walk (Parikrama), around the Jeshta lake. Other two Pushkars ( Budha and Kanishtha) special rituals are performed while Madhya has a deserted look. A walk around all the three Pushkars is called Panch Kosi Parikrama. When Puskar is covered on foot it is called Chaubis kos Parikrama. A step well known as Gaya Kund exists where pilgrims per¬form the ritual for the deceased.
Pushkara Fair
During the days of the fair all the steps around the lake witness a variety of rituals apart from the holy dip. While some of devotees float offe¬rings of lamps, some perform elaborate rituals for deceased family members. The importance of the holy steps of Pushkar was well under-stood even by Queen Mary who got the new bathing steps constructed exclusively for women devotees. It was originally known as Gau Ghat and was rechristened as Gandhi Ghat. Of antiquity is Brahma Ghat. It is believed to have been built more than a thousand years ago. Architecturally interesting group of bathing ghats exist. The Pushkar lake has 52 ghats where pilgrims descend to bathe. Prominent among those are Varah Ghat and Chhatri Ghat. Today Jaipur Ghat has the new name Sun Set Point where every evening, tourists witness beautiful sunset.
Pushkar has two fairs – cattle and religious and now rolled into one. The genesis of the cattle fair is not known, but looking at the sacred history of Pushkar it can certainly be said that the religious fair preceded the cattle fair. In the good old days with limited means of communication when the pilgrims travelled to Pushkar it took days. Such a huge congregation inspired them to trade in the livestock. The fair has been recorded as the biggest cattle fair in the records of Jahangir. Animals, including over 50,000 camels, are brought and traded. Several thousand heads of cattle exchange hands. All the camels are cleaned, washed, adorned. Camels at the Pushkar fair are decorated with great There are iron-smiths ( Lollars) who sell hand¬made utensils and axes. The potters ( Kumahars) bring the earthen water pots. Some girls go around selling fresh green fodder for the animals, while the others carry milk pit¬chers on the head early in the mornings to sell it to the campers for the morning tea. Four days before the full moon the religious fair begins and it gathers full momentum a day before the full moon. With beautiful women dressed in their finery Pushkar presents a unique beauty pageant, so natural yet so exotic. One cannot help but be mesmeri¬zed by the sunrise and the sun¬set.
After taking a holy dip before sunrise, the devo¬tees offer their prayers at the Brahma temple and then join the fun fair. It is also the time for Sadhus to throng Pushkar each clad in a dif¬ferent way. Many squat in different postures to draw the attention of the cha¬rity distributors. They keep close to the temples and the lake
The fair as is obvious is not just all about fun and frolic.A diverse range of vendors gathers here. There are earmarked areas for sellers of animal decorations, of hand-woven shawls for the villagers as well as the sugarcane sellers. Of course there are several wayside eat¬ing joints that spring up for the days of the fair including tea stalls. Then there are circus groups and street entertainers who are drawn to the fair even from Mumbai! In the recent years the growth of tourism has also lured in the ex¬porters of handicrafts.
Finally the fair closes and autumn full moon waxes brilliant. Pushkar returns to its usual quiet, as the sand dunes bear the last footprints of the camels to be drifted away by the timeless sand.
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda is a retired Civil Servant and former Judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. He belongs to the 1972 batch of IAS in Tamil Nadu Cadre where he held many important assignments including long spells heading the departments of Education, Agriculture and Rural Development. He retired from the Government of India as Secretary, Ministry of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in 2008 and worked in CAT Principal Bench in Delhi for the next five years. He is the Founder MD of OMFED. He had earned an excellent reputation as an efficient and result oriented officer during his illustrious career in civil service.
Dr. Panda lives in Bhubaneswar. A Ph. D. in Economics, he spends his time in scholarly pursuits, particularly in the fields of Spiritualism and Indian Cultural Heritage. He is a regular contributor to the Odia magazine Saswata Bharat and the English paper Economic and Political Daily.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS 19 :: THE RABBIT SYNDROME
"Mamma will you feel sad if I don't get hundred out of hundred in the exam?"
"No dear",
"Suppose I get only 90, suppose less than 90."
Kanaka went and knelt before Juny to be in level with her daughter. Then looking at Juny's eyes she asked "What is it Juny?"Juny was ready for school and was waiting for her Achen( father) to take her to the bus stop from where she boarded her school bus. She was in the first grade.
"Mamma, I was just worried that both you and Acha would feel sad if I don't get full marks for my exams."
Kanaka hugged her and said,
"No darling, we will be satisfied with what you get."
"Why mamma?"
"Because we know how well our little girl studies her daily lessons. We know she prepares hard and what she gets depends on God's grace and her performance."
Juny shook her head in delight. Her tiny face cleared up.
"So your mamma and acha are happy with your marks."
She hugged Juny and sent her off to school with her Achen. Juny reached the gate and turned to wave.
Kanaka went back to the kitchen thoughtfully.
Did someone say something to Juny? Kanaka and Niranjan had decided right from the beginning not to harass Juny with the marks she brought home. They helped her with her lessons when she asked for help that is all. But she studied her daily lessons and did her homework without fail. Her marks were always somewhere between 90 and 100 and they never questioned her. But why this sudden doubt? Who told her that her marks were low? What made her think that we would be sad? She concluded that some child must have shared her unpleasant experience at home for earning low marks, which made Juny to worry about her parents.
One day Juny came in tears from school. Slowly, lovingly coercing her she found out that Juny's best friend had stopped talking to her because she got more marks than her. Juny doted on her friend that she couldn't bear it. That day she ate very little and was gloomy. Kanaka gauged the depth of her hurt. So the next day being a holiday she decided to talk to Juny.
She told her a story her mamma had told her when she was a girl. She was also like Juny, little things could easily upset her and spoil the whole day for her making her lachrymose and stressed which would result in mooning around neither playing nor reading, or eating; totally lethargic. Mamma would scold her, "Don't be like the rabbit Kanaka, you are wasting your time and hoards of opportunities."
One day Kanaka demanded the rabbit story and her mamma told her. It did make sense and taught a lot to her as she advanced in years.
The rabbits go out to graze very early in the morning, when the grass is fresh and dew drops hang like pearls at the end of the blade of grass. They start eating and at the first prick of the pointed grass on their delicate noses, they turn their back to the grass as their noses start tingling. When the tingling sensation subsides they resume eating. Like this they quarrel with the grass losing precious time and eating very little. And then the wild animals like jackals and foxes come out of their dens and they scoot back to their burrows most often hungry and have to wait for the next day.
"There are people like the prickly grass around us and when they annoy us, if we fret and fume and spend the time crying and crawling into our shells, we are the losers". Mamma would conclude. "Let the grass prick you, you finish what you are doing and continue. If you don't you are the loser. The one who pricks you will never know and move forward while you are left behind mooning around. So don't be like the rabbit." mamma would warn her.
Kanaka narrated the story to Juny. Being too small she couldn't grasp the Rabbit syndrome. So one day she took her to a nearby rabbit farm. In the hutches they saw rabbits eating grass when one or the other bit a grass blade the grass would prick and it would jump around showing its back to the grass. Juny burst out laughing, it looked so funny the rabbits showing their behind to the grass. Watching the rabbits for sometime she understood the meaning of the story.
" Mamma, again I won't be a rabbit." Kanaka hugged her as a burden fell off her.
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
Nothing comes
Without a reason
Whether it is
Pain or pleasure
For purifying the heart
Dormant for years .
Sometimes, I wonder
Questioning my beliefs
Look for meanings
Why things happen,
Beyond my imagination
Disrupting my comfort,
Without any prior information
Can anyone foresee
What really exists
Behind the curtain
As impending events?
Isn't it the fun in life
When everything is a surprise?
Random behavior of life
Is the real beauty,
As we keep seeing
Unimagined spectacles
Every moment
As we carry on
Our journey
To eternity.
Time has made me realize
Thorns are part of roses
As inflictions remind
Thrill of happiness.
My pains, joys or glee
Are equally dear to me.
I am incomplete
Without one of the two
As they portray
The true meaning of life.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
Shimmering gold, and gems
Pricey branded stuffs that many go 'Awwww honey! Sweetie pie' on receiving
Batting eyelids that cause nightmares
Are always a big NO from my soul, that
Melts and surrenders only to
Gifts that carry the promise of knowing me in depths
Wrapped with a bow, from the satin-silk heart
Weaving trust, truth, and raw emotions
To blanket my soul, even in absence...
A single rose, a warm soul-hug, handwritten note
Handful of Raindrops, to splash on my face
A paper boat made, naming it 'Madhu' written with a blue crayon, and
Dragging me to sail it, in the rain
Trinkets, converted to a craft
Each one, in the hues of simplicity and love
Puts a big smile on my heart and soul...
My sweetheart daughter's gift, a Camera made with a match box, and
Adorable notes as surprise
Her handmade greeting card, with the most precious words that left me teary-eyed
A model of a home, the happiness that no palace can gift
From a loving artist friend - soul sister, that made me cry and cry
Hugged her in gratitude, in tears, and MY Krishna she gifted as my other home...
An artist soul, and a selfless doctor, our friendship sprouted through art(My little Sis, too) who creates magic each day
Gifted me a bundle of joy
In my soul's favourite color
The tea lover, and the blue lover in me
Pampered with beautiful coasters in blue, to cherish for life
Bags, her handmade love, becoming my walking/shopping mate
Answering proudly, to all those awed eyes
Who gave them...
Gratitude gratitude gratitude, is
All I have for thoughtfulness like these
For, they are not just gifts
But love, that speak to me
In the colors and patterns of souls...
Her clouds drifted away into His vast blue dreams
Untouched by the pigments yet soaked in every breath
One that blows away and one that pulls
Caught between existence and living
The soft dandelion dismantles its tears
And there flies away, the joys and sorrows
All in the same color of winged secrets
By whatever name you call them
Each will smile and slither away before
The happiness or distress is read and felt
The wind pushes them all to assemble
Reconnect to their roots and become one full blossom
Again coils up into a nameless cloud to drift away
Into his vast blue dreams and whisper the everyday rhythm
Of...
Shhh! why do we need to know the whispers? the secrets?
The blue dreams and the clouds have all the rights
To forever be an enigma, while there is so much life
Brimming in the perennial unknown layers of the sky...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
Musty floors, shredded wallpaper
And dust bunnies are my life.
Stinky mats and smelly rooms
And there I lie in strife.
I want to leave this place.
Seventeen tummies rumble,
Awaiting our not-so-scrumptious meals.
Rusted bowls and wailing sounds,
No one understands our squeals.
I can only dream to leave this place.
Just grumpy old man and Ms.Furious,
But none to call mom or dad.
A sister or brother or a dear friend,
Oh! How I wish I had!
Please get me out of this place.
The loud doorbell rings and a couple walks in,
Being chosen is my mission.
The smiling woman picks me up, grips me tight
and raises me from perdition.
I hope I will leave this place.
My heart races, my tears threaten to fall.
She hugs me close and calls me Jerome.
My tail wags faster than ever before.
I am glad I found my forever home.
I am finally leaving this place.
Although it wasn't a hot day, my make-up had begun to melt. My futile attempts to blow my pink-dyed hair out of my crisp tanned face too ended in vain. I couldn't help but notice the dark and handsome guy in the brown blazer, sitting across the aisle. His candy eyes bore a hole through me. I softly wished that IF I was picked, it would be alongside him.
I sat there in silence as I eyed all those who were getting their placements in envy, they were just a step away from fulfilling their destiny. To add to my dilemma, I was among the last set. Only the cream of the batch would be chosen.
And that's when my time came; I was chosen! His fingers held me warily as he threw a dash of sprinkles on me and to top off, he sprayed a reddish-purple perfume on me which had a slight hint of nightshade, the deadliest plant known to man. (Yes, I'm one of the wise ones). It did not smell quite right. He then whispered something sinisterly to a tall and sickly woman in a yellow cardigan. It took a while for realization to strike, and when it finally did, I felt wholly hollow.
Before I knew it, I had been placed onto a chill plate and had sticky syrup pouring from above me. And then as a cherry on top, I was carried to the table alongside Mr Brown Blazer on a different plate. His coy smile melted my jam-filled gooey centre.
As a swaggering barista placed me onto the varnished wooden table, all my troubles were washed away. I felt more significant, more prominent and more consequential. After an awe-filled few minutes, Mr Burly Mustache, who sat across Ms Yellow Cardigan spoke. But to my absolute disappointment, he was blabbering! I, a multilinguist who is fluent in Donish, Glazen and Sprinklish could not understand the balderdash that came out his moustache-covered mouth.
I uselessly tried to decipher what he meant by observing his body language and what I got was that... He was in love! His eyes were sparkling with glee as he spoke to Ms Yellow, and that's the way I felt about Mr Brown Blazer. We sat there, gazing at each other, knowing that we would meet yet again if destiny would determine our future together.
While Mr Burly was busy with Ms Yellow, I remembered; I felt guilty; I took action. I attempted to look as unappealing as I could, which was hard considering my natural beauty. And I yelled as loudly and ear-piercingly as I could, warning him about his impending doom, "Donut eat me!". Though this caused some raised eyebrows from inside the display cases and Mr Brown, Mr Burly totally ignored my warnings and went on jibber-jabbering about who knows what to the silent-killer he was sitting with! This definitely wounded my pride, making me yell louder than ever.
And then my eyes widened, I knew what to do instantly. Though this would ruin my chance at fulfilling my destiny, I had to let him fulfil his. If I tried hard enough and if I succeeded, he would live to relish life. Mr Brown, who finally comprehended the situation, tried his best to warn me against my next course of action, "Don't do this. We can be together as one after all this is over". But I could not let that happen. The guilt would devour me. So I pushed away all the doubt and carried on.
I don't think even Snow White's apple attempted what I had in mind. There is a first time for everything they say... but this would be my last. He came to pick me up and I tried once again, "Donut do this! Please!". But he went for me anyway and my plan was set in motion.
I tried what no dessert had ever done before, I tried to jump. 'Felo de se' as the Polvorónes would say and I did it. My short life flashed before me: entering the hot room and coming out with a tan; getting dolled up by a personal make-up artist; looking at Mr Brown Blazer and meeting Mr Hardwood Floor.
And there I was, drifting off... My hollow was gone. Mr Brown Blazer was drifting too but in the opposite direction. Although the sadness overwhelmed me, I cruised off with the satisfaction of a saving a life, hoping against hope that I was on my way into the 'After Bite'.
The woman strutted to the tall mirror mounted on the cracked, termite-eaten, wooden cupboard. She stared at the lean figure which glanced right back into her soul. The ocean-blue eyes shining like a newly polished crystalline sapphire, the satisfyingly symmetrical face with the most perfectly placed freckles, dressed in a crisp uniform with absolutely no wrinkles, the shiny brown leather shoes accentuated her look.
The figure approached the frosted window and opened it only to be deafened by the wailing of the ambulance which drove toward the huge mall filled with gaudy lights. She shut the window briskly and turned to the telephone which rang in a very monotonous manner.
She came to know of the bomb threat near the mall whose timer read fifty minutes. It was then she was startled by the sudden booming voice in her head which said, “Your time starts now! Fifty minutes to go”.
She hurriedly picked up the dark vest with the golden label, printed in bold letters was the name “MAYA” followed by “BOMB SQUAD LEADER”. Maya let out a loud gasp as the voice in her head once again cried “Forty minutes to go!”
She got into her large dark van and accelerated at an alarming speed of one-fifty miles per hour as she sped out of the motel driveway. She quickly pulled up at the mall and speed walked towards the clamouring crowd. Maya tightly clutched her ears as the voice spoke in an ear-piercing volume “Thirty minutes to go!”
She advanced toward the nervous bomb squad, baffled by the very intricate structure of the bomb. She gingerly held the two wires, pondering over which one will dismantle the bomb when cut. Her vision became clouded as her sapphire eyes fell on the bright-red digital timer; the voice in her head read it aloud... “Fifteen minutes to go”.
The soldiers around her were biting their nails; her superior gave her a knowing nod which encouraged her to save the mall or to die trying. She shrieked as the voice boomed for the last time. Her hands trembled in fear, and down fell the wire-cutter and with it her hopes of living past this day.
The timer began to countdown and so did the voice in her head. 5...4...3...2...
Maya bolted upright in fear, pencil in hand. A single bead of sweat trickled down from her cheek and onto the blank white paper in front of her. The familiar voice said “Hand over your papers. Time’s up”. This was her worst nightmare…
Vishakha Devi, the second daughter of Mrs and Mr S. Vijayaraj, is born and brought up in Chennai. She did her primary schooling at Rosary Matriculation School, Santhome and is now pursuing her middle school education at Vruksha Montessori School, Abhiramapuram. Vishakha, currently in the eighth grade, loves the English language and has a significant penchant for writing short stories. She has received many awards for oratorical and essay writing competitions at the school and inter-school events.
Encouraged by her English teacher, Ms Vidya Shankar, she has now begun her maiden journey into the world of poetry.
It was a busy summer night
Stars dazzling up there high
I laid underneath it
Wondering if the stars were only for the sky
The moon was all in crescent
The background, all in dark blue dye
After running errands in my mind,
I concluded that stars were only for the sky
Grazing up there in between the orbs
I spotted an atypical starship flying by
Within no time it landed clean
With a weirdo waving at me, greeting hiiiiii
Out of the billions
It was that day I met the Jovian
Only to realise.
'that stars weren't just only for the sky!!'
BEING AN AESTHETE
Ayana Routray
Take a moment
Put your agita behind
With every brisk of air u take in
Feel the petrichor in your mind
Embrace the pristine aura
Put your concerns aside
With every breaking aurora
Let the golden glow bless your life
Savour the ethereal spring
Put a pause on the real time
With every blooming sakura
Let the blossom shower for a lifetime
Spare a still moment
Every once in a while
Relish the bliss of nature
Putting on a tranquilizing smile.
The days were green, thriving and smooth
Until the day we're shadowed by the clouds of ruth.
It was all in chaos,
No one was sure if the normal esse
still would continue
It hardly started from one or two
But within the mearge of days
it affected thousands new.
It seemed like to have mercy on none
Whether it be an old, grown up or a newborn.
It appeals everyone to keep
everything tidy and clean
And of course tugging up a mask
has become today's fashion mein
Cause we are the folk peril
to the pirate named Covid-19
There is nothing to fright about
Even though we are facing this pandemic
Cause there are doctors working
selflessly to ensure that no one is sick
Although these warriors are
at our service day and night
But it's our prior duty
to cooperate with them
Till our world again turns
prosperous and bright.
Being out in this while is
as dicey as being under straif
So we need to realise this soon
'Staying home is the best way to stay safe.'
Ayana Routray, a student of Class X in Bhubaneswar, is a young poet with keen interest in Literature, Fine Arts, Singing, Modelling and Anchoring. She is also a television artiste in Odiya TV channels.
Me: Dear God! Here I have come, finally!
God: Child you hands are scraped!
Me: Oh don't worry God,
I came gathering the best flowers,
I know you love them, just like that.
God: Child , how hurt are your feet?
Me: I have come climbing mountains, deserts , on stony paths,
But never did I lose sight of you, my God.
My hands are wrinkled and gnarled,
My feet are cracked and weathered,
But my soul, like the lamb, I place at your feet,
My life's good deeds your incense,
I know how disheartened you are,
When you thought humanity has learnt its role,
I can give you only mine,
My gratitude and love for all that was done.
Thus was thawed
The Creator, by the created!
God: And because of you my child,
Because you made my day,
Humanity has many more days spared,
Such is the power of those who care!
Very old when sixteen,
Hardly heard , hardly seen,
Rummaging through my life,
Fostered by strife,
Think I just found my teen,
I must be what they call a strange being!
Is that my soul that needs to shush?
Born as I am from the cosmic hush?
What if my noise is the 'other voice'?
The music, riverberations of the cosmic chant?
So many hours,
I stared unblinking against all hopes,
As if looking alone can make them appear,
The double-blue ticks on my mobile,
An acknowledgement of today’s existence!
I am not afraid to be alone, but I am, scared of loneliness.
What am I an alien, to be self-contained and self- satisfied?
How good is that?
Why were we created in teeming multitudes then?
I never felt alone in nature’s company.
But among the civilized man, I do,
With his characteristic callousness and cold-heartedness,
When he says, take care of yourself!
Everybody is lonely.
No, they are not…the planets are not,
The moon and stars are not,
The Gods are not… the grass is not,
Not even the animals are alone!
Imagine the deer telling the lion,
Take care of yourself!
I may not be around everytime.
Imagine him, eating the grass!
The sky talks to the land and sea, in the far horizon;
The rivers flow in unmasked glee, in conversation with all that she passes by,
In all her varied forms and moods,
As she speeds to her destination, the ocean;
The clouds schedule with the mountains,
As to when and where to download its impatient passengers!
Tell me, which emperor smiled, while reigning his stone-studded throne for long,
Ask him if he would not rather swap it, and witness him confirming the fable.
And you, man, ask me to be alone?
What am I, a pumice stone?
My only companions …the shadows, the lady bug out of nowhere,
The glowworms lighting up my nights… or just my woes?
The monotonous drone of the fan soothes,
Should I call it ‘mother’?
I falter and hold on to the wall,
Should I call it ‘father’?
The softly swaying curtains, in the dark, offer their rustle-talk,
Should I call them my friends?
The cool air of the first light of dawn,
When day has yet not left her sleep, is exquisite!
Should I call it ‘lover’?
My world of hushed shadows and silences,
No mirage!
For, in my existence of distances and solitude,
By far, you seem easy and near.
Someday my hugs will reach me,
Someday I will feel I lived.
Sindhu Vijayan (Rammohan) has a Master's degree in English Language and Literature and a Post Graduate Diploma in Journalism. After a brief stint as a journalist with the New Indian Express she worked for eleven years in L'ecole Chempaka, Trivandrum as a Language teacher of Malayalam, French, and Creative English. She was the editor of the school magazine for seven years. She writes poetry in English and Hindi, has dabbled with theatre and was an active participant in 'Kavitha', a poetic initiative of the late Malayalam poet Ayyappa Panicker. Currently a freelance writer and translator, she has abundant passion for literature.
“Mane from Thane"...an extended hand, a loud ringing voice and a smiling face … eyes that twinkled naughtily as though saying, "You wait... I' ve got something up my sleeve to surprise you.” The lock of unruly hair that kept falling on his forehead...and the lone deep dimple on the right cheek that was playing hide and seek as he kept on talking interspersed with witty jokes...Mane was not tall, nor heavily built. He was just about average in height, weight and colour. Typical Maharashtrian...clean shaved and casually dressed, the sleeves of his shirt carelessly rolled up below the elbow. One could not think of him as a senior level official of a big bank. I remember thinking he was a cross between Mithun Chakraborthy and Sachin Tendulkar. What made me associate those two heroes, I have no idea...maybe the casual light hearted air of a Mithun character and the passion for cricket that was typical of a Mumbaikar. Mane was an unforgettable colleague.
When we met, both of us had just completed our half century, he - maybe a year ahead of me. I had been uprooted from my home town in Kerala some years back and had just landed in Bhubaneswar, capital city of Odisha (then, still Orissa) via a brief stopover at Kolkata. He had been tossed smoothly from his hometown of Thane just a year back. One year’s stay at Bhubaneswar had made him my senior and a ready to advise any time kind of guide. Mallika, his wife, stayed on in Thane, busy with her bank job and taking care of her aged father in law. Their only son Rohith was a student in IIT Chennai. As for me, my husband was at the time in Guwahati pursuing his branch audit work and both children in different states doing PG and Undergraduate courses.
“Oh...that's wonderful Ma'm. Welcome to the Bachelors’ Club. You and I should be brand ambassadors of Nokia !”
I blinked .
“Connecting India, Mám ..ha ha ha . I bet you will enjoy your time here ..” He had assured me the first time we met. But our meetings were infrequent. I was in Administration and he was in Operations. A month after my joining, he was transferred from his favourite city, Bhubaneswar, to the neighbouring town of Cuttack.
Bhubaneswar was a town he adopted and adapted to. It was so, with me too, l was to discover later. All his life Mane was used to the buzz and bustle of Mumbai. Everything about Mumbai he loved. He could not think of another place like Mumbai. Until he set his eyes on Orissa’s City of Temples. The sleepy town with its greenery all around, the beautiful roads lined with trees, the temples in its nooks and corners, the clear, azure sky, the glittering star-filled horizon as yet unmarred by high rise buildings, the well arranged markets serially numbered, the groups of ladies with flower baskets in hand, on their way to gather wayside flowers for morning puja, their glittering red and gold bangles and bright vermillion-decked foreheads making them look like goddesses, sound of numerous bells ringing from households signifying 'aarati' time in families, the 'thulsis' in their balconies swaying in joy in the gentle breeze, the fragrance of agarbathis wafting in the cool morning air, the hint of a descending mist far away, the brown, spotted cows calmly enjoying morning sunlight in the middle of the road or placidly chewing the cud after eating, 'prasad' from nearby homes, children playing cricket on lanes, wayside 'dookanwallas' selling mouth watering golgoppey and other sweetmeats near the only mall in the city – Big Bazaar, near Jail Road...no wonder he had fallen in love with the city.
Mane had brought about a sea change in office in his one year Mumbai Raaj in the branch. It had been a virtual Noah's Ark, if not a Pandora’s box. A score of middle aged men and women, strong supporters of various trade unions, a handful of last grade workers, most of them owners of side businesses,...elite and non elite customers, the BPL and APL clients of a big branch, very vocal in their complaints. It was not the first time that a non-Oriya boss sat in the big but gloomy tinted glass covered cabin. The earlier man was a “Nallashivam” from the South..who was fondly renamed by a Tamil knowing clerk as “Kettashivam" thanks to his obnoxious nature. The nickname of the cabin was “ I C U”. Only serious cases were taken in there, always accompanied by several reports, documents, proofs. Access was limited to a few senior staff. The loud chimes of the bell summoning the attendant to the cabin alerted the officers. The earlier occupants of the cabin were all safari clad no–nonsense bankers with thinning hair and a serious expression on their faces, their drooping shoulders heavy with the baggage of Indian economy’s myriad problems. Into this glamourless world, our “Mane from Thane" strode in.
“Arre.. ye log kyaa sochte hain... mere ko koi chicken pox haikyaa.....why am I put in isolation..” he had lamented. He replaced the tinted glass with transparent brand new glass, put up flower vases on the wall and indoor plants on the floor... he threw the buzzer away. He had no need of it, for he hardly sat on his chair. “Ohh Sushaaaaanth”.... he used to call out in his ringing tone to gain the attention of his attendant. He flitted in and out of his cabin and was seen at every corner of the branch, sometimes throwing back his head and laughing, at other times helping the cashier count his cash bundles...sometimes accompanying an elderly lady to the locker. He talked in his own brand of Oriya to the non-elite customers and laughed heartily at his own mistakes when they were trying to cover up their laughter. Wednesdays were party days in his branch. Wednesday was the only day free from rituals… all were non vegetarians on Wednesdays...chicken cutlets, mutton kebabs, fish finger...anything was available on Wednesdays...and there was always a good enough reason to celebrate. Holi, Christmas and New Year were gala occasions when he sang and danced with his team mates. On holidays he played cricket with the children of his employees. He was irrepressible and his enthusiasm was infectious.
It was football season and everyone was talking of football. One day Mane rang me up. “M’am, are u fond of football?" he asked.
“I am from Kerala and Santosh Trophy is our heirloom...don’t you know?”, I replied
“Oh wonderful... then you can come over here to the branch. Tomorrow is Mohan Bagaan vs. Mohammadan Sporting… clinching match, don’t miss it...am arranging here...”
True to his words he had put up a SONY TV in the dining hall. The staff were seen taking turns at watching. To the customers it was of course business as usual.
“Ma’m,” he said, winking his eyes, “This is just my number. These fellows are crazy for football. Let them enjoy. Next month, we are having One Day Cricket Finals. I can’t miss it...Same thing...Next month. What an idea, Sir jee"! Again, he winked and gave me a Thumbs Up.
“Mane ji, You are crazy. At the top they don’t approve of such things. You are here to do a serious job, don’t forget.” I remarked.
“Who’ s asking for approval? I' m working. My boys are working. My branch is the best branch in Orissa. Why bother about approval? I can coolly sit at home and watch cricket. But what’s a match with just one man watching....mazza chahiye naa? You wait. See the fun we’ll have. Don’t tell anybody...ok?”
And so it went on. Until one day it ended with an official communication. Mane was transferred to Cuttack. There was nothing unusual in the order. Bankers are rolling stones, as everyone knew. Men may come and men may go / The branch goes on forever...that is the logic. People accept it and get reconciled.
Not so, Mane. He was crestfallen. He could never bring himself up to accept it. Cuttack was just 30 kms away but to him it felt like 300 kms. Unlike Bhubaneswar, Cuttack was an old city. A city with a history. A city that had a glorious past. A city of narrow crowded lanes and heritage buildings. I told him, “Mane ji, Cuttack has something you love...an international cricket stadium.”
Cuttack had a lot many positives, not just the stadium. But somehow Mane’s spirit could not sync with the aura that the city possessed. He had to tussle with bigger problems posed by bigger clients – businessmen who either could not or would not repay the money lent by the bank. Mane was adamant that he would not move out of his house at Bhubaneswar. Instead he preferred to drive 60 kms daily to and fro.” I can cross the Kathjori river twice every day M’am... that's the compensation...”, he told me once.
One day I happened to enter my boss’s cabin with a letter in hand. Engrossed as I was in the letter, I hardly saw the person seated across the big table. “Mr Mane, This is the final warning I’m giving you. I think it is high time you take things seriously”. The Boss’s tone was uncharacteristically hostile. It was then that I looked up and caught Mane’s eyes. I smiled but for the first time there was no hint of a smile on his face. Hastily I finished my discussion and came out.
Mane came to me as I was getting ready to take my lunch. “M’am, give me some water.” He said and reached out for my water bottle. I looked at him as he drank the water. His face was ashen pale. His eyes had a sunken look and the usual dimpled smile had gone in hiding.
“Are you okay?“, I asked with some anxiety. “Are you in some trouble?“ I queried.
“Trouble? Me? Never... This is.....Mane...from Thane...” He said the last line in a singsong tone. The dimpled smile was back.
“You have heard the lines Ma’m?
Never trouble Trouble
Until Trouble troubles you
For it only doubles trouble
And troubles others too....” The laughter that accompanied was reverberating in my small cabin.
“Here, have some laddoos..” I offered him the laddoos a colleague had gifted me earlier in the day.
“Laddoos...best home remedy for stress...especially when given with love...”, he said before taking one laddu.
“What was going on inside?” I asked.
“ Oh ...that! Forget it M’am... Mane is not a blood hound. I can’t run after people to suck their blood...”
I had guessed as much. He could never don the role of a blood thirsty banker out to get back his money from a fleeing customer. The grapevine said it all. Aggression was the order of the day and 'the more pounds of flesh you get the better' was the banker’s motto. Cuttack branch was a minefield - small business owners, traders, builders, factory owners, - the delinquents were of all sizes and shapes. Some of them too shrewd to be handled by the simple take-it-easy Mumbaikar. Mane was in for a bad time. His soft, sensitive nature was mistaken as complacence and negligence.
“M’am, I have some bad news “.... the voice at the other end was that of Prakash Pavaskar, a young officer from Pune who lived in the same building as Mane. In a flustered tone he conveyed the news, Mane had developed chest pain at night and was taken to hospital. His wife was on her way and an angiogram was to be done immediately. Amri Hospital was some distance away and I had important assignments for the day. Anyway no meaning in a hospital visit as he was admitted in ICU.
Mallika arrived soon and the angiogram was done. Mane had escaped by a whisker. His heart revealed multiple blocks, one of them 96%. Angioplasty was done immediately and after a day in ICU, he was shifted to a room. It was on a Saturday that I visited him, after office hours. The receptionist directed me to Room 102 at the corner. I could hear voices and make out it was the TV. “Come , come.. Welcome M’am! I was wondering why you hadn’t turned up... Malli, guess who is the lady with the smile?” His voice was louder than ever. The TV on the wall was blaring and he had to keep his voice above that of the commentator. He caught me looking at the TV. "M’am...it is West Indies vs. India...see my luck. I would have missed it if I had gone last Tuesday...ha ha ha...” He winked and gave a look at his wife and added, “Anyway even in ICU they didn’t have any TV ”. The match was at a critical point, I could make out. West Indians had amassed a whopping 375 runs and Indians were trailing behind. The middle order batsmen were surprisingly defending, creating a strong line of defence through their partnership....each time one of them scored a boundary Mane shouted, springing from his bed. “Mane ji, you are supposed to rest.....” He cut my words half way... “M’am,this is cricket..not your Santosh Trophy football.....no one died watching a cricket match...”.Taking his eyes off the screen he called out to me. I was engaging Mallika in a conversation about how to control unruly spouses. “M’am, how was your last Friday? All ok?”
Last Friday to a banker was as worrisome as a racecourse to a bookie when the race is on. It was a deadline, a finishing point, and the quarter end last Friday was a nightmare.
“Thank my stars...Lady Luck visited me in the form of a silly heart attack...or else I would have been like a mashed potato in the boss’s hands...ha ha ha....”. Again the ringing laughter. It was getting late and the game was getting tighter. India needed 100 runs in 32 balls - a do or die situation. And only the tail enders were holding the bat. Mane ‘s eyes were glued to the screen. I came away not wanting to spoil his enjoyment.
“Please get approval from Dr...I don’t think he is doing the right thing...” I could not help telling Mallika. She gave me an all knowing smile in return, as though telling me “ You know him well..why tell me this?”
Sunday is the day Gulliver’s ghost enters my system...I sleep..sleep..sleep...and wake up to hastily prepare a working lunch and lazily eat it watching TV. I was like Tom Sawyer, in my enjoyment of week ends and hatred for Mondays. The call from Prakash came in the midst of a nice romantic movie in B4U channel- - Kabhie Kabhie ..…”kabhie kabhie mere dilmein / khayaal aataa hai….” the immortal song was playing.
“M’am, can u please come to Amri ? “
”Anything to worry?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat. ‘N...no..nothing. Mane sir is in ICU....Didi is sitting alone... I thought you can give her some company..” his voice trailed off. For a second I was numb. Then I chided myself for acting silly...it is natural. Who else could he have called but me. Mallika would be happy to share my company.
In half an hour my car entered the front porch of Amri Hospital. Through out the short trip I clasped my hands tightly for a reason unknown to me. My lips were sealed and my heart was reaching out in a wordless prayer to God above. I didn’t know what to think. No words formed in my brain. I was floating, my feet hardly touching the ground.
Prakash came to me walking fast as though in a hurry to take me inside. His face was anxious and he caught my hand averting a possible fall. “M’am”, he just uttered trying to guide my way inside. The tone stopped me, I caught hold of both his hands and asked, “What's it? Where's he?”
“Gone....” he whispered, closing his eyes to ward off rushing tears. I stood transfixed, unable to move.
The blue sky was just the same. The tall coniferous shrubs looked as green as they did yesterday, The small pink lilies and lilac hydrangeas were nodding their heads as usual...The fallen yellow leaves from the mango tree outside hadn’t changed their positions from last evening. Nothing had changed. But this was not the world I saw yesterday. I didn’t know this place. I felt a total stranger. I held on to Prakash’s hands in a tight clutch. A few moments passed. Prakash slowly freed my hands, looked into my eyes and asked softly, “Want to go up? She's there."
I just shook my head. I was not ready.
“ Prakash...wh..wh...ere is ... “ my voice failed me. He understood. “He's here. You can see him." His hand was pointing to a side door leading to an anteroom outside the ICU. Slowly I found myself tiptoeing, following him. The big steel cot with sky blue bedcover struck me first. He appeared small, lying straight on his back, face turned the other way, not ready to face anyone. There was a hint of a dimple on that pale right cheek, as though looking out for a smile waiting to be born. I was myself waiting for the moment when that face would turn this way, eyes lit up and lips blossoming into a broad smile. I averted my eyes. I caught the words, “I'M THE BOSS” - bold black letters on the yellow T shirt he was wearing...the very same shirt he was wearing when I saw him last...yesterday. I felt a shiver run through my spine. I looked down at the khaki coloured half pants and the uncovered legs. Something snapped inside and on an impulse I found myself stretching my hand out to touch his leg below the knee. It was warm...the blood coursing through those veins still full of his vitality! It was the first time in my life … to touch a lifeless person and find him warm.…this was something my brain couldn’ t accept…. I felt my head reeling. I pulled my hand back as though from an electric shock....Later I pondered over it … what made me do such a thing? I had never done it before … Except once when I saw my mother’s lifeless face … and it was cold … Who was Mane to me? A brother? A relative? A colleague in office? What do I know about him? Would I dare to touch his leg had he been alive? My action baffled me ... a small touch, a soft touch … It literally jolted me. Death, still a mystery, an enigma, an unsolvable puzzle. The yellow and khaki clad frame, with face turned away, the unruly lock of salt n pepper hair hiding the forehead - and at my fingertips, the soothing warmth of that agile body...
For the first time Death acquired a meaning. A meaning that was incomprehensible. Ten years later I can still feel the warmth exuding from a body whose breath had been just whisked away by Death...stealthily. I am not a kin who could do an udakakriya and wash away his image for ever. Nor can I bend my knees in prayer at a cemetery to pray that the departed soul rest in peace. I can only carry with me the dimpled smile and twinkling eyes of a man in his fifties, with a lock of unruly hair on his forehead and in the background an impish, cheerful voice ...” Mane... from Thane...”. As I stood frozen I heard a voice gently singing, “Tu ab se pehle sitaaron mein bas rahe the kaheen...”
G K Maya took to writing after she retired as GM from Canara Bank in 2019. She had done her Masters in English Language & Literature from University College Trivandrum. She started her career as a Probationary Officer in Canara Bank in 1982. Her interest in writing was fanned by her passion for reading and interest in the people around her. With her passion for literature, she has tried her hand at translating a movie script from English to Malayalam.
Smiling and affable.
Left his job when she was born.
For a glimpse of his newborn star-
His dazzling cutie pie,
Never allowed him to go back…
As he wished, later became a businessman.
A man brown and rough outside,
A hard nut to crack for all.
But was pure and adorable inside…
Like a white dove or as a full moon.
His anger was just like melting ice.
Even in his struggles to make both ends
Never forgot to buy
Gifts beautiful for his little lass.
His greatest bestowal for her,
A marriage to a benevolent, polished man.
Months and years dropped…
As leaves fall from an apple tree.
When six leaves were left,
Keeping aside everything
She reached his side,
As if she felt some telepathy.
Fulfilled his dreams and made his days jubilant.
As much as she could with her presence
Nothing was enough for the love and care he had given.
‘She’ was always a little lass for him…
Standing alone before the I.C.U.
She cried and prayed with hope…
For his healthy recovery…
Even the doctors had the least of hope…
Today she gives Balitharpan
On his first Sradham…to get Moksha
For her greatest keystone and backbone, her father!
Asha Raj Gopakumar, a postgraduate in English Literature and a novice in writing. She has been living in the Middle East with her family for more than a decade. She is an ardent lover of music, nature and spirituality. She is an active bajan singer in many devotional groups. Presently she focuses on reading, writing and is very much busy creating a personal vlog for bajan lovers. She had been a teacher for almost six years and gave it up for family matters.
HATHIKO HOMEOPATHY AND EXTRA LARGE OMELETTES
Immediately after his probation period was over, Saroj was posted as a branch manager of a new branch to be opened at Kendrapara. He had completed his training at the Staff Training College of the bank in Delhi. The Bank had posted him as Asst. Manager for providing real time practical training, which enables a trainee to be "jack of all trades but master of none."
Banking career was considered as an attractive opportunity for job aspirants because of the hefty salary attached at that time. But it was full of challenges requiring decision taking capabilities every moment. Saroj had taken his job seriously and wanted to build himself as a perfect banker which demanded often to conduct as a "glorious prostitute", making no hesitation in attracting clients from different categories stretching from temple Trusts to "madhushala" owners. All were special to him.
Saroj had to tune himself up to meet the growing demand of his job and to face all the challenges. The Twenty Point economic program was in operation in banks during those days and the the branch manager was supposed to have close coordination with the local Govt authorities, the BDO and Veterinary Doctors etc.
One afternoon, when Saroj was relaxing after the business hours, Dr Patel, the local Govt veterinary doctor, with whom Saroj spent hours , suddenly stormed into the bank, sweating heavily as if he returned from a furnace. Saroj was shocked to find him in that condition and asked:
"What is the matter Dr Patel? Why are you looking so stressed"? He ordered coffee for the doctor and offered him a glass of water. Dr Patel looked here and there and narrated his ordeal.
"Saroj babu, I am a student of OUAT, the prime agriculture university of Odisha. We were taught about pet animals like, dogs, cats, cows, other cattle, horses etc. But we were not taught on medical treatment of elephants. Usually the doctors attached to zoos are given special training on treatment of elephants outside the state."
After noticing his pause, Saroj pressed him "Dr Saheb, come out. What has happened?"
"You know that one circus party has now camped in Chandol, a nearby village. An elephant of the circus had fallen sick for the past one week due to diarrhoea and had stopped taking food. The circus owner had requested me to check up the animal and prescribe medicine. How can I do that? Can I check up its pulse or blood pressure? We don't have the required medical equipments in our hospital."
"When I expressed my inability, the local MLA was after me to check up the ailing elephant. These MLAs always cajole the circus or theatre parties for reasons best known to them. I had gone to the spot, looked at the elephant which was looking dehydrated. Normally other animals are given IV solutions, but how to prescribe it here? More over for other animals we usually administer 20 to 30 Sulpha Guanidine tablets. But for an elephant what should be the dose? Our dose should not be like prescribing 'HATHI KO HOMEOPATHY'. Finally I prescribed 1 kilo of Sulpha guanidine tablets and left that place hurriedly to be with you, away from the veterinary hospital, otherwise they could chase me if something grave happened to the pachyderm."
Saroj consoled him and advised him to become cool and wait for the periodical brief on the condition of the animal.
Dr Patel stayed in the branch till the evening and bade farewell after getting a message from Chandol that the elephant had started taking food. He thanked BaldevJeu, the presiding deity of Kendrapara for rescuing him from the crisis.
After his posting in Kendrapara as Branch Manager, Saroj occupied the house which had been rented by the Bank for its branch head. By Kendrapara standards, the house was big, with two bed rooms and two bathrooms, along with a drawing room and a dining space. Being a bachelor, Saroj had no use for the big house, so he invited his younger brother Sushil, who was preparing for various competitive exams, to stay with him. They were using only one bathroom and the second one was getting neglected. So Sushil suggested that they should raise some poultry, rearing the birds in the bathroom and in due course have a couple of eggs everyday for omelette in breakfast.
Saroj liked the idea and paid some money to Sushil. asking him to procure a couple of chicks from the market. When he returned from the bank in the evening his heart filled with joy, seeing the two chicks in the bathroom and hearing their sweet ching ching. The dinner brought from the market tasted great and the two brothers talked late into the night about the eggs which would fortify their breakfast. Sushil told his elder brother that the shop wallah had assured him, if fed properly the birds will start laying eggs in a month's time. That night Saroj had a nice dream, where he was dancing in a white, shining house made of thousands of eggs.
The chicks grew at astonishing speed, aided by the liberal amount of feed given to them. A month passed, and then two months, but still no eggs. The brothers were at their wit's end. Every morning and evening they would search the nooks and corners of the bathroom, the courtyard and the roof of the house with the precision of a private detective looking for lost diamonds, but nothing would come out of it. With renewed determination they gave more feed and watched with pride as the birds swelled like wrestlers, often fighting with each other and providing entertainment to their amused masters.
When no eggs materialised even after three months, Saroj invited Dr. Patel home for lunch on a Sunday. After a sumptuous meal, he accosted Dr. Patel to the outer courtyard where the two fat, overweight birds were taking a nap after a heavy lunch provided diligently by Sushil. Saroj thought a free consultation would not be exactly out of place after the beer and biriyani lunch relished by Dr. Patel.
"Doctor, can I ask you a question"
The doctor looked benignly at him, through mildly bloodshot eyes. After three bottles of beer he was prepared to take a dozen questions from the largehearted host.
"Yes, Manager Sahab, shoot."
"See, we have been keeping these two birds for the past three months, feeding them and nurturing them even more lovingly than their own mother, God bless her soul wherever she is, but they have not blessed us with a single egg. Are they suffering from some deformity?"
The sozzled doctor tried to focus his eyes on the two birds, lying peacefully at a corner of the courtyard, generally at peace with the world. It took a full minute for Dr. Patel to see them through a non-cooperating, largely unfocused pair of eyes. And then he burst out laughing. He laughed loud, awfully loud, aided no doubt by the spirit flowing freely through his veins like gutter in the Ganges.
The doctor could not control his laughter and collapsed on the floor. The two brothers lifted him and gently took him to the drawing room, where he collapsed again, laughing all the time. After what seemed like an eternity, he switched from the laughing mode to speaking mode like an old car finally able to change gears.
"Who bought these birds, what did the shop wallah tell you?.
Sushil was happy to answer,
"I bought them doctor. The shop wallah told me that if we feed them properly, they will lay eggs in a month. Did we overfeed them Sir?"
The doctor laughed again, but luckily it was a short duration performance,
"Go back to the rascal shop wallah and ask him was he delivered by his mother or his father?"
And he started laughing again.
The two brothers looked at each other, unable to understand this weighty comment. The doctor came to their rescue,
"Manager Sahab, I know in Kaliyug many miracles can happen, but can a pair of roosters lay eggs? You should have bought two female birds, my dear Sushil, not these two rogues eating away all your feed and enjoying life like pampered pumpkins"
And the doctor started laughing again.
The next Sunday the two hefty birds who had assumed the proportion of Sumo wrestlers, were killed and produced close to seven kilos of meat. The two brothers were at a fix what to do with it. Like a loyal brother, who would have made Laxman of the Ramayana proud, Sushil suggested to his elder brother that the meat should be sent to the home of the big lawyer of the town who had gone all the way to meet their parents in the village, offering the hands of his beautiful daughter to the young banker. Thanks to the two martyred roosters, the enterprising banker also turned out to be a gem of a person who was undoubtedly large hearted. Otherwise who, except an African tribal chief, thinks of gifting seven kilos of chicken to his prospective bride?
They got married two months later.
Sushil made sure that extra large omelettes were served to all the guests at the marriage feast.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
1
Laxmidhar Majhi parked his bicycle in front of Hanuman temple , got off and raised both his arms in unison with devotion The aarti was going on with cymbals and drums in background. Somehow, he felt comforted . It was the comfort of someone very powerful being with you. The aarti ended and he saw a portly man in clean white pajama kurta with angavastra surrounded by a posse of gun toting policemen coming out. He just moved his cycle away. If he had not, they would have forcibly moved him anyway.
He had his last 500 rupee note. There were a few tens and twentys left still, but they did not amount to more than Rs. 200 All provisions at home were finished. No atta, no rice, no dal. All his basti neighbours purchased these necessaries in excess four days back. But he just brought what was necessary for the next three or four days. First of all, it was the last one third of the month when money always finished off miraculously.. Secondly, he did not have too much left after settling house rent and sending some money home. Finally the price looked exorbitant, at least fifty percent more than the normal price. He thought it was the Covid scare, Janata Curfew and panic buying which is pushing the prices up. He chose to wait out for a few days for a somewhat reasonable price. This he did out of habit; but his experience was whatever looked pricey to begin with became and felt normal after sometime. After all Janata Curfew was there for a day. There was another option, he could have taken the train home to Bihar like so many people did. There was the scare of contacting Covid-19 in the train itself, but more importantly Annapurna, his wife was suffering from mild fever with body aches. It was prudent to take care of her by staying back rather than lugging a sick person. He took her to a local clinic, the doctor gave some paracetomol and fever was managed .She felt better. But now a week long shutdown was announced.
He went to the grocery store. This time around he thought he would buy for the left out period of the month, full 8 days, until the shutdown ended. The shopkeeper quoted the price that was double of the price 4 days ago. Aloo was Rs. 80/- a kg., rice: Rs.40 a kg and onions was Rs. 70/- a kg. He asked why it had gone up so much. The answer was the wholesalers, mostly businessmen from Western India have hiked up the price. The shopkeeper was a businessman himself but a small businessman. He appeared less greedy and more accommodative. Sometimes, he used to give on udhaar what was popularly known as credit. He negotiated a ‘credit’ this time as some money was required for Annapurna’s treatment. The shopkeeper made the bill of Rs. 460/- rounded off to Rs. 500/-. Laxmidhar normally did not like the idea of profiteering in times of difficulty, But this was tolerable. He was thankful even. What would he have done without this arrangement? He would have been left with around couple of hundred only. Of course, he can borrow from his neighbour Raghuveer , an auto rickshaw driver , from Nawada like him. But these are difficult days for all. No one is going to work because of lockdown.
Raghuveer was a jolly good fellow, very helpful but what can he do when times are so grim. Laxmidhar thanked Almighty God for coming to his rescue. The grocery store owner might have contrived the scarcity and the increased the price but he finally helped. Had he not, it would have been tough. The construction site where he was a mason was closed now for a week. There won’t be any daily earning. The Chief Minister had announced that all workers would be paid by their employers. But its impact was unknown. In any case politician’s announcements were like promises written on water. If pressed for. It would not be there. Finally, almighty God would take care, though he did not exactly know how He would . Faith in God was like an umbrella, what if it leaks when it pours. Sheer availability was so reassuring.
His thoughts went back to to conversation in the grocery store. People were talking about Corona virus, the sole reason for the lockdown. They were talking about lack of testing kits for confirming Corona patients and how the order for purchase has been given to some crony firms by the government. What if they don’t function properly? But why should he bother himself? He was not a busy body after all..
2
In a small cubicle in another part of the city the rotund wholesaler & his munshi were discussing details about pricing. The wholesaler wanted the sale price to the retailers to l double during the lockdown. It was an opportunity not to be allowed to pass by. The Munshi had reservation because he thought the retailers wold object.
“ Tell them to enhance their profit margin by 100%. When maal is in short supply, the price can go up. The police will stop the lorries and there is a price for it. People can’t survive without these essentials. Poor is poor because of their past life karma..’” clinched the wholesaler’. Iwas followed by a non-chalant question. “ How much will be our profit be after the increase in the price?”
“ Sir, it will be Rs.50 lakh per day. Hanuman temple and Sparsh NGOs were trying to contact you.’
“Oh! I forgot about it. I had promised them a donation each. O.K. give Rs. 20,000/- to Sparsh & Rs. 2 lakh to Hanuman temple.
Munshi wanted to know how to deploy the extra earning. The seth was very clear headed. If the retailers wanted loans they could take Rs. 1 lakh each at 20% interest per quarter repayable over a period of three months. If the cycle goes beyond three months, interest rate will be reset. The Munshi was clear now
Karma and compounding interest looked like two sides of the same coin.
3
Laxmidhar is distraught now. The month has ended, the lock down has continued for a period of 3 weeks. There is no payment in sight, The contractor he worked with when contacted on mobile explained his own problem. When no payment has been made to him how can he make payment to his workers. To add up to Laxmidhar’s problems, Annapurna’s fever is high most of the time,. He needs to take her for Corona Virus test. He has completely run out of money. The test costs Rs. 4500/-. But he does not have even Rs. 50/- now. Covid-19 is a severe acute respiratory disease caused by Corona Virus suspected to have originated from Wet market in Wuhan, China.
He went to Raghuveer who gave him a loan of Rs. 2000/-. Not having a famility to support gave lot of flexibility to Raghuveer apart from having some surplus squirreled away. Laxmidhar still required Rs. 2500/- for the test.
Must God test him every time? How does he organize the money for the test? Life is becoming like the game of getting out of a maze.
4
The grocery store owner is heard to be helping people. He would try his luck with him., thought Laxmidhar.
Grocer -You want ration. It is all exhausted. I can only give Atta and Potato.
Laxmidhar - No Sethji, my problem is my wife’s health. She needs to take the test .. I required Rs. 3000/- for her test . Can you please lend me Rs. 3000/-?.
Grocer _ Well it is difficult, I would give you Rs. 2500/- but at 30% interest per quarter. You will have to put some gold ornament as a collateral..
Laxmidhar looked at the gold ring he was wearing on his left index finger. This was given to him as a gift during his marriage. Going by what people say, the value of it should be Rs. 20000/- at present price. But he decided to give it as a guarantee as he did not have much time to check, What else could be given as a collateral? He kept his ring as guarantee and collected Rs. 2500/- loan at 30% interest per quarter. Anyway, next month he would get it released. Not too much of a risk then.
5
On his way back home, he felt much relieved . A weight has gone off his shoulder, though the test and treatment were still ahead. As usual the cars were parked on both sides of the road. But now the roads were empty . No driver was around and the cars were standing there accumulating dust. This being the month of April , the patjhad meant lots of dry leaves were there on the cars. The conservancy staff of municipal corporation cleared the kerb regularly but the cars stood there untidily. That was when Nirakar came out of the gate of the house where he was working. He was from the neighbouring district of Gaya and was working as a man Friday for Mr. Malhotra,the house owner..
“Saheb has sent me to fetch someone who can clean the car during the lockdown, What are you doing these days? If you are not doing anything , why don’t you come and talk to Saheb.”Nirakar said. For Laxmidhar it was god sent. He was not doing anything.” Cleaning a car is a twenty minutes job”. At least he would earn some money, he argued to himself.
Nirakar took him him to meet Mr. Malhotra,
“How much will you take for 3 weeks?’After the lockdown is lifted the driver will return and he normally does this work.”
‘Rs. 2500/- , sir’’
‘”That is too high. I will give you Rs, 2000/-. But do a good job.”’ Malhotra was agreeing because it was for a short period and not many people were available. Laxmidhar knew that the going rate was Rs. 1500/- per month. For 3 weeks if he was getting Rs. 2000/-, he was profiteering too. But he did not feel bad about it .God would understand, he justified to himself. What else would he do when he had no earning and his wife was sick?
He came out quickly. Soon he bagged the job of cleaning four cars. It was a seller’s market and Laxmidhar had nothing to complain about..
6
In the party Presidents’ office, the Health Minister was making an impassioned plea for immediate purchase of 2000 ventilators by import. The ventilators were in short supply.. The portly party president had a deliberate and measured way of speaking. There was a framed photograph of Lord Ram and Hanuman on the wall.
The contention of the Party President was why to instead of domestically producing them import ? We should domestically produce them. The Health Minister was knew that they didn’t have the luxury of time. Finally the president of the party came out with his idea that the manufacturing could be done by some supporters of the party and what better time is there better than crisis to stand by the friends.
“ But there is no one with experience. They will not qualify, how will we give ti to them. Anyway, it is an SOS, we need them in the next 15 days time” . The health Minister emphasized..
“Bhaiji, don’t forget crisis is an opportunity. Don’t do anything now. Allow it to snowball into a crisis. We will offer to PSUs to do it.”
“They may not be able to do it.”
“That is precisely the advantage we will get. We will declare that PSUs are inefficient and then we can offer it to our friends. They will deliver, make handsome profit and claim patriotic action.”. Now there is a smile on his face
“ But they can’t manufacture so quickly”.
“Why do they need to ? They will import SKD kits, assemble them and give it to the government.”. The President had everything planned out. The Minister had a premonition that newspapers would dig and would write all about it. But the president was confident that during the lockdown it won’t happen. Finally he spewed wisdom .
“Remember the Matshya Nyaya --- the big fish will always eat the small fish. Our job is to make big fish out of small fishes who are with us, so that the existing big fishes become smaller.”
The minister explained about largescale shortage of masks , gloves and surgical coats. There was a suspicion that wholesalers were hoarding it was imperative to organize raids on them.
The answer of the President froze him-“ Not at all . Suppliers are our supporters, We should allow them to make some profit. Profit is the oil that drives the world . Let’s not go against it. We will have to help in the construction of New Hanuman temple. Your department will have to play a big role.’
7
Going by what TV showed Annapurna’s could be symptoms of Covid 19, There was no auto , bus or taxi service. She must see a doctor , collect prescription and go through the test., Raghuveer came to Laxmidhar’s rescue. He brought his mobike to take them both. He knew the inside road to hospital where the police would not be there in deployment. Both of them were chatting waiting for Annapurna to come out. Raghuveer’s face became intense as if he was concentrating on something else.
“I will be back in a minute from my house’’ Raghuveer said.
He came back with a packet and kept it on the storage bin of the mobike. Annapurna came and all of them started. It was not difficult for three persons on the mobike to travel on deserted streets.
A kilometer earlier to the hospital , Raghuveer spotted a constable,but proceded regardless. The cop stopped them and told them to go back. Raghuveer explained that they were on the way to hospital and Annapurna was running fever.
“You will have to stay indoors. Go back. I can’t permit you to go. That is the order”. The constable said.
Raghuveer said something to him, came back ,took the packet from the storage bin and gave it to him, The constable let them go. Laxmidhar enquired what the stuff was.
“It was only a bottle of rum from Army canteen, I had collected it before lockdown. Very cheap’’
7
Laxmidhar was awaiting the test report. Annapurna again got fever. The neighbours who were otherwise ready to help always stopped coming.They said it wasCorona Virus.. Laxmidhar was cooking and sleeping outside on the verandah. Some people advised them to wear mask. The stock of mask had run out in the market. He improvised a handkerchief as a mask.
Everyone avoided meeting him and somehow did not like Laxmidhar coming close to them. Even Raghuveer was not keen on visiting him often. It was a relief when the the test report came and the ambulance came to take Annapurna to the special ward of the hospital. She had tasted positive.
How strange? Bad news sometimes feel like good news.
9
. He was not allowed to visit her. The good part was govt. hospital took the whole responsibility for her upkeep. Somehow, he felt relieved. The relief one gets by placing a valuable with someone else, though that person can lose it. It was comfort of moving the responsibility. In the hospital, they were talking about something called ventilators not being there. They were also talking about gloves, masks and aprons not being there in adequate quantity. People in the hospital were not very happy. Clearly the hospital was overwhelmed by events.. What if Annapurna required something and that item not being there? Laxmidhar thought . Govt. would take care of the problem was his comforting thought.
On the way, there was a Hanuman temple, one which he visited off and on. Laxmidhar went into the temple. The aarti was taking place. He fervently prayed that Annapurna recovered soon. People said the disease was dangerous and can lead to death. But the doctor had said she had age in her favour . He sat down and prayed. He even though that after recovery, he would have a small puja done. Though they did not have children yet, Annapurna was his support. She cooked food, took care of the house and prepared his lunch of Roti and Dal before he went to the construction site everyday except on Sundays. In this city, it is easy to get work but not easy to get friends. He felt lucky that he has a soul mate and companion. The Pandit came with his aarati thali now. The man standing next to his was a rotund man. The priest stayed in front of him. He looked a rich man. He took out a 500 rupees note and put it on the thali. The beatific smile the priest wore rivaled the God’s.. When Aarati came to him, he also felt like giving something. He did not have much. But everyone was putting money on the tray. He didn’t understand whether it is for thanksgiving or for buying insurance during the time of Corona epidemic. The tray was brimming with money . He also put a Rs. 10/- note as everyone was putting money there. He didn’t want to appear miserly.
After Aarati was over everyone turned back to go. The rotund man put a bunch of Rs. 500/- note in the Hundi. Others too put some money, mostly 50 rupees or 100 rupees notes. He groped around in his pocket. There was only a Rs. 20 rupee note. He is only left within Rs. 50/- in his house. He thought whether he would put some money or not ? On impulse he took out twenty rupees note and put it in the Hundi. After all, Annapurna needs to get well soon. Instead of thanksgiving it is better to give it up front. That made him penniless that very moment.
He started walking out of the door thereafter. On impulse he turned back to look at the deity. The deity was smiling, he thought. It was a smile of satisfaction.
Now a portly man surrounded by police man was entering the temple. Someone was carrying a heavy brief case. He looked radiant , almost like an extension of God. This is the first time he saw him really and felt humbled and scared at he same time. He moved to the left to give way. He must have been an important person to sail in like this . Not even deigning to look at anyone including him. He didn’t even notice him even if he was in the line of vision. Laxmidhar thought he saw a beatific smile on the portly man’s face like the God’s. He turned back again see the God’s face. The smile appeared wider now.
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.
I am named El Nino,
Born out of trade wind flow,
Making sea surface warm,
Unlike the usual norm.
With trade winds weakening,
Causing global warming,
Leading to weak monsoon,
Resulting in drought soon.
La Nina, my sibling,
A surprise, she will spring,
Making cool, sea surface.
Due to the wind shear space,
The trade winds grow stronger,
Giving hurricanes power,
With destructive impacts,
Borne out by researched facts.
Both change ocean process,
Resulting in nexus,
With the rainfall pattern
And Global weather churn.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
(Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
The stars, the palm grove, the sea, and the soil
stood witnesses to our union,
joined by the night birds, the moonbeams,
and a lethargic moth;
all sang the language of love.
The love was being celebrated
between a flower and a bee; we
the protagonists flagged it off.
Even the ocean did not dare
to drown our truth.
The scandal and gossip
were our neighbours
spreading our secret love, a curse
like the earthquake, not partisan
to its victims, whether
herbivore or carnivore.
Love has equally infected all,
“the holier than thou”, as well as
the untouchable sweeper, not sparing
even the Sabari of Lord Ram-fame.
Who says, “Love’s passion has no virtue” or
“It’s not the staple need of the righteous”?
The words of a false messiah?
Even Indra, the just King of gods,
chases Urvashi, the celestial nutch-girl,
ignoring his royal consort Indrani?
Our love has been magical and angelic,
it not only charms
but holds us in thrall, and trance;
we dive deep beyond water and mud
to reach the buried treasure trove,
open it up; it rises and shines.
The love has taught us to walk
through the primitive jungle,
cross the treacherous pass,
boat across mighty rivers -
Sindhu, Sutlej, and Saraswati,
reach its lush valley,
build the love-nest
with moonbeams and dream-rafters.
(The poem is from the author’s book of poems “Sahaja Sundari”, translated for LV with her consent.)
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
Silence is self healing
your thoughts come often
but they don't hurt anymore
I am rediscovering
life without you
Isolation is my gift
to myself
knowing and loving myself
is not easy
I take one step at a time
as of now I have learnt
not to hate one
who hurts you the most
someday I will know
some day I will learn
to love myself
more than I ever loved you.
You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay, this book transformed my life. Working on your self is a work in progress, it never gets done ever.
This book happened to me as a chance encounter, visiting a friend's house. She had a photo copy of this book, the book was not available for sale in India at that point of time. She was preoccupied with something and I was flipping through the pages and immediately realised how important it was for me to read it. I pleaded with her to let me have it at least for a few days. I read it several times. I still keep it as my bedside reference book.
I must have gifted, "You Can Heal Your Life" to more than two hundred people over the years, to friends who are in need of it. Louise said, "The book will happen to you when you are ready for it and when you need it the most".
I needed it at that point of my life and it really helped me. I still refer to it for all big and small issues and ailments. The affirmations given in the book, work like wonder. It is a treatise on positive thinking. It makes you understand that you, only you are responsible for what happens in your life. It teaches you how to love yourself more than anything or anyone.
For each ailment of yours there is a thought pattern within you. You need to change it consciously. First step is to resolve to change your own self. You should give up all resistance to change your own self, you should be willing to change. I followed this book like a book of prayers. I transformed myself and it was visible to all who were around me. The book taught me how to live beautifully.
When you let go of your past, learn to forgive not only others but yourself for your mistakes, life becomes worth living.
It teaches you to become aware of your thoughts and change them in a positive way. It is an ongoing process.
Now I love my life, have no regrets. Each day is a new opportunity for me to be happier and do only what is meaningful.
This book has changed the life of millions including me. It makes you understand the value of a THOUGHT. It can devastate you or can take you to dizzy heights. It is your choice. So think positive, think big. You can limit your growth by having limiting vision.
Think big, do big, become big. It is simply in your own hands. Only you are responsible for your life and growth. So start loving yourself right now.
People like you, who are incapable of accepting love in its purest form, find thousands of excuses to escape love. I know where it comes from, you, like many more do not know love, if you cannot love your own self, you can neither love others nor receive love from others. Learn to be kind, tender, loving to yourself first, then you will know love, you will know compassion. Love begins with you, take care of your body, don't beat yourself for making mistakes, for being imperfect and not hitting the targets every time. Handle yourself with tender kindness, you deserve love and joy. Indulge in loving yourself and you will attract true love in your life. It is inside you, you are an ocean of love.
Have a close look at your own self. Observe your thoughts about your own self. Are you kind and loving towards yourself or you often beat yourself up for making mistakes which are so damn silly? If you are harsh with yourself, resolve to be kind now. It is alright to make mistakes and learn from it. You are not perfect, you are a learner, learn your lessons and move forward with the lesson. Life is all about learning, experiencing and celebrating it along the way. Please make time to forgive yourself and set yourself free from your own stern judgements. That is the first step towards self love.
Second step is forgiving others and that also is self love. You forgive others primarily to free your own self, it not only unburdens you mentally and emotionally but also adds to your well being immensely. Work on it, it should be your first priority in life. It will improve your relationship with others if you want or if you want to move on from someone it will also help you to do so. It will set them free as well as it will set you free. If you wish to attain peace and harmony in life, do it now. You may have a big list of such people, start forgiving each one of them one at a time. It is a process and it takes a lot of time to do it but every second spent on this mission is well spent. You can find heaven on this earth by doing so. Make it a daily habit and enjoy the process. Each passing day will make you feel better and freer. This is self love and definitely you become a better person.
Delhi based Sangeeta has 35 solo exhibitions of paintings, 21 published books, 10 books translated in other languages,11 documentary films to her credit so far. In March 2020, she created the longest Indigo Painting on sustainable hand spun khaddar textile.
There is a collection of short stories and twelve anthologies of poems in Hindi to her credit. Her poems are translated in many languages ie in German, Greek, Mandarin, English Bangla, Dogri, Tamil and Urdu. Weaves Of Time, Ekam, Song 0f Silence and Ends Are Beginnings are her 4 collection of poems in English. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography.
Poems by Sangeeta Gupta were adjudged as highly commended poems for October and November 2019, July, August ,October and December 2020 by Destiny Poets International Community of Poets (ICOP), Wakefield, UK. Sangeeta has been adjudged as one of the Commended critics for December 2019, by Destiny Poets International Community of Poets (ICOP),Wakefield,UK.
A new world awakens
to a new dawn...
while the gentle wind
wafts in whispering the
provenance, permuatations, promises
the lake disturbed with
countless ripples, bubbles
grows calm, and the pebbles that fell on it
lie still in peace in depths..
march ahead we must,
mustering courage..
masked let us explore
the masked mysteries of life...
trees we were in distanced solitude, but we survived the storm...
though denuded of its leaves and branches, we
entrenched our roots firm
in the living earth, our abode we overlooked, now keeping it pristine
precious ..
crossing the river of life,
in paced abandon, its ride and tide
flowing with the flow
we learnt love, kindness...
that the other is but our own unpredictable, sensitive self
all filckering particles
floating in space !
march ahead we must
mustering courage..
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).
From data to inferences
Padmini Janardhanan
Kala: Mala, did you get the crayons?
Mala: No, I quite forgot all about it.
Bala: Did you not go to the shop to buy it?
Mala: Yes,.. I did go to the shop. But I came back buying some of my favourite chocolates
Bala: Just like the pussy cat.
Kala: Whatever is that now?
Bala: Don’t you remember your nursery rhyme? Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?
Kala and Mala together: I went up to London to look at the queen.
Bala: Pussy cat Pussy cay what did you there?
Mala: I frightened the little mouse under the chair.
Bala: Even though you went all the way up to London to look at the queen.
Ha ha ha. And Mala bought chocolates even though she went up to the shop to buy crayons.
Kala: Maybe that is true of Mala today, but how are you so sure that that is the case with the pussy cat? It only said, “I frightened the little mouse under the chair”. It never said, “I did not see the queen whom I went to see”. Maybe it did see the queen after all.
Bala: Maybe. But again, maybe not. The Pussy cat went all the way, taking all the pains it did to see the queen, but after going there, it did not know what to do in order to see the queen, so it did what it did know to do – frighten a little mouse.
Mala: And proudly said what it did – which it could have done right at home too
Bala: Pussy cats will be pussy cats wherever they go, I suppose.
Kala: I think both of you are being very unfair to the little pussy. Afterall it did go intending to see the queen
And the question was not, “What all did you do there?” It already said it went there to see the queen and so just added this little bit.
Bala: Well, I remember this quiz question that my brother was talking about. Let us see if you can answer it. A hunter went out determined to shoot at least 10 birds that day. There were several birds on the tree. He had a good aim and enough bullets in his gun. How many do you think he came home with?
Kala: One? Because when he shot one, the others all flew away?
Bala: As the story goes, no, that is not the answer.
Mala: 10? He waited patiently and reached his target.
Bala: As the story goes, no, he was not that enterprising.
Mala: Then?
Bala: None. He shot none because intending does not mean he did it. Intentions are not actions.
Mala: I know you are saying the same thing about the little pussy as well.
Bala: I am not saying it. The story is saying it. The rhyme is saying it.
Kala: But with the pussy, we are only … what is that word meaning reading the meaning?
Mala: Inferring
Kala: Right. We are only inferring it.
Bala: True. But, given the data as in the poem, the inference seems right.
Mala: I think it could be a matter of pride in talent. After all, chasing mice is the pussy’s talent and it is proud of it. It may or may not have seen the queen.
Bala: Well, yes. I think all these are possible. It may have seen the queen but not reported about it or maybe it did not see the queen at all.
Mala: Or, there is another possibility. Maybe it could not see the queen. You see, protocol and all that. So, having gone all the way it just did not want to come without having a little fun, so it just chased a mouse around.
Bala: That is really good thinking on your part. And when asked, it did not want to admit that it did not get entry; so, cleverly, changed the topic and just said what it did anyway.
Kala: It is just a nursery rhyme and we are making so much of it.
Bala: All we have is data. We infer from the data to get information. The more realistic our inference the more reliable the information.
Kala: Why! That was clever of you to think that
Mala: It is what they call creative thinking and Bala is particularly good at it.
Bala: Thanks. But I think both of you also are good at such thinking. After all, you have come up with so many possible inferences.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
The Comet NEOWISE was within 64.3 million miles of earth in July 2020, close enough that we were able to see it with our naked eye or with simple binoculars. Almost the entire world spent a few nights staring into the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the celestial body. Perhaps if it was a living being or had life on it, we could have had a conversation with it, probably along these lines.
Dear NEOWISE,
What’s the news?
Hope you are fine,
not having blues.
We are very excited,
to speak to you.
To make things easier,
have named you too.
There are a few things,
we want to comprehend.
Where do you come from?
Have you visited beforehand?
Although earth has existed
for billions of years,
we have just evolved,
so, we won’t know for sure.
Celestial bodies rarely come,
this close to us.
Apparently, one hit and
destroyed our dinosaurs.
Why did you come here?
Were you also just curious?
Did you get called by the sun,
or serve another purpose?
Anyway, please don’t mind
our prying and be shy.
It’s lovely to watch you,
adorning our night sky.
Visiting us from beyond
the snow line, far away.
Have you met anyone
like us, along the way?
You carry the mystery in,
your rocks, ice and dust,
but a holiday into the tropics,
is really burning you up.
The steam you let off,
as our sun roasts you,
Leaves an exquisite trail,
while you pass through.
We try to catch a glimpse,
filled with wonder,
For you look beautiful,
So, we just admire.
We hope and try
to travel far into space,
so, may call on you,
or your other associates.
Else if we manage to
survive and mature,
learn to balance
progress with nature.
We will meet on
your next trip here,
seven millenniums
into our distant future.
Have a safe journey
back to your terrain.
So long, adieu,
till we meet again.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
Anvik, our cute little wonder boy,
marked his arrival with immense joy.
In my warmth and shade, he sleeps
In my sudden absence, he loudly weeps.
Often wet is his diaper
that makes him hyper.
He delights me with his cherubic smile
making me oblivious of life's tiring mile.
His serene charm captures me
And in all my thoughts, there's he.
He fills my heart with too much of pleasure,
He's the darling divine design I treasure.
Your lovely gestures thrill mom and dad
You are the rhythm of our life, my little lad.
Your boyish pranks enthrall everyone
You just make us all gleeful, my little one.
Hearty congrats, cutie pie on your arrival
All our happiness and heartiness on your revival!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
You’re the epitome of love,
selflessness and sacrifice
You ever bless your children
for their success and happiness
Their smile is a treat for you
You cherish anything they do
They show your loving image
They dwell in your protective cage!
For their prosperity, you ever strive
and help them gladly survive
You taught them discipline and skill
and always prayed for their goodwill
Your voice is a great strength to all
You stood by them in every single fall
They could lie on your shoulder, in pain
You don’t do anything to acquire gain!
O mother, you don’t expect any award
You proudly say the child is your ward
Every person has limits to work hard
But you don’t have any notable record!
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.
During this pandemic i think each one of us focussed more on home cooked food with restaurants not offering home deliveries and take away services during this unforeseen circumstances,even though most of these services are functional still one tends to avoid bringing in food from outside.
Rahul has always enjoyed home cooked food specially his rice and curry, but yes there are moments of hunger cravings when he demands a ???? ???? or a burger ???? ????.... the total junk food as per my belief. Whenever he would want one he would start uttering the word, and if we ignored his verbal prompts the next step would be to hand over a pamphlet to us that would be full of colourful pics. Rahul is a visual thinker and has a better understanding of things through pictures as he cannot read, this also goes in for his choice of songs, he identifies them through the pics running on you tube. Work on this area continues as we want him to be more verbal, as sometimes it results in a lot of frustration at both ends.
Yesterday almost after a gap of eight months we were forced to order pizza. In the evening it was just the perfect time to sip away our tiredness with the brewing green tea, when suddenly Rahul comes running ???? ???? to us and hands over money???? ???? and says""pizza pizza "",I suddenly remembered I had paid the machiwala who comes religiously on his khatara scootie and had delivered fresh bhangra pieces. He had returned the balance amount and in a hurry I had pushed it inside the drawer to make the seasons first methi parathas for Rahul.
What amused us is that the money concept is slowly sinking in. He has understood that you need to give money in order to receive, but alas the concept of quantity is going to be the toughest skill to acquire.... either less or more. We too enjoyed some relaxed moments with a whole lot of pride and the aroma of oregano surrounding us.
I think i really need to learn making pizzas at home, can't put all the learning for him alone..... we too need to progress a little.
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.
Wanting a freeing feeling from the claustrophobic lockdown
I went for a meditative stroll in my rock garden
That I had constructed in my little backyard
For a zen walk
But a recent shower, though welcoming
Had made the rounded stones un-walkable for me.
Not that they were slippery
But I didn’t quite relish the feel of wetness
When my soles had to touch them—
It just wasn’t right for a zen walk, I grumbled.
Wishing to imbibe some calm from the laid out beauty
My eye engaged with the gravelly sand—
The patterns of circular rivulets
That I had so carefully raked to a ripple
Was dishevelled… oh no, the rain’s doing!
The rain sure would have brought in
Repulsive creepies too
So I set to walk along the meandering pathways
My zen flowering plants to survey
The azaleas and the woodland primroses
The rain had made them fresher, of course
But there, on the stalk of my young clematis
Moving as if in no hurry was the mollusc
I dreaded to find.
‘Cheee!’ I grimaced in disgust
And went about to repel it with spray.
Just as I took aim, the garden rocked
The snail vanished and in its stead
Emerged the resplendent supreme form
Of my Lord Krishna!
Even as I beheld Him with stupefied wonder
I saw smiling at me from His left hand
The snail I was about to terminate—
The shanka? The Panchajanya?
The shock intensified as one by one
Of Krishna’s symbols revealed themselves to me—
His skin, the blue of the skies
Peethambara dhari, adorning the yellow of golden harvest
His Vanamali, earth’s flora; His mayur, earth’s fauna
Red His lips, the richness of fruits
His Murali, a breath of fresh air
Keshava, His hair, the waves of the surging ocean
And His Chakra, the Su-Darshana—
Auspicious sight…
Of the wind and the rain
Of the sun and the moon
Of the soil and its creatures
Of the planets and the galaxies
And in the middle of all this extravaganza
A surrealistic miniscule — me!
I, a dot, just a paltry dot
In the astronomical scheme of the Universe!
All I can do is create, in my backyard
A nanoscopic representation of this enormity
For a few moments of peace to snatch
A respite from life’s ever-hurried momentum
An escape from the wreck brought on me
By me!
Flustered by my brazen stupidness
I closed my eyes in embarrassment
And when I opened them again
The snail was on the stalk of my young clematis.
My intention to harm now dissipated, I walked away
Welcoming the wetness of the rounded stones
I paced my feet, heel first as if in zen walking
My subdued strides synchronising with my breath
My eyes engaged with the gravelly sand
Not disrupted as a human would
But so beautifully dis-arranged by the rain
As only Nature can.
(Panchajanya, the sacred conch, is one of the attributes of Krishna. The shell of a sea snail, Panchajanya, when blown, emits a deep, vibrant sound that is resonant of ‘Om’.
Zen gardens or Japanese rock gardens are dry, miniature landscapes created to aid meditation. One of the features of a zen garden is an arrangement of sand or gravel which is carefully raked to form circles or ripples.
Peethambara dhari is Krishna, the One who wears (dhari) garments (ambara) of yellow (pita)
Vanamali, the One who wears a garland of forest flowers, indicating Krishna
Mayur is the peacock feather Krishna dons on His hair
Murali, the bamboo reed or flute that Krishna plays music from
Keshava is Krishna so called because of His long, beautiful hair (kesh)
Chakra, the Su-Darshana, or the Sudarshan Chakra is another of Krishna’s attributes. Su-Darshana literally means “auspicious vision”. This Chakra (wheel) is a spinning weapon having serrated edges meant to cut off egoistic heads. Which leads to “auspicious vision”.)
Vidya Shankar, a widely published Indian poet, writer, English teacher, a “book” in the Human Library, and an editor with Kavya-Adisakrit (an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House), says poetry is not different from her. The author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam (in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan), and The Rise of Yogamaya, she has received several literary awards and recognitions. She finds meaning to her life through yoga and mandalas.
Dark or light skinned
Fellow beings are we
With Hearts of Gold
Created in same mould
By ONE and the only ONE
No reason to feel Superior or Inferior
Because of the skin colour.
What matters is being evolved within
And become a better human being
Showing concern for man, woman and children
Without any Discrimination .
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.
Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle)
A minor disturbance,
As a pebble drops,
Violent splashes,
In oceans though!
A rhythm captured,
As it kisses and recedes,
Soapy foams trailing,
Striking and brilliant coloured shells remain,
What a beauty!
The turbulent waves reminding me,
Fear not from failures,
To become comfortable with my discomforts,
Tapping my abilities,
Abounding novel concepts hitting my head,
How true!
When pressure thrusted,
The strength revealed!
Plethora of emotions running in my mind,
Mind in cognition,
Feel of love, feel of empathy,
Feel of romance, truly a blend,
All positives reverberating.
The victim being the rock,
What may come! To remain robust,
Enduring the pain.
Anger too splashes,
Dangerous though,
Give it not a longer life span,
Not leave a scar on your tender heart,
Overcome it with a gentle smile.
Break open the barriers,
Thrive to blossom every day,
Channelize the energies,
Pushing hard as these rocks,
Let life's impedance pose as stepping-stones,
Make a headway every time,
Pause you may,
Quit you may not.
Waves soaring high,
Tremendous energy in-built,
Remaining quiescent if no obstacles in its path,
Showcasing the power of nature,
What a beauty!
Crystal clear splashes.
Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (pen name -Dazzle) is an avid researcher in the field of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology. Her university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively, fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. A doctorate from University of Madras; started her research and teaching experience at a Diabetes Research Hospital. She is known amongst her students as somebody who teaches with passion. She took this ethos to a school and also excelled as Assistant Professor in a reputed University, Chennai and then for a brief stint at the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. She has prolific knowledge in the fields of Cancer, Diabetes and Horticulture. The last of which is being put to use currently at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research, Bengaluru. Her other passions include yoga, sudoku, poetry, sketching, gardening and experimenting new cuisines. Besides a science content writer, an editor for “Science Shore” e-zine, she has published her oeuvres in Bangalore Poetry Circle, International writers Journal, Adisakrit (Green Awakenings), Positive vibes, Chennai Poetry Circle (accepted for publication) and Indian Periodicals. She draws inspiration from others and is always cheerful!
Years ago, opened up my heart to catch the spring,
unheard music crept in,
butterflies flapped their wings,
rested for a moment on my head
and fled fast for no cause,
all my calls went in vain,
doubts started.
Years ago, beckoned the birds to perch on my arms,
some nodded their heads, descended from clouds, moved above my head round and round,
asked them to build a nest,
birds flew somewhere,
agonies lingered.
Nowadays, look at the sky,
birds are not to be seen, long disappeared,
butterflies no longer quiver,
saw the blossoms swaying in the winds,
they smile and smile
fill me with mirth,
mind is free from sorrow.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
Do not feel too much
That you are not with me.
You are there
as much with the woods
as with me.
The trees feel your presence
And tell me to recognise
In the breeze that blows;
In the dews that doze lazily
Camouflaged by smoke.
If they can, the leaves would invoke
Your reminiscences hazily in their contours
I walk on unmindful of my weariness
Goaded by your all pervading presence!
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
‘He who has a why to live for can bear almost anyhow’— Nietzsche
The first rays of the sun stoke
the embers of yesterday’s hunger.
He lumbers up to push the boulder
up the the hill of the garbage dump.
The street narrow and potholed like
his diseased tail pulsates with fleas.
Hunger is the colour of the sky. He knows
a bread-moon and its crumbs as stars.
When the clouds bring arsenic rain
he ducks under the shadow of the great leader
now statue-ed in to a fading memory
whose raised fingers point beyond city lights
towards a land too far from his shores.
Tonight agin he will curl in to sleep
on the boiling waters deep in his caves.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English
Two flowers in one stem
They see each other
Smile at each
Two in One
Or One in Two?
Each is rich
Yet each is each
Who is nobler?
You or the other !
Is not there a subtle race to show one better?
For the appreciation of the beholder
Even though they are two-in-one
Or One in Two!
Competition inevitable even among Flowers
Beneath the surface even flows a river
Underlit runs the penchant to show superior!
Between he or she and the half better!
Don’t Pundits say it is the Law of Nature?
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
I looked up from my morning newspaper at the sound of the gate opening. The man staggering through the light mist looked familiar. And when he crossed the portico I found it was Gouranga, my classmate from college. What shocked me was his severely disheveled appearance, the stained shirt, the unruly hair and the drained out face. It was as if he had been molested by a rampaging bull. I almost laughed at the idea. Gouranga was the most handsome looking guy in our group, right from the college days, but one cannot imagine a bull taking a fancy to him, no matter how handsome.
Gouranga slumped onto the chair and looked at me with some kind of disquiet clouding his face. Before I could ask him what it was he blurted out,
"Subrat, give me something to drink, quick."
There was a glass of water on the small table. I extended it to him and got up,
"Take this, let me go and get you a cup of tea. It's already made, I just finished my first cup; I will be back in two minutes."
Gouranga broke into a shriek, like a man hit by a devil,
"You idiot, I am not asking for a cup of tea. Give me something strong, very strong."
I looked at him in disbelief, my mind failing to register what he was asking for. Something very strong? At six thirty in the morning?
I sat down,
"You dirty son of a skunk, just leave now, go back the same way you came. I am not going to give you something very strong at this hour of the day".
Gouranga looked as if he will break into a sob,
"Please Subrat, I am going to die if you don't give me something strong to drink. Please!"
I got up, my gaze fixed on him, wondering what kind of wringer the poor guy had gone through to be reduced such pathetic state. I went inside, poured a liberal doze of whiskey into a glass, and brought it with me. I thought he would add the water from the glass I had initially offered him. To my utter shock, he gulped down the whiskey in one go and banged the glass on the table. I was speechless! Does anyone drink whisky like that? Has he gone crazy?
Gouranga looked at me and folded his hands,
"One more and add some water this time. I can feel life returning to my soul with that strong dose. Now I will sip slowly and tell you my story."
I wanted to refuse him one more shot of the golden elixir, I mean, how crazy can one go to have two pegs of whisky when half the town was yet to get up from bed.
"Don't you have to go on your rounds today, on your motorbike? How will you do it when the whisky will be dancing in your tummy like a freaking musical fountain?."
Gouranga's face broke into multiple shades of agony,
"Please Subrat, no more questions. Get me the bloody drink, my throat is parched, it feels like a rough sand paper."
I went inside, poured a small peg and added water to it. By the time I returned, Gouranga had gone off to sleep, his chest gently heaving with rhythmic regularity. I went back to reading the newspaper, but nothing registered in my mind. I kept wondering what had made Gouranga ask for something strong so early in the day. He was no doubt agitated, but I couldn't imagine what degree of agitation could make a man ask for whisky at six thirty in the morning.
Gouranga, strictly speaking, is not an alcoholic, just a social drinker like me and many other friends in our group, sitting down to a session of drinking in some bar or in the house of someone who was lucky enough to be deserted by his wife and kids temporarily. Ask any married man what his favourite fantasy is, and without blinking an eye he would say, to be abandoned by the missus of the house for a couple of days so that he would invite his friends home and empty a few bottles of the golden liquid!
But being a typical Puriwalla, Gouranga is addicted to Bhang, the green ball of ecstasy, called "goli", which keeps him in a state of euphoria in the evenings. Anyone born and brought up in Puri cannot live without it because fathers put a bit of it in the feeding bottle as soon as a male child is a few months old and starts bottle feed. They claim it helps the child's orientation so that he can put his steps correctly when he stands up. From that small step the giant leap is never far away. However, there is an unwritten rule that one should shun Bhang when there would be an evening session of the golden liquid. Like East and West, bhang is bhang and daaru is daaru and never the twain should meet. If individually each would take you on a tour of the heaven, combined they would throw you into the space in a hurtling, whirlwind voyage.
Gouranga chose to be a medical representative after finishing his graduation at the SCS College in Puri. With his tall, handsome personality and a rare gift of the gab, combining sense and nonsense, he could talk a Bedouin into buying a raincoat or an Eskimo a two ton airconditioner. In no time he monopolised the supply of medicine and medical equipments in Puri town. All competitors submitted to his suzerainty and either folded up or became his employees.
Gouranga was usually the life of a party anywhere, with a distinct tilt towards colourful, fanciful tales. He will make you believe that he had spent the previous evening with Alia Bhatt and Disha Patani's invitation for an evening of fun and frolics was waiting in the wings. He had good contacts everywhere and was the go to man whenever any of us needed anything. To see him, disheveled and sprawled on a chair, snoring inelegantly was a rarity.
He suddenly woke up, shook his head and looked around. He squinted his eyes and brought me into focus and saw the glass of whisky on the tea table. His eyes brightened up and I asked him what he was doing at six thirty in the morning, barging into my house and demanding something strong.
Gouranga took a couple of sips from the glass and straightened,
"Can you imagine Subrat, I had the most incredible experience last evening. You know every evening I take a stroll after a bath, Pooja, and a dose of bhang. Yesterday I took a long stroll, since my wife has gone to her parent's place just for a day. I passed the Swargadara road, went beyond the hotels and restaurants and half a kilometre from there I took a right turn. You remember the lonely road with old bungalows on both sides? Huge bungalow, most of them locked, abandoned. The owners are probably somewhere in Bengal or Bihar, most of the properties are in legal dispute, the titles buried under thick files, lying malnourished in some clerk's cupboard in the Civil Court. Only when Vitamin M is given to the clerks, the files will come down from the stacks and put up to the Civil Judge. You know how our system works, don't you?"
I was getting impatient,
"Yes, yes I know all about Vitamin M, now tell me what happened to you last night, why it looks like a cat swallowed you last night and vomited you out in the morning. You look dirty and smell even dirtier."
Gouranga took a sip of the drink,
"Ok, ok, where was I? Yes, the bungalows. As you know only a few bungalows are inhabited, others are locked up. I walked briskly, most of the street lights were not working, probably not many people use the road after dark. Suddenly I stopped. On my left was an old bungalow which was lighted up from inside, the windows were open and music was coming out. I looked inside. There was definitely a party going on, I saw couples dancing, the music was soft and melodious. I could not hear clearly, but what made me curious was the dress of the dancing couples. Most of them looked very traditional, like old European dress, some were wearing hats, the ladies were in elegant gown. I was in two minds, whether to go closer and watch the dance. Then suddenly in a flash I saw Mandakini standing near the window. She was looking at me, I could feel her gaze on me as distinctly as I am seeing you now, there was no doubt about it.
I sat up. Mandakini? Who is Mandakini? I asked him,
"Who the hell is Mandakini?"
Gouranga looked puzzled,
"You don't remember Mandakini? I had told you in one of our evening sessions? Mandakini, my class mate in the school? The girl who was in everyone's dream, the one and only Mandakini?"
I suddenly remembered.
Yes, Gouranga had swooned with pleasure when he had talked about her, his eyes had become glassy, face flushed. There was no doubt he was besotted with her, as were a hundred others. She used to live in Haragoura Sahi and when she walked to school with her books clutched to the bosom, face glowing in the sun, the two braids of hair oscillating like two serpents playing with each other, young men used to swoon on the roadside, intoxicated with her beauty even before imbibing the green coloured goli of bhang. She probably knew the effect she had on the hapless men, but she had no mercy, every school day she would walk to and from the school and it was rumoured that her every step was like a flame bursting out, till the entire route was engulfed in a raging fire of raw passion and acute frustration. Gouranga and many others like him spent sleepless nights, thinking of her. The way he told it to us, his listeners, all married, mature men, we spent a few sleepless nights regretting that we didn't have a girl like Mandakini in our class to fill our nights with dreams and days with fantasy. We had asked Gouranga what had happened to Mandakini after she passed from the school. Gouranga had shrugged,
"She was obviously a big snob, never talked to anyone of us, her classmates. She went to the Women's college and we hardly met again. Later we came to know she got married to some government Engineer and left Puri after her Intermediate exam. I don't know where she is now."
Today when Gouranga mentioned her name I was curious,
"Mandakini? What was she doing there. Did you talk to her?"
He nodded,
"Wait, don't run away like a horse on an overdose of vodka. Let me unfold the scene to you slowly. The door to the bungalow was half open. I went in looking for Mandakini. Imagine my shock when I didn't find her at the window! But the scene inside the big hall took away my breath. There was a group of musicians plying soft music in a corner and around thirty couples were waltzing, hand in hand, the men wrapping their arm around the waist of the ladies. At one corner there were drinks, all kinds, hard drinks, soft drinks, fruit juice, you name it, they had it. And such a variety of mouth watering dishes! Before I could go near the food or the drinks, a tall, distinguished looking man in a cream coloured suit came along and shook my hand. 'Welcome Mr. Balabantray, be our guest for the night. Let this night be memorable for you.' I was shocked, how did he know me, as far as I remembered I had never seen him. A asked him, he smiled, 'We had a new member a year back and she told us about you. Come, let me offer you some drinks, what will you prefer? We have the best Scotch whisky, British brandy, Russian vodka, French wine and German beer. Take your pick. But do enjoy.'"
I felt jealous and asked Gouranga,
"What are you talking? So many drinks! All foreign liquor! You are lucky Gouranga, really lucky."
Gouranga smiled,
"I almost went crazy, seeing so many exotic bottles before me. I poured a stiff dose of whisky and straight gulped it down. One more peg went the same way. I felt a rare warmth run through my body like a slow fire on a winter night. With the third peg in my hand I picked up some prawn fry, chicken tikka and mutton kebab. With that rare treasure in my possession, when I turned around I saw a beautiful, fair lady, as fair as snow, behind me and smiling at me. She extended her hand, 'I am Julienne, call me Julie. All my Indian friends called me Julie, and you are the handsomest Indian I have ever met.' Subrat, imagine what would have happened to me! I almost swooned! Her perfume gave me a heady feeling and I said, Ah, French perfume, my favourite! Her face beamed with pleasure - 'Yes, it is Guerlain Shalimar! You are a smart young man, why are you wasting your breath on whisky? Taste this champagne, made in the best vineyards of Italy'. She gave her glass to me. My eyes were fixed on her, the langorous smile on the beautiful face and the contours of her exquisite body held me captivated. I drank the champagne, it was heavenly. She gently guided me to the drinks table and poured some more champagne in my glass and took a glass of her own. And then she pulled me to the centre of the hall and we started dancing. She was like a naagin, a serpent, the way she held me and entwined herself on my body. I was losing my mind and wanted to hold her more tightly and merge myself into her. Suddenly a tall, white man appeared from nowhere and snatched her away from me."
I felt sorry for Gouranga, the eternal Romeo,
"O my God, your heart must have broken!"
He grimaces,
"Yes, into a thousand pieces. I marched to the drink table, got more champagne, heaped more food on the plate and looked longingly at Julie who had started doing the naagin dance with the snatcher. Suddenly I sensed a presence by my side, a stocky, bald man was standing there. He pointed to the champagne, 'The best selection, you will never get tired of it. So, where do you live in Puri, the abode of the Lord of the Universe?' I replied, 'Baseli Sahi'. He recollected something, 'Oh, is that old, yellow coloured building still there at the corner near the big Banyan tree? Dr. Garabadu used to live there and had his clinic downstairs. Such a fine doctor! He would spend at least fifteen minutes with every patient, and his diagnosis was flawless.' I shook my head, 'Yes, the building is still there, it is of brick colour now, but I don't think Dr. Garabadu lives there any more, I haven't met a Dr. Garabadu ever. The gentleman patted me on the back, 'No, no, you are a young man, how could you meet Dr. Garabadu? Tell me, does Puri witness a lot of agitations, like there used to be?' I wondered what agitation he was referring to, 'Yes, sometimes students of the local college take out processions demanding more facilities or transfer of a strict lecturer, but the Collector and SP call the leaders, feed them some Biriyani and get their photographs published in the local newspaper. The agitation fizzles out.' He seemed to be surprised, 'Don't you have all those morning processions, people singing Raghupati Raghav Rajaram and marching on the streets? And the burning of foreign clothes, gherao of the court building?' I laughed out loud, many heads turned to look at me, 'What age are you living in Sir? You think people have time for anything other than WhatsApp and Twitter these days? All the time their eyes are glued on the mobile. Things have changed, look at the nice music playing here, so pleasant, so soothing. Do you know what songs our young generation dances to? Tutak tutak tutiya. Or Chhora Londonda Thumakda. And the worst of all? Dancelo G phaadke!' His eyes popped up, 'What phadke? What the hell is G?' I winced at the memory of the song, 'How do I know? Go and ask the lyricist! G! G, my foot!' I must have been quite loud when I said that. With a goli of bhang in the early evening, couple of pegs of whisky and four glasses of champagne later, one tends to get a bit expansive, you know. The host came over to me."
I felt concerned for Gouranga, my friend.
"Were you thrown out of that lovely party, from the drinks and the kebabs? That's why you are looking like the deformed foetus of a deranged gorilla?",
I asked in alarm.
Gouranga shook his head,
"No, no, nothing like that. The host told me, 'Good that you are enjoying. Won't you meet the person who had told us about you?' He led me to a small group talking among each other. He tapped on the shoulder of a lady and she turned. Subrat, you can't imagine how I felt, Mandakini was looking even more beautiful than ever. I just held my breath and kept looking at her. She smiled, 'You have not changed, the same hungry look, like I am a sweet-sour mango pickle and you want to lick it to the end. This look was famous among my friends, who teased me all the time, after all you were the most handsome boy in the school!' I stood transfixed for a few moments before blurting out, 'You knew I was virtually dying for you?' She nodded, 'Girls have a sixth sense, they know such things immediately.' 'And yet you never stopped even once to look at me? Not even a sideways glance?' 'Oh, I looked at you from the corners of my eyes, but every time I did that my heart started beating like a drum, imagining the kicks and slaps I would get from my mother. So I behaved like a nun and waited for a Prince Charming to be chosen by my parents.' 'Fancy meeting you after so many years! How are you here? What are you doing in the midst of all these funnily dressed ancient men and women? How did you land up here? You are not even a champagne drinker!' A sad smile crossed her face, like a dark cloud over a clear sky. 'I have been here for more than a year. My husband, who was an engineer with the government, got a transfer to Puri about three years back. And a year after that I had an attack of pneumonia. After a few months of my release from the hospital I was afflicted by strange symptoms and it was found that I had AIDS.'"
I was shocked, the angelic Mandakini getting AIDS! I could not believe it! I gaped at Gouranga, who continued in a broken voice,
"I shouted at Mandakini, 'What rubbish, how can you have AIDS?' Her eyes filled with tears, 'You will never know the pain of a mother looking at her two children, knowing that she had only a few months left in life. I could not even touch them, hug them or cuddle them. And my body started decimating, I became thin like a weed, and slowly life ebbed away from me.' 'But how did you get AIDS?' Mandakini looked at me, a sad, piercing look that broke my heart, 'From infected needles. I didn't know that till I came here. But you know this is a different place, what remains unknown to human mind becomes crystal clear here. Gouranga, you often buy your medical equipments from third rate suppliers and sell them at exorbitant price to the retailers. These unscrupulous suppliers sometimes recycle infected needles which had earlier been used on AIDS patients. That's how I got it, Gouranga, that's how I am here, when I should be actually with my children taking care of them. God knows how many lives you have ruined like mine.' With that, Mandakini left me, tears streaming down her face. I was devastated, I just could not believe the sad turn of events. I went to the nearest chair and sat down, looking vacantly at the crowd dancing away like there was no tomorrow. Mandakini was nowhere to be seen. I don't know how long I sat there, my mind in turmoil. Julie saw me and came to me. Before I could stop her, she dragged me to the dancing area and wrapped me in her arms. She was getting more and more excited, she started whispering sweet words of love in my ears, how she was terribly fond of Indian men, how she had enjoyed life to the full in the arms of strong and handsome men like me. Before I knew what was happening she gently dragged me to a sofa and sat there, hugging me tightly. The embrace was getting tighter by the minute, I felt breathless, Julie was drawing me to her with an animal passion. I fainted."
I sat up,
"Fainted, what do you mean fainted? Such an anti-climax!"
Gouranga had started getting a mild shiver, I wondered what was wrong.
"I really don't know what happened. The embrace was tightening, I felt as if my bones were getting crushed. I fainted and must have lost consciousness for hours. In the morning I felt a wet tongue licking my cheeks. I came back to senses and thought Julie was still making love to me. The sun was already bright. I opened my eyes and next moment shrieked in terror. What I had imagined as Julie's tongue actually belonged to a huge black dog who ran away, scared by my loud shriek. It sat a few feet from me and kept panting, with its big, ugly tongue hanging out. I looked around. The big bungalow was gone, in its place stood a dilapidated house with broken walls and no roof. My body started shaking in terror, I remembered your house was nearby and I came running to you."
Gouranga started sweating, his shivering had taken a rhythm of its own. Our smart, handsome friend looked like a dilapidated house with broken down walls and no roof. He finished the left over whisky in the glass and got up to go. I was curious how he would sail through the day with two pegs of whisky kicking in his stomach,
"Tell me, Gouranga, how will you roam around the town with your motorbike after drinking whisky so early in the morning?"
I will never forget the sad, melancholic look on Gouranga's face when he shook his head,
"No Subrat, no more roaming around in Puri selling medicines and medical equipments. I quit that business from today. I can never forgive myself for what happened to Mandakini, who had filled my adolescent life with so many happy dreams and sweet desire. I cannot ruin more lives, may Lord Jagannath forgive me!"
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.
BOOKS REVIEW / FOREWORD
Name of the Book: Creature Tales
Author: Ishwar Pati
Publisher: Notion Press, Chennai
Year of publication: 2021
Price: Rs 250 in Amazon India
Foreword
Once upon a time, our beautiful earth was full of green forests and a profusion of animals feeding on them. Balance among all lifeforms was maintained by Nature through the mechanism of the food chain and man too respected it. In stories for children, animals and trees were portrayed with human qualities and frailties, to show that we are an integral part of creation and must co-exist with animals. Live and let live. If we break the food chain and massacre ‘stupid’ animals, we too may one day disappear from the face of the earth. Of what use is our superior intelligence if we allow it to drive all species (including our own) to the brink of Doomsday?
My humble desire, in this collection, is to bring back enchanted animals with some new stories, to fascinate children and keep them happy ever after.
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