Literary Vibes - Edition CII
Title : Toddler Out To Fish (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 102nd edition of LiteraryVibes, coming out four weeks after the publication of LV101. Hope you have enjoyed the previous editions and will continue to do so with the present edition too. It has some beautiful poems and wonderful short stories.
We are happy to have with us seven new contributors for the LV102. Mr. N. Rangamani from Chennai, Dr. Shreyshree Behera and Mr. Abinash Kumar Sahoo from Odisha, Ms. Anjali M. Cyriac, Ms. Suhara Salam, Ms. Reshma Aksari, Mr. S. Naveen - from the God's gifted country, Kerala, are talented poets and writers with lot of promises. I welcome all of them to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them phenomenal success in their creative pursuits.
I also have great pleasure in offering to you an Anthology of Poems named "If A Meteor Hits the Earth" by Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak, a regular contributor to LiteraryVibes. It can be found at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/373
Writing under the shadow of a personal bereavement, I have been wondering how ephemeral life is. My father in law who was 88 years old and had been ailing for some time, passed away on the 16th February. Having seen his struggles with living in the last few days I realised how life ebbs away slowly and steadily and the creeping shadow of death approaches stealthily. The person fighting for his last breaths must be feeling like a man drowning in a churning sea, aware that he is getting sucked into the infinite black hole of death, yet desperately trying to keep himself afloat.
Death, unfortunately, is awfully cruel and treacherous too. The day after the death was one of the saddest days of my life, leaving me numb with grief. Partly for my aged relative, a reputed doctor and philanthropist, but mainly for an eight year old boy who was caught in the vortex of the game of life and death. Waiting for the arrangements to be completed before the lighting of the funeral pyre at Swarga Dwar at Puri I had this gut-wrenching sight of the eight year old boy clad in a small dhoti, bare bodied and waiting to light the pyre of his father. His mother was sitting by the side of the corpse, sobbing, the relatives running around to complete the formalities. And the boy, the wisp of a boy with the angelic looking innocent face, all of eight years, stood there with a bewildered look on the face as if asking the world, "What am I doing here? At this precise hour am I not supposed to be out in a play ground somewhere, playing, laughing with my friends?"
I have very rarely felt so devastated in my life, the sight of the innocent boy driving a hot iron to the inner most core of my heart every time I looked at him. I made a silent prayer to God to spare such atrocities on innocent souls. I remembered a video of a small girl of two years "talking" to her mother looking at the sky where her mother was supposed to have gone after a bombardment in war torn Afghanistan.
I also remembered a few stories which talked of celebration of love and empathy transcending death and separation. I reproduce three of such stories here, just to tell you that it's not my intention to spread despair, but to look at life and accept what cannot be changed by us. Sad, but a true facet of life.
THE BRAVE FIREMAN
In Calgary, Canada, a 26-year-old mother stared down at her 6 year old son, who was dying of terminal leukemia.
Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of determination.
Like any parent, she wanted her son to grow up & fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible. The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dream to come true.
She took her son' s hand and asked, 'Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?'
'Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up..'
Mom smiled back and said, 'Let's see if we can make your wish come true.'
Later that day she went to her local fire Department in Calgary, where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Alberta.
She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her 6 year-old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.
Fireman Bob said, 'Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary Fireman for the whole day....He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards!
And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat - not a toy - one-with the emblem of the Calgary Fire Department on it, and a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in Calgary , so we can get them fast.'
Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck.
Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven.
There were three fire calls in Calgary that day and Billy got to go out on all three calls.
He rode in the different fire engines, the Paramedic's' van, and even the fire chief's car..
He was also videotaped for the local news program.
Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.
One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept - that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital.
Then she remembered the day Billy had spent as a Fireman, so she called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he made his transition.
The chief replied, 'We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes.. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire? It's the department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room?'
About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital and extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window-------- 16 fire-fighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room.
With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told him how much they LOVED him. With His dying breath, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, ‘Chief, am I really a fireman now?'
'Billy, you are, and The Head Chief, Jesus, is holding your hand,' the chief said. With those words, Billy smiled and said, 'I know, He's been holding my hand all day, and the angels have been singing..'
He closed his eyes one last time.
............................................................
KAFKA AND THE LITTLE GIRL
At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, walked through the park in Berlin when he met a girl who was crying because she had lost her favourite doll. She and Kafka searched for the doll unsuccessfully.
Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would come back to look for her.
The next day, when they had not yet found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter "written" by the doll saying "please don't cry. I took a trip to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures."
Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka's life.
During their meetings, Kafka read the letters of the doll carefully written with adventures and conversations that the girl found adorable.
Finally, Kafka brought back the doll (he bought one) that had returned to Berlin.
"It doesn't look like my doll at all," said the girl.
Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote: "my travels have changed me." the little girl hugged the new doll and brought the doll with her to her happy home.
A year later Kafka died.
Many years later, the now-adult girl found a letter inside the doll. In the tiny letter signed by Kafka it was written:"Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."
.......................................
AN UNFORGETTABLE CLASS ROOM EXERCISE
One day, a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name.
Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers.
That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday she gave each student his or her list.
Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much," were most of the comments.
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. The teacher never found out if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on.
Several years later, one of the students was killed in Vietnam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin.
As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "Yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were also there, wanting to speak with his teacher.
"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary"
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said. Without batting an eyelash, she continued, "I think we all saved our lists."
Tears rolled down the eyes of the humble teacher. We encounter so many people in our lives, and it's a precious joy to see the good in all those journeys.
.................................................
I guess you would have read some or all these stories earlier. I had, but as I sit here writing them out for you, my heart is filled with a bliss and joy for re-creating something important - the eternal fulfilment of the purpose of literature, the celebration of the positive vibes of life.
Hope you will enjoy the rich offerings of LV102. Please do send your feed back in the comments section at the end of the page. And don't forget to share the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/372 with your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous 101 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Looking forward to meeting you again next month.
With warm Regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FATHER – ASHES IN AN URN
02) Haraprasad Das
HOW WELL WE KNOW OUR NEIGHBOURS? (PARICHAYA)
03) Geetha Nair
VENUGOPAL’S STORY
04) Dilip Mahapatra
THE LIGHTHOUSE
THOSE HAUNTING EYES
05) Sreekumar K
THE CARETAKER
THE INCORRIGIBLE LOCAL LENIN
06) Bibhu Padhi
DRUMBEATS IN THE AFTERNOON
07) Devdas Chhotray
GLIMPSES INTO THE LIFE OF AKHILAMOHAN PATNAIK (1927-82) and HIS BALIGHARA
08) Ishwar Pati
STEPPING STONE TO HEAVEN
09) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
JUVENILE DELINQUENCY
10) Ajay Upadhyaya
DIVINE REMEDY
11) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE: RANGANATHASWAMY TEMPLE, SRIRANGAM
12) Ayana Routray
BROKEN YET BEAUTIFUL
13) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSING :: THE DANGLING PAW
14) Madhumathi. H
TENDERLY...
HUNGER, AND FASTING...
15) Sharanya Bee
DAZED
16) Meena Mishra
BRUISED BOSOM
17) Nikhil M. Kurien
OMEN
18) Gourang Charan Roul
KAMRUP DETOUR
19) Gita, Anju, Padmini & Sundar
TRANSIENCE
20) Rangamani N
POETRY- THY NAME IS BEAUTY!
HEART TO HEART- POETRY, BEAUTY PERSONIFIED!
OH, FALL !
LOST & FOUND?!
NOTHING MATTERS
21) Shreyasee Behera
A COLD MORNING
22) Anjaly M Cyriac
I ENVY YOU...
23) Suhara Salam
CLUTCHING AT STRAWS.
24) Reshma Akshari
SIGN POSTS
25) Naveen S
MONSOON
26) Sindhu Vijayan P (RamMohan)
AS THE RIVER FLOWS...
27) Abinash Kumar Sahu
LOOK HIGH...FLY UNDER SKY...
28) Bijayketan Pattanayak
OVERFLOW (OOTTARANA)
29) Radhika Nair
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO
FROM FRANCE, WITH LOVE
30) Dr. Molly Joseph M
MEMORIES
31) Satya Narayan Mohanty
EPIDEMICS
CORONA LEGEND
LOCKDOWN BLUES
AN AMBIVALENT DO-GOODING
32) Dr. Aparna Ajith
TWINKLE, TWINKLE, ANVIK BOY!
33) Padmini Janardhanan
WILL ‘WILL’ SUFFICE?
34) N. Meera Raghavendra rao
BLACK SPOT IN A WHITE CIRCLE
THE BUDDING SHUTTLERS
WE SENIORS CELEBRATE VALENTINE DAY
35) G K Maya
A WAFT OF CAMPHOR
36) Sheena Rath
HIBISCUS
SUNSET
37) Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle)
ENLIVEN MY THOUGHTS
38) Abani Udgata
TRYST IN THE EVENING
39) Mihir Kumar Mishra.
WHAT A PITY!
40) Asha Raj Gopakumar
LIFE A MIRACLE
41) Neha SaRah
O CHILD OF MINE
MR. FRODO
WILD
WRITER'S TAG
42) Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak MBBS,MD,FCCP
OUMUAMUA OF YESTERDAY,TODAY & TOMORROW
43) Niranjan Barik
COLD THOUGHTS !
GREEN THOUGHTS
44) Sulochana RamMohan
THE ERRANT EARRING
45) Pradeep Rath
WAVES
TRUE LOVE, AN ABERRATION?
46) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FUGITIVE
Book Review
01) Supriya Pattanayak
Ruminations on Foggy Mornings : An anthology of short essays exploring the conundrums facing contemporary society
FATHER – ASHES IN AN URN
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Mother squats in the sweltering heat
on our back verandah,
overlooking the river; dozing,
waiting for father to come to lunch;
her midday meal would follow his,
a habit of forty years.
In the open village cremation ground,
the patch of faher’s last journey
bears no sign of his month-old pyre
except looking a bit ashy grey
among the weeds, and mottled grass.
His pyre has shifted to mother’s eyes.
Mother looks at the river bank
craning her scrawny neck -
has he finished his three dips?
She would only allow him to judge
her cooking excellence, so, the meowing cat
gets mother’s lashing tongue.
Father had gone on our shoulders,
returned in an urn, a bit of ash;
for mother, an unfurled empty sky,
coconut fronds listless, afternoon
holding breath, the tick-tock clock
dying on the wall, the time froze.
A toy horse father had brought home
stopped swinging mid-trot.
Mother found a compatriot
in the toy’s silence, got connected
to it by a hyphen, none ever came alive.
They were as if asking for full stops.
Last year, this time, Mother was
a mirror addict, fastidious about
what the reflection said about her looks.
Today, she flings at it, black curses.
She mumbles to father’s portrait,
“Mouth tastes like dusty cobwebs.”
We overhear her shout,
“He has returned early from work.
I hear him clearing his throat
by the river bank. Would be home
any minute. Rush, cook rice, temper the dal
with ginger-tadka*, mash a smoked potato.”
“Listen.” she insists in mumbles,
“He is taking a wash
by the well in our backyard,
singing hymns. No, it’s not his brother
whose voice is no baritone…like his.
No please, it is not a ghast-joke.”
(Ginger-tadka*: a lentil dish is tempered with ginger as taste-maker)
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
HOW WELL WE KNOW OUR NEIGHBOURS? (PARICHAYA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The two neighbours
hardly knew each other.
Living cheek by jowl, they skipped
knowing each other closely.
Working in the same office,
they pulled down each other
all the time, to climb up
the hierarchy ladder, but one day –
they take the same bus,
by chance, to return home
clutching briefcases,
weapons of insecure persons.
Alighting and hugging
the opposite edges
of the road, they walk home,
two scowling colleagues,
who do not know
each other properly,
two silent shadows,
sunk in own grim thoughts.
Unwittingly: an eye-contact,
a smile is exchanged,
like it always happens
between unknown pall-bearers.
The smile has a spell of magic,
thaws the ice between them,
alters perspectives, does away with
their mutual prejudices.
It defuses the ticking bombs
in their insecure briefcases.
By the time they reach
the street corner,
they chat like old friends
meeting after a hiatus.
They even agree, Ashwathama
the dead one was an elephant.
Overwhelmed
by their new camaraderie,
like two warring fighting armies
overjoyed by an armistice,
they skip to check closely
each other’s detailed credentials,
separating grain from the chaff;
keeping that formality
for a later occasion
in future – in a time
more opportune, more suitable
to get duly introduced -
like say, over a leisurely
lazy cup of tea at seven
after the office in a restaurant,
during some pleasant evening….
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)”
The car with the blue-black-white logo edged gingerly along the muddy road and stopped at the rather run-down building. Nair’s Hotel and Teashop:Meals Ready proclaimed a chipped board fixed to its front. “This filthy ruin? You expect me to have tea here?” The incredulous voice issued from the stunningly-dressed beauty seated in the back seat. The man next to her replied, “I told you right from the beginning, didn’t I , that I am on a trip down memory lane? We used to buy goodies from this place when I was a boy. Raman Nair, the owner, also used to do the catering for all our big events like naming ceremonies and weddings. Come only if you want to,” He was out of the car by then. “I am staying right here” declared his companion. The driver immediately stepped out, leaving the AC on.
Gopal ji as he was known in business circles of the UAE, walked slowly upto the little hotel, passed the unmanned payment counter to the right of the entrance and walked in.
The place looked rather different. Well, forty years do make for changes, he thought. The benches had been replaced with chairs though the heavy, teak tables seemed the same ones as in his boyhood.There was just another person seated at a table, eating idlis with sambar. The aroma drifted to him bringing a stream of memories with it. Gopal sat down. After a while a youngish man came up to him. He was swatting at flies with a towel.
“Get me a plate of idli-sambar,” Gopal said to him. It arrived promptly. The sambar at this tea shop had had the same heavenly taste, decades ago. He held the server in conversation briefly.
-Who owns this place now? It used to be called Raman Nair’s Hotel long ago.
-Yes; that was my grandfather. He passed away long, long ago. I don’t remember him. Now my mother and I run this place.
-Your father?
-No longer alive.
The man turned away to serve the other customer more sambar. Suddenly the idlis tasted insipid and the sambar bitter. Gopal got up to leave. A woman had taken her place at the counter. A woman with long greying hair and a lined face. He stared at her. “20 rupees.” Her son had come up to them. He said to Gopal, “You said it was tasty but you have left it unfinished… .” The woman looked up at Gopal’s face; there was no spark of recognition in her still -lovely eyes. How could there be? The decades of good living had changed him immensely. Gopal only smiled by way of reply. Radha’s son still held the thin cotton towel in one hand. Suddenly, memory opened its floodgates and engulfed Gopal.
Venu was still scouring the big blackened pots in the backyard when Raman Nair ordered him to fetch some plantain leaves from the field beyond. As he crossed the back of the house-cum-teashop, he could smell the pungent sambar that was cooking on the wood fire in the kitchen.The idlis had already been made. Venu had poured the batter into the 48 moulds in the enormous idli cooker in the thatched lean-to before going to the well to scrub the previous night's vessels.
Coming back with the leaves, he glimpsed a yellow skirt at the door of the kitchen. It was Radha, who was at her chore of grating coconuts for the chutney. They were in the same class, the shop owner's daughter and the boy who worked there every morning in return for a filling meal and a few coins.
Venu had never spoken to Radha. She was to him like the star in the poem Bhasksran Mash had taught them recently. A shining silver star at whom he looked with adoration, his heart overflowing with emotion yet not daring to wish for more.
By eight, his work was done. Six idlis soaked in delicious sambar disappeared into his concave stomach in three minutes. Then he raced towards home. Fairly close to the tea shop was a big pond half- covered in weeds. Hardly anyone came there in the early morning. In the afternoon, a few women came to wash clothes and bathe. Into it he jumped after removing his working dress, the single garment he wore -a coarse towel that had seen better days. This was to keep the towel free of moss and slime. He dropped the towel in its usual place -under a young mango tree that had sprung up next to the pond recently.Venu splashed about a bit, dunked himself in the greenish water, enjoying every second of it. His daily bath. His daily luxury.Then he tied the towel around his thin waist, covered the few yards to his home at a run, wiped himself with the towel, wrung it and left it for his little brothers who would soon be back from gathering twigs and sticks for firewood. They had only one towel among themselves.
Amma was coaxing the fire to burn. The rice was in the pot. Before the children left for school, the two younger ones would fill their stomachs with the hot water that Amma drained from the rice-pot into a big aluminium basin. She would let a few grains of cooked rice trickle into each glass. Venu had learned to quench his guilt at having had a sumptuous breakfast: Raman Nair had refused point blank when Venu had asked after his work on the very first day whether he could carry home his breakfast. ”Eat all you want; but, no parcel service here!” he had barked at the timid boy.
Lunch was their main meal. It was the upma that was doled out at school. This upma, in truth, accounted for the high percentage of attendance in the village school.
Venu and his brothers reached school just in time. The tawa bell was being struck with gusto by Rajannan, the peon. Venu looked, as usual, for Radha as the students filed past; the girls before the boys, to their respective classrooms. 8th,9th ,10th; there she was , two red roses tucked into her long plaits, green skirt swishing as she walked quickly. "Start moving!" barked the Master to the boys. Venu moved hastily to his classroom.
In the evenings he had to go the nearby temple to sell the jasmine and tulsi garlands his mother would have strung by the time he got back from school. On some days, she would make kajal , fold it in bits of plantain leaf and keep the little packages ready. Venu would offer this too for sale. As it was pure and homemade, several of the women who came to the temple bought the kajal. It went at 5 paise per packet. Once in a way, his mother would give him 50 paise and Venu would enjoy the luxury of watching a movie. Sitting on the sandy floor of the thatched theatre, he would blend into Prem Nazir, the handsome hero while Sheela, the heroine, would turn into Radha. But when he walked home after the movie, the contrast between their marvellous lives and his drab one would pain him all the more.
The pittance got from the sales and what Raman Nair paid him supplemented his father's meagre pension. But there was never enough of anything. Except hunger.
However, the gods had been generous in one respect. When Venu was created, they had made him brainy. He did very well in studies in spite of the constraints that he faced.
In March, just after the Model exams, classes ended for the Standard X students. Venu continued his routine at the tea shop and spent the rest of the day in study. Raman Nair had offered him a meal in the evening in return for work. So after his garland-selling was done, he would go to the teashop and tuck into the remains of lunch - rice and three curries. What a luxury! Then he would clear the kitchen, clean a few vessels to the welcome accompaniment of Radha’s voice; reading aloud at the top of her shrill voice was her manner of studying.
It was one morning early in March that Venu underwent the most embarrassing incident in his life. He had jumped into the pond for his customary bath. As it was summer, the water had retreated to the deep end of the pond which was sheltered by low-growing trees. When he waded back to the spot by the bushes where he always left his towel, he found to his horror that it was not to be seen. He waded back quickly until the water covered his loins. From this vantage point he scrutinised the area. No towel; not a glimpse of his precious garment. But where could it have gone? There was a brown cow at a little distance from the pond. It looked innocent enough, grazing placidly. Could it have made a quick meal of his towel? Or maybe chewed a piece of it and left the ragged rest somewhere near the spot it was now grazing in ? His heart beat fast. What was he to do? How could he cover the distance to his house naked as a new-born babe, he, a well-grown youth of fifteen? There was a clump of banana trees a little distance along the path that led to the road. If he could get there unseen by anyone he could tear a couple of broad leaves to cover himself with. He stood awhile in the water. Then he climbed out and made a dash for the clump. Drops of water scattered off his body and glinted in the rays of the morning sun. He reached the clump, panting. With his teeth, he expertly tore off two banana leaves. Holding one leaf in front and one behind him, he dashed towards the road, possibly breaking the existing record for the 100 metres dash. The wind rushing against him flapped the banana leaves merrily. Sumathi, the vegetable seller, was swaying along the road. Had she recognised him? He hid behind a tree while she went past Then he dashed on. He did not see her stop and turn back to look at the strange sight… . Venu reached home and put on his trousers. The scolding he got for having lost the one towel they possessed was nothing compared to his enormous relief at having reached home without being seen by anyone. The next morning he made a thorough search for the lost towel; it had well and truly vanished.
Mid-March arrived with its heat and dust and Board exam. Right after the exams, Venu started working full time at the teashop. He was given two meals a day and Raman Nair permitted him to take home three banana fritters, vadas or unniyappam; whatever the day’s tea-time snack was. The snacks he handed over to his mother to distribute as she wished. April and May were lean months for the boys as there was no free upma to see them through the day.
When the results came out a couple of months later, Venu emerged the school topper.
Radha had not made it.
Now the burning question was Venu’s next step in life. His father wanted him to apply for a job in the post office; his high marks in the Board examination practically ensured success. But the Headmaster had a different plan for his brightest star-higher studies in the most reputed college in the city.
Venu’s father had pleaded the lack of even two one-rupee coins to rub together. But a benevolent patron who would provide bed and board, was found in the city, the Headmaster got him a scholarship and in no time, Venu was viewing wide-eyed,the sights of the city.
“Dreaming?” Gopalji’s companion ran a playful hand up his arm. He was jolted out of his reverie.
They would reach the airport in a few minutes. His car would drop him there, then drop off his companion and finally be parked in his mansion in the city that waited, ever ready, for his occasional use. Much like his companion was his house.
As the plane taxied for take-off, Gopal ji went back again to his early years. How his life had taken off! That chance meeting in his undergraduate years with a family friend of his patron, words spoken out of a tipsy mouth but kept. His first flight to the fabled El Dorado of the Keralite- “the Gulf.” Life had been forbiddingly tough but Gopal was used to hard work and deprivation. Moreover he was determined to make it. Radha was the golden trophy he had set his heart on. He had made his first visit home after three hard years with three suitcases overflowing with perfumes and toiletry, synthetic clothes and the must-bring 3-in-1 player. One parcel he did not open; it contained an enchanting cream sari and a pair of gold ear studs for Radha. He remembered how the day after he arrived, he had approached Raman Nair with a thudding heart and sweating palms. The man had, however, been affable and pleased at Gopal’s request. “ Let her decide” had been his reply. Radha had peeped out and half-smiled at him. All seemed to be going well. When Raman Nair went in, Venu had waited, hope taking wing. He could hear voices, rising steadily. And then, searingly, Radha’s voice dripping contempt. “Marry him? That fellow who used to scrub vessels for us? That drooling clod? I would rather stay unmarried!”
Venu had returned to the UAE and thrown himself into his work. Hard work, luck and a little something - that winning combination had steadily taken him higher and higher until he had reached the top of the business world. The gradual transformation of Venugopal Nambiar to Gopal ji had been accomplished in about twenty years.
He had nevergone back to the village after that first painful visit. He had got his brothers jobs in the UAE. Bought a good house on the outskirts of the city and transplanted his aged parents there. Cut whatever ties he had with the village. Gopal ji had never married. It was too much of a bother was his stock reply to the stock question he faced often. There were women of course, a steady stream of mistresses. Wine, women and hard work- he had distributed his life among these.
What had made him visit the land of his boyhood? This novel nostalgia; was it a sign of impending old age? But why had he kept up his lies about a gracious and moneyed childhood? It didn’t make sense. He would have to make sense out of it.
In ten days, Gopalji was flying back to India again and speeding to the village of his early years.
It was to be the first of many such visits that year.
A broad metalled road flanked with red palm led from the main road right upto the graceful portico of Radha Hotel. Though the inauguration had been a month ago, it was only now that the swanky car with the three-coloured logo zoomed upto the portico. Two people were waiting to receive Venugopal. Radha and her son. They showed him around his luxury hotel. Then the three of them sat in the lounge and discussed business matters awhile. Radha and Venu, chatted about bygone times, as always of late. Radha’s son went in to get the latest bills
All of a sudden, Radha’s expression changed.
"Venu, I have a confession to make," she said, haltingly, “ You know that I can never thank you enough for all you have done for my son and myself. Please forgive that vain and wrong-headed girl just once more as you have forgiven her for so much else.”
Her creamy face was turning pink , pinker, red and redder as her words tumbled out. She kept her eyes fixed on an ornate lamp above Venu's head.
“Remember our Class X model exams? You did so very well whereas I failed in almost every subject. I detested you. I was wild with anger that you ... .The day after we got our marks... I don't know how to tell you." She had covered her face with her hands now.
Her wary eyes peeped through them as she continued.
“I had gone out early that day to pluck mehndi leaves. I saw you splashing far away in the pond. I picked up your towel and ran back home. Just to spite you. Only when Sumathi Amma told us the next day that she had seen you did I realise just what I had done to you... ."
Radha's voice quivered and stopped. She looked apprehensively at Venu. There was a shocked expression on his face as he remembered the embarrassment, the humiliation of that day. Then his face changed.
When Radha 's son entered the room with the bills, he found the two united in companionable laughter.
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.
THE LIGHTHOUSE
Dilip Mohapatra
Have you ever
rigged your sails
on your uncertain
schooner
and challenged your
seamanship
to venture
into the expanse
and depths of the blue
in someone's eyes?
Have you ever
lost your bearings
on your compass
and gibed frantically
from port tack
to starboard
and back?
You are not sure
if your sails
failed you
or was it the
wayward wind?
Have you ever
looked down the horizon
where a desolate
defunct tower
stands in silence
its silhouette
vaguely
splashed on a
somnambulant sky
and then
see it crumbling
and crawling into
its saline grave?
THOSE HAUNTING EYES
Dilip Mohapatra
Our bus from Greymouth reached Franz Josef village around three in the afternoon. This is a quaint but lively village at the base of the famous New Zealand glacier of the same name. As the bus came to a halt, my wife Naina woke with a jolt from a power nap she takes whenever she travels by bus. Our friends Adil and Minaz who normally travel with us for our yearly overseas vacation, also got up and all of us alighted with our baggage in front of Rainbow Retreat, where we had booked our stay. At this time, the hotel bore a deserted look, except for the receptionist who checked us in. The restaurant was about to close. We managed to get some take away pizza, which we carried to the tree huts where we were accommodated. These tree huts were basically log cabins built on scaffoldings, having nice wooden decks for outdoor seating. They were surrounded by dense growth of silver ferns and thickets of tall mallows and creeping buttercups. Secluded yet close enough to all the attractions that Franz Josef had to offer, Rainbow Retreat was the perfect base to unwind and explore them. The range of attractions included scenic flights to the glacier, guided hikes and walks, kayaking in nearby lake Mapourika, rafting and sky diving to name a few. More than just an accommodation, the Retreat had created a magical ambience amidst lush verdant greenery replicating a rain forest, making one's stay experience captivating and unique.
Post lunch we took little rest and later in the evening assembled on our deck to discuss the next day's program over tea. We were to stay here for two days and then proceed to Queenstown by road. Our stay in Queenstown was scheduled for five days and our itinerary included visits to Lake Wanaka, Arrowtown, Milford Sounds and Glenorchy. Adil, an Army veteran was a great planner. He always came up with detailed minute to minute plans like he was used to while planning Army operations. We all wanted to take it easy this evening and explore Franz Josef on foot. The famous heritage pub Alice May that specialised in traditional New Zealand cuisine and served the best of local wines, was at a stone's throw from Rainbow Retreat. We planned for an early dinner there and thereafter relax in our tree huts. We ordered for some lamb roasts, fennel dusted venison medallions, seasonal vegetables and to wash the food down some Bell Hill Chardonnay.
It was drizzling lightly when we walked down to Rainbow Retreat after dinner. Naina hit the bed as soon as we entered our hut. I switched on the bed side lamp and studied for some time the town map and local brochures about all Franz Josef attractions, and after a while went off to sleep. Around midnight I woke up to some unusual crackling sound of electric sparks and looked out through the window. The security lights outside were flickering. Our bed side lamp was flickering too. The night sounds of cicadas singing in the bushes hummed an eerie cadence in my ears. Instinctively I felt that something weird and unearthly was underway. Then suddenly I had a feeling that someone was watching me. To be more accurate I could feel someone's stare. I almost broke into a sweat when I realised that a pair of eyes embedded on the edge of my pillow was looking at me intently. I moved away with a start and tried to focus on my discovery. The eyes were there, the gaze securely fixed on my eyes. With bated breath I looked back at them. When our eyes met I could see the eyes flutter and blink. My heart skipped a beat when I realised that it was not an embroidered motif on the pillow but a pair of live human eyes. From the make up that the eyes wore, kohl lines and mascara, I understood that they belonged to a woman, that too of a stage performer. I tried to read the expression of the eyes, whether it was disgust, rage, hatred or compassion. I found them moist, with tears welled up around them. But at the same time they were intense and penetrating perhaps with an appeal to me for help. I thought they were imploring me, begging and beseeching me to save her from some excruciating agony, some unbearable pain. I was first startled, then scared, then transfixed and finally mesmerised. I don't remember how long our encounter lasted but it seemed that I had lost my senses and went off to deep sleep as if under hypnosis.
The next morning four of us got together on the deck for discussing our day's engagement over tea and biscuits, as we normally do whenever we travel together for holidaying. Adil didn't find my usual chirpy self and asked with a wink if Naina and I had a fight. I narrated them about my paranormal experience of the night.
' Hey buddy, it looks like a page from your new mystery novel that you must be writing. I suggest, keep it for your readers. Don't take us for a ride early in the morning, dude,' mocked Adil.
' I think it's the wine at Alice May that is talking,' added Naina.
' Why don't you guys listen to him?,' sympathised Minaz, ' It may be true. I for one believe in what he's telling.'
' OK. Let's forget it for now and get ready for the day. We shall see if it repeats today,' advised Adil.
' Fine. Let's wait and see. In any case we are leaving tomorrow for Queenstown,' I agreed.
We had a delightful day exploring the town in general and viewing the glacier from a helicopter. A guided hike thereafter culminated with an excellent street food fare with plenty of chilled local beer. But through out the day, I had those eyes quietly hunting me, silently nagging me. I kept it to myself and didn't broach the topic with any one.
At night, Naina decided to exchange the pillows on the bed with the extra pillows kept in the linen storage bin. We spent the night uneventfully and the next day proceeded to Queenstown as planned. After five days at Queenstown we took the flight to our next destination, Rotorua in the northern island.
Rotorua is one of the most favourite tourist destination in the Bay of Plenty, famous for its bubbling mud pools, shooting geysers and natural hot springs. Apart from being a geothermal wonderland, it's also the land of the Maoris, the original natives of New Zealand , and which showcases the fascinating Maori culture. We checked into our hotel, the Jet Park, quite close to the city centre and after a little rest, started our exploration. Charmed with its distinctive landscapes, its lakes and its volcanic activities, we spent the day walking around various attractions and taking photographs. After an exquisite lunch at the city's famous food court called 'EaatStreet', we returned to the hotel for resting and relaxing. I had almost forgotten about those eyes that I had encountered at Rainbow Retreat.
At around 5 PM, , we gathered in the hotel lobby to decide about our evening engagement. The receptionist was very helpful. She gave us few brochures to study and book an evening show in one of the Maori villages. These shows included a typical Maori dinner, a traditional ground-cooked earth oven 'Hangi' meal, authentic cultural concerts complete with the fiery 'Haka' Maori war dance, bush walks and guided tours in the caverns to view glow worms in their natural environment. While scanning through the brochures, my eyes locked on to a close up photo of a female dancer portrayed on one of the covers. She had exactly the same pair of kohl lined limpid eyes, The same intense and piercing look that tore into me. I was convinced that the eyes unmistakably belonged to this dancer. It was the brochure of the Mangaweka Maori Village Show. I proposed that we visit this village for an evening out, and the receptionist booked our tickets.
We were picked up from the hotel by their coach and were ushered into the village gates. Our guide was Nikau, a Maori youth who was dressed like a traditional warrior and gave us a briefing about the evening's program. At the entrance, we saw a huge billboard which was a big blow up of the brochure cover. I felt that the eyes on the billboard now much more pronounced, were directly focused on me. I confided to our group that the girl with those eyes on the pillow was actually here and I was surely planning to meet her and go to the bottom of this. Adil laughed and said,' Alright bro, if you want to go on your wild goose chase, so be it. But leave us alone to at least enjoy our welcome drinks!'
In the dimly lit dining area, which was the assembly point for the visitors, we located a table that was assigned to us. Then I asked a hostess where I could meet the manager of the show. She directed me to a tall middle aged man with a slight paunch, standing in a corner and keeping an eye on the activities, as the crowd was slowly building up. In fact he was the chief of the village and his family had been managing this show for ages. I went to him and introduced myself, ' Hello Chief, I am Deepak Mahtre from India, now on a vacation to your beautiful country,' and extended my hand.
' Welcome to our show, I am Chief Rangatira Mura from Mangaweka village,' smiled the Chief as he took my hand in his.
' Chief, I am a writer and also a travel journalist. I write for travel magazines as well as travel sites like Trip Advisor. I want to write something authentic about your show and about Maori culture. I need your help,' I requested.
' Sure, if your write up would promote our culture, why not? Tell me what can I do for you?, asked the Chief.
' You may give me a briefing and then please allow me to speak to your folk artistes, cooks and bush guides, ' I asked.
' See, I am a little pre occupied here. I have to handle the staff here and see that the visitors get the best hospitality. Your guide Nikau will take you to my daughter who takes care of the culture performance later in the evening. She is a graduate from University of Christchurch and will give you all that you want to know,' the Chief concluded.
' Excuse me Chief, are you talking about the beautiful girl on the billboard,' I asked curiously.
He nodded and then briefed Nikau to take care of me.
Nikau guided me to an open air gallery under a large shed, where the cultural performance was to be held. On one corner of the shed was an enclosure where few men and girls were doing their make up. As we drew closer, I spotted her seated on a stool in front of a tall mirror. Nikau introduced me to her and left. She told me to pull a chair and turned back to face me. When our eyes met I immediately realised that she looked the same as on the billboard and the brochure, but the eyes were not the same. When I asked her if she was the girl on the billboard, she shook her head and told, ' No, that is my twin sister Mia. I am Manaia, five minutes younger than her.'
Before I could ask her anything else, I was getting impatient to know about Mia. I asked her, ' If you don't mind, may I meet Mia please?'
' Why do you want to meet her? In any case she's not around. Few days ago she ran away with a white man, bringing disgrace to our family and our tribe,' said Manaia, with discernible irritation in her voice.
' Didn't you all try to find her?' I asked with concern in my voice.
' Oh, you have already met Nikau. He and Mia were betrothed and they were to marry next month. But this stupid girl decided to run away with her secret paramour, that too a white man. How embarrassing! Nikau tracked them down to Auckland. I think they have fled the country. The police is still investigating,' Manaia answered.
Then we got into an animated conversation about the Maori customs and traditions, their culture, origin of Poi and Hakadances, Ta Moko that is tattoo making , flora and fauna and food habits in some details. I thanked her and came back to join our group to continue with our program.
The next day was the rest day for us, without any specific plans. Adil proposed for visiting a geothermal park and soak in a natural hot stream and generally relaxing to unwind. I had other plans for the day. I excused myself and made a visit to the local police station. I found out from the desk sergeant who was investigating about elopement of Mia. I half expected the guy to be like Sherlock Holmes with his meerschaum pipe and dearstalker hat but he turned out to be more of a Hercule Poirot. A balding man with a handle bar moustache and with a pronounced bulge in the middle, was busy reading a file. A walking stick and a black felt bowler's hat hung from a hat stand in the corner of the room. His name tally on the table had just a single word Oliver. I approached him with some trepidation and cleared my throat audibly to draw his attention. He looked up from his file and motioned me to sit.
I introduced myself and came to the point straight.
' Sir, I have some lead on the Mia case, which may be helpful,' I offered.
Detective Oliver squinted and spoke in a gruff voice , ' Go ahead, tell me.'
I told him about the eyes on the pillow at Rainbow Retreat and insisted that the mystery may be solved only at Franz Josef. The Christchurch route surely was a false lead.
Oliver looked at me in disbelief and told,' Look mister, we the cops work only on facts and concrete evidence and definitely don't chase fiction.'
Then I recounted him some supernatural instances from the past which had led to find solutions to unsolved mysteries. After lot of coaxing he finally decided to make a trip to Franz Josef, since he hadn't made any headway so far. But he wanted me to accompany him.
I somehow convinced my group to spare me for few days and promised to meet them in Auckland for the final leg of our vacation, and Oliver and I started for Franz Josef. Oliver got in touch with the local police and started their investigation with the right earnest. The hotel register confirmed that a white man accompanied with a Maori girl had rented the same tree hut that we stayed in. The identity proof showed that the girl was Mia from Rotorua , and the man who accompanied her was a George from Christchurch. The neighbouring hut was rented by a Maori youth named Nikau, two days after the couple moved in. The couple however left the hotel without paying their bills. Their baggage was still lying in the cloak room. The hotel had informed the local police about it and they were yet to get back to them.
The forensic team looked for fingerprints and other evidence that could help in the investigation. The police sniffer dogs were also put into action. They were busy sniffing the items in the tree huts. The dogs scratched the linen storage bin and when opened, homed on to the pillow that we had left inside. They then barked at the flush tank in the washroom. Police opened the lid and retrieved a knife. Then the dogs were taken out and left loose to sniff around the bushes. After a while they led the police to look below the scaffolding. When the bushes were cleared police found a mound covering a freshly dug pit. The police dug the pit to exhume two semi decomposed bodies, which they sent for post mortem.
Police findings confirmed the murder of George and Mia. The evidence indicated that George was stabbed with the knife while Mia was smothered by the pillow. The knife had a distinct set of finger prints. Police then issued an arrest warrant on Nikau for questioning.
I proceeded to Christchurch to take my flight to Auckland, those eyes still haunting me but now with a tranquil look, as if giving me their grateful thanks.
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.
Dad is no more and the rituals are all over. Most of them have returned to where they work or where they settled down.
Subhadra and both the kids too have returned. The kids have school from this week. That is why I had to send them in a hurry. She had two more days of leave
I have to lock up and leave tomorrow, as early as possible. I was staying back to say bye to friends. I won’t be coming back here for some time. And it was not fair to leave before the others.
Sarada Didi came with a cup of coffee.
This is a real problem. Where will she go?
She had come to us through an agency twelve years ago. She has no one. No husband, no children. When her sister who lived at Thrikkannamangal came to visit her long ago, she told us that Didi had got married long ago. We don’t know what happened. Her sister was her only living relative. Now she too is no more.
When her sister died, my wife and her father had raised this question. She had been earnestly taking care of my father for long. What would she do when she is needed no more?
I thought that a solution would come up in time. But I had no idea my father would depart this soon.
I had thought of taking her back with me to the city. She couldn’t do any hard work anymore. I thought she might be a good companion for my young kids. Along with my father’s writing pad, specs and an old fountain pen, she too might be a keepsake from my dad’s last days.
But before she left, Subhadra gave me strict instructions against that. She is very level headed. She spelled out all the problems that such an action would entail. She has this special skill in foreseeing situations, especially the problem ones. No wonder, she is in much demand as a manager. Even my dad’s funeral was meticulously planned and taken care of by her.
However, she has a problem with backlashes. If she has to alter her plans, she goes berserk and all hell is let loose.
And seeing that, Didi looks away and smiles to herself. I thought that was rude. But I have to agree, my wife looks ridiculous when she is upset.
Didi is just the opposite. Twelve years ago when an agent brought her to us as a caretaker, looking at her lean figure and grey hair, I scolded the agent. I told her I needed someone to take care of my dad and not some one for my dad to take care of.
“Sir, you just wait. In two days, you will want to thank me extra for this one. What do I gain by putting you in trouble Sir?
And he was right. That very same night, the supper tasted delicious. Subhadra didn’t even have to enter the kitchen.
I did give the agent an extra amount for that.
My wife monopolised Didi. She behaved like Didi’s caretaker. But I could see through her manipulations. She was only trying to get more work out of her.
She says that I am not good at reading people. For me people are good or bad unless proved otherwise. For my wife, people are all bad, unless proved otherwise.
Sarada Didi needed no lessons in managing my unmanageable father. Since my mother died decades ago, he had had no one to boss around. So, he tried it on everyone around. Didi took it in the right spirit. And eventually, my dad softened his ways and in recent years I had noticed that he had become an angel, sort of.
Didi was a very strange person, just like a character from a Chekov story. But not exactly a nincompoop. She had no complaints, that is all. She put up with anything and anyone. Even my wife had to be kind to her in the long run.
“I had never seen a domestic help who did not talk behind the back . Our Didi never gossips. I am sure she is not from a low caste.”
“Now, this is talking behind the backs of other people,” I joked.
“Of course, I do gossip. And I take your comment to be a reference to my low birth.”
She went early to bed.
When they were together my wife and Didi were a good team even though they had nothing in common between them.
Like I said, nothing can upset Didi. My wife too is level headed and cool till something goes wrong. When things go wrong, like they often do, she is a real mess. Had it been otherwise, her life would have been a blessed one. She is that talented and resourceful. Except her cooking skills and her green thumb, Didi has nothing to boast of.
I don’t have clear memories about my mother and these are the two women I know up close. I always wondered which of them would have resembled my mother. Not Didi, for sure. She is in a class of her own.
Even though she is childless, there is someone like her son in her life. It is the Almighty. Her only fight is with that one. It is like picking on one’s own child. Hearing her talk about God, one may think it is about someone who is bugging her.
“What to do! No point in telling him anything. He would do only what he feels like.”
When I heard her mumbling this to herself, I thought my father had rubbed her the wrong way.
“Ho, such a bookkeeper! And no budging!”
I was sure she was upset about my wife.
“You must forget certain things. Why do you have to keep track of every damn thing!”
I was sure she was making a comment about my own behaviour and responded to her, “You are right Didi, I shouldn’t be a teacher at home too. I forget what I should keep in mind and keep in mind what I should let go.”
“O, no, no, it was not about you!”
Then she came near and raising her eyes to the sky, whispered to me, “This is that one!”
“O, that one! Ignore Him. What does He care!”
In my mind, Shakespeare was also mumbling.
“ As bees to wanton boys are we to the gods
They kill us for their sport.”
“O, my son, He won’t be ignored. Clings to us!”
My God, this grey head can outwit even Shakespeare!
My father had to undergo two serious surgeries. Both in the month of March but in consecutive years. March is the end of the financial year at Subhadra’s office and it was so hard for her to take leave from her work. She kept complaining about it every now and then.
“What is this?” finally I picked on her one day. “People don’t fall sick according to your office schedules.”
“Yes, they do. Even you fall sick only in March. And you don’t even understand. My fate!”
That night too she went early to bed. The very next day I packed her and the kids off to the city. I decided to manage things on my own. And Didi was also there.
But that didn’t help. My wife called me round the clock to inquire about my father’s condition. Sarada Didi had so much fun seeing me fishing out my mobile to answer my wife every five minutes. She would look away and smile to herself.
My dad’s second surgery was a little complicated. It was good Subhadra was not there. Otherwise, she would also have been put in the ICU.
It was great that Didi was there. She sat on the floor near my chair the whole night.
Her optimism and predictions were always right. She would rather die than see me worried or in trouble.
“Don’t worry at all. We won’t be given more than what we can take. He has it all planned. No point in second-guessing him in any way. Things will go according to his plan. After all, what do we know! Take some rest. Go to the room. I will sit here and call you if you are needed.”
But I didn’t leave her. I knew I would be more of a mess away from her.
The doctors and nurses at the hospital also found her a darling. She didn’t know their names but kept a good image of them in her mind. She would refer to them as the curly hair or the big butt and the like.
At home we had never been so diligent about the evening lamp or the prayer. I grew up listening to my grandpa and my father discussing Hegel, Marx and Wittgenstein. Those are the only chants I remember from my childhood.
But Sarada Didi changed all that. Even during day time, she would be softly chanting certain bhajans repeatedly. Being with her and charmed by her warmth, I too picked up the habit. One day, hearing me hum something like that, Subhadra asked me how old I was. I got the hint but responded with a very objective answer to ruin her joke
“I will be turning fifty-seven this May”
“So, it is not senility yet,” she managed to alter the joke into a sneer.
Sarada Didi came over to take away my cup. I had not touched it yet.
“Don’t stay up too late reading. Go to bed. You have to start early in the morning and drive for long.”
True. I have to leave early in the morning. But no way I am leaving alone. Didi is coming with me. She won’t say no.
Subhadra can pout, mumble and go to bed early for the rest of her life. I don’t care. But I can’t say bye to this one.
That night I retired early to bed but could not sleep till it was very late. I thought of the day we moved into this house, my school days with my father being my teacher, his objection to my rather late marriage with someone I met in a train, leaving home, and eventually returning and my dad’s change of mind and Subhadra becoming dearer to him than myself.
I didn’t know when I slept or how long I slept. I woke up only when Didi came with my morning coffee.
“Our neighbour Divakarji and his wife are here. They are waiting for you to wake up. I think they have a plan to buy this house.”
They had not come for the house but for something much more precious. Their son had got transferred to the north. He couldn’t take his wife along with him for a couple of years or leave her alone at their new house. So, they wanted Didi to keep her company for some time. They were there to ask me whether it was possible.
Didi knew their daughter before she was married away and she was very happy to offer her help. Everyone was happy.
Didi helped me lock up the house. I left the key with Divakarji. Didi agreed to come over to sweep and dust it once a month. I told her she should not do it herself but should get someone to do it. She only had to keep an eye on it.
As I was getting into the car, she hugged me and said, “Go in peace, I have someone to take care of me. Like I have someone to look after.”
Hearing this, Divakarji and his wife nodded, thinking she was talking about them.
“You too have three kids to take care of. One is an infant. She is really a meek one.”
Either from the sky or from her eyes, a few drops landed on my wrist.
THE INCORRIGIBLE LOCAL LENIN
Sreekumar K
Without being impolite, we tried to shoo away the boy, a good looking, decently dressed street urchin. He had demanded money from every group enjoying a cool evening at the beach. We saw and heard him go around begging. Not for any small amount either. He needed some money for his school expenses.
We are not uncharitable people. We had organized different systems for different social needs with the help of the company we were working for. Even otherwise, we usually open our purses when people come begging. But for some strange reason, we all felt that this one should not be paid. We found that other people on the beach also felt the same about the boy.
I wondered why we all felt so. Probably it had something to do with the look of the poor boy. He didn’t look poor at all. He had a pair of sandals though a little short for his large feet, he was well built up though it was all muscles and bones with no fat anywhere and the clothes were a little too big for him, but looked neat and clean. Probably a gift or a donation from some church nearby. That was Christmas time and other festivals were also coming up. That was one good thing about festivals. The poor benefited in different ways. More is sold and bought. The economy wakes up. It helps. So, unlike what our dear friend Lenin Madahav says, God is useful. So are festivals. So, we all thought of leaving this too with the Gods. Let Him take care of this one too.
But our local Lenin had a different idea. He wanted to offer some money to that boy. We knew how much each of us had in our purses. Whatever was there belonged to the laundry man, the woman who came to take away our kitchen waste and the tea seller at the beach. Lenin too might have had very little to push on till the pay day. So, we didn’t let him open his purse. We, in fact, grabbed his purse and kept it with us till the irritating voice of the boy could be heard no more. When we were sure the boy had gone away for good, we returned the purse to Lenin. We knew him so well. He was so free with his money. He never cared about it. He was a born philanthropist. For his good mind, the gods did smile on him rather generously.
Arguing about silly things was his major vice, especially about metaphysics. Nothing was as irritating as his adherence to atheism. He got that bug when he was just a school kid and pursued it to such an extent that one of the things that he treasures in his life is a letter of compliment from Richard Dawkins for an article he wrote for an online science journal.
Yesterday again he rubbed me the wrong way. We were discussing how the left had managed to end quite a good number of draconian customs, the most prominent of which was the temple entry. Reghu and I, coming from two lower castes, were very proud of how thankful we were to the party for this. He had a different view of the matter. He said that it was funny to think of helping people to gain the right to worship deities was progress. They party workers, if they had any sense at all, should have let the custom continue so that more people would grow up to question religion itself instead of going against one custom or another. He argued that religious worship went against one’s ability to think critically. He went on arguing long after he had won the debate. Typical of him.
However, we all liked his company. He was a true friend we could trust and depend on. In fact, he was the most hardworking person among us and we all owed him not only a lot of cash but more importantly his precious time too. Whenever we needed company to go somewhere, he would offer himself without us asking him. In fact, no one among us was unwilling to do that but they all needed some amount of coaxing, or hand twisting or pleading to do that.
Of course, he was named after the great Russian leader whom he actually detested and fought with his father who had given him that name. He was well read and knew what kind of a person Lenin really was. All idols have feet of clay, and so does our comrade, he used to say.
That was one quality we all envied in him, absolute objectivity. His mind worked quite differently and his opinions and views always stood the test of reason. We all wished he were a theist too and considered that as the only blemish in his character. It couldn’t be considered a blemish since it didn’t affect us in any way. But he being a good friend, we all wanted him to make the best of life, this life and the one afterwards, if there were any.
I looked around and suggested that we should move. The sun set was hardly visible. Thick rain clouds had darkened the sky. If it rained, everyone would rush for the bus and it would be hard to get it. Making a move earlier sounded like a good decision to all of us.
When we moved over to the bus bay, we found that common sense was still very common. Almost everyone at the beach had the same idea and had already reached there. We smiled at each other knowingly and waited for the bus. The rush was too much. I kept my hand near my breast pocket and managed to pull myself in with the other hand. Pickpockets are everywhere.
I got a window seat and pulled Lenin close to me and shared my seat with him. The moment he sat down he asked me in detail about the marriage rituals my community observed. I could not give the exact details, but he seemed to be satisfied with what I told him.
“I just love the marriage rituals. They make the day quite memorable. So funny!”
I refused to comment and regretted that I should have been more sketchy in my descriptions.
The next morning, Lenin came over to my room to borrow some money from me. I was very happy to help him because he never gave us a chance to do anything for him. But I wondered what he needed the money for.
“I lost my purse.”
“When? Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you find it missing?”
“Find it missing! Boy, isn’t that a cute oxymoron?”
“Cut the crap. Tell me when you noticed it.”
“This morning when I woke up. Maybe I dropped it on the way from the bus yesterday.”
“Did you check in the courtyard? O, there is no point in that. There are many early joggers.”
“I don’t know. Lost is lost. Don’t worry about that.”
He didn’t sound sad or worried. But then nothing worried him.
Later that day, I remembered he had not volunteered to buy tickets on the way back. So, he knew he had lost the purse even before that. Or, maybe he would have hoodwinked us and thrown his purse at the boy when we were not looking.
From the Church to the left of our lodge the morning prayer rose up. As if on cue, a chant rose from the temple in front of our lodge. Both irritating in their loudness and lack of clarity. But today, I somehow noticed that they said the same thing though in two different languages.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
The beating could be heard across the town’s
dividing lanes, emerging from the end,
spreading over the afternoon, quietly taking over
the warm winter on the east-coast.
A beat of something leaving, arriving
at a regular pace at our mind’s
imagining, increasing in number
as we begin to count their probable numbers.
As clear as the sound of footfalls
approaching our waiting ears
within a dream of departures, falling
to the rhythm of ancient faces disappearing.
Harsh as broken sleep, lonely as that sleep’s
precisely counted minutes in reverse,
floating back to the beginning of history
in the midst of our numbness,
dumb wonder. Who has left the afternoon
so far behind? What kind going has left us
so solely to ourselves? The recently released
dreams of the old? The faith of a woman
taking advantage of her man’s lingering years?
Our sleeping children wait for the afternoon
to flower inside their competing pictures
of the future, unaware of how the February sun
now shines over an incomplete picture of our
own making. Different sounds prevail now,
lonelier notes of a lifetime of forgetting,
a remembrance of losing things, an afternoon left
behind by the drumbeats of another land, another kind.
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.
GLIMPSES INTO THE LIFE OF AKHILAMOHAN PATNAIK (1927-82) and HIS BALIGHARA
(English version by Prabhanjan K. Mishra from the original Odia article of the author published in the February, 2018 issue of KATHA magazine under the title ‘Balighara, Akhilamohan Pattanayakanka Jibanacharya.)
Because your life is not at stake!
A few days back, newspapers published the photograph of the flag of Ravenshaw college, bearing its emblem, fluttering atop its iconic Kanika library. After Ravenshaw college had been elevated to university status, the colours ‘blue’ and ‘red’ were chosen as Ravenshaw’s signature-colours, and like in the cases of reputed universities of Cambridge and Oxford, a flag was designed for the Ravenshaw college. Now, the college boasts of its own official flag and colours as that of any autonomous university.
Akhilamohan Patnaik studied in Ravenshaw college, staying in one of its hostels. Those were the days of the British Raj. One day, he along with his college friends like Manmohan Mishra and others, removed the Union Jack from the college flag-post and hoisted the Congress Party flag in its place. It was followed by a proclamation by them with Akhilamohan on the vanguard of their ideology that the campus of the Ravenshaw college had been freed from the British rule, and its premises was an independent republic. In those activities, kind of a mini-nationalistic movement, Akhilamohan was the leader of his likeminded peers with a left-leaning ideology suffused with liberal socialistic ideas.
In those heady times, after the Ravenshaw college premises were declared an independent republic, one day anti-British announcements were heard over public address systems with loudspeakers concealed inside the campus buildings. The police were unable to find out the hideout of the lawbreakers or the source of from where they were operated. At last, a hefty constable located the source of the so-called mischief in a room in the west-end hostel. He found Akhilamohan, clad in a relaxed lungi inside a room and shouting the anti-colonial slogans into the microphone. He was alone in taking up the cudgel for calling his fellow collegians to a fight to free India from the mighty British rule. That was Akhilamohan Patnaik for an introduction, abrupt, clear-minded and a fighter for justice, though a bit eccentric.
The stick-wielding hefty constable finding Akhilamohan behind the commotion, gave chase and Akhilamohan ran to escape from his clutch. The chase continued along the corridors of various floors of the hostel building like playing ‘catch me if you can’. It was not possible for Akhilamohan to escape easily as the corridors had protective iron grills and the grill doors for entrance and exit were locked by the police constable. Finally, Akhilamohan, as he was a thin boy, squeezed himself out through a small gap in a grill work. The clueless hefty police officer stood inside twiddling his thumbs watching his prey stand smiling outside free, and lighting a casual bidi without a bother in the world.
Akhilmohan jeered at the officer while taking a mouthful of satisfying smoke, “No, you can’t squeeze through it, because your life is not at stake!” That was a defining attitude of the man and his character. Akhilamohan could mock and laugh at the most threatening moments of life.
The old Austin
Let me take you to the Bhubaneswar of nineteen-sixties, years when we would often take a spin in the evenings in his old Austin car though the entire length and breadth of the city, from Dhauli to Khandagiri. Akhilamohan was like an older brother, philosopher and friend, and we addressed him Akhilana (brother Akhila) out of affection. He then bought a brand-new Fiat car. Those days it would cost about twelve thousand rupees. I came to know of it when I heard of him having driven in his new car to our university campus at Vani Vihar and was looking for me.
One day, I visited his residence called ‘Balighara’ with Akshaya bhai and found his new Fiat car parked in the open by the kerb, and covered with dust. Gyanada Apaa (apaa is an affectionate address for a sisterly woman older in age or respected in life), his wife, told us, “He doesn’t care for his new car. The old Austin is occupying our garage and is regularly dusted, oiled and taken out, though it is hardly in a running condition.” We were dismayed to know Akhilana giving all his care and attention to his old Austin and neglecting the new Fiat. His love for his old Austin brought to my mind the movie ‘Ajantrika’* by the reputed director Ritwik Ghatak.
Once Akshay bhai told me that Akhilana was very unhappy over the issue of selling his old Austin. The reason for his displeasure surprised me. It transpired the buyer had offered him a paltry amount of nine hundred rupees to buy the car, and that offended Akhilana. He was heard whispering to his Austin, “I can’t stand such insult to you. No one loves you dear, it seems. I would rather to push you into the abyss from the precipice of Dhauli Hills, than selling you for an insulting sum of of nine hundred rupees. Akhilamohan, that would impress on me, was a great human being, and he could even find a living and loving persona in a mute and inanimate object.
(*Ajantrika – the movie portrays the deep love and atachment of Bimal, a taxi driver in a small town, for his battered old car and the car plays the role of protagonist in the film’s story line.)
Playing Chess with Death
As towards life, he had the attitude of a player towards death. When I watched Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Seventh Seal’*, what impressed me most in its story was the game of chess played by a knight with the death. The death asked, “Are you ready?” The knight replied, “My body in ready. I am not.” In my known circle, if any one could have the bravado to challenge the death personified to a game of chess at his last hour, it was Akhilamohan Patnaik. It has been on record that when his father lay in death bed, he emboldened him, “Don’t be scared dad, be ready for the tryst.” And just before his own death, he personally drove down from Bhubaneswar to Cuttack in his car, and walked into doctor Khadanga’s operation theatre clad in his lungi and smoking a relaxed bidi. Was it any way less than playing chess with death?
(*“Seventh Seal” movie was a symbolic fantasy. “Seventh Seal” in the heaven stands for the ‘silence of God’, a motif, around which the film was built up.)
For a horseshoe Nail
When I was selected for the IAS interview from the results of the written test, I was worried over my high-power glasses of minus nine. I doubted if I would sail through the medical board successfully. I and my friends were clueless.
A friend said, probably the high-power would be your Achilles heel. Another encouraged me with words, “Once a candidate, blind in one eye was rejected by the board, but he complained to Nehru and was taken into the civil service on a second thought.” Living at Baxi Bazar, Cuttack, I had none to turn to for guidance. My friend Akshaya bhai, whom I met at a pan-shop, took me to Akhilamohan Patnaik alias our Akhilana, considered to be the savior of all who had none to save their souls, a sort of stand by SOS system.
Akhilana told me, “Don’t worry. I will write to my classmate Nandini. Meet her with my letter. she will solve your problem.” Those days, Akhilana’s classmate, Smt. Nandini Satpathy, was the central Minister of Information and Broadcasting, in the cabinet of Smt. Indira Gandhi. She was said to be close to the then most powerful prime minister of India, Mrs Gandhi. I could never meet her in spite of much effort, and Akhilana’s letter to her remained undelivered. Though, I could speak to her once over telephone, she did not seem to give me much hope. It was another matter that my high-power glasses didn’t stop me from sailing through on my own.
Out of curiosity, once I glanced through Akilana’s letter to Nandini Satpathy. I found out that after a few words of effusive praise for me, he had written, “Help him if you can. Let him not lose the kingdom for a horse shoe nail, as I did.” I have not shown that letter to anyone. It still lies to date among my valued collections as a souvenir. I have saluted him, because it had not been his arrogance but his deep sense of self-esteem. I have thought to myself, “Akhilana, let your words give me moral courage to lose the kingdom even for a horseshoe nail.”
The honeymoon
Bina, my wife, when she came to our Cuttack parental house as a new bride, she had to wear a sari almost all through the day. She had brought with her the pair of riding boots and breeches, that she had been wearing during her civil service training at Mussoorie that had included horse riding, but those riding gear remained unpacked. My father put that pack containing her riding gear in our storeroom’s wooden loft after a few days of her arrival and they vanished from everyone’s attention for once and all.
Bina wore a sari of tasar-silk with red border during her first visit to Akhilana’s house. He, in his ever jolly romantic way, asked her about our honeymoon, and how had it worked out? But his wife, Gyanada Apaa, came to wife’s rescue and joked with her own husband, “Why don’t you rather tell them about your honeymoon.” That was an opportunity to know some more eccentricities of Akhilana.
He had his first marriage night at Banaras in March, 1954. After having dinner in a restaurant with his wife, both were returning to their hotel. Like Cuttack, Banaras would remain awake until late night, especially the city’s paan-shops would keep operating for night owls. While approaching the hotel, he asked his wife, “Gyanada, should we have paan?”
At a paan shop of the bazar area they were passing through, he stopped to have a paan. After putting a paan in his mouth, he saw some other paan-addicts playing chess and betting money. He joined a group and started playing chess and continued until one past midnight and won a rupee. He forgot about his new bride and their first night. It was a cold winter night and his new bride Gyanada stood in the open all along, shivering in the chill.
It would be common knowledge to me later that Akhilana loved gambling and travelling. He would not rest unless he travels to his fill, say, from Siberian Tundra to Sahara Desert. It was sort of ingrained in his DNA, a parallel to swimming-addict Mihir Sen of his time, the internationally famous swimmer, who would swim across all the known sea channels on earth, starting with the English Channel, and counting around twenty-seven waterways, and ending his adventure by crossing the Bosphorus* Strait.
Likewise, to satiate the other goddess of his love, gambling, our Akhilana or Akhilamohan Patnaik, the famous criminal lawyer, did not let go any of the well-known gambling dens or race courses of the world, might it be the casinos of Las Vegas* and the slot machines of Atlantic City*, or the racecourses famous as erstwhile Derby Racecourses (Derby Racecourses were no more operational to his bad luck), that he did not visit and where did not play, betting money.
(*Bosphorus – the strait is by Istanbul of Turkey connecting the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara.
*Atlantic City – a coastal city in Atlantic County of New Jersey, USA, known for its casinos and tourist resorts.
*Las Vegas – the City of Las Vegas in Nevada state of USA, often referred to as only Vegas, famous for its gambling, and as a tourist town.)
Like a hapless toad proclaiming non-violence!
He was kind of an epitome of frank-speak. It was a mystery how he practiced as a criminal lawyer so successfully without ever resorting to the untruth or without mincing a word, that is to say, discarding the two powerful weapons in the arsenal of a criminal lawyer. He would immediately detect a lie or falsehood of a person before him and his rebuke would always be cushioned with a repartee from his vast repertoire. I would site a humorous incident for my readers. Once during their visit to Calcutta, he and Akshaya Mohanty had checked into the Utkal Bhavan.
A student of Burla Engineering college, who was a fan of Akshaya Mohanty, the great vocalist and popular singer, had a chance to meet his singing icon. The young fellow, who was affectionately addressed by a nickname Phunu, expressed his desire to accompany them to the Utkal Bhavan that he had not seen earlier. People of Odisha, conservative and cautious by nature, when traveling out of the state, would feel relaxed and a little free to indulge themselves with liberal treats. Knowing the nature of the two free and frank johnnies, Akhila and Akshaya, joining forces together, Phunu apprehensively said, “Sir, I wish to come with you to have a look at the Utkal Bhavan, but I will not drink with you.”
Akhilana could in a jiffy understand Phunu’s hesitation to drink with seniors. So, he asked if he had been a teetotaler. Phunu replied, “Not hundred percent sir, I take a drink or two in rare occasions. So, almost a teetotaler.” Akhilana promptly said with tongue in cheek, “Oh. Your abstinence from alcoholic drinks is like a hapless toad proclaiming non-violence! Your ‘almost a teetotaler’ status remains unblemished, whether you take a peg or don’t.”
Dislike for prudish behaviour, pretended as politeness
The untruth or a pretended truth was more painful than an honest lie to Akhilamohan. He could not stand the prudish behaviour of the so called educated and proclaimed free-minded snobs. A small story might enlighten the readers. After the blockbuster film Bobby was screened all over India in 1973, it brought a sea change in behaviour pattern and sartorial style of youngsters, besides emboldening them in matters of heart. It was a sort of commercial success for its maker, the thespian Raj Kapoor. Even after ‘Housefull’ signboard was put at the box office, long queues by the Bobby fans before the ticket booking windows were a common sight.
My father, seated on his favourite cement bench in the front of our house, asked a friend of him walking along the lane, “Ram babu, why are you on foot? Where is your bicycle?” Ram babu drew a long face, “Some movie called Bobby has come to town and driving people mad. My son has gone with my cycle since morning to buy tickets, and he hasn’t returned so far.”
Akhilana told us the story of another Bobby-afflicted father of Bhubaneswar where he lived. The other senior man had a moral side to the Bobby picture. He said, “See, it might be a good picture, but unfit for watching with family consisting of sisters or daughters.” Akhilana could not pocket the prudery of the man, and burst out, “Do you carry out all your activities in the presence of your daughters or sisters? Some activities you may be doing in privacy. So, go and watch Bobby without the company that may embarrass you. It would entertain you a lot.”
Janata Theatre
An episode concerning Janata Theatre of Cuttack would show the frank, humorous, yet stern professionalism of Akhilamohan Pattnaik that helped finding ways out of difficult situations; and endear him to the people concerned. Those days, Akhilana was playing a role in the management of that theatre. A problem was brought before him that a regular actor on the theatre’s payroll had made a new entrant pregnant, so the latter might stop performing. That was a real challenge in those days when female actors were few and far between to find.
A miffed Akhilana asked the male actor concerned for a way out. The latter misunderstood his intention. In a who-the-hell-cares attitude he replied, “If push comes to shove, I will marry her. What’s the big deal, sir?” But Akhilana’s retort to the male actor, not only gave the culprit cold feet, but set a discipline and farsighted record that all the prospective actors in the future would follow who would choose a professional career in acting.
He said, “I am happy, my dear Smart Alec, to know that you will marry her if push comes to shove. But what of our theatre? I want another commitment from you both on a stamp paper that if your counterpart delivers a girl, you would let her work as an actor in Janata Theatre. Do you know how far we go to find out a female artist, and how much grooming goes into making her stage-ready? If you carefree johnnies make them pregnant as soon as they make their debut, how can the theatre industry survive? Do you realize the jeopardy you have landed the Janata Theatre in for your foolish unprofessionalism?”
Calling a spade a spade
His frankness and his principle of calling a spade a spade did not even take a back seat before the individuals who stood tall and famous by their worth and station. One such man walking with giant strides those days was Harekrushna Mahtab, the first Chief Minister of Orissa after independence from the British Rule, and a freedom fighter who had fought the colonial rulers by the side of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru. Mahtab had written a novel ‘Pratibha’ embroidered on the then political situation. Because of its dull language and the story unfurling with a slow drag, the novel did not catch much attention of readers.
But the story when dramatized and staged by the Janata Theatre, it was a great hit with the audience, and ran for more than a hundred houseful nights. Akhilana who was looking after the theatre’s management, on one occasion spoke before Harekrushna Mahatab, the writer of the original story, “Please watch your story ‘Pratibha’ staged by us, Sir. I guarantee, you would be charmed. Director Gopal babu has raised a lotus in a dung pit.” He, in fact, spontaneously called the novel ‘Pratibha’ a dung pit, and director Gopal babu’s improvisation as a lotus. His intension might not be to hurt Mahatab, but he did not know how to mince words and was in habit of calling a spade a spade.
Akhilamohan was of an affectionate and warm disposition, and as a caring host he stood unique and unparalleled. I would always cherish his large-heartedness while treating us as his guests. In 1981 I was posted in distant Karnal, and communication with home was limited to a reply coming through post after a lapse of fourteen days of my posting a letter. It was the time of snail mail and postal time from Karnal to Cuttack used to be a week’s time. Distant calls, called trunk-calls, by telephone were difficult to connect and very expensive. So, during that posting, my communication with Akhilana was also reduced almost to zero.
Then I was transferred back to Odisha, and took charge as a deputy secretary in the state’s home department at Bhubaneswar. Akhilana outpoured his affection over telephone to welcome me back to Odisha, and invited me to dinner, “Let us celebrate your return. I have added to your dinner party Akshaya and your other two friends, Prafulla Mishra and Tulu.” We all reached his house obediently but with empty hands, as taking wine to his house as a curtsey return, would be like carrying coals to Newcastle.
Our last meeting at BALIGHARA
That evening when we reached his residence Balighara (the name of his residence), the wine party was arranged on the open terrace. Akhilana, a thorough organizer, had put a tarpaulin canopy over the party area as a protection from unpredictable August drizzles. A pedestal fan whirred to give relief from the sweltering weather. He was an expert on liquor and cocktail-art and he would generally charm his drinking companions with exotic tastes. But that day, it was a whisky party out and out.
All the accessories of a party were in plenty, might it be various select brands of whisky, decanters with frothing cool soda, or suitable snacks to give company to the drinks. To create a favourable atmosphere the crooners, Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh, were audible at a low romantic volume from a record player strategically placed, regaling us quietly but not interfering in our party-talk.
It was beyond me why he had gone that far to arrange the lavish party for me and a select few of my friends. I also could not guess why the sitting arrangement was on the floor of the roof on a luxurious thick-soft carpet, and why Akhilana was spread full length on the carpet, sideway with a pillow clutched to his belly area, while continuously taking sips from his glass and drags from cigarette. I noticed his face cringing in some sort of excruciating pain and he pressing the pillow closer to his stomach and taking quick sips of whisky as if to fight with the pain.
To solve our curiosity, he replied, “Oh, it is a little liver pain, I can’t just get rid of it.” He gave his characteristic open smile and continued, “Why the hell should I believe that liver is a part of my body!” Then he diverted the topic and asked Gyanada Apaa, his wife, to take out the expensive silver dinner-set and set dinner on the dining table.
Later we would know that his liver was in a very bad shape, almost in a fatal condition by then. Akhilana had this unique quality of sharing only his happiness, not his suffering with his loved ones. That evening, he kept the party alive with food, drinks, songs, jolly vivre, jokes and repartee single handedly as the life and pivot of our little gathering, and left nothing to our imagination that he was on the death’s door. And it was our last soiree with him. That evening was the last occasion, I saw him alive. I did not see his dead body. I kept myself away from his funeral out of an unexplained anger for his unscheduled departure.
Literary achievements
His creative works are the most authentic witnesses to his literary excellence. A few of his recordings are like blazing literary theories for all time to come. On the first inner page of his ‘Jhadara Eagle and Dharanira Krushnasara’ (The Eagle in a Storm and Humus of the Earth, the title of his collected short stories, roughly translated), he writes in calligraphy font with his own longhand, “The Man’s character is such an ever mysterious, and endless narrative that we and our predecessors have not finished studying and exploring it in its entirety till date. A large stock of it remains for the successors to be explored. A surplus may yet continue to keep many future generations busy.” The preceding translation in quote-unquote of his Odia axiomatic statement in his own handwritten calligraphy is only a rough attempt to express the reflection in English sensibility.
In an essay titled ‘Why I write’, he has narrated what inspired him to write, and what were his responsibilities as a creative writer. Some unanswered questions would keep bothering him, like - ‘Why does a father suffer from a goading misfortune, and both his sons die in plane crashes, one after the other? Why does a mother commit suicide being unable to feed her only son? Why do the lovely bird fraternity gather at a place and commit mass suicide? What does a cow ponder about when it just refrains from grazing and stands still as if in meditative contemplation?’
In his opinion, if one maintains an unblemished clear conscience, such questions were but natural. He had an urge to ask all including God himself to have answers to his quests. Often, he felt, the questions contained their answers, like a seed containing an entire progeny.
Literary Magpie
Akhilamohan Patnaik might not be very prolific with an extensive total body of work during his life time, but he excelled in variedness of his approach to narratives, and the vividness in building up his characters in his literary works. He could find his plots from both the animate and inanimate worlds. He had risen to a level of literary absurdity, reminiscent of the great authority in absurd writing, say Kafka. He could be in a communicable cordiality with even a headless corpse.
His imaginations transcended the prevailing time’s beliefs and global outreach in ideas. One could sense the same quintessence in Akhilamohan’s writing what preceded the famous Latin author Gabriel Garcia Marquez who brought to the world’s literary scene the ‘magical realism’ in his novels and stories written in eighties. His stories are closer in style and panning out to Edgar Allan Poe rather than O. Henry.
A few days back an article in a newspaper had discussed on the lesser dependence of the English language on the punctuation mark called ‘Apostrophe’. Akhilamohan was capable of composing a short story by developing mystery having this grammatical sign on the backdrop. By joining ideas with various permutations and combinations, and creating a new plot of story, he had the dexterity of a literary magpie.
I am doubtful, if any writer from Odisha, contemporary to Dan Brown of ‘Da Vincy Code’ fame or to Mario Puzo of ‘Godfather’ fame, could write at the level of these great authors, and here I miss the presence of Akhilamohan Patnaik, our Akhilana, in the literary scene of Odisha who wielded that calbre. I could have trusted his and only his efforts to rise to that level, had he been alive and around.
Shri Devdas Chhotray is a legend of Odiya Literature. A versatile genius, his imprints are indelible on many facets of creativity. A poet par excellence, he is also an accomplished writer and is a household name in Odisha for his numerous film lyrics.
STEPPING STONE TO HEAVEN
Ishwar Pati
When my father passed away, my younger brother and I travelled to Shanti Kunj near Haridwar to immerse his ashes in the Ganga. On my earlier visit to Haridwar, that holiest of holy places, I had been mesmerised by the evening Ganga aarti at the Har ki Pauri Ghat (literally meaning the Lord’s Steps). As twilight steals in, the river is set ablaze by a fleet of floating lamps and the air resounds to the chanting of hymns and clashing of cymbals. One can almost sense, at that enthralling moment, Lord Shiva dancing down the holy steps to partake of the puja in his honour. But this time my mood was solemn. I had mixed feelings, standing detached in the crystal clear water, as I released my father’s ashes from the urn in which they had come with us after his cremation. My brother and I watched his last remains floating down the river to their ultimate destination—the vast ocean. On the one hand, I was crestfallen by the realisation that this was my final adieu to my father. The world of the living would go on, but his company I could enjoy no more. On the other hand, I felt at peace with his memory in the tranquil and spiritual world of Haridwar—where there were no priests to harangue us, no touts to swindle us, no polluted water to affront us and no dogs to follow us around.
But it is typical of our society that we had to weather a storm from our relatives before we could start our journey for Haridwar. They were livid when they learnt about my father’s stipulation in his will on his funeral. “What, no rituals? How will our souls be ‘cleansed’ then?” they fumed. But our hands were tied. Father had specifically forbidden the observance of cumbersome rites and specified instead a brief funeral at Shanti Kunj, followed by immersion of his ashes in the Himalayan Ganga. He knew how painful these rites were, stretching over twelve days, and making the person conducting the rituals, viz. the eldest son, himself sick from overexposure and strain! Another condition laid down by him was not to have any ‘celebration’ with a grand feast. Only a prayer meeting was to be conducted, accompanied by refreshments. There was no merit in elaborate preparations, he had told us, just to bid a person a last farewell! Deluding oneself with rituals was no way to enrich society. This outlook pervaded his entire life. He was as simple in dress as he was forthright in his interaction with people, lending a rare impartiality to his words and deeds. Of course sometimes he could not ‘read’ the crookedness of others and had to pay a price for gullibility. Even then, he maintained that a simple approach in life was most ‘productive’, because any manipulation of a just and fair process gives rise to complications that ultimately come home to roost and destroy one’s peace of mind.
He was not a rebel as such, but a dissenter with a cause. He could never bring himself to conform to some of the traditional ideas that, to him, carried no ‘intrinsic value’ any more. But, even as he differed with his elders on how our principles should be interpreted for a better community life, he did so with utmost humility and respect. In fact, his candid approach was a potent weapon that upset his adversaries’ use of pretentious rhetoric in trying to justify the need to follow ‘hollow’ rituals. Is it any wonder then that, brought up in such an environment of reasoned enlightenment, his children imbibed his spirit in ample, if not full, measure? It is this spirit that helped us to stand steadfast so as not to deny our father his last wish in the name of ‘convention’. “A dead man’s wish is paramount,” we countered, overruling their insistence on a long-drawn ceremony with a multiple of rites.
I am glad we did so. There was something of an abiding allurement at Haridwar, where the Ganga flows so chaste and transparent. The feeling that a peaceful surrender to the elements of Nature in those charming hills and deep abysses brings on is indescribable. No wonder he chose it as his last resting place. While I bid my father’s spirit good-bye forever, I resolved to follow in his ‘illuminated’ footsteps.
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.
It was in late 1990s, exact date not remembered. I was the head of the 3rd Unit, Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology (O&G), VSS MEDICAL COLLEGE, BURLA. On a busy morning, at about 10 am came into the Out Patient Department (OPD), a group of students, around twenty in number, all with brand new white coats, note books and stethoscopes put in necklace position. They had some conversation with the staff sister in charge, probably to know who is the person on the chair and if he's the head of the unit. “Good morning Sir", said all in a chorus and marched into the examination room without caring anybody. They all appeared to be jubilant, confident, enthusiastic and in a hurry as if they had come there to explore and discover something new. I was just observing them. What they did inside I don't know, but returned back after around one hour. What I marked on their face was just the opposite. That glaze had faded, confidence dropped, jubilation waned. Signs of dissatisfaction on their faces was well marked.
They all stood around me for a while and just observed what was going on there. One of them told, "Sir! we are 3rd semester students posted in O & G OPD. We are fresh in clinical subjects and that too it's our first class. We are here for about more than one hour. We saw everyone is busy here with patients and nobody is there to teach us. When we approached Madam Mishra, who is in the patient's examination room she expressed her inability to teach us as she was very busy in disposing patients. Moreover she directed us to meet you. What will we do Sir? Should we go to our hostels? If so, Sir, please take our attendance."
"What's your name?" I asked in a serious tone.
"Paridhi, Sir! Paridhi Mohanty," replied the nervous girl in a trembling voice.
"How could you conclude Paridhi, that there is nobody to teach you?", I asked.
They all stood bending their head without uttering a single word.
Then I told them, “Your reporting time was at 9.00 a:m. You entered at 10 a:m and expect that we will be waiting here to welcome you, without doing any business. You see the number of patients still waiting in queue. I was observing you since you entered. You are roaming in the OPD as if you have come to visit a mall or a museum, not to attend a clinical class. You are gossiping, laughing and posturing. Really I am shocked to see your behavior. Imagine, what the patients will be thinking about you. Moreover for the first time in my life as a teacher, I am hearing that there is nobody in my unit to teach and you are asking permission from me to leave. What for have you come here? Is this the way to become a doctor? Actually I'm waiting for you. You don't have the minimum courtesy to meet me, and introduce yourselves. Remember Paridhi, nobody will invite you to teach you. It's your duty to extract from your teachers. You should be always after them to learn."
"Sorry, Sir ! It will not be repeated. "
"Don't say the word SORRY from today. Do you know SORRY is a word which should be deleted from medical dictionary, because by saying SORRY you can't make a dead man alive."
After that all became silent. I asked them to introduce themselves one by one, which they did. I asked the staff sister to arrange 17 chairs for the students to sit in the OPD. Then I taught them continuously for two and half hours from 11 am to 1.30 pm.
Since it was their first clinical class, I introduced the subject of Obstetrics and Gynaecology, then tried to explore their knowledge in basic sciences like Anatomy, Physiology and Biochemistry which they had just cleared, related to the clinical subject. Then I started discussing with them how to prepare themselves to face the challenges which will inevitably come in the life of a physician. For that they have to be a good human being first. To be a good human being one has to be disciplined. DISCIPLINE is the key word of life and more so in the life of a physician. Slightest indiscipline can cost a life. I gave some examples from my experience to make them understand the importance of discipline in medical profession. By that time the students had become free without any shadow of boredom or stress. They interacted with me freely regarding the qualities required to become a good human being like attitude, behavior, character, determination and empathy. I told them, "It's easy to preach sermons but very difficult to practice in reality. One has to make a habit to practice these qualities seriously. Then only one can be a successful human being. After all, what is habit? Habit is like a cable. Weave a thread daily, finally it will be so strong that you can't break it. So dear friends, start from now. Every moment counts." Then I took their attendance and let them go. It was half past one. All were spell bound, not moving an inch, as if hungry to learn more. But all the OPD staff were waiting to go for lunch.
It was closing time for OPD. Everyone left one after another touching my feet. Paridhi was the last student to leave." Thank you Sir. I learned the cream of medical science today," said Paridhi, while leaving.
SPANDAN, the annual journal of the college was released after the annual function. While going through the pages one article titled JUVENILE DELINQUENCY, written by Paridhi caught my eyes. It was a very short article, where the details of the OPD incidence was described. The concluding lines of the story is still echoing in my ears.
“After loitering an hour or so in the OPD, unwanted and uncared for, we felt disappointed, almost on the verge of leaving . There we met a great teacher who taught us the alphabets of medical science (attitude, behavior, character, discipline and empathy). Our one hour of waiting didn't go in vain. It was not a wastage of time. Rather God had tested our patience. Had we left the OPD, we might have missed a life time lesson taught by a legendary person. That day my impatience turned to be a blessing in disguise. I myself learned the value of patience, which is an integral quality of a good doctor." wrote Paridhi.
After reading this article, Paridhi occupied a special place in my heart. She was an example for thousands of young budding doctors, bubbling with enthusiasm and eagerness to learn in a hurry. Since then, whenever I deliver a lecture on medical profession I don't forget Paridhi.
“Learn to wait.
There is always time for everything”
(Unknown)
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..
It was a worrying time for Doctor Prabhat Sen. A professor of Pharmacology in the Medical Col-lege, he was also the Head of the Department. He was a man of many parts but research was the love of his life. Over last few weeks, his research had stalled.
He started studying Antibiotic resistance years ago, when this field of research was not very fash-ionable; few Pharmaceutical Companies were interested in promoting it. Most invested heavily into drugs to lower blood pressure and cholesterol, usually taken for years to decades, making such ventures far more profitable than exploration into antibiotics, generally prescribed for a week or two, at best.
“You are swimming against the current," his friends would tell him, “why not pursue research in areas where funding is plentiful?” But Prabhat believed in following his passion. After years of painstaking research, he had made steady progress, getting close to quite exciting findings.
But he had come unstuck in the last phase; he was struggling with analysis of the vast amount of data, collected over years. Provisional findings from an interim analysis had pointed to quite tanta-lising conclusions. This raised his hopes for some ground breaking results; but it had led to no-where.
As Department Head, Prabhat’s list of responsibility was endless; he had to chase procurement order for furniture, balance the books by end of the financial year, and discipline errant staff members.
What had been gnawing at his mind, lately, was his decision to suspend Sudhakar, one of his trust-ed and sincere employees. His conscience was pricking him for this punishment, he had meted out to Sudhakar, and battles raging in his mind, over this decision, had left him weary. His sapped en-ergy and sagging concentration had slowed him down; and he was lagging behind in his research.
As his mental distress deepened, his research project ground to a halt. He had gathered a wealth of data, promising some exciting original findings, which would be the pinnacle of his research ca-reer. Glory of this supreme achievement, however, had been eluding him. It seemed, he was sitting on a gold mine but had no clue how to get to the gold. When it came to the crunch, his final analysis had yielded frustratingly confusing results, which did not make much sense; he was at a loss to interpret or explain them.
Prabhat did not have many people, in whom he could confide, with one exception: Professor Ashok Jain, his neighbour and a good friend. One would think, this to be an obvious advantage, when the problem was his waning mental acuity and fading focus of mind, because Ashok was a psychiatrist.
Ashok Jain and Prabhat Sen lived in the same Housing Complex. But that was not all; they had much more in common. They had extensive common interests outside Medicine, and when they met, rarely ran out of subjects for conversation.
However, they differed in one fundamental respect. Prabhat was, what is conventionally known as, religious; Ashok was an atheist. Prabhat spent hours, praying. He would frequently bring up God’s will and divine blessing into their conversations, which struck Ashok odd, almost to a point of annoyance. It amused Ashok to see him rushing into the prayer room for God’s blessings before embarking on anything important or taking any major step in life.
Prabhat always carried a picture of Lord Ganesh in his wallet. Ashok found this mystifying for a man steeped in Science. Early on in their friendship, Ashok was curious for an explanation for this strange cohabitation of science and superstition.
“Why do you carry the picture of your wife in your wallet?”, Prabhat asked him in return?
“That’s a strange question; putting people in flesh and blood in the same league as idols?”
“What is in your wallet, is a mere piece of paper; but to your eyes, it represents your beloved? In the same way, Ganesh to you is simply an idol; but for me it is a symbol of God, the Almighty”.
Ashok had given up questioning Prabhat about his orthodox beliefs and superstitious practices, except occasionally bringing this up, in banter.
That evening, Prabhat was unusually quiet, which did not escape Ashok’s professional eyes. It did not take Ashok long to get to what was bugging him.
Prabhat had to suspend Sudhakar, one of his employees in the Department’s Animal house, for stealing animal food, meant for rabbits. Prabhat’s discomfort was compounded by the fact that Sudhakar’s conduct was no different from his peers. Petty thefts of this kind were common, which mostly went unnoticed and unreported. Sudhakar’s misfortune was that he got caught.
“You would also feel for him, if you knew the full circumstances," Prabhat continued, “Sudhakar is basically an honest man. Everybody in the department knows, I am fond of him; because he is sincere and dependable. There are many in the department who were jealous of him; the eye-witnesses to his theft were simply waiting for an opportunity to get him into trouble”.
“I had a private session with Sudhakar over his theft and his explanation shocked me," Prabhat went on, “His salary is meagre, barely enough for his large family; a small income from his son’s job supplemented it to a mere subsistence level. Since his son lost his job, his finances have been in dire straits. First and foremost, there are so many mouths to feed. Moreover, he has to rebuild the depleted pot of savings towards his daughter’s dowry. The animal food, he had taken from the department, was to feed his hungry children.”
Before Ashok could say anything, Prabhat asked, “Tell me honestly, have you never used depart-ment stationery, say a stapler, for personal purpose? I can’t deny, occasionally helping myself with a sheet of paper or a clip from my office for personal work. Then, who am I, to judge this lapse of Sudhakar as wrong? How is my own conduct less reprehensible than what he did?”
Ashok was struck by this comparison with the tone of remorse in Prabhat’s monologue. “You are making a mountain out of a molehill, my friend," he said by way of comforting him.
“How, I wish I could overlook Sudhakar’s theft. The amount of food, he took home, for his chil-dren, was small; it hardly bankrupted the Department budget. But, I had no choice but to take dis-ciplinary action against him. There were witnesses to this theft and he had already admitted to his misdemeanour. I would have been accused of favouritism, otherwise; it would be a blot on my own character," he said.
“You were simply following the rules, you are bound by, Prabhat," Ashok tried to console him.
Without uttering a word, Prabhat quietly walked across to the prayer room. “There was little point in discussing with Ashok,," Prabhat thought, “he would just label me crazy and deluded”. He was searching for answers to what was tormenting him the most, “How was it proper to punish Sudhakar, poor chap, struggling to feed his family, by depriving him of his livelihood? It should be up to the Lord to make these difficult decisions, not mortals like me, who is nowhere near per-fect.”
When they resumed their session, Prabhat finally said, “I can see how much this is troubling you; you should better start on…," before naming the medication.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I knew your advice, before you pronounced it; this had held me back from seeking your counsel so far”. Prabhat said.
“But, I don’t understand your objection, How do you think, you would overcome your……,” Ashok stopped himself from completing the sentence.
“Go ahead, I know, the clinical diagnosis, you have made of my condition, from the medication, you mentioned. I am a Professor of Pharmacology; I can rattle of the entire classification of Anti-depressants. You folks are good at coining medical names for every human suffering and your so-lution is always a pill of some kind,” Prabhat said, concluding, “Can’t you see human conditions in any other light?”
Brushing aside Prabhat’s mocking comments, Ashok said, “In suspending Sudhakar, you were simply doing your job. Your guilt in this matter, is excessive and clearly out of proportion, which is clouding your judgement. In fact, it has disabled you to the point that you are no longer capable of doing your job," in an attempt to shake off his gloom.
“It isn’t a sign of weakness in your character, Prabhat, that you have landed in this position," Ashok continued, “It is an illness, like any other: say arthritis or diabetes, for which you won’t hesi-tate to take medication. It is not a predicament, to be ashamed of; it’s a condition crying out for treatment, which you must not obstruct. In fact, you should be on sick leave”
Ashok insisted that Prabhat should at least give antidepressants a try and he reluctantly agreed. After all, how could he ignore the expert opinion? Ashok was a Professor of Psychiatry; his verdict was the final word on diagnosis and treatment of all things mental.
The morality of Sudhakar’s action may be debatable, but Prabhat was in no doubt that he had wronged by disciplining him; the sense of injustice surrounding his suspension was pushing him deeper into depression. To assuage his guilt from wrongdoing, he offered Sudhakar money, from his own pocket, for tiding over the crisis, brought on by his suspension. But Sudhakar, grateful though he was, declined to accept it, saying, he had brought this unto himself by his own actions; so he must face the consequence.
Nothing gave him much relief until he heard that Sudhakar’s son, Bahadur, had managed to get a job in a construction site in the City. The building work was managed by a reputable farm, who paid their workers handsomely. This went a long way in easing their financial hardship. Prabhat’s mood also brightened, raising his hopes that he would be soon able to complete his data analysis. But this spell of good luck was short-lived.
Disaster struck Sudhakar’s family, when the building site, Bahadur was working in, was struck by an earthquake. It was not high on Richter scale; but the epicentre was so close to the building under construction that it collapsed . Most of the workers managed to escape with minor injuries.
But two workers were trapped in the rubble and unfortunately Bahadur was one of them. Rescue operations went on the whole day, into the night; but to no avail. The search continued on the next day. By evening, there was still no sign of the missing men. Chance of finding them alive was diminishing with passage of time, deepening the gloom in the rescue team and the anxious rela-tives.
Prabhat made an effort to resume his data analysis; but this grim news threw him back into des-pair. The results were not becoming any clearer; so he decided to go back to the drawing board and look at the raw data again. He pored over hundreds of pages of data, gathered over a number of years.
There were numerous plots, graphs and tables to examine. After spending hours, checking each of them minutely, he finally located the master data sheet. He scrutinised it carefully, looking at it from various angles.
The sheet suddenly brightened with an alluring glow. Prabhat got startled, but could not get his eyes off, as if they were riveted to the glowing sheet. He shook his head, wondering, what was happening to him. Perhaps, he was overcome with fatigue from working long hours, he thought.
He looked at the graph again. The scatter plot had a number of dots. While he was focussing on the graph, something strange happened. The dots on the graph, which were crisp to start with, first got blurred in their contour. As his attention was drawn to them, the dots started to twinkle. Right in front of his eyes, they were moving. No, they were actually dancing, as if to a divine tune.
Prabhat rubbed his eyes, to make sure, they were not playing tricks on him. Yes, it was for real! The dots on the graph waltzed their way across the paper, before settling down, as if by an order from above. When they stopped, the plot on the graph had a new look as the dots have moved to new sites, probably where they really belonged.
The glow faded and the sheet was back to its old form but with a brand new graph with an entirely different plot of dots. Soon, he realised that multiple errors had crept in while the data from previ-ous analyses were transferred to the final graph. Although he had checked these sheets thor-oughly and more than once, somehow he had failed to spot the errors.
Now, it became obvious that the confusing results stemmed from oversight of this mistake. As he corrected them and fed the revised data for analysis, results started to roll out, all crystal clear and making perfect sense. Finally, the results, he had been waiting for so long, were staring at him.
Prabhat was stunned by this drama unfolding before his eyes; tears of joy rolled down his cheeks. Before doing anything, he took out his wallet, bowing his head in prayers to Lord Ganesh.
The clock in his study struck twelve, reminding him that he had been working the whole evening well into midnight. The enormity of his achievement was slowly sinking in; Prabhat had finally proved his theory beyond all doubt.
Next morning, Prabhat was woken up with more good news. Sudhakar was at his residence, with gleaming eyes and a beaming smile, to tell him of Bahadur’s miraculous recovery from under the rubble. By the time he was spotted, hopes of him being found alive had faded. But there was enough of an air pocket, for Bahadur to breath. He was not only pulled out alive; he had sustained no serious injury.
Sudhakar’s good luck did not end there. The Company’s generous compensation policy included an offer to each one, trapped in the rubble, an ex gratia sum of twelve lakh rupees. This grand com-pensation offer had been initially made for each loss of life from this disaster, when chance of find-ing the missing employees alive was next to nil. However, as a goodwill gesture, the Company de-cided against retrenching this offer, extending the same level of compensation, even after they were safely rescued.
This bonanza was like a lottery, amounting to about ten years’ salary for Sudhakar. A payment for half of the money was coming their way the same afternoon; the other half promised to follow within a week.
“We had given up all hope. Then, suddenly, at midnight, the special equipment, the Company had commissioned, detected from under the rubble, Bahadur’s faint voice to say that he was safe and sound. It was all God’s grace," Sudhakar said.
“What was the time," you said, “when the machine picked up Bahadur’s voice?” Prabhat asked.
“It was exactly midnight”.
Last night’s events again flashed in Prabhat’s mind; he pulled out his wallet, making his obeisance to Lord Ganesh and saying his silent prayers.
That evening, when Ashok and Prabhat met, the atmosphere was jubilant. Prabhat was not sure, how or what to tell Ashok about his last night’s mysterious encounter. “He won’t simply believe me; even worse, he would put it down as a hallucination," he thought. Last night’s vision was best left alone in his own mind.
They talked at length about the implications of Prabhat’s new discovery. “This will stamp your au-thority in this field. You have tasted success in research before, but this is, by far, your supreme achievement. How about naming this finding after Lord Ganesh?” Prakash said teasingly.
Prabhat looked at Ashok in surprise, wondering,“Did he somehow come to know of what hap-pened last night?”.
“No, It is better named, Bahadur Effect," was Prabhat’s calm reply.
“I am so glad, you finally heeded my advice and started the medication for your Depression, my friend. Normally it takes several days to weeks to have its effect; I did not expect such a rapid re-sponse”. “May be, this is placebo effect," Ashok added as an afterthought.
“No, Ashok, even placeboes have to be swallowed to do their trick. I have a confession to make; I did not take your pill.”
“Then, what do you credit this miraculous recovery to?”, Ashok asked.
“It is called divine remedy.”
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE: RANGANATHASWAMY TEMPLE, SRIRANGAM
Vishnu, the second deity of the trinity of gods, is responsible for the sustenance, protection and maintenance of the created universe. A gentle, loving god representing the heart, he is the focus of intense devotional worship by a large percentage of people in the country. To ward off the extraordinary perils that threaten creation, Vishnu frequently incarnates himself. He has appeared as Rama, Krishna, the Buddha and other incarnations. For 2000 years the temple of Srirangam has been focal point of Bhakti Yoga, which may be one of the spiritual paths leading to enlightenment. Srirangam is the foremost of the eight self-manifested shrines (Swayam Vyakta Kshetras) of Lord Vishnu. It is also considered the first, foremost and the most important of the 108 main Vishnu temples (Divyadesams). This temple is also known as Thiruvaranga Tirupati, Periyakoil, Bhoologa Vaikundam, Bhogamandabam. Because of the generous financial support of the temple by numerous dynasties of ancient India, Srirangam has always been a haven for persons wishing to dedicate their lives to the practice of meditation and devotion. Many of India's most loved saints and sages have spent time at Srirangam.. Srirangam is also considered as one of the Nava Graha Sthalas, representing the nine planets. The south Indian temples in this group are: Suryanarcoil (the Sun) ; Tirupati (the Moon) ; Palani (Mars); Madurai (Mercury); Tiruchendur (Jupiter), Srirangam (Venus) and Tirunallaru (Saturn).
Legend
There is a mythological story being narrated by elders to children which runs like this:- Once upon a time at the foothills of Mount Himalaya rivers Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati and Cauvery were playing when one Gandharva (a celestial being) appeared in the sky and worshipped them. The quarrel started among them as to whom he should worship first. Cauvery and Ganga did not stop and ultimately approached Lord Vishnu who accepted the version advanced by Ganga that she is bigger than Cauvery as she originated from Lord Vishnu’s feet. Cauvery did not accept the version and did penance on Vishnu who being pleased, gave darshan and promised that he would sleep on the bank of river Cauvery. Cauvery will be garland on Vishnu’s chest. Thus, Cauvery will achieve better position than Ganga.
There is also a mythological story. Vishnu, the creator, in blissful slumber floating on the Banyan leaf during cosmic deluge on the milky ocean wanted to create the Universe for which he approached Brahma in the form of a white swan. On questioning of swan’s identity by Brahma, swan uttered two words viz “Om” and “Thap” and disappeared. Brahma construed these two words as a direction to start penance uttering the word “Om” and after long penance four Vedas appeared and he continued his penance. After long penance earth appeared, then fire, the sky, and Devalok, human beings, animals etc gradually appeared. At that time a demon by name Madhu Kaitabha appeared from Brahma’s ear, who snatched Vedas and disappeared to ocean. Lord Vishnu took the form of a horse (Hayagriva) annihilated the demon and retrieved Vedas and taught Brahma the Vedas. Thereafter, Brahma created the universe with five elements and 16 spheres. He started penance to invoke Vishnu who appeared on Garuda and desired to know Brahma’s wishes. Brahma wanted to see real form of Vishnu and continued to do penance. After thousands of years Lord Vishnu appeared before Brahma in a Ranga Vimanam from the Milky Ocean. In deep veneration Brahma went round the Vimanam four times chanting four Vedas. All Gods and Goddesses were in attendance. Being pleased with Brahma’s penance Vishnu in Ranga Vimanam gave him the real Swarupa darshan and agreed to Brahma’s request to worship Vishnu in Ranga Vimanam. Having heard the divine powers of the Vimanam, Manu the son of Surya the Sun God fulfilled his desire of liberation through penance. Manu’s son Ikshwaku cherished the desire of possessing the Ranga Vimanam for the benefit of people on earth. He consulted Vasishtha, his preceptor who advised him to do penance by uttering the Asthakhara mantra. His penance was so severe that Gods were afraid and tried to spoil the penance and prayed Brahma for his intervention. On his part he approached Ranganatha for advice. Brahma was consoled and informed that he would go to Ayodhya where he would be worshipped by the solar dynasty for four yugas and thereafter he would come to the Kingdom of Cholas in south to be there for about 700 years.
History
In the Vaishnava parlance the term “KOIL/KOVIL” signifies Ranganathaswami temple only. The temple is enormous in size and lies on an islet formed by the twin rivers of Cauvery and Coleroon. It is the world’s largest functioning temple with 50 shrines, 21 towers and 39 pavilions. The temple complex is 156 acres in extent. It has seven prakaras (enclosures). These enclosures are formed by thick and huge rampart walls which run round the sanctum. There are totally 21 magnificent Gopurams (towers) in all prakaras providing a unique sight to visitors.
The temple of Sri Ranganathaswami at Srirangam boasts an historic past of great kingdom and a civilization thousands of years old. The reign of the Pallavas was marked by the creation of a solid religious foundation, for example the encouragement given by the dynasty appears to have contributed to the growth of Aryan institutions in Southern India more particularly in the Carnatic. Cholas reigned for about three hundred years over the Coromandel Coast and the greater part of Eastern Deccan, where they helped advanced Hindu Culture to flourish.
The Cholas were defeated in the thirteen century by the Pandyas of Madurai and Hoysalas of Mysore. Hoysalas had taken particular interest in the building of Srirangam temple, leaving behind both the inscriptions and buildings. The Hoysalas were then driven away by the Pandyas in the early part of fourteenth century.
Later, the Mohammedans began raiding frequently the Deccan facing strong resistance from the Hindu Kingdom, which was established in Vijayanagar in 1336. The Kingdom maintained its independence until 1565. During this time, the Europeans had appeared in the south of India. In the sixteenth century a number of foreign travellers and traders passed through but taking least interest in the hinterland except for the routes it provided for their trade with the Kingdom of Vijayanagar. In 1600, the East India Company and in 1664 the French company were formed. In 1680, King Aurangazeb (1658-1707), launched a campaign in western Deccan area. After long sieges and a great loss of life, the fortress cities of Bijapur and Golconda fell to him, and the campaign lasted until his death.
It is necessary to briefly describe two Islamic attack on Srirangam. The “Kovil Olugu” is an exhaustive record of the temple’s social, political and cultural history. The time span covered by the Kovil Olugu is very vast, starting with the Cholas and going all the way till the temple was taken over by the East India Company in the 18th century. Written entirely in the Manipravala dialect of Tamil, this is the most authentic source of the Raganathaswamy temple’s history. Despite the availability of such a massive body of work, almost no modern historian has attempted to chronicle Srirangam’s tryst with the Delhi sultanate.
1st Islamic invasion of Srirangam
Srirangam was the fountainhead of Vaishnavism under the Cholas as well as the Pandyas. Despite multiple political upheavals and wars, the temple town was richly patronized by the power of the day. Its pre-eminent status remained undisturbed. In 1310, the death of Malaverman Kulasekara Pandya I led to a protracted struggle for succession between his sons. Unfortunately, this civil war also happened to coincide with the march of the Delhi Sultanate towards southern India. Malik Kafur was one of Alauddin Khilji’s most prominent Generals. By early 1311, Kafur had subdued the Kakatiyas, Yadavas and the Hoysala kingdoms, forcing them to become tributary states of the Delhi Sultanate. The Pandya country, also referred to as Ma’bar in Khusrau’s works, attracted the attention of Malik Kafur. In March 1311, Kafur’s army breached the Pandya kingdom via the pass at present-day Thoppur and attempted to capture Vira Pandya (Kulasekara Pandya’s son). Unable to do so, he then proceeded to ransack the temple in Chidambaram and then turned to Srirangam, which was then renowned for its wealth. Kafur’s army entered the Srirangam temple via its northern enclosures. The Vaishnava saints within the temple were easily overpowered, the treasury was plundered and the temple’s riches were stolen. By April 1311, Kafur’s armies began their march back towards Delhi. The civil war within the Pandya royal family continued but over the next decade the Ranganathaswamy’s wealth was eventually restored. But very few knew that what happened in 1311 was merely a precursor to the tragedy that was to follow 12 years later. (Ref: History of Srirangam Temple, 1967, Authored by Dr V.N.Hari Rao M.A., PhD, Sri Venkateshwara University, Tirupati)
The benign beauty and grace of the lord had spread far and wide. So was the rumor of the treasure trove of gold, etc at this temple. Enticed by the treasures of this temple Allaudin Khalji's army invaded Srirangam in 1311. While Army Chief Malik Kaufer and his men plundered the town it was Ulugh Khan (reign 1325 to 1351) and his men went on a killing spree that resulted in the death of 12000 unarmed Vaishnavites who tried to save the main idols in the temple. In 1327 Army chief of the Delhi sultanate Kutz Khan raided this place and scooped the left-over treasures. When the utchavar idol was taken to Delhi by the army led by Malik Kaufer, Sultan Khalji's daughter fell in love with the idol. The vaishnavite scholars went to Delhi to get the idol back, the sultan was impressed with them and allowed them to take the idol back to Srirangam. But, Sultan's daughter, came to Srirangam in search of the idol and fell dead right before the deity. The lord in the dream asked the priest to give all the honours to the Muslim princess as they would to his consorts. The Thuluka nachiyar shrine is quite popular. There is no idol and only a sketch of the princess. The main offering is Roti. The death of Sultan's daughter here caused the later invasions. The main deities were taken to different locations across the south and finally reinstated in 1370s.
2nd Islamic invasion of Srirangam
In 1320, the Khilji dynasty was overthrown by its nobles with the aid of the Governor of Punjab, Ghazi Malik. A descendant of Indian Turkic slaves, Malik renamed himself as Ghiyasuddin Tughluq and established the Tughluq dynasty. While the Khilji had tributary states in the Deccan, Ghiyasuddin longed for complete administrative and military control of these vassal states. In 1321, he sent a massive army led by his eldest son Ulugh Khan [Who later ascended to the throne and was known as Muhammad bin Tughluq] to conquer the entire southern peninsula. But 1321 adventure failed after Ulugh Khan with his army was defeated at Warangal. However, by 1323 Ulugh Khan’s forces captured Warangal in a separate attack and set their eyes were on Ma’bar (i.e. present-day Tamil Nadu). They first conquered Tondaimandalam and then marched towards Srirangam (Ref: The Koyil Olugu, 1954. Condensed English version authored by T. S. Parthasarathy, PRO Indian Railways and published by Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams).
The second Islamic invasion of Srirangam is an important historical event which is recorded in all major Vaishnava works. The Kovil Olugu have detailed accounts of the attack of Srirangam by Ulugh Khan in 1323.
While temple festival was being conducted, Ulugh Khan’s army advanced towards Srirangam. This festival involved a procession of the Ranganathaswamy Urchavar Azhagiya Manavala Perumal along with 12000 devotees from the main temple to another shrine on the banks of the Cauvery. Having heard the news of the attack by Ulugh Khan’s army they were dispersed by the chief priest of the Ranganathaswamy temple who also arranged for the idol and the temple’s jewels to be secretly transported further south. Eventually, Ulugh Khan’s army reached Srirangam and desecrated the temple. On learning that the deity had slipped through his hands, an enraged Khan ordered his troops to behead the 12000 devotees assembled at the temple. The Kovil Olugu refers to this incident as “Pannirayiramtirumudi-tiruttina-kalabham” (the invasion which took 12000 heads).
For a couple of years, the idol wandered from shrine to shrine across South India before it reached the safe haven of Tirumala, where it was eventually deposited. Urchavar Azhagiya Manavala Perumal spent 48 years in exile, staying out of the grasp of Islamic invaders. It was not until 1371 that the idol was safely taken back to Srirangam and reinstalled at the temple by the Vijayanagar Empire.
Azhagiya Manavana Munigal, a great Vaishnavite seer's contribution is outstanding. In the aftermath of treacherous invasion from the Delhi Sultanate in the 14th century, a pale of gloom descended on Srirangam as the main temple and others were severely ransacked by the marauding army for treasures. It was this great saint and others brought the temple back to glory after decades. Yet another acharya Sri Pillailokacharya (1205-1311), despite his old age, managed to secretly move the deity of Lord Ranganatha (NumperumaL) to an unknown place in the south (he died near Madurai) prior to the Muslim invasion. The Thayyar idols were moved over to another destination. Sri Desika (1268–1369) and his sons, during the invasion at Srirangam. protected rare manuscripts like the Sruti-prakasha, a commentary on the Sri Bhashya of Ramanuja by taking them to Karnataka. Before the invasion, Vedanta Desika was in charge of saving the deities he had a brick wall built to hide the garbagriha that had a duplicate deity and roughly 6o years later when Namperumal returned to his abode, the same Vedanta Desika broke open the brick wall. While between 1321 and 1373, the main deity- Namperumal was in exile at Gopurapatti village near Tiruchi, at Sri Adhinayaka Perumal temple.
The second sacking of Srirangam is one of the darkest periods in Vaishnavite history. The Tughlaqs exercised direct control over Ma’bar from Delhi for over a decade. One of Ulugh Khan’s chieftains stayed back in Srirangam. He mutilated the temple gopurams and set up his residence right opposite the sanctum sanctorum. He ruled the villages around Srirangam for a few years. It is said that this Muslim chief was constantly afflicted with multiple diseases during his stay inside the temple and he eventually shifted Kannanur where he desecrated Poysalesvara temple and converted it into a mosque. The Ranganathaswamy temple was eventually restored to its former glory by Bukka Raya the First, from the Sangama dynasty of the Vijayanagar empire.
The Srirangam temple is the prime place of the Vaishnava movement in South India. It is such a tragedy that its bloody tryst with Islamic invaders does not find a single mention in either in our history books or in the works of noted mainstream Indian historians. What stops our historians from shining light on persecution under Islamic rule? Any attempt to even evaluate the Mughals or any other Muslim ruler objectively is often met with accusations. It would not be a stretch to state that the Indian academias are responsible for the distortion of the history we teach our children. In their quest to protect the ideals of secularism, falsehoods and imaginary tales of religious tolerance they have been spun for decades. Sadly, the burial of dark chapters such as the invasion mayhem, trauma and plundering of Srirangam temple has taken place for decades.
In Europe, however, the war of Austrian succession set the English and the French at each other’s throats. Duplex captured Madras (1746), which was given back to the English two years later. The French were forced to surrender in 1752 and Duplex was recalled in 1754. In 1760, a further French attempt, led by Lally - Tollendal, was unsuccessful and the French trading post was dismantled in 1763. From then on, the English Company gradually annexed the whole of the territory of India. Though the French came near to victory, later on they were defeated in 1798 by the English led by Wellesley who invaded Mysore and in 1799 captured the fortress of Srirangapatnam. There after all of Southern India came under the supremacy of England.
Three hundred years ago, the Nayak rulers had left the main Rajagopuram incomplete due to Muslim invasions. The most venerable Sri Azhaiyasinger Jeer Swamigal of Ahobila Mutt dared to undertake this tremendous task on his old but doughty shoulders and achieved this herculean task. The Maha Samproksham of this monumental Rajagopuram was celebrated on March 25th 1987 at an estimated cost of around ?104.25 lakhs.
Structures and enclosures
The temple of Srirangam is situated at 10 degrees 52’N and 78 degrees 42’ E towards the southern tip of India on an Island formed by two arms of the river Cauvery. The temple covers a vast area of about 6,31,000 Sqm. (156 Acres). The gopurams of the temple articulate the axial path, the highest is at the outermost prakara and the lowest is at the innermost. The Rajagopuram of the temple is the southern one which is 239 feet high, having been plated in gold. The Rajagopuram was stated to be built by Vijayanagara king Achyuta Deva Raya but it was completed by the Ahobila Matha in 1987. The diagram below shows structures in the temple complex; the gopurams, the mandapas, various shrines among others.
Sannathis : Apart from the presiding deity Lord Ranganathar, the temple complex comprises of as many 53 small and big temples (these are called as Snnathi and upa-sannathi) and the prominent are .Thayar Sannathi; Chakkarathazwar Sannathi; Udayavar (Ramanujar Sannathi); Garudalwar Sannathi; Thanvanthiri Sannathi and Hygrevar Sannathi.
Enclosures: The temple consists of seven concentric rectangular enclosures round the sanctum sanctorum. The temple of Srirangam is the only one in India with seven enclosures, a sacred symbolic number which for present day Vaishnava believers represents either the seven centres of Yoga, or a reference to the seven elements making up the human body, in the centre of which dwells the soul.
First Enclosure: The first enclosure has only one entry, by a gate in its southern part; the Nazhikettan Gopura and on either side has images called Sankhanidhi and Padmanidhi, [the conch and the lotus respectively], which are the attributes of Vishnu. To the southwest store rooms have been fitted up. Large mirrors have been placed in the corners to reflect the statue of the god from the sanctum. In the northwest corner are the Yagasala and the Tondaiman Mandapa of which ceiling is decorated with paintings. The eastern part contains two Mandapas- Arjuna Mandapa and Kili Mandapa.
Second Enclosure: The second enclosure, which is comparatively narrow, strikes the visitor by its pervading full light, since there is a broken series of mandapas. Towards the northeast corner are the kitchen premises; here in the past were kept the milk and gifts of food, which were distributed, to pilgrims.
Third Enclosure: The third enclosure has the Karthikai gopura which leads one to the Garuda Mandapa, which consists of 14 rows and it, is the most beautiful Mandapa in the Temple. In the western wing there are kitchens and rice storehouses. In the eastern part of this wing there is the sacred tank (Chandra pushkarani), which has been hollowed out in the form of a circle with flights of steps in the east and west. The eastern wing contains several isolated sanctuaries and mandapas.
Fourth Enclosure: In the fourth enclosure, non-Hindus are allowed. In its southern wing the temple of Venugopala Krishnan, whose outside walls are decorated with very beautiful sculptures in high relief like young women playing the Zither (Veena) or with a parrot or putting the finishing touches (Tilaka) to their appearance before a looking mirror. A climb to the terrace overhanging this temple affords a general view of the Srirangam Temple. This court also has a museum with highly interesting objects. Non-Hindus are also admitted to the eastern courtyard of this enclosure, which is dominated by the Vellai gopura. In the south there exists the famous Sesharayar Mandapa opposite to which the Hall of Thousand Pillars can be seen, wherein the statues of Gods and Goddesses, Alwars and Acharyas are set out for the annual festival of Ekadesi in December and January.
The Fifth Enclosure contains the shrine of Manavala Mamunigal in the Chola style.
Sixth Enclosure: The sixth enclosure has four gopuras; the eastern gopura is the most impressive of all on account of its size, the inscriptions in 13th Century characters. The processional cars are kept in this enclosure.
Seventh Enclosure: The gopuras of the seventh enclosure are unfinished. They are called Rayagopuram. The impressive dimensions of their bases prove that when finished, they would have risen to a height of at least 50.m.
The Supreme Lord Sri Ranganatha is a recumbent post on the right shoulder is facing south on a soft couch provided by the spiralling coils of the celestial serpent, “Adisesha” its five raised and wide open hoods protect the Lord like an umbrella. This monolithic image is constructed in stucco. So the idol is anointed once a year with special unguent made of fragrant sandal wood, camphor, musk, resins and some special herbals in order to protect the idol from the rages of time. ‘Punugu’ oil is also applied every Friday.
The experience of worshipping Lord Sri Ranganatha is indescribable. It has to be felt rather than described. To put it in modest terms it is ecstatic. The first enclosure surrounding the inner shrine, the Arthamandapam and the Ranga Vimanam is known as Rajamahendran Thiruchutru, King Raja Mahendra (1060-63) A.D. son of Raja Raja II is stated to have built these.
Several facts of Sri Ranganatha Swamy Temple, Srirangam need special mention
- It is in this temple the great Acharya Sri Ramanujar attained divinity and there is a shrine here with his mortal remains intact.
- The 44th Jeer of Ahobila Mutt brought glory to this temple by raising the Rajagopuram (main tower) to a height of 237 feet in 1985,
- The presiding idol of Sri Ranganathar is unique here for two reasons: a. It is believed the deities of Vishnu at 108 ''Divyadesam'' shrines get merged with Sri Ranganathar here at Srirangam at night and in the morning they get back to their respective places. Hence, this Shetram is the most revered among 108 Divyadesams. b. The idol of Sri Ranganathar is believed to have been worshiped by King Ishvaku, great grandfather of Rama in Ayodhya and later Rama had gifted the idol to Vibishina, brother of Ravana as a token of his love. His condition was the idol should not be placed on the ground. Vibishina wanted to take the idol to Lanka. Devas and others did not like it and wanted the idol to be consecrated in the place now called Srirangam. During his sojourn in this place, Vibishna, troubled by Nature's call, asked a boy standing nearby to hold the idol till his return. The boy, who happened to be Lord Ganapathy (Ucchi Pilliyar) placed the idol on the spot where the temple is now. Unable to take the idol off the ground, Vibishna left the idol right there and went to Lanka disappointed. Hence, Sri Ranganathar idol at this temple was worshiped by Sri Rama himself (in Rama avatar)! No doubt, this temple is known to have hoary tradition.
- The presiding deity of Srirangam temple is glorified by all great Vaishnavite saints - Azhwars except Madurakarakavi Azhwar who sang in praise of his mentor Namazhwar.
- The great devotee and poetess Sri Andal, daughter of Periyazhwar of Srivilliputhur, TN who enthralled the devotees with her ''Thirupavai'', a collection of devotional hymns on Lord Vishnu, at last merged with the lord only here on the 14th of January - on Pongal day.
- Here, the lord is refereed to as ''Pathinmar Padiya Peruman'' because it was here the Mangalassanam of 11 Azhwar took place. The processional deity is often referred to in Tamil as Azhgya Manavalan (handsome bridegroom).
- This temple is famous for ''Thruadhayana Utsavam'' (festival) during Vaikunda Ekadasi (December - January) and it marks the recital of Nalayira Divya Prabhdandham (Tamil Vaishnava canon) verses by Araiyars and Pandits The Tamil devotional hymns reverberate during ''Pagal Pathu'' and ''Ra Pathu'' festivities during Vaikunda Ekadasi celebrations.
- ''Kamba Ramayanam'' in chaste Tamil, was first recited in this temple. Poet Kambar had introduced one chapter on Narasimha avatar in his Ramayana, but it is not in Valmiki Ramayana.
- Azhagiya Manavana Munigal (1370–1450), a great Vaishnavite seer's contribution to this temple is outstanding. In the aftermath of treacherous invasion from the Delhi Sultanate in the 14th century, a pale of gloom descended on Srirangam as the main temple and others were severely ransacked by the marauding army for treasures. The holy town was dilapidated, sacra- mentally bare, intellectually barren and spiritually, socially and morally down to the core. It was this great saints who instilled discipline and bhakti among the people and slowly brought the temple back to glory and spiritual exhilaration after decades.
- Srirangam is often referred to as Bhoologa Vaikundam (paradise on earth) because in this highly sanctified place between Cauvery and Kollidam rivers, the mystifying grace and timeless beauty of Lord Ranganatha is just overwhelming. Countless festivals are celebrated here with devotion and the lord and his consorts are adorned with valuable jewels gifted by great rulers. On festival days different alangarams are done to the deity and the devotees, obviously get immersed in his various charming forms, attributes and divine grace.
- The temple possesses rare jewellery donated by various rulers. The great Pandiya ruler Sadayavarman Sundara Pandiyan (1250-1284) donated plenty of gold to this temple. He conducted Gaja (Elephant) Thulaparam, weighing mounds of gold against him sitting atop his royal elephant above the Cauvery waters supported by two barges. This meant he wanted to donate gold as much as he could. There were solid gold life-size statues of Serakulavalli and Thuraiyurvalli Thayars, Vishnu's consorts. According Vaishnavite scholar Sri Krishnamachari, Pranavakara Divya Vimanam, Kodiyetru Mandabam and the Dwajasthambam (Flag pole) were all gold plated way back in the 12 th century.
- It is in this temple the great Acharya Sri Ramanujar attained divinity and there is a shrine here with his mortal remains intact.
- The 44th Jeer of Ahobila Mutt brought glory to this temple by raising the Rajagopuram (main tower) to a height of 237 feet in 1985,
- The presiding idol of Sri Ranganathar is unique here for two reasons: a. It is believed the deities of Vishnu at 108 ''Divyadesam'' shrines get merged with Sri Ranganathar here at Srirangam at night and in the morning they get back to their respective places. Hence, this Shetram is the most revered among 108 Divyadesams. b. The idol of Sri Ranganathar is believed to have been worshiped by King Ishvaku, great grandfather of Rama in Ayodhya and later Rama had gifted the idol to Vibishina, brother of Ravana as a token of his love. His condition was the idol should not be placed on the ground. Vibishina wanted to take the idol to Lanka. Devas and others did not like it and wanted the idol to be consecrated in the place now called Srirangam. During his sojourn in this place, Vibishna, troubled by Nature's call, asked a boy standing nearby to hold the idol till his return. The boy, who happened to be Lord Ganapathy (Ucchi Pilliyar) placed the idol on the spot where the temple is now. Unable to take the idol off the ground, Vibishna left the idol right there and went to Lanka disappointed. Hence, Sri Ranganathar idol at this temple was worshiped by Sri Rama himself (in Rama avatar)! No doubt, this temple is known to have hoary tradition.
- The presiding deity of Srirangam temple is glorified by all great Vaishnavite saints - Azhwars except Madurakarakavi Azhwar who sang in praise of his mentor Namazhwar.
- The great devotee and poetess Sri Andal, daughter of Periyazhwar of Srivilliputhur, TN who enthralled the devotees with her ''Thirupavai'', a collection of devotional hymns on Lord Vishnu, at last merged with the lord only here on the 14th of January - on Pongal day.
- Here, the lord is refereed to as ''Pathinmar Padiya Peruman'' because it was here the Mangalassanam of 11 Azhwar took place. The processional deity is often referred to in Tamil as Azhgya Manavalan (handsome bridegroom).
- This temple is famous for ''Thruadhayana Utsavam'' (festival) during Vaikunda Ekadasi (December - January) and it marks the recital of Nalayira Divya Prabhdandham (Tamil Vaishnava canon) verses by Araiyars and Pandits The Tamil devotional hymns reverberate during ''Pagal Pathu'' and ''Ra Pathu'' festivities during Vaikunda Ekadasi celebrations.
- ''Kamba Ramayanam'' in chaste Tamil, was first recited in this temple. Poet Kambar had introduced one chapter on Narasimha avatar in his Ramayana, but it is not in Valmiki Ramayana.
- Azhagiya Manavana Munigal (1370–1450), a great Vaishnavite seer's contribution to this temple is outstanding. In the aftermath of treacherous invasion from the Delhi Sultanate in the 14th century, a pale of gloom descended on Srirangam as the main temple and others were severely ransacked by the marauding army for treasures. The holy town was dilapidated, sacra- mentally bare, intellectually barren and spiritually, socially and morally down to the core. It was this great saints who instilled discipline and bhakti among the people and slowly brought the temple back to glory and spiritual exhilaration after decades.
- Srirangam is often referred to as Bhoologa Vaikundam (paradise on earth) because in this highly sanctified place between Cauvery and Kollidam rivers, the mystifying grace and timeless beauty of Lord Ranganatha is just overwhelming. Countless festivals are celebrated here with devotion and the lord and his consorts are adorned with valuable jewels gifted by great rulers. On festival days different alangarams are done to the deity and the devotees, obviously get immersed in his various charming forms, attributes and divine grace.
- The temple possesses rare jewellery donated by various rulers. The great Pandiya ruler Sadayavarman Sundara Pandiyan (1250-1284) donated plenty of gold to this temple. He conducted Gaja (Elephant) Thulaparam, weighing mounds of gold against him sitting atop his royal elephant above the Cauvery waters supported by two barges. This meant he wanted to donate gold as much as he could. There were solid gold life-size statues of Serakulavalli and Thuraiyurvalli Thayars, Vishnu's consorts. According Vaishnavite scholar Sri Krishnamachari, Pranavakara Divya Vimanam, Kodiyetru Mandabam and the Dwajasthambam (Flag pole) were all gold plated way back in the 12 th century.
The layout of 4 inner enclosures of Ranganathaswami temple
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.
Up there in the dark nocturnal sky
We see a thousands of glinting stars.
The gleaming little lights hold
Copious memories as well as cache myriad scars
But to hold onto the orisons and wishes of folk
It's only those exquisitely broken stars.
Down here in the vast flourishing earth
We greet a thousands of beaming face
The radiant little souls behold
Felicity as well as memories that are hard to erase
But to stand on beautifully firm and valiant
It's only those broken hearts full of grace.
In there in the history of Japan
The broken ceramics are mend with gold.
This artistry of Kintsugi needs time
To turn strong, beautiful and bold.
Akin to ceramics, the broken dreams and hearts all need time.
Things can be shattered,
But nothing can stop dreams from being woven.
At the cease we all know,
The strong is beautiful, beautiful is 'the broken'.
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.
KANAKA' S MUSING :: THE DANGLING PAW
"Kutty, how many times I told you not to bring stray kittens home? "Kanaka peeped from behind her mother's back at Appa. He was frowning and that didn’t disturb Kanaka. Her Appa was like that, not because he did not like his children keeping pets but what worried him was their over attachment which left them in grief when something happened to them. As on the occasion Kanaka cried her heart out for days together when her cat Tommy turned a killer and killed fifteen of her mother's chicks and had to be deported to the otherside of the river. But to all their relief he came back coolly, as if returning from a long jaunt to the great joy of Kanaka and her siblings. Shrugging his shoulders and realising the futility of rebuking his daughter he walked off. Kanaka' s big round eyes pleaded with her mother. Amma shooed her off to play and sat down. These were the occasions when Amma really wished that the kids had no vacation. School was a safe place for children. The summer vacations really drove her mad.
It was like being between the devil and the deep sea. This was the fifth stray cat kanaka had brought from her trip to the market with Elsy paattie. The previous summer it was puppies. From where she collected them, amma never knew but always when she returned from office there would be four or five puppies swarming all over the place. And Amma would guess Kanaka had gone to the market. Kanaka and her siblings would bathe them, powder them and don them pottu with kajal. The happiness of her daughter would not allow her to rebuke her. She would wait until night when Kanaka went to sleep. Then Amma would feed them and ask Sura, the boy who looked after their cows, to leave them back at the market, on his way home. This occurred frequently. Kanaka had no complaints. By morning when she ran around for her puppies Amma would tell her that they had been despatched to the market as Appa was furious. Already they had four dogs. But as she grew up this collection of stray dogs stopped. Now it was kittens.
The older she grew the love for kittens too flourished. Every stray found a home in their farm. Once when there was a strike and the buses stopped plying and they had to walk home. Kanaka was doing her PG then. She collected her younger brother from school and trudged home. On the way, at the side of the road they saw a tiny kitten meowing. They picked it up and took it home. Amma scolded her affectionately. "Aren't you ashamed, picking up strays from the road like this and such a big girl too." Kanaka grinned at her fondling the furry bundle snuggling in her palms and was purring away to glory. When she started her career as a lecturer in a junior college and settled down with her young family, cats too found a place along with squirrels in her home. Now Niranjan played the role of her Appa, scolding her if she added to the number she already had. Then it became a challenge finding homes for all the strays. Thus life was always full for kanaka with her little girl Juny, three cats, two dogs, a squirrel and a few hamsters. In this idyllic life a huge rock fell. A sudden transfer for Kanaka toppled everything. They decided to find a small independent house where they could keep their pets too. Unfortunately, the one they found near the institution was too small to accomodate all their pets. So they left their pets in their home with their caretaker, visiting them every weekend as it was only a three hours drive from where they were staying.
The tiny cottage they rented was surrounded by huge walls and nestled in the midst of huge houses. As it was an old cottage in the traditional style, Kanaka and Niranjan liked it. It was only for weekdays they consoled themselves, on Fridays they would be back home, sweet home. Both Kanaka and Juny were mighty happy in the rented house though they missed their pets. The backyard of the cottage swarmed with cats of different sizes and colours. They wouldn’t allow you to touch them but would feed on the food you gave them. There were Calicos grey cats, American shorthairs and partially furry beauties. That was more than enough for both Kanaka and Juny. The only snag was, bandicoots too haunted the yard. They were quite destructive. They dug out the earth and made holes which were hidden traps for Kanaka. She twisted her legs in the holes many times while sweeping the yard and one day she complained to Niranjan. He was waiting for it to come from her. For he feared her wrath if he spoke about killing them. Now that she had complained he immediately set a trap. The next morning he was excited.
Kanaka was not that happy. Yet she followed him to find what had fallen in the trap. To their great dismay they found a beautiful calico cat with her left paw under the spring. Niranjan and kanaka somehow extracted her paw but it was totally shattered. Kanaka was crying throughout with the cat as it howled in pain. As soon as it was freed it ran off on three legs to lick its wounds to cure. Niranjan stood chagrined. Kanaka sobbing took the contraption and threw it in the cellar from where Niranjan had ferreted it out. Few days passed by, Kanaka worried about it wondering where it was and whether its paw had cured. One day she saw a cat's shadow on her veranda. She went out and saw the beauty with her cured left paw shrivelled in size and dangling, looking at her mournfully.
Kanaka gave her some milk which she drank thirstily and the rice mixed with fish too disappeared fast. Everyday she would come at the same time and sit with her pendulous paws at Kanaka making her writhe in agony and guilt. May be in her catty way punishing Kanaka for mangling her up. This, becoming a routine disturbed Kanaka, she sensed that the cat was taking revenge on her, making her miserable dangling its damaged paw. So she decided to put an end to it. She would keep the food in advance and disappear into her room never waiting for it to dangle the paw and make her guilty.
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
A handful of crystallized teardrops
Rolled down from a numb palm
Laden with mute stories, fears and doubts
Some stepped on them, not noticing
Some stepped aside, noticing
And all of them, disappeared...
There came a child, hopping merrily
Found the teardrops beautifully shimmering
Under the mist-wrapped Sun
Collected them all carefully
Looked around, and
Climbed up a small tree
Placed them in the nest
Built by an anonymous bird, yet
Healing happened, as the teardrops found a home...
They melted in gratitude, realising
God's love blossoms in a million ways
Tears metamorphosed into raindrops
Kissing the tree's roots...
There are days
We love words, sounds, sentences for Breakfast lunch dinner
And
There are days we need SILENCE
Served the whole day, unlimited...
Tasting words
Savouring silence, aren't the same deliciousness
Why can't we all serve
What one loves, than
What we have, just because we cooked...
Windchime, xylophone, music in the library
Can't we be all of them, gently?!...
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
Untiring darkness
Unnerving sleep
The mind in a limbo
Conscious thoughts
Take a bend
Imagination stirs itself
Into reality
Logic is on the threshhold
Iam
Half-asleep
Half-thinking
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
She walked into the hospital room, her footsteps confident and stable. Her chin was raised up to face the skies, and her eyes were filled with all the stars that shimmered in the sky that night. Her eyes moved to the gibbous moon that was positioned overhead, a silvery orb so full and confident. For a moment, a strange thought occurred to her. She felt her breast shift beneath the bra and thought of the gibbous moon as the breast of the sky. The craters looked like swollen scars upon this silvery breast, and this sight assured her and made her smile. She was not alone. The scent of pungent antiseptic overwhelmed her lungs, as the oncologist swept into the room, and without pausing to greet her, she shot a question at her, “Are you sure, you don’t want to call anyone?” “You said it’s a small operation, didn’t you?” Rekha cross questioned her instead of answering. “Yes, it is. Local anaesthesia would be given to you while we observe the lump and take the samples. But I was wondering if you would like to see someone when you move out of the operation theatre,” the doctor said. I haven’t informed anyone about this doctor,” she replied with a faint but confident smile. “Just a small tissue to be sent for biopsy dear,” the doctor assured her.
Rekha had done mammography twice from two labs as she wanted to be very sure about the lumps, that she had been feeling for almost six months, were cancerous or not. Her oncologist had informed her after seeing her report that cancer had been in her body for two to five years. She had been a victim to silent cancer. She could notice swelling and an increase in size of her breast. “Can you believe this? My bra size has increased these days,” she said filled with glee to her close friend on phone. “Do you mean to say that you are turning into an adult for the second time now? I mean getting sexier?” replied her friend in jest. Both of them had a fit of giggles. It was just a week back that she became serious about some lumps in her breast that she could feel now and then for around six months. As the gravity of the situation gradually and slowly overwhelmed her, she began to feel about her real world that revolved around ‘loneliness’. She had often heard this word ‘loneliness’ upon the lips of her friends and family, but she had never felt it. But, as she delved further into herself, she realized that loneliness was a cruel lady synonymous to the Cruella she had encountered, during her rendezvous with a fantasy function. This Cruella had icy sharp nails and sneering eyes. She felt as though every bit of warmth in her heart was squeezed out by the long, sharp nails of this cruel lady, till it was devoid of emotion.
Rekha did not want to inform her family about it, not till it was confirmed in the biopsy. After her small surgery for the biopsy sample, a small bandage on her bosom, she left for her home, alone. While undressing herself, she looked at the small bruise and whimpered in pain. She couldn’t figure out what was more painful: her heartbreak or the cancerous lump in her breast. And then, she thought of the moon she had met as she entered the hospital room. The moon too had bruises, but it seemed proud of them, for these bruises were the cosmetics of life. The cosmetics that shimmered, behind the glass windowpanes, in malls and shopping complexes, were alluring, but temporary. Bruises were true cosmetics, because they were jewels and learning lessons, that one obtained from this struggle called life. She sat herself on her sofa and closed her eyes. The stars seemed to creak against her windowsill, as she pulled a blanket over herself. She had to wait for two days till the reports arrived, to plan her further course of action.
As usual she thought of sending a WhatsApp message to Punit. ‘Punit’ she whispered softly, as she let her quivering finger quest through the pathways of WhatsApp chats to find his name. He was the only definition of family that she had known, someone who had loved her with the selflessness of a mother, with the protective air of a father, and someone who had worried about her. At times, as mortals, we just want someone to ask us if we are doing well. And maybe she wanted to hear this too. Especially considering the fact that it had been a long time since she had last heard this.
“Hi! Where are you?Still in office?”
“Just returned home from the….”
Before she could type further, she could see the blue tick and a reply
‘Hi!
In management meeting.
Not free till 11.30 probably it could take longer than that.’
She stopped typing further. She knew it was time for her to let it all go. She had been sensing it for almost a month. Punit had changed. He wasn’t the same man. She was disappointed with herself and wanted to vent out her feelings and to her rescue came her favourite diary. Rekha started scribbling-
There was a time when I was in my prime.
He wooed me and it wasn’t a crime.
He praised my voice comparing it to a choir.
The softness of my eyelids was from another foyer.
My very touch plunged him in delightful sensation.
Agreed he, each time that we met in desperation.
The worst moment of his life would be our separation.
Reiterated he without dilly-dallying or exasperation.
Today I search for the same old guy,
Who once claimed if I ask anything he would buy.
He was intrepid enough to risk, and to lose all,
Turning a blind eye to redemption and fall.
I have lost him to this busy world.
While talking with me now. Silence rules our world
It is damaging my reputation and my self-esteem.
It costs my equanimity and torches my dream.
Why am I still holding on to him, a wisp of my dream?
Why can’t I just walk away?
Why can’t I?
She remembered how her neighbour Punit and she had become friends as soon as Punit’s father had bought a flat in her society. They were in the same school. They would travel in the same school bus and get into a staring contest. Unnoticed by their classmates, they would stare into each other’s eyes without any expression on their faces. The game ended with Punit, winking and blushing. They never exchanged a single word in public but both knew there was something between them that bound them together.
Was it love?
Was it infatuation?
Was it just teenage attraction?
Was it love at first sight?
Both of them tried to figure it out but failed. One thing they knew for sure that they liked each other very much. In the building campus they would meet in groups with other friends around. There was a strange attraction between them, but they never expressed it.
Both of them completed their studies and started working. By that time Punit’s father got transferred to Fort branch, as a director of an MNC and they had to shift to the company’s quarters there. But before leaving he sent her a message to meet her in the society garden.
“Rekha, we are moving to Colaba in a week’s time. Are you interested? She got surprised and replied, “Do you think my family is rich enough to buy a house there?”
“No, no. I am not talking about buying a house. I am asking you if you are interested in having me as a friend,” Punit asked.
“We are friends, aren’t we?” Rekha asked bewildered. “You and your family have been in this society for fifteen years now. We have played together, studied together, travelled in the school bus together, celebrated so many festivals together. You and I have shared all our secrets with each other,” she continued.
“Silly, not like that. Would you like to become my special friend?” Punit asked looking deep into her eyes.
“Just a month back that doctor had proposed to me and you know about that. I met him yesterday and told him I wasn’t interested in meeting him anymore. I don’t think I am mentally prepared for any kind of relationship now,” she replied.
“I didn’t use the word relationship. I said friendship. Can we become special friends?” he reiterated his question.
“Look, this is quite unexpected. Please give me some time to think,” Rekha replied.
“You have the whole night to think. Will wait for your answer,” Punit said with a naughty smile and a wink.
Both knew that they liked each other but they never thought of taking it to another level.
As soon as she reached home, she received a WhatsApp message with a picture - look at the books being packed. She felt a twinge of pain that he would be leaving.
‘Had dinner.’
‘Going to sleep.’
‘Good night and sweet dreams my sweet love.’
These messages from Punit added to the pain.
‘Good morning gorgeous.’
Rekha woke up to this message and a virtual rose bouquet sent by him.
“Keep yourself free at 6 pm. We are meeting at the Café Coffee Day close to your office.”
She was surprised with this message that she received at 5pm before leaving her office. She knew he worked at Churchgate and she at Marine Lines but never before did they meet over coffee.
She sent a smiley in reply.
After having coffee, they went on a long drive. He stopped the car in a comparatively dark and deserted corner, removed the seat belts and shifted towards her, shifting, and adjusting his seat. Rekha liked the way he smelled. Holding her hands, he bent over and pulled her to him, holding her waist and their lips met for a long, deep kiss. She was transcended into another world. She reciprocated with equal force, probably more than equal. Both were in a tight embrace, kissing, caressing, cuddling as hot parched desert sand embracing raindrops. It was such a blissful feeling, his tender touch, his unique smell, his hard kiss, his tight hug. It was only when the flashlight of a crossing vehicle fell on them did they realise that they were on a road, in a car. They returned to their seats adjusting their clothes and hair. For some time, they didn’t utter a word. They were completely soaked in love. She felt as if the Heavens had kissed the earth.
“Shall I drive back home?” Punit asked looking at her lovingly.
“Yes,” she replied with a blush.
“Was this a parting gift?” Rekha asked.
“Just a new beginning, Sweetheart,” Punit replied looking at her.
She didn’t ask anything further. His warmth wrapped around her body and soul.
Till Punit was a neighbour they never met as ‘special friends’ but once he shifted, almost every weekend either they would dine together or meet over coffee. Their weekends were filled with surprise hugs, random kisses and cuddles. Yet, what mattered the most to her was the fact that they met. She waited, with her heart hungering to behold his tall physique, melon brown skin and deep eyes. She waited, for those few minutes, when she beheld her reflection in the dreamy pools of his eyes, and in the deepest chambers of her heart, a poet would arise, scribbling verses upon the walls of her heart. This was, in all honesty, the graffiti of her heart, large, sprawling love notes painted in the most flamboyant colours. They responded to each other’s texts immediately, even if they would be in the midst of official meetings. For her, the light blue twinkle of her phone as his messages entered the dimensions of her device, were synonymous to fireflies that glimmered in the ordinary darkness of her life, like little sparks of hope and joy.
Punit was very mature and practical. After completing his MBA, he had joined an MNC but at the same time began his start up. His brilliant ideas and hard work bore fruits and soon he had to leave the job to expand his business. This affected their weekend meets and long chats. He wasn’t available the way he used to be, but still he would try to check on her, whenever he got time. Rekha had been doing extremely well in her job, but loneliness encompassed her quite often as her parents had shifted to Baroda due to some problem in the family business. When she would return home from office, she wanted to talk to someone, share the day’s events. She was never good at making close friends except for Punit and that also happened since he had made all the efforts.
For the past month or so, she had started getting mixed vibes from him through his messages as if he wanted to cut down on the chats and calls. Her heart was clouded with the grey smoke of nauseating self-doubt, as she looked at herself in the mirror. She felt as though her lips were sagging, and acne dappled her skin, and her hair was rough and tangled. She felt as though she was probably not good enough for him anymore, and had reached a point of helplessness, where she could not look at herself in the mirror. For some reason, she felt as though she was looking at herself through his eyes which now attained a condescending and contemptuous position.
She tried to console herself by giving various assurances. Probably he is busy. Probably he is pre-occupied with lots of work. Probably he is stressed out. As much as she tried to console herself, she settled down on- he wants a break from this friendship. And it was her fault, not his. He was a good and loyal friend, but she should remember that this relationship was just one percent of his life. The remaining ninety nine percent was his work and family. He wasn’t the same man who used to be available 24/7 for her. She should understand that. He has moved on and now it was her turn to do the same.
‘Hi!
Took a break from the meeting.
Please tell me. How’s everything?’
Her phone flashed these messages sent by Punit.
She knew he didn’t want to hurt her feelings but at the same time she should be sensitive enough to provide him that space and freedom that he deserves. There was never any commitment made between them. They were free to do whatever they wanted to. Neither did they promise to be lovers or marry each other. What was her problem then? Why was she so emotionally drawn to him? He had always been mature enough to handle her thoughts and emotions with care, as he knew she was too fragile and reactive. At times she would even be dramatic.
“Grow up Rekha! Take charge of your life. Don’t become a liability for anyone. Venture forth fearlessly and be sure footed. Do something that makes you proud of yourself. You have magic in your fingertips. You have always been the best team leader of your batch. Focus on your painting and graphic designing skills, darling. Haven’t you seen how others want to orbit you, leaving the Sun behind?” she smiled after telling this to herself.
‘Hey!’
‘All good?’
‘A bit exhausted.’
‘Good night!’
She replied. She could feel a sudden stock of power in her. Why did she forget that she was a Supernova?
After getting her reports and being informed by the doctor about the lumpectomy required for removing the cancerous cells from her breast she moved out of the hospital. Before informing her parents she went to see her old neighbour who was more than happy to see her. While sipping tea at her place she asked, “Aunty, please tell me again, what did you do, when you got to know about your breast cancer?” “I went to the fish market and bought my favourite fish. Bought my favourite flowers and some chocolates. On reaching home, prepared the delicacy, placed the flowers in the vase, had a good meal and chocolates before informing my family about my plight. The doctor had said that cancer has spread, and a mastectomy is required. It meant going through a surgery to remove my breast. The operation would not take more than one and a half hours. Just two days of hospitalization and one and a half month for recovering from it. My family was shocked to know that I had already undergone blood tests, CT scan, MRI, and mammogram without even telling anyone. ‘But, aunty, why didn’t you tell your family about this cancer before?’’ interrupted Rekha, her eyes alit with an emotion of concern.
‘’Family...what family?’’ smiled aunty, running her fingers through her grey hair. To Rekha, it almost seemed as though aunty had memories knotted into the strands of her grey hair, and as she ran her fingers through her hair, she was trying to grasp those memories, and probably live them again. “You know, in the village, the moment a girl is born, her parents start saving up for her dowry. When I was a young girl, I wrote a poem called ‘The shape of her flight’, which describes the plight of a girl confined within the four walls of her room. And, you know - I’d like to quote a few lines from this poem…
“I am meant for a world of cloud, and a sky of azure - why is that I have so much confinement to endure?’’
“So, does that mean that the girl’s family does not care about the girl once she is married?’’ Rekha intervened, her fingers interwoven, as she started to pick at the flesh of her nails in anxiety. “It is unfortunate, but you are not wrong, my child. The girl is labelled as the burden and the problem of her married house…. But, let us come to what I was saying…. Of course, my boss knew as I would take half days off, from my work and a colleague turned friend, who would accompany me during these tests to the hospital. But I have always been a strong woman, a fighter. I knew I could overcome it. According to the doctors I had triple-negative breast cancer and would require chemotherapy. I told my family not to worry, as I knew I wouldn’t die. My worry was that I wouldn’t be able to wear the fancy bra that I was so fond of wearing !” she said with a loud infectious laugh.
Rekha swivelled around and looked at the sun-streaked windowpane. She watched the way the Sun rays penetrated the glass, slid into the room from beneath the fixated figure of the window, and cast themselves onto the floor. It seemed as though the Sun rays were spotlights, and the floor was a stage, and the ant that was darting from place to place was the performer on this stage. Beholding this scene, Rekha smiled as tears of revelation filled her eyes. She was not just seeing or beholding, but also feeling and experiencing ‘Life’.
After returning from aunty’s house Rekha decided not to inform anyone. She just had these three small lumps, out of which only one was more than 2 centimetres and cancerous. And the good news was that it had not spread outside the breast.
“Shall I inform Punit?” she asked herself and the reply she received was in negative. She took three days off and got the lumpectomy done.
‘Hi!
I am on my way to Shirdi with my friends.
Will return late night.’
She received this message from Punit on the third day of her leave. She felt like crying and sharing everything with him but stopped herself.
‘Please pray for me.
Fighting the biggest battle of my life.’
She typed teary eyed.
‘Is your health okay?
Any problem?’
He asked.
‘All good. Please pray for me.’
She replied.
‘That goes without saying.’
He messaged in response.
What was more painful? Her heartbreak or her bruised bosom? For the first time in her life, she felt her heart break. She had read poets and writers compose songs and verses about hearts breaking, but today she felt the pain, slow and penetrating – all the more agonizing because of the slowness. It was an ache that began deep within her, but the origin of that ache could not be traced. And, it did not merely stay in her core. It extended, and consumed every cell of her body.
She lay on her back, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars that she had pasted on the ceiling. She had always loved glow in the dark stars as a child, and what amazed her the most was how the stars seemed invisible in the day, when the Sun overwhelmed the sky and held the reigns of the world, and it was only when darkness tiptoed upon the otherwise azure surface of the sky, the stars glowed. After all…. darkness is needed for stars to glow.
In the end, she was left with two questions, and she knew that she had the answers to them. She clasped her fists tightly, as though holding onto these answers, as her heart brimmed over with a sense of fulfilment.
Does the darkness need a star?
Does a star need the darkness?
Or better still, do they both need each other?
MEENA MISHRA is an award winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in manyinternational journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 30 anthologies.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series by Visionary Studioz (Mumbai) and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 50 books in 2 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- Series .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has received Wordsmith Award 2019 for her short story , “Pindarunch,” from the Asian Literary Society.
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
The man shockingly read the column of news in the paper. The news was about how a bus lost its control and crashed into the waiting area of a bus stop, killing immediately a senior citizen who was at the bus stop reading a newspaper. Even as this man was reading the tragic news, a portend feeling went through him. He raised his eyes to see what was happening beyond the stretched out newspaper and what he saw killed him instantaneously. A reckless bus ran over the waiting shed of the bus stop killing the man.
Sudhir felt a griping pain and he held his hands to his bowel. The movie had ended abruptly killing the main actor through a shocking bus accident. Sudhir, a movie buff and a critic had just seen one of the most unexpected ending to a movie. He came out of the theatre hall discussing in detail the climax of the movie with his friend and they continued on the subject even as they crossed the road. Finally they came to the bus stop opposite to the movie theatre where Sudhir’s friend said bye to him and walked away for he had some other job to be done.
Sudhir waited for the bus and in the meantime he picked up a newspaper which was left behind on the bench in the waiting shed. He went through the newspaper and got engrossed in it. He didn’t notice that the bus advancing towards him had gone out of control. The bus rammed into the bus top and killed Vinayan on the spot.
The director of the movie that was being shot had cried out “cut” several times to stop the scene when he saw that the bus was going over the predetermined boundary. The crew members of the film unit too had shouted loud to Vinayan to move away, but the actor was engrossed in his acting and his eyes remained fixed to the newspaper. The shot was planned in such a way that the bus had to stop ten meters away from Sudhir, the protagonist of the movie. The shot where the bus crashes into the waiting area of the bus was to be taken later separately with the actor Vinayan out of the scene and a dummy kept in his place. But the driver of the bus lost the control over the brakes and an accident ensued.
The next day the newspaper vendor read out the main news of the day, the tragedy of how actor Vinayan died in an accident during the shooting of a movie. A senior citizen who came to the bus stop early in the morning bought a newspaper from the vendor and began to read it in detail. It said about how the famous actor Vinayan had to die in place of Sudhir, the main character of the movie who was really supposed to escape the bus accident in the actual movie script. But since the camera had shot the real accident, the director had decided to change the story line and end the story with death of the actor Vinayan and the role of Sudhir played by him. The man who was reading the news column had a feeling of dejavu as he got engrossed in the twist of the incidents and he didn’t notice that the bus which had to take him was coming towards him.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk
During our childhood days we liked to hear stories about kaunri Kamakhya from our grandmother in the evening hours: how an old lady wizard used to perform witchcraft to turn a man into a sheep in day time and a vigorous youth in the night. A lot of stories circulated about the fabled tantrik land of Kamrup and Goddess Kamakhya . Always cherished a desire to visit the shrine, considered to be one of the most important shrines , amongst 51 Shakti Peethas of our country but for the disturbed situation continuing for decades due to tense situation like Bodoland agitation and Naga insurgency ; could not make it. However, an opportunity came in the year 2011 to conduct an investigation regarding a tax evasion matter at Dimapur - the only Rail head (station)in Nagaland. As the Investigating Officer of the case, led a team of 3 intelligence officers of the C.P.U (Central Preventive Unity) for Dimapur to unearth the nexus between a Cement manufacturing unit of Rourkela and some traders located in Dimapur.
We took a flight from Bhubaneswar to Lokapriya Gopinath Bordoloi International Airport via Calcutta Airport and were received by our counterpart of Guwahati Divisional Office who escorted us to Guwahati Office .After meeting the Assistant commissioner and explaining our purpose, proceeded to the Commissionerate Hdqrts at Shillong which is 91KM from Guwahati . Incedentally, we came across Mr. Dipak Bora, who had earlier served as an Assistant commissioner, customs in Bhubaneswar and he immediately arranged a meeting with the commissioner. After paying our respects and exchanging courtesy, handed over a letter of our commissioner regarding the impending investigation to be conducted at Dimapur. The commissioner directed his Assistant commissioner Jorhat Sri J.K.Goswami to assist in our investigation with all logistical and manpower support. As the enchanting views of the hill station has already cast a spell on all of us, the protocol officer sensing our eagerness arranged a short sightseeing trip to nearby market place famously known as Police Bazaar and Don Bosco Museum - A Centre for Indigenous Culture -providing a glimpse of rich and multicultural life style of the indigenous people of North East. This museum is considered one of the best museums in the world.
We took a break and halted for the night at Shillong in our Departmental Guest House on the top of 7th storied office building located in No-110, Mahatma Gandhi Road in the central part of the hill station. The guesthouse is like a sprawling penthouse with a patch of green grass laid meticulously and arraigned with garden chairs to while away leisure time adds to its ambience. Early in the morning we visited the beautiful manicured Lady Hydari Park .Then we walked through the Ward’s Lake walking track amidst the captivating Cherry Blossoms plantations in full and enchanting bloom, which was most enjoyable .Because Of lots of Parks and public places in a mountainous hill station endowed with an exotic salubrious climate, the city is called Scotland of East. After finishing our heavy breakfast we started for Jorhat -a distance of 415 KM in a Maruti Gypsy, driven by one efficient driver called Bahadur of the Preventive Wing of Shillong Commissionerate. The journey was so enjoyable, beholding the captivating beauties of green and unspoilt country sides, that we did not feel tiredness when we arrived at the Divisional Office Jorhat. As the Asst .Commissioner Jorhat was informed by the Hdqrts , he has arranged our accommodation in the Circuit House located in the Assam Rifles Campus for adequate safety.
We were told that Jorhat is the cultural capital of Assam and home to largest Tea Research station of India. It was the last Capital of Ahom dynasty which reigned Supreme in Assam for more than six centuries till the year 1824 , when it went under the British rule. In the circuit house we had chalked out a plan on our impending raids to be conducted in 3 trading premises at Dimapur and enlisted 5 officers from the Jorhat office. As Dimapur is 131 km from Jorhat we left early in the next day morning in two vehicles and arrived at Dimapur by 10 AM. After meeting the Divisional Officer and enlisting 3 local officers we conducted investigation at 3 different locations simultaneously and unearthed some vital documents involving cores of tax evasions and recorded the statements of concerned proprietors. The downtown Dimapur is a huge business centre and flooded with imported items like umbrellas in attractive hues and different sizes, apparels and electronic gadgets because of a porous border with Myanmar and feeble presence of anti smuggling wings of border customs. As we are on the thick of an investigation, we could control our temptations to buy some exotic items. As Sun was descending in the western horizon, we left Dimapur as advised by the local officers to avert any untoward happenings expected from the Naga insurgents who were dominating the area in the night. We drove straight way to the Numaligarh Oil Refinery Gust House for a safe night halt arranged by our Jorhat Office. Next morning we left for Guwahati via Kaziranga National Park which was about 65 km from Numaligarh Refinery bidding goodbye to our Jorhat friends.
KAZIRANGA NATIONAL PARK
The Kaziranga game sanctuary covers an area of 430 Square KM in 3 districts - Golaghat, Karibi Anglong and Nagaon of middle Assam on the edge of the eastern Himalaya biodiversity hot spot , offering a captivating view of the animals in abundance in their natural habitats. We could observe Kaziranga is a vast expanse of tall elephant grass, marshland and dense tropical broadleaf forest, crisscrossed by serpentine rivers mainly the great Brahmaputra .After observing numerous wildlife-Water Buffalo , Swampdeer, Elephants and Rhinoceros ,in the tall grass swampy land ; we left for Guwahati and arrived at the departmental guest house near the Guwahati oil refinery located at Noonmati in the evening. The night view of the Refinery from the terrace of the guest house, was quite mesmerizing with lots of external lighting in order to facilitate workers to perform duties round the clock .Gathered information that, the Noonmati oil Refinery was inaugurated on 01.01.1962 as the first public sector refinery in India by the first Prime Minister Of India Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. At that time it was 25 km away from the city of Guwahati , but over the years the City has been extended to the frightening brink of the Noonmati Refinery.
KAMAKHYA SHAKTI PEETHA:
Next day after finishing our sumptuous breakfast, we were taken for a local sightseeing tour .First leg of our trip was meant for a visit to Kamakshya temple, one of the much visited and oldest Shakti Peethas of our country. It is an important pilgrimage destination for Hindus and especially for Tantrik worshippers .Maa Kamakhya Devi shrine is situated on Nilachal Hills in the Western part of Guwahati. Besides the main temple dedicated to Maa Kamakhya, there are individual temples dedicated to ten Mahavidyas -Kali,Tara,Sodashi,Bhubaneswari,Bhairavi, Chhinnamasta, Dhumabati, Bagalamukhi, Matangi and Kamalatmika-of Shaktism in the temple complex.
SRIMANTA SANKARDEV KALAKSHETRA:
In the afternoon we visited Srimanta Sankardev cultural Centre in Guwahati. We were amazed at the beautiful sight of the Cultural Centre dedicated to the most prominent Assamese Polymath of the 15-16th century Assam. Acharya Sankardev was a saint, scholar, poet, playwright and above all a profound Socio-Religious reformer. Eminent writer and politician, Sri Janakiballabha Pattanayak, when he was governor, made deep research on the literary works of Srimanta Sankardev and found his link with Sree Jagannath of Puri. Acharya Sankardev lived 120 years (1449-1568) and twice visited Jagannath Dham, Puri . First time at the age of 32 and stayed about 10 years at a stretch and second time at the age of 80 years and stayed for 2.6 years. During his second visit he was received by puja pandas as instructed by Jagannath in dreams from Atharnala and after Darshan he gratituously felt that his life has attained Mokshya .He was deeply influenced by Sridhar Swami’s Tika (analysis) on Gita “ Bhavartha Deepika” and learnt Sanskrit Bhagavat being influenced by Sri Jagadish Mishra. He wrote Bhagabat in Ahomiya on the basis Of Sridhar Swami’s commentary (Tika/Bhashya) on Gita. Acharya Sankardev wrote a voluminous book “ Uresha(Orissa )Barnana’’ consists of 21 Chapters on Jagannath cult, Sreemandir complex, Various Festivals concerning Jagannath and Cultural Traditions Of the then Odisha. He started Namghar in Assam, in the fashion of Odia Bhagavat Tungi .He propagated one new branch of Sanatan dharma- Ekasarana Dharma. Sankardev inspired the Bhakti movement in Assam just like Guru Nanak, Sri Chaitanya, Namdev and Kabir , inspired elsewhere in the medieval India. Sankardev preached pure devotion to Sri Krishna by singing(Kritana)listening (Sravana). We were grateful to our friends of Shillong Commissionerate particularly Guwahati and Jorhat friends for their wholehearted help and support, making our trip a success. After an eventful 5 days sojourn in Kamrup (Ancient name of Assam) we beg leave of our host intelligence officers of Shillong Commissionerate and boarded the Air India flight at Lokapriya Gopinath Bordoloi International Airport,Guwahati for Netaji Subash Chandra Bose International Airport for Onward journey to Biju Pattanaik International Airport,Bhubaneswar.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com)
The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
Gita Bharath
Anju Kishore
Padmini Janardhanan
S Sundarrajan
We cut rainforests, blocked rivers and streams
Fingerpainted the sky with black smoke stacks
But the wings of our big, high flying dreams
Were clipped short by the corona attacks
Attack it did our very foundation
Caged, cornered we stayed like never before
Solutions were tangled in confusion
With death chasing life behind its own door
Lockdown on us thrust, to it we adapt
While strong, creative solutions unfold
Technology put to use, right and apt
Virtual goes viral with young and old
So quietly, time ushers the next decade
You too will pass away and slowly fade.
The theme of this collaborative sonnet is the current situation with the Coronavirus. A sonnet (Shakespearean) consists of fourteen lines, with the rhyme scheme : abab cdcd efef gg. The last two lines traditionally feature a 'twist', a departure from the preceding lines. The featured poets are Gita Bharath, Anju Kishore, Padmini Janardhanan and S Sundarrajan, who have each contributed a verse.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer.
Padmini Janardhanan is a psychologist focusing on personal effectiveness, a poet and writer.
Gita Bharath is a retired banker, a published poet and writer.
Anju Kishore is a published poet and editor
Think of a poem,
Wise or not wise,
A novice,
I try to question myself:
Is it to give shape to a thing abstract
to look exact...?
Or, to reveal the beauty of a thought,
Or of the poet's pot?
Is it an unadulterated imagination
Or decorated, profane exaggeration?
Is it a complex thing writ to look simple
Or, should it be morphological ample?
Do I need a rhyme or reason
To bring out the prime for comparison?
Or can it be essayed prosaic
that'd become archaic?....
Perhaps, not until
You call it what you will!
Is it an exhibition
when in a competition,
of the talent
that is latent....
for sure, the best
to prevail over the rest?
Tom, Dick or Harry can become Keats never,
A thing of beauty is joy for ever!
HEART TO HEART- POETRY, BEAUTY PERSONIFIED!
I look at the mirror
that has no error;
It reflects only my figure,
knows not you're much inner!
At dawn every day
To see you, I'm gay!
Afternoon when I walk on the meadow
You follow me like my shadow!
Out in the dark the starlets shine bright
Only to reflect your sweet smiles, to my delight!
You're a natural beauty, use no cosmetic
And my love for you is just, poetic!
I look at the mirror
I, too, am a competitor!
What a beauty you're to behold
Heralding nature's story, untold?
Your arrival we earnestly yearn,
A lesson or two for us to learn?
Oh, yes one should fall with grace...
Only to rise later with face,
Wreathed in vim and vigour
And grow fresher and stronger!
Oh Mortal, accept and respect nature
And fight not , in the name of culture.....
Forget not, Patience always pays
Until the Faith in you never fades!
Without HIM, you can not
And without you, HE will not!!
Oh Lord, answer my prayer!
Why should I suffer, I ain't aware?
What's in store, I know not,
'cause all that I had is lost!
Do what you will, the Almighty you're,
And get me back all that I lost, thus far!
.
.
Asked HE, in HIS voice, gentle and mild:
What do you think you've lost, my child?
.
.
Oh, many a thing, and countless, my Lord,
Nor could I keep any record!
.
.
List a few, can't you, without a cry?
Uttered HE, assuring, only sooner HE'd try!
.
.
Never-ending, I should say, is the list;
Will these suffice, if I go on, as the gist?
.
Times changed, my Lord, I lost my youth,
And so did the customs, to take away my beauty, that's the truth!
And what the world calls it ageing,
Oh, it's only too discouraging!
When I say, I lost my health,
Isn't it as well all our wealth ?
Don't ask me any more of the past
Can't you retrieve, all that I'd lost?
.
.
With a beaming smile HE overrode:
Don't you recollect all that I bestowed?
Gave you good education, made you literate,
To rid of Ignorance, can't I state?
When the hardwork you put in to count,
It's the poverty, that you could surmount!
And with all your kith and kin around
How could loneliness dare surround?
Your good virtue and trait brought no foes,
Take no fright, my child, to expect any woes!
Thus I can cite plenty and more,
It isn't just like twenty to score!
Shall I get you back all these?
If they are enough to please!
.
.
There is so much in life, I never thought,
And why should I feel distraught?
No more I seek, for you to give,
I only beseech you to forgive!
You've showered your grace in abundance,
Can't show my face, I'm a dunce!
I prostrated, to touch HIS feet,
Only to find HE'd vanished, leaving the Life's Balance Sheet!!
Doing nothing is an art; you need some skill-that is what I learnt recently, when, at home, whiling away time lazily.
I used to wonder at times: am I fit enough to indulge in nothingness?
I recall someone telling me: 'you are never alone, when alone'!
But something like this, too, happened:
He: What is going on in your mind, buddy, what are you doing?
Me: Oh, nothing.... trying to figure out, how and what I should reply if such a question is put to me!!
In fact, it isn't easy either, though my friend, as optimistic as ever, used to say:
Who says nothing is impossible? I have been doing nothing since long!
When I want to do nothing,
many people say, I can connect with nature, take long walks, with or without my pets (canine or feline meant);
my daughters 'Kindle' me to read some e-books;
my wife persuades me to water the plants or to have a nap;
certain others advise me to do meditation, little realizing that it is a simple-looking difficult preposition!
But then, am I really doing nothing??
OMG, ' Nothing' seems to bother me these days!
Bill Watterson, a famous American Cartoonist and author of many Comics and other books once said (or complained?): There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want to do!
Just as humour is a serious thing of matter in one's life, idleness or nothingness is a feeling that should be easy to come by, given any situation, I should say.
But then, some people, I hear, are separated from sense of humour, since birth-, I pity them.
And some think that 'doing nothing is unproductive'-, I pity them, too.
In contrast.....
Decades ago, when I was preparing for a speech (Rede) in German, (Mangel an Zeit, meaning Paucity of Time) I interacted with a few and asked one young man: what do you write every day in your diary, if you keep one? On hearing this, I could see his face was definitely not akin to delight. He muttered: I don't have enough time even to complete my routine tasks, leave alone jotting down something in my diary!?
[ Actual reply was though: Wuenschte ich mein Tag haette mehr als 24 of Stunden!!, meaning I wish I had more than 24 hours in a day!]
Those days, when I had nothing to do, I used to try to write/ note down something in my diary, about things that mattered me most or were of special significance and interest to me, from among my routine mundane activities.
Despite being a good habit, to keep one (diary meant), is conspicuously absent in today's digital world.
These days, the youth, (and the old alike?) wakes up every day with what is known as FOMO, yes, Fear Of Missing Out! They can't be without those gadgets, you know what, eager and anxious to know about others, others' ways and days!
Viewing, posting, expressing likes and or dislikes, or calling someone is all that they do, first thing, even before attending to nature's call; and, feel down in the mouth, if they can't.
Anytime you ask them, what's up? If at all they answer, it would be: WhatsApp!?
For sure, they get imprisoned in their cell-phone, and or suffer from self(ie) abuse!!
To them, I would say: Try doing nothing!
eg. like when you are held up in a traffic, or waiting for a friend, you had better do away with your cell phone, and give your mind some rest; do nothing, lest waiting should become a disease as bad as FOMO!
And when you do nothing, there is no pressure, you don't feel stressed, are not bound by anybody or anything; in fact you don't have to listen to yourself! (sounds like a punch dialogue in a movie?)
The other day, when somebody asked me: Hi, how are you, and what are you doing these days (now that you have superannuated)?
I said: Oh, fine; I enjoy what I am doing, and ,..... I am doing nothing!
I don’t have to be in a fantasy world to enjoy for that matter.
Here, I am reminded of a German story of the early eighties, perhaps,- Die unendliche Geschichte, meaning The Never Ending Story, that was about a young boy’s adventure. The fantasy world of Fantasia he was in was getting devoured by a malevolent force, a storm, called Nothing; the boy’s task ensured Nothing was no longer a threat to his world.
What an apt naming of the storm as Nothing!
The never ending story was later made into a movie, which took the whole world then by storm.
Coming again (to Nothing) to the present-day world, I recently learnt from reliable sources, companies such as Google, Twitter, Facebook etc have made ' disconnected time' a key aspect of their workplace; it means they give your brains the much needed vacuum; make you indulge in hours of nothingness, thus paving a smarter way to live and work.
Elsewhere in Europe, they are seriously contemplating to pass the ' right to disconnect', after office hours, as a law.
Oh, what a way to go!
Yes, the increased productivity yield arising out of intellect of such men would naturally be manifested in plenty of Artificial Intelligence (AI) based products, hitting the world market.
And the day is not too far, I am sure, for such trendy machines and apps to offer us ample scope and make us learn, too, to do nothing!!
Sometimes, when I am doing nothing, I wish I were born in Italy; for Italians say "la dolce far niente", meaning ‘Sweetness of Doing Nothing’ is the way of life!
Also, when you are idling, and when ‘nothing’ strikes, it sometimes strikes you so hard that
you end up discovering something great, useful and wonderful;
Or bringing out something on paper, simply, as above!
Practice makes a man perfect.
And, I wish I practise doing nothing, and master the art!
I still have nothing-, more, to say!!
N. Rangamani, a resident of Chennai, graduated from IIT Madras; superannuated after more than thirty-five years of service in (Aircraft Maintenance) Aviation. He has revived his writing passion post retirement. He likes to write and puts it to action, sometimes. He writes in Tamil and English. Contact: rangkrish@gmail.com
I wake up on a cold morning
Crumbled inside my sheets like waste
Scarred with the tag of being a human
Vulnerable to the vices inside my head
My soul is frostbitten, my heart is stone-hard
I need heat, I need light, I need hope
But the world seems stranger than it ever had
There isn't a soul that can radiate the warmth
I am living in the aftermath of an apocalypse
An explosion full of vengeance and scorn
I am stuck amidst the debris of humanity
The world around is a sight to behold
I am living in a world of hoaxes
A world where humans sentence humanity
A world that has dropped down to cannibalism
A world being ruled by crippled novices
Here, life dwells in paranoia and delusion
Wars are just games and blood sheds like confetti
The screams are deafening, yet music to some
People are burning in the flames of chaos and anarchy
They say that the earth is round
But people die trying to make their ends meet
Here, not humans, but humanity is impoverished
Here, persecution and devastation take the lead
My soul aches at the sight of this
My heart yearns for a place to take refuge
My body longs to know where it is supposed to be
And again, I find myself in the same cold morning
Counting my tears, I treasure them up like pearls
I promise them that never again they'll fall
Not that I am hoping for recovery or resurrection
But because the world is rotting, and I have to take it all
Now my soul breathes intrepid audacity
It is neither frostbitten, nor does it seek refuge anymore
Now my tears have raised their threshold
Now, I find peace in the debris of humanity
My heart knows that there is no escape from this turmoil
The conjectured reason being human deed and greed
For humanity has lost all its tranquillity and sanctity
We're all stripped of our saviour and vigilante
In this cold morning, I come to conclude
That it is only a myth to maintain order for good
Who cares about right or wrong when they all are ghouls?
"The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules."
Shreyasee Behera, a former student of SAI International School, Bhubaneswar and currently an MBBS student at Institute of Medical Sciences and SUM Hospital, Bhubaneswar, is just like any other girl of her age who wants to wander off the premises of her mind. Writing, for her, is something that ventilates her brain. She finds her words on paper to be the best way to connect her own body, mind and soul. Even a crushed sheet of paper can become her best friend. Writing makes her feel unconfined. When she writes, she breathes. Her email id - shreyaseebehera123@gmail.com
On that sunny day...
The rays of dawning sun..
I saw you scattered through the trees...
Falling on her face..
Embracing her elegant angular visage...
Lighting her dimple..
I saw her face glowing,
Feeling your warmth..
You touch her anytime you want..
How I wish I could lend you my fingers..
I try to capture her every minute..
Yet the moments slip by..
And I can't deny...
I envy you...
On that windy day...
The cloud is up high.. the breeze is cold...
Her hair is blowing in the breeze.
The breeze that slowly murmured through trees
Like a melody of humming bird..
Whispering in her ears...
Only she could hear..
Making every moment freeze..
Breeze, you mumble in her ears anytime you want..
How I wish I could lend you my voice..
And I try to capture her every minute..
Yet the moments slip by..
And I can't deny...
I envy you...
On that rainy day...
The fragrance of rain cuddling the earth..
The music of rain soothing the ears..
I saw her walking, swaying in the rain..
Raindrops landing on her cheeks..
Like someone kissing on her dimple..
Every drop of water, shines like a pearl..
Rolling down till toe...
How I wish I were you!..
And I try to capture her every minute..
Yet the moments slip by..
And I can't deny...
I envy you...
Anjaly M Cyriac is a banker by profession and keeps the passion towards literature, painting etc. She is also a voracious reader. Her blog in Malayalam is https://kalapanik.blogspot.com .
Translated by Sreekumar K
A broken smile
Hidden in a veil
Greyed hopes
In a sultry afternoon
Spread across
A darkened sky
Bored quietness
Feeling the sharp edges of
An MOU of Responsibility
Can’t walk back
Down the line of life
On my creased palms.
Flapping my fragile wings
Following the setting sun
Beyond the end of
A lifeline, a deadline
Hollowed out letters
Clusters of them
Flung into the daylight,
Long blown out
Blissful cataract
Lost my way
To a sinking stardom
Holding a placard
“Dreams Sold”
Clutching at straws
Stuck to the crutches
Of a panting wayfarer
Suhara Salam resides at Kakkanadu near Kochi, Kerala. A well educated home maker, a multilinguist, she writes stories and poems.
(Translated by Sreekumar K)
If you have compromised wholly
With slavery
You should be romantic enough
To limit your sky to a tiny walled square
If your thoughts are red hot,
Douche them often enough
Burn the book
"Freedom Beyond the Walls"
Prune the spring
Before it blossoms
It isn't yours dear.
The rainbows in the limitless sky
May spell Freedom for you
But don't worry
No rainbow is here forever
Touch that piece of yellow metal
(Hard food for Midas)
And tell yourself
Nothing is for you.
You are a slave
That piece of metal
So pure, seven times tried
Was once smelted in holy fire
Only to brand you
Reshma Akshari is a Teacher in Malayalam at Savio HSS Devagiri. Her poetry collection ‘Ethircchaya‘ published by Atma books has been in the limelight since last year. ‘ Aathmainte Koottezhutthukal ' (Poorna publication)a collection of stories and poems complied by her won the appreciation of the education department last year. Her poems and articles enriched various Malayalam journals and magazines. Her email is reshmamk1986@gmail.com
Translated by Sasikumar
The monsoon is just setting in.
The skies are cloudy; but hesitant to rain over the fuming land. The night is dark and heavy. Streaks of lightning cut through the thick black cover and illuminate the filth below. Thunder rumbles as if the heaven is bickering with the earth.
The temple looked like an abandoned fort. Its dilapidated structures were engulfed by darkness except for a lamp timidly burning at the entrance. The huge Banyan tree stood at the entrance spreading its branches towards the netherworld. The stone platform built around it must be centuries old. On a night like this, you will probably expect to find nobody around this place.
Nobody; even this person lying on the platform with smoke billowing from his mouth at regular intervals. His pockmarked face only visible when he drags on his beedi. He is a thief by profession, and he needs to break into someplace tonight as he does almost every night. The weather is playing with his mind, and he is pushing back his urge to get going.
You can’t steal when you are in two minds. You will be caught.
The sound of a screeching vehicle startled him. It stopped on the stony road next to the temple, and someone stepped out of it. The person walked towards the temple with a small bag hung on the left shoulder. In the flash of a lightning, he identified the visitor to be a woman.
As he snuffed the beedi, a familiar animal growled inside. The thief in him longed to rob her of the bag; but the animal wanted him to rob her of something else. A night like this, a gathering storm and hordes of unfulfilled desires – the cocktail was heady. The animals were locked in an intense fight; but they came to a compromise quickly – make the move now.
He silently got down from the platform and slowly stepped towards the woman.
And then, at the peak of the bickering, the heaven sent a bolt towards the banyan tree. It hit a spot next to the thief, and he fell with a loud scream. By the time he regained his senses, the vehicle had left. He cursed, staring at the waning red dots in the dark, and turned back to the platform. Then, his eyes fell on the bag left near the flickering lamp.
His eyes glinted as he made his way to the bag. She missed taking it along. Before the owner returns to reclaim the bag she left, he has to leave with it. Not all stormy nights are futile.
A gentle breeze blew out the lamp, and the air became thicker. It must start raining soon. He opened the bag and waited for another bolt from the skies. The bickering probably stopped,
as the skies fell silent, and darkness prevailed.
Then, his impatience won, and guided his hand into the bag.
The wail of a small baby pierced the darkness like a bolt and hit the deepest vaults of his heart.
Years of congealed dirt and frozen emotions thawed inside. Unable to contain themselves, they slowly found a vent through his eyes.
And the monsoon started.
Naveen S-the author hailing from Calicut, writes short stories and poems in Malayalam. He published 2 books named Go's Own Country (Stories) and Gulmohar Thanalil ( Poems).
Sasikumar is from Kerala, and is currently living and working in Bangalore. He loves literature, travelling, movies and music. He tries his hand at poems and short stories in his leisure time, and is working towards becoming a published author soon.
Crossing the river from afar,
The birds are coming flying over.
Spectators make your banks noisy,
Rushing for a trip against breezy.
How lucky is lake queen!
Inside this cage I am not fine.
Everyday visitors make their trip,
To see the sanctuary in closed grip.
Glorious is our Konark & Puri,
Via Satapada sitting on ferry.
Marine drive though exciting,
Congested path not injury resisting.
Conditions have flown as per norm,
Amidst lightning flash, rain & storm.
Fear is only self-defeating,
Duty bound and no cheating.
Flying like bird, a skilled practice,
Bonding in cage, a coward tactics.
If you will not try, time will be hard,
Your neighbour will laugh,
You will die sad.
Wake up and be aware before too late,
Enjoy your life, don't rely on fate.
Dare, no fear; seeing strong cage,
break the wire and fly; opening a new page.
A small slot enough, to come out dear,
Odd period over; gather strength more.
The last border waiting; on coast of lake,
Siberian friends flock; to greet with shake.
We all parts of God, illusion external,
The path seems long, HE is eternal.
May we be animal, bird or human,
Ultimately return home, without any complain.
Creation so strange!
Dense forest on hill crest,
Migratory birds mesmerise
and enjoy our land as guest !!
Abinash Kumar Sahu is an Engineer by profession, currently serving as Superinteding Engineer, Department of Water Resources at Keonjhar, Odisha. He has a great passion for literature and writes occasional poetry. Some of his poems are published in different online magazines.
OVERFLOW (OOTTARANA)
Bijayketan Pattanayak
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Let rice water
boil over, spill;
milk on the stove overflow,
the sea in hightide
inundate the shore
as history overtakes myths,
the timed progress marches ahead
leaving the believers in fate behind.
If the pride and arrogance
spill over and
flow out, the ego bursts
like the bubbles in froth.
Follow suit the delusions,
also, pomposity and prejudices.
One is but a lone pilgrim,
a poor and plain being
if his pretences are peeled off,
a person even without a wrap,
sailing a rudderless boat
adrift in a desolate sea,
awaiting moksha,
awaiting nirvana.
Words overflow with feelings
to make poetry,
the day outgrows its limit
to die in the arms of night,
rivers in spate overflow banks,
the sea enters land in a tsunami.
If a good-for-nothing fellow
is overreaching his limits,
let him.
What may he achieve?
Building castles in the air,
pretending to be a powerhouse
like Bruhannala*,
the eunuch, but shooting
hurting words shamelessly
like poison arrows?
But ask the archers to know,
if the fellow would ever hit a target,
or suffer the tragedy
of his shots boomeranging.
Once I planted a Champak
but by the time it flowered
I had left the place
on transfer, a hazard
in a government job;
like – one day,
I have to leave this world,
leave my dear and near ones,
like a lone pilgrim
journeying to the other world.
We squeeze out water
from wet laundry,
we squeeze out
sweat drops out of napkins.
I have been squeezing myself
the whole of my life,
a dilemma bothering me,
what would be the last spill?
Blood? Tears?
Or burnished fruits of my labour?
*Bruhannala – During the Pandavas’ Agnyatvas, meaning, living incognito, spanning over a full year as per a betting commitment in a game of dice with Kauravas, Arjuna guised himself as a transgender, dressed as a woman.
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO
Radhika Nair
The rooster crowed
In the little girl’s back-yard
Too early in the dawn of her life,
Cock-a-doodle-doo;
Crouching in the darkness,
Playing Hide-n-Seek and Dark Room -
Innocent games otherwise,
Calloused hands,
Sought her nooks and crannies.
With the swell of her breasts,
The games got bigger and bolder,
Till the knife scraped out
Little hands and feet,
Leaving scars
To last her a lifetime,
To haunt her for lifetime.
The rooster,
In the neighbour’s backyard,
Struts and crows,
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
My daughter, I hope, decides to pursue a profession in the field of creative arts when she grows up – maybe as a writer of fiction or even better, a film maker!
**Scene 1
I open the front door and my little girl rushes into my arms. My heart melts at the sight of her in distress, her doe-eyes welled up and turned up at me.I pull her into a tight hug. I coax her to talk and she takes a while to fill me with the details of her traumatic day amidst sobs and pauses to wipe her eyes and nose.
**Scene 2( Flashback begins)
My daughter, all of 8 years - in pig tails, checkered blouse and grey pinafore, shoulders sagging under the weight of her school bag – is walking by the narrow bridge that leads to her school. She pauses by the railing to enjoy the sight of water (and garbage) gushing below.
(To children, it never matters if the stream in question is of the Coovum river which exudes an aroma that can scorch the hair of your nostrils!).
Her classmate, the stoutest boy of her class, also the proverbial Bully, strolls by and calls out to her by her nick name, ‘No-Nose’. She ignores him, not wanting to be disturbed from enjoying the idyllic(!) view. (It was a known rule set forth by him that the rest of the lowly citizens of his class must greet him with “Hail Mugambo” every morning.) Not only that she doesn’t give him the respect he demands , but also the fact that a mere female walks the earth who fails to react to her nick name – irks him no end.
(I must say that my daughter was born with a nose that serves a purely functional purpose and has no aesthetic intention whatsoever. And I admire her grit because she is as proud as she is hot-headed and thinks it a privilege to be blessed with the tiniest nose in the entire 3rd grade!)
**Scene 3
It is lunch recess at school and the kids are bustling about in the class. Mr.Bully walks up to Ms. No-Nose for revenge. He demands that she apologize in front of the entire class and go down on her knees with her arms outstretched, bowing waist down and say “Hail Mugambo” . My daughter, at her snootiest best, asks him to take a walk and goes about her task of completing the Mathematics assignment due for the upcoming period.
Pride shattered and twice humiliated, he snatches her pencil box, takes her new ruler that I had bought her from a business trip to France. He threatens her that, the ruler with the Eifel tower and the Louvre on it will find its place in the Coovum , if she doesn’t oblige. My daughter, torn between her pride and her new ruler, decides to keep her pride. The Bully, true to his character , flings it out the window with a toothless smirk. With a crushed heart, she rushes to the window to see her priced possession, bobbing up and down amidst the garbage and vanish from sight. Eyes moist and lips quivering, she returns to her desk, barely surviving the rest of the day in the class.
**(Flashback Ends)
Feeling so sorry for my little baby, I pacify her that I will get her a new ruler from the same shop the next time I travel, that too a purple one with pink prints on it, which are her current favourite colours. (Sigh! One of the many times that I have wished that my genes were put to better use !)
With that, she brightens up. The sobs are now under control. I kiss her forehead when a bell rings out with a huge gong at the back of my head - Her classroom is on the opposite wing and does not face the Coovum river!
After several attempts of trying to convince me that the Coovum recently changed course and started to flow alongside her class, I got her to cut out the fiction.
During recess, she picked a fight with her partner and they got into a ruler fight, which seems to be quite a common dumb game of sorts amidst children of these days. Now it lay in two pieces, with the Eifel on one half and the Louvre on the other, in the dust bin of her class room.
I would like to meet whoever who said something to the effect that children are Truth and God bundled into one!
The world of words and the sounds of music having always tugged at her heart, Radhika Nair left a successful IT career to pursue her passion .She has written widely on Art & Culture for ‘The Hindu’ and other publications. ‘The Sound Of Words’ is an anthology of her poems. She has also penned lyrics for the Malayalam blockbuster ‘Anarkali’. She lives in Kochi with her family and her dog.
\
memories!.the dew drops! how they dangle
on a fresh morning’s blade of grass!
the tender cheeks flushing with love, dripping,
swaddled by smiles of flickering, fluttering
fireflies, evanescent yet, illuminating the dreary drama of life..
the thickening heat of the sun
casts shadows that grow longer
your wild goose chase gives little space
for memories to graze on free...
but oft it falls on a moment unbidden
the smouldering embers glowing up
hah! memories! without your golden touch
how will we traverse these arid planes
howling out despair echoing in swirls.!
memories, do waft in winds afresh
riding through hills and dales that stretch
of faces and voices of warmth, love and care
lending solace to the speed that sits like
the old phantom on our shoulders, weighing
directing our survival game
on shifting shores so shaky and plain…..
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).
Death first took them
One by one
Like at cards after a shuffle,
Or a dice after it was cast
Or after the toss of a coin
Before stealthily burrowing into the earth,
Its spread was a tormenting fire,
Red- eyed, unforgiving, its tongue flickering.
The dead were like lifeless insects clumsily gathered,
A map of wretchedness stretched out
Punctuated by disconsolate hope.
Flashing lights of ambulance and police cars
Desperately colonized the street,
Homes became dark echo- chambers,
Tenancy in question but death not in retreat,
A book no one could read.
It was life swallowed by the night.
This poem is a part of the newly released volume of poetry " Migrants Chronicle & Pandemic Musings".It is a set of 25 poems and 10 Ink paintings by Jatin Das. The e-book can be purchased at
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WZ5NQLV/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=migrant+chronicles+satya+mohanty&qid=1613714392&sr=8-1
Legends are like a herd
Huddled; jostling each other,
They stopped grazing and looked up
When Corona came.
The world became still,
When it went away
Disappearing in the distance,
The still world yet to stir,
The herd went back to grazing,
Only this time there was one more
This poem is a part of the newly released volume of poetry " Migrants Chronicle & Pandemic Musings".It is a set of 25 poems and 10 Ink paintings by Jatin Das. The e-book can be purchased at
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WZ5NQLV/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=migrant+chronicles+satya+mohanty&qid=1613714392&sr=8-1
Handshakes; a distant picture,
Sepia tinged ancient memory,
Doors shut out like curfew order,
No dizzying soirees anymore,
Conversation replaced by
Zoom calls, spoken through
Fresh cloth masks,
WhatsApp messages
Typed with sanitized fingers,
FaceTime; unafraid of
Mismatch between crumpled pants
And starchy shirts.
Words still tumble out
As in fancy seminars,
With urgency of home runs,
Effluence of long-lost heady talks,
This poem is a part of the newly released volume of poetry " Migrants Chronicle & Pandemic Musings".It is a set of 25 poems and 10 Ink paintings by Jatin Das. The e-book can be purchased at
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WZ5NQLV/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=migrant+chronicles+satya+mohanty&qid=1613714392&sr=8-1
The name plate on the door read ‘Divya Swaminathan’. It rang a bell. The girl in my neighbourhood in Hyderabad had a name like this. Her father’s name was APBN Swaminathan. “She must be the same ‘Divya Swaminathan’ I thought. She was a couple of years elder to my daughter and they hung around together. So were another four girls of similar ages. In fact, they grew up together. If this woman is the same girl, I knew her from her 5th or 6th year of age. All kids used to go to the swimming pool, including my daughters. Divya was an athletic swimmer. Picked up swimming very quickly and there was an athletic push to her swimming. She swam as if she belonged there.
I was coming back to city after 13 years from Delhi. Memories had become dim, connection weak and ability to synthesize objective data weaker still. One of the earliest thing I did was to rush to British Council library and renewed my cards. I headed to fiction section then. To my left were a set of rooms. One of them read ‘Divya Swaminathan’, Dy. Director. I was not very sure whether this person was the same girl. I proceeded to the fiction rack, picked up a couple of books of Julian Barnes, a book of Harold Pinter, a volume of Seamus Heaney poetry and I was heading back. I saw a woman wearing saree from a distance. Then she went into her room. By the time I reached the place, the same name board stared at time. On recollection I thought there was some similarity in the frame. Tall and slender. But I had not seen Divya as a saree clad woman ever. I thought I would just check. May be I can knock and get into the room. After all, I am armed with enough number of books to invent a question regarding the library. Director was a British woman. So going to an Indian staff would make sense.
I knocked. I heard “come in”. I went in. Lo and behold, it is the same girl of my colony which I left 13 years back. But there was no recognition in her eyes. ‘ Are you Divya from Banjara Hills Officers’ colony?’ ‘Yes’ she replied. But no recognition yet. “I was in your colony. My daughter was your friend. Aparna, Sravanthi, Anjana and you were all together. Now her eyes lit up and face beamed.
“Yes, uncle. Sorry I could not recognize you. It has been such a long time. You left for Delhi eons ago. We thought you would not return. How is Anjana?
“She is in the US. Doing her masters in law in Chicago law school. But you guys should be in touch”.
“In a way yes. But I thought she might have come back. Last she told me she would continue in Delhi.”
“That’s right. She will go back to the Supreme Court where she was practicing. We came back because this is home. Where are you staying?”
“After Papa passed away we continued in the colony until my Mom retired. Now we are in an apartment in Banjara Hills.”
“I am so sorry what happened to Swami. It was so premature and untimely. I sent a condolence message to your brother. Are you married?”
“Not yet. Would you care for coffee?”
‘I won’t mind.’ I had all the time in the world. There was no teaching engagement then. I was yet to get into the rhythm of writing which was my mojo.
“Then let’s go to the cafeteria.” I had not bargained for it. Having spent a life time in the Government, I thought coffee would be served in the room. But I had already taken the bite. It was impossible to back out now.
We went to the coffee house. Took a table. I resumed the conversation. I enquired about her mother, brother and their welfare. But I came back to the question.
“Are you married now or what is afoot? It was an avuncular interest. Girls at that age do get married. She must be 31, if I add up 2 years to Anjana’s age. “Uncle, after Papa passed away the question got into back burner. Then I got the job. I got my freedom. For the first time I was leading a life with freedom.” The Coffee had come now.
“What do you mean, you had freedom for the first time?”
‘You had a role in it.’ There was sadness on her face. ‘ You remember you told my parents to be careful about my movement?’
In a flash it came back to me. It was an evening. The small knot of girls were moving together in the colony road in front. I was waiting for my driver to come to take me the airport. I think I was travelling to K.L, Malyasia. I could see a bunch of boys moving ahead and they took a fork. The girls took a turn to the right just after the boys. Out of curiosity, I came out and followed them. Lo and behold, Divya was talking to one of the boys and the boys were not from the colony. Other girls were a little away, may be 10 feet but they were intrigued. I quietly came back and told Swaminathan to take care. It escaped my attention thereafter. I instructed my wife to tell my daughter to be careful. Then the car came and I left for the airport.
“Luck. It is all luck. Do you know I was shut up in the house for seven years. You left for Delhi after 3 years. I lost my freedom. I was only allowed to go to the college and come back. For seven years I didn’t meet anyone. I was not allowed to go out not allowed to move around in the colony. I stopped talking to Anjana for the preceding three years”. Then she gave a smile. I thought it was a sad smile. Recognition of one’s small peeves and unintended consequence of the original action of mine.
“I am so sorry. I told Swaminathan to be careful. I didn’t know it would result in this.”
‘ I know you meant well. So did my parents. But the problem is when there is a challenge, you all felt it easier to shut us up, rather than counseling, empowering and guiding. I remained shut for seven years. By the time I was given some freedom, ten years of my life had gone by. After I got a job, I tasted freedom for the first time. I didn’t want to lose it. Someone else to lay down rights and wrongs, dos and don’ts, I did not want that. I did not want to marry in a hurry. Now with Papa gone no is there to steer it. Praveen is busy with his own life. He is married for a couple of years. ”
“I am so sorry. I wanted to alert your parents. In the same colony, I had witnessed another young girl being murdered by her unrequited lover from outside. My driver Afzal intervened, but it was too late. The worst was the family decided to keep quiet so that calumny will not hit the family. The girl was not in the wrong at all. She was such an innocent kid.”
“I knew you could be having good reasons. But whatever is meted out to us is not fair. Denial of life can’t be life. We will make mistakes. It is the job of the elders to guide us. If training us in karate helps, we should be put to training. But that does not happen. We are just shut out, because that is the easiest. Have your coffee, it will get cold.” By this time my head was working overtime rolling what might have been and what has been. But I had lost my craving for coffee.
I took a couple of sips. I was disturbed that I was instrumental by creating such a mess up. But my mind went back to my childhood. In a new location and in a new school, I was also ordered to stay at home. The problem arose because my father’s deputy’s son was my class mate. He didn’t like comparison and showed me a paper knife once. I overreacted and informed my father about the happenings in the school. My father instructed me to stay in the Bunglow as he was travelling often. He was smart enough not to broach it but it shamed his deputy and I lost the small joys of being a child for about three months. I was still selected for the scholarship exam depending on my earlier performance and it was good that we left the place after the exam.
Was my past playing a role? Was I being too risk-averse because I knew about the stabbing incident of Sastry’s daughter?
“Uncle, I have also heard about Soumya Sastry’s stabbing though around that time we were not in the colony. But do we all deserve to sacrifice our freedom because one incident happened. You will not understand what being a recluse for 10 years mean? I lost my teens in guilt, discrimination and privation. But now it is past. But maybe it has changed me forever. I didn’t talk to Anjana for long. Then we made up.”
We had finished coffee then.
“Well, Divya. Aunty and I will visit your house. We haven’t met your mother for 13 years.” We exchanged cards. I came out the library. During my walk to the car, I was wondering whether we ever did anything good to youngsters by imposing our worldview? Or we inflicted our weaknesses and limitations on the next generation without trying to figure out the problem this generation faced. The collateral damage of this or the unintended consequences could be unfathomable. I started walking towards the car instead of calling the driver on mobile.
“Sir, our car is there.” My driver had come from the behind and stopped me as I had passed the car in my absentminded thoughts.
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.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Anvik boy,
Who fills our hearts with immense joy!
Your little fingers and tiny toes
are as cute as your adorable nose
Your lively eyes shine so bright
That drives me to hug you tight
You talk to me in your language of smile
That lacquers everything for a while
Your chompable cheeks make me feel
A serene suffusing warmth to heal.
My whole life revolves around your riveting smile
That transcends me to our brand- new isle.
You are the poem I dreamt of writing
You are the stanza that’s forever delighting
In the bouts of your lovely twinkling,
I don’t slip my mind for anything
In life’s daily tempest, I just go on
Your endless miracle can only be won.
You are the symphony of my heartbeat
That makes my entity complete.
I adore you with every ounce of my being
And the very rhythm of my life rests in your well-being
Anvik baby, I love you for what you are
And my love for you is well above par!
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.
In Conversations
Suresh: Hello and what’s wrong with you Kannan? You seem so glum.
Sundar: Yes. He is so depressed that he has been messing up things and his team leader has pulled him up rather sternly.
Suresh: What! I cannot believe it. You are always among the best. What happened now?
Kannan: You know why. I did not get a slot to sing in this music celebration. I so much wanted to. I had always been wanting to perform as a singer. I never wanted to be in this job. I took it up because my parents said I could switch over once I get into a music stream. It is all a big hoax. I tried extremely hard. It is all wrong. I just don’t feel like doing anything at all. I am totally disillusioned and disappointed.
Suresh: Why? Was the selection not fair?
Kannan: No. I won’t really say that.
Suresh: Then, what is wrong?
Kannan: It is wrong to say, to believe, that “Where there is a will, there is a way.” I don’t lack the will, but I just don’t have the talent.
Sundar: I think you are right. I feel the same about cricket. I think the saying should be “Where there is no will there is no way. Where there is a will there may or may not be a way!!”
Suresh: True. Whatever talent and opportunity you may have, unless you have the will, it is of use; but if you do not have the talent or the opportunity, then, the will alone will not suffice. You need to have the ability and the platform to perform with that ability.
Sundar: True. I agree with you. But perhaps, what that proverb really means is that if you have the will you will make the effort to find the platform and develop the ability – not that the will alone is enough.
Kannan: That is what I think they mean when they say, “Essential, but insufficient”.
Sundar: In some one thing, we are all inadequate and we are each of us good at something else.
Suresh: True, I am good at artwork, but I just do not like it. I have no great interest in it at all.
Sundar: O.k., then I will rephrase my sentence. We are each of us good at something that we like and can do. We must find that out and develop it rather than go after something that we do not like or something that we cannot excel in.
Kannan: I agree with you; but at the same time, I am not going to give up my interest in music. One need not, I think, excel in everything.
Suresh: No one can – not in everything.
Sundar: True. And, I think, if we are really interested in something, we can develop our skill in it in some way, to some extent. For example, I have an aunt whose passion is painting and like you in music, she did not have much talent in it. But now, she is a very sought-after art critique. You see, she not only loves art, but understands it as well and she has done a lot of art appreciation courses and so on. So, may be, if you have the ‘will’, you will find the ‘way’.
Kannan: Meaning, that you will use your abilities and opportunities to satisfy your passion. But I still think, your aunt could have loved her art even if she had not become ‘the most sought-after critique’. I have an uncle, whom I think I take after, who also loves music, and I don’t think he can understand much of it. He never seems to know the raga or the thal or the nuances of the music, but he loves music. It is his passion. He sings well and he sings for himself, for all of us and for all who care to listen. It is not his career but his passion none the less. I think that is what I should do; but somewhere I want to make music my career and that is why it hurts so much.
Suresh: So, take my aunt’s route.
Kannan: If opportunity permits.
Sundar: But for now, you can prepare yourself to make use of the opportunity, if and when it comes.
Suresh: That is very passive, if not pessimistic. You should actively follow your heart’s desire and, yes, be happy where it takes you.
Sundar: My brother wanted very much to take cricket as his career, and he was good in it too. But my family decided we cannot afford the risk; what if he does not make it and do you know what he is now? He is the software person in the cricket analysis group. I don’t know much about it though. But he works with the video capture of the game and replays it during feedback sessions and also works with the cricket history software.
Kannan: It is not the same as playing the game.
Sundar: True. But I am told that unless one is good at playing the game and has some talent and passion for the game, one cannot undertake such a job.
Kannan: True. I see the point now. If a mountaineer cannot reach the Himalayan summit, it is no reason why he cannot or should not reach Doddabetta.
Sundar: What is that?
Suresh: The highest peak in the Nilgiris hills.
Sundar: Okay. I get it.
Kannan: I remember the words from the hymn, ‘If you cannot on the ocean…’
All three together: “Do not then stand idly waiting for some greater thing to do.
Fortune is a lazy Goddess; she will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard. Do not fear to do or dare.
If you want a field of labour, you can find it anywhere.”*
Suresh: What lovely lines. We seem to be so often getting lost in disappointments of what is not or what cannot be, and we do not really focus on what is and what can be done.
Kannan: And there is so much that we can do. I think I am going to ask the music master to give a place in the group – may be not nearest to the mike even – and then keep trying to move forward as much as I can.
Sundar: Yes. That is what is most important – to keep trying.
Suresh: And not get lost in that trying, but to keep going as well.
Suresh: I think we are looking at only one side of the coin. What about the opportunities that are there which we do not use because we do not focus on them and not because we cannot use them? I have an uncle who also wanted to be a cricketer, but again, like with your brother, the family voted against it for the same reasons. He, unlike your brother, simply made cricket his hobby and finance his career. He is now a CEO of a multinational company and still plays cricket two Sundays a month. I also go and play in my uncle’s house.
Sundar: Yes. We keep looking at what we want and do not have, so we do not focus on what we have. They say: ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’; I think, ‘A bird in the hand is worth several in the bush’!
Kannan: There I do not totally agree. You are saying that we should not aspire and what is a life without aspirations? It is our aspirations that become our passion and they give us the energy to carry on.
Suresh: I agree with Kannan; but I do not think the two of you are contradicting each other.
Sundar: Yes. I am glad you understand. I did not mean ‘do not have aspirations’ but I wanted to say ‘Have realistic aspirations’ or better still, ‘Try out methods that make your aspirations realistic. Do not lose what you have in a wild goose chase. Then you have neither this nor that! Maybe I am not saying it very well. I hope you understand.
Kannan: I do understand what you are saying, and I agree with you now, I should not let this one disappointment make me lose interest in all my work and go lacklustre. Not doing well in the job on hand is no answer for not doing well in music.
Sundar: Or sports or art or whatever!
Kannan: I understand that now and will not in future allow one failure to affect other possible successes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* From the hymn ‘if you cannot on the ocean’, by E.M.H. Gates.
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.
I 'admire 'the consistency of some
Who never feel undone
Trying to pick holes
Even in blemish less poles
Just to get sadistic pleasure
In abundant measure
Feel triumphant
Like a hero of a block buster
lOOKING DOWN from a giant size poster
Ignorant to think they can hide their sadistic nature
And FOOL PEOPLE For EVER !
They are all tiny tots
Hardly as high as the rackets they play with
The cork rises inches high into the air
Their rackets more often flying along with the cork
And landing on the ground
The boys enjoy making
a cacophonous sound
I find it all so amusing
And feel like partaking
But withhold myself from joining
Their innocent merry making.
WE SENIORS CELEBRATE VALENTINE DAY
Grandma, I am off to celebrate Valentine Day, announced Preethi , my college going grand daughter.
Where to? I said.
We are all assembling at Bistro,she replied and breezed out .
I knew BISTRO was the youngsters favourite haunt and they loved the sizzling spicy stuff there.
Also I knew Preethi had completely forgotten her promise to help me lay the table for our seniors get together to celebrate Valentine Day.
Since we had catered for food that was stomach friendly bearing our age in mind, I just had to set the plates and cutlery with a vase of some fresh flowers placed in the middle.
Shall we have some games before dinner ? I said to the five couples we had invited.
They all looked at each other and I eagerly waited for a ‘yes’ atleast from the youngest of the seniors.
We think the games can wait until dinner is over, said the oldest of them.
Good idea, they all said almost simultaneously.
Since we are celebrating Valentine Day, why don’t the men say some nice words about their spouses, I suggested.
One of them promptly got up and said,’Why only today, unless I compliment my wife everyday about her cooking, I cannot expect a good meal for the next few days.
Needless to say,the wife looked embarrassed but preferred to be silent.
My wife is a ‘sweet’ person and thinks I am also one , laughed another.
My wife loves spicy food and thinks I love it too, said the third gentleman trying to avoid looking at the lady.
The other two also talked about food which didn’t sound like compliments but complaints about their spouses.
What about you? They asked my husband.
Why don’t we start dinner before the food gets cold, he suggested and all of them headed to the dining table!
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.
I cannot remember when it was that I first met him. I just recollect the altogether different ambience I noticed about the temple, its 6 feet tall idol and the small, hunchbacked, aged priest who was here, there and everywhere, sprinting barefoot in and out of the sanctum sanctorum. The temple was in the heart of the city, hidden between the tall gulmohar trees aptly named the “Flame of the Forest” with their lush green foliage and big branches spread out against the sky, providing a natural cover for the tiny temple. The temple was at the furthermost corner of a sprawling campus which housed many government buildings, including a Police Officers Training Centre. The ground was splattered with fallen flowers – deep red, as though spreading out a red carpet for devotees. An old discoloured once – saffron flag was tied on the rooftop of the small building that housed the deity .
None knew his real name. Probably the establishment department of the Police Officers Training Center alone knew what his name was. He was “Swamy” to all. From small kids to their grey haired grandpas, everyone called him Swamy. Like his name, his age too was a mystery. He was short and slight. There was a weightlessness about him in the way he moved about, clad in a dhoti tucked up behind as priests in temples are wont to do. His long hair which he tied into a knot was silvery, receding from the prominent broad forehead. He wore his beard long but it was not thick. While pondering over something it was his habit to stroke the strands of his beard, as though searching for the answer. His bare chest, forearms and forehead were all smeared with “bhasma”, the sacred ash. But what struck me was his laughter, loud guffaws which went on and on. His small eyes went deep inside into their cavities when he laughed, the eyelids narrowing into slits. He laughed loudly and laughed often. He was not the conventional pujari. He was more a playful child. But the idol inside was not childlike or playful. It was Lord Anjaneya, all of 6 feet with the gadaa and crown. Swamy appeared puny while standing with folded hands before the idol. With his prominent forehead, pear shaped face, all boney, and his swift, sprinting gait one felt he was a replica of his idol. The Ramadasa before his Sreeram. The similarity was uncanny. The idol itself had a history. It was a story passed on through word of mouth. An army contingent stationed at the place during British Raj had brought the Hanuman idol from the North. To house it, they built a small temple. After independence, the British army was dismantled and the Indian soldiers who remained were shifted to a station in the outskirts of the city. A brand new temple for Lord Anjaneya at the centre of the Army station was ready, waiting for the auspicious moment when the Lord would arrive. With great fanfare, the idol was carried in procession to its new sanctorum and none other than the Mayor of the City came to attend the installation ceremony. The soldiers were in for a surprise. The very next day when the temple doors were opened, they saw the idol toppled with its face down. Who could have entered? How could the idol fall down? No answers were available. This time the army men themselves took upon the job of fixing the idol on the “peedh” inside the sanctum sanctorum. Next morning they couldn’t believe their eyes . Hanumanji was on the floor, face down! This called for a “devaprashnam”, the divine solution to any problem. And the outcome was that Lord Anjaneya preferred to remain where he had been – in the original abode, the old, tiny temple surrounded by trees. The next day he was brought back, without procession and fanfare, and reinstalled. Once back in his own home, Hanumanji stood there, the epitome of strength. It was this legendary deity that Swamy tended and worshipped.
The idol was of pure black stone. What awed me was that wherever you stood, you had a feeling that Hanumanji was looking at you. I remember shifting my place from right to left, front to back, but always his gaze followed me. Imagination or not, it was a bit eerie.
I had nothing much to do in the early mornings as I was staying alone. My morning walk invariably led me to the big wrought iron gates of the campus and it became a habit to say a silent prayer to Hanumanji from a little distance away. Swamy always sprinted up to me entreating me to come inside, brushing away my excuse that I am not attired or cleansed for a temple visit. He gave me vada, butter or banana as Prasad on betel leaves. Butter was the Lord’s favourite offering. On Thursdays Swamy used to cover the idol with pure white butter leaving space for the black eyes and gadaa.The mala made by stringing vadas would be hung on his neck and hands and crown, depending on the number of malas. Malas made of betel leaves – dark green in colour juxtaposed with the white of the butter - looked beautiful. The vadas were small in size, dark brown, crispy and of course very tasty. His daughter in law was a good cook, Swamy said once.
“My wife has gone, long back “, he added, as an afterthought. Swamy had two sons, the younger one in a salaried job in Mumbai. The elder son, Kumar, was the typical prodigal son. He was footloose and fancy free. Trained to become a priest he found the job arduous and would not stick on anywhere. He was fond of doing odd jobs - priestly tasks - and was getting paid fairly well. The way Swamy’s face turned grim, his mouth clammed up and eyes hardened, I felt something amiss. It was disapproval that was writ large on his face.
One Sunday as I was passing by a narrow street, on my way to a local jeweller on a mission to get my broken chain repaired, I saw him. On both sides of the street there were houses, their walls painted in saffron and white lines indicating the inhabitants were the priestly class, the front decorated with intricate floral designs made of fine rice flour, the small open sitouts where elders sat on cane chairs chatting loudly with neighbours across the road. Swamy was reclining on an easy chair, a heavy book in hand.
“Swamy…….u live here?” I called out as I was passing the house.
“Oh…Ammaa..( he used to address all ladies as Amma) .. vaango vaango ulle..” (Come on, come inside)
The next one hour I spent with his family – himself, son, daughter in law and their two children. Kumar was in his early 40s, very well versed with the latest happenings and very proud of his social network which included the who is who of the town. He was an authority on automobiles and real estate, two all time favourite subjects for a conversation. His wife was an amiable lady, preferring to stay in the shadows, busy with her routine job of making delectable vadas for Hanumanji. Swamy took me to his puja room, full of framed pictures of all deities but what caught my eye was the 4 feet tall Lord Anjaneya at the centre, with no decoration of butter, in pure black stone, with a dull golden crown and matching gadaa….an exact miniature of the Lord in the temple. At the foot of the idol there was a verse in Sanskrit:
“Anjaneyamathi paadalaananam Kanchanardri kamaneeyavigraham
Parijaathatharu moola vaasinam Bhavayami pavamaananandanam”
A big brass lamp almost the height of the idol was burning…
”This is a kedavilakku" (perennialy lit lamp), he told me. It was lit when the Anjaneya idol was first placed in the puja room. Seven years ago. And it continues to burn day and night.
“Appa hasn’t told you the story?” Kumar asked me.
“Story? What story? No….”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I saw Swamy staring at his son, his face grim. But Kumar continued unheeded…Like a child waiting to hear a fairy tale, I sat wide eyed.
”This lamp and the idol came together. One Thursday… 2 years after Appa started doing shaanthi at the Anjaneya Temple…” Kumar's voice was almost a whisper, as though he was sharing a secret.
It was Swamy’s practice to close down the temple by 9. The last puja is at 8.30 and after distributing Prasad and winding up everything he would leave by 9. On that day the puja was delayed for some reason. Some high ranking police officer was to visit the temple for darshan and he came late. By the time he left it was 9.30 at night. It was a cloudy night and rain was imminent. Swamy would never hail an auto as he preferred to walk the two and a half kilometer to his house. The road was deserted, except for the lights of passing vehicles. The street lights were also not working and Swamy was finding it difficult to see the road ahead. He was making his way forward silently chanting Hanuman Chalisa. When he reached the spot where the road forks, one leading to the cremation ground, the other towards his home, his heart skipped a beat. It was dark all around, and there was hardly a dwelling nearby. The high stone wall of the crematory was on the right and on the left was the marshy bank of the infamous stream that passes through the town. Not a soul to be seen. He thought he heard a sound...jhillum, jhillum, jhillum...he didn’t know what it was. A metallic sound. He stopped in his track and looked behind. Nobody. Again he started to walk. Again, the jhillum, jhillum, jhillum...
He started chanting the Chalisa loudly. Somehow he completed the remaining distance and reached his door. Padma, his daughter-in-law opened the door to let him in. As he was entering inside and making his way towards the puja room as was his routine, he heard her voice
“Appa, have you brought chilanka (anklet/ghunghroo) with you?“
“Chilanka? No”.
And then it struck him. It was the sound of chilanka that he had heard. And Padma heard it too.
Kumar stopped his narration and looked at Swamy.
Swamy spoke for the first time
“Yes. It started like that. Every night since then, I hear the chilanka. It follows me to my puja room here. I was not sure who it was that followed me. Until one Diwali night the children started screaming...” He stopped and looked at his son. Kumar took it up.
“Yes. It was the night of Diwali. Children were on the road, not ready to go to sleep, some of them still bursting their last crackers. We had put off our front lights so that the fireworks would be attractive, when at the far end of our street Appa entered. Only the kids were outside, the elders having left the scene. And then Kannan, our neighbour’s three year old son gave a yell..
“Ammaaaaaaa’'!
Lakshmi, Padma ‘s 5 year old niece was there. She had come for holidays. She ran inside screaming
“Mamaaaaaa”.
We came out hurriedly,
“What happened? “
The kids just pointed their fingers at Appa.
“Enna?” I asked “What Is wrong with Thaatha?”(grandpa)
“Thaathaaku pinnaadi…” (behind grandpa )
We couldn’t see anything but I heard a faint but distinct jhillum, jhillum, jhillum.
Swamy had disappeared into the puja room. The kids did not recover immediately. Repeated questioning revealed they had seen a huge figure following Swamy. The figure was that of a man with the face of a monkey. And in his big hand he carried a weapon. A heavy stick with a ball at the end. No wonder the kids screamed.
It was then that Swamy decided he will invite the Lord to his puja room as a permanent guest. And the next day the 4 feet idol of Anjaneya was installed and the big lamp was lit for the first time.
Looking at the black statue at the centre of the room, I felt a shiver run through my spine.
Lord Anjaneya, Chiranjeevi, Lord of all times…
HE is with me all the time, here or there….Swamy said with a big smile.
“Yaarukkume theriyathu" (No one knows)
Swamy‘s communion with his idol was a mystery. They conveyed messages to each other wordlessly without Swamy ever seeing Him.
“Appa doesn’t like people knowing it....but you are a favourite.”
Kumar’s tone was once again conspiratorial.
Swamy wanted to know where I was going. I showed him my broken chain. He fingered the small thaali. (pendant of mangalsutra)
“Ithu unnudae mangalsutramaa?” (Is this your mangalsutra?)
“Aamaa Swamy.” (Yes , Swamy)
He told me to get a new, bigger thaali. Lord Anjaneya wished to bless me with a mantra to be inscribed on the thaali. Swamy was eager to do it for me.
“It’ is a small mantra.. only one letter..it will protect you and your husband”
Looking intently at the idol Swamy added "Swamy says so”. Stunned, I realized with a shock, Swamy he referred to was the Lord himself.
The very next day at the temple, I handed over the new thaali to Swamy. He returned it to me after a week. True to his word, there was an inscription…”hreem”.. a single alphabet in Tamil.
“Wear it always. Don’t remove it. This "hreem" mantra will protect both of you. It is Swamy’s gift to you.”
It was some months later that I saw him. Outstation training programmes, marriages, illness – my apple cart had toppled midway and I had to break my routine.
He was playing his usual role, sprinting up and down in the temple precincts. His joy and concern about me were evident all too well in the loud greeting and admonition he gave me. Like a headmaster to an elusive student. I noticed that he had grown thinner, more aged and his forehead had worry lines which were not there earlier.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded in the affirmative. I had a feeling he wanted to add something but stopped short.
It came unasked the next day. “You remember Kumar. My son. He is in trouble".
Kumar's ambition was soaring high and he was finding several takers for the services he marketed.
“Avan periya thappu pannuran" (He is doing a big mistake).
Swamy ‘s eyes hardened as he narrated the misdoings of his son. Kumar’s social connections reached out into the realms of politics, real estate and film industry. All fertile grounds for superstitions. He was making money by helping people come up without them actually climbing and pulling opponents down without them ever tripping. He had taken an office room in the city and would sit up late discussing with clients, returning home past midnight, most often drunk. The Rajdoot motorbike was replaced by a brand new Maruti 800, a gift from a satisfied client. He had scant respect for the tradition his father held so sacred and would openly deride him scoffing at his ascetic lifestyle.
One morning I found Swamy squatting on the temple floor – an unnatural phenomenon. He was silent and clearly preoccupied. The prasad was offered but without the usual camaraderie. I just sat by him, on the temple step without entering into any small talk. The red flowers were not to be seen. In their place there were dry leaves everywhere. The big trees were angrily shedding their leaves.
“Naanum intha ilai mathiri..keelae vizhunthuviduven...eppovenam nna”( I am also like these leaves..shall fall down anytime).
He had a faraway look in his eyes as he muttered it.
Kumar was no more a vegetarian. What is more, he had started taking drugs.
“You should hear what he speaks, sometimes. Maybe the ganja inside is speaking. Swamy kaappathungo”. (God, please save us). He was addressing the Lord directly.
April, the cruellest month, saw me packing my bags and moving to a far off rustic branch, for “rural service” and I was caught up with the issues of the hapless rural folk and their less fortunate service providers on the other side of the counter. More than a year had passed when I visited my favourite temple in my old city. A young priest was in charge but otherwise nothing had changed. Swamy had retired voluntarily from service due to ill health some nine months back.
Involuntarily I found myself strolling the path that led to Swamy’s house. The line houses with kolams, (floral designs in rice flour), the small gramdevata temple on the road were all there. I stopped short. The house was locked. No sign of anybody near. I turned back to retrace my steps when an old lady called out to me.
“They have gone."
Kumar had sold the house to invest in some business and shifted to a rented house in the city.
It was a month after Swamy fell down, losing his mobility and speech. He wanted to be near his Swamy all the time. His bed was just outside the open puja room. There he was lying, in silent communion with the Lord all the time.
Kumar had other plans. The prospective buyer had come on a Sunday and seen the house and paid the token advance. It was the day Swamy's eyes overflowed as he lay in bed gazing at the Lord as though craning his ears for a jhillum, jhillum, jhillum. They would be vacating the house the next Sunday. Packing was going on in full swing under Kumar’s directions. And then it happened.
It was Thursday. Padma had come to him with his customary morning milk in hand. She had seen him counting the ashtotharam with his right hand - the 108 names of Sri Hanuman – wordlessly at dawn. A Thursday morning ritual.
She found him lying on his back, gaze fixed on the Lord. He had been whisked away, ever so gently, unseen by anyone.
Except for the One who followed him inside once and whom he followed now…out into another world.
Step by step, the anklets resonating in a single note
Jhillum jhillum jhillum.
My fingers probed for the tiny pendant...my thaali...with "hreem" inscribed in Tamil.
”It is a gift from SWAMY…it will protect both of you...”
Was it the wind in the paarijatham that whispered?
Or the sound of falling leaves from a nearby peepal tree?
I felt a gentle breeze caress me, drowning me in a waft of camphor …
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.
Scarlet hibiscus
Unfurling in my palms
Fresh golden centre with anthers
Illuminating pathways
Devoid of fragrance
Yet so tender and mild
Sticky and messy
Magic for my mane
As the sun shines
With its warmth
I bloom in white, yellow, pink and orange
Against the deep sapphire skies.
Orange flame
Burning within the frame
It's a creamy colour game
Golden sunset
Disappearing as you blink and sweat
Hoping for a new tomorrow
Wiping away your sorrows
The passion of life
As we strive
After each and every sacrifice
Molten magma
A breathtaking panorama
Falling leaves
As nature grieves
Orange marmalade
Everyone's heartache
So full of life
Feeling alive!!
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.
Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle)
Back home after a tiring walk,
Reaping the benefits of a warm sunshine,
Glistened my palms with a sanitizer,
Reached out to my window,
Gently moving my window pane,
Rejoicing a delightful view of birds,
Awe-struck with their colors,
What an amalgamation!
Black head, body-brown,
Bright yellow-orange bills,
Stunningly attractive as they flap their wings,
Silently I moved to my grilled balcony,
Apprehensive that it may evade,
Oh! my behavior, as though, am incarcerated,
Yet, my face wearing a smile,
Manifesting friendliness, expelling tenderness,
More enticing is their glossy plumage,
Gently reminding me, nature the treasure,
Absolutely a pleasure,
Pinky-Winky, I named them,
How lovely the couple!
Symbolically I celebrate their new rhyming names,
Feeling blissed with this real-time event,
Alluring visitors to my pleasing garden,
Adorning it furthermore,
Alighted to explore my garden?
Exulting the new abode,
One under the spell of the other,
Cohabiting romantically one another,
Twee-twee, Pinky-Winky
Faintly hearing their warbling,
Expeditious eye movements, head bobbing,
Showcasing innocence and serenity,
Unchained and uncaged,
All the more appealing, their gesture,
Any moment anticipating their departure,
As though the sky is beckoning,
They passed swiftly, the next moment,
Epitomizing the beauty of power and freedom,
Alas! My flow of words met a sudden halt,
Not to bother,
Let those happy creatures
Reach exotic destinations rather,
Cherishing their relationship,
Yet lifting up my heart briefly,
My heart shined,
Genial thoughts filled my mind,
Exhilarating,
My soul invigorated,
They made my day,
Happy me!
A cheerful Biochemist and Molecular Biologist, Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle) owns a university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively. She fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. She started her research and teaching experience at a Diabetes Research Hospital. She is recognised as someone 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 PG diplomas in Bioinformatics, Clinical Research and Patent Rights. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. Cancer, Diabetes and Horticulture are the fields, she has traversed. The last of which is being put to use currently at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research. 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 (Antargata), Adisakrit (Green Awakenings), Positive vibes, Chennai Poets’ Circle (Efflorescence), Indian Periodicals, International Writers Journal, Inner Child Press International, INNSAEI and other anthology groups. Her oeuvres are also available on literary platforms like Muse India-Your Space, Story mirror, Pratilipi and others. She draws inspiration from others !
It is that time when
there is not much to offer
A pile of bits of paper
I release to the wind
With no other option
the days arrive to merge
in to the evenings .
At six o clock evening
we were to meet in the park.
Sharp at six when the evening
will be coiled like a snake
In our chests and the city
will be totally quiet.
The hurt and the pain of
the midday sun in our hearts
the ache in the bones of
our dear dreams .
The untold story of the moonless night
in your eyes .
Will you search me under the gaze
of weak street lights
to solve the riddle of the here
and the here-after?
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
Some ingenious mind
Had crowned the tin roof
Of a roadside garrage
With an assurance in audacity
Clad in emphatic courage .
We provide automotive
To automobiles ; goes the sentence.
What a fantastic way of saying !
So focussed the adult learner
In me , on alliterative use
Of words and the blooming essence .
I learnt and passed it on
At times with an aura
Of a genius with unmatched
Brilliance , exclusively own
Keeping the source a secret, I learn .
Students applauded the way
I put it on context proper
With enamelled oratory , ways clever .
But someone in me did mourn
That the poor mechanic was illiterate
And my own stupidity in countless
Is known to me but kept a secret .
I know for certain
How I met the challenges of life ,
Reversals of luck , messages frantic.
My education, a porcelain cup
With pride full to the brim
Dwelt on words, derivations ,
Meanings and theories dry
Manipulative techniques, painfully grim.
I spent my whole time
In an orchestrated mock drill
Borrowed and passed on
Borrowed and passed on
My only means of survival
The only dependable skill .
What a pity !
What a pity !!
The mechanic in his
Dirty look mocked at me
Reminding me of my own cream
How a loosened button on my coat
Makes my world chaotic
Vulnerable and mournfully dim .
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many
Picture caption : Sunset on the Hoogly River
Courtesy : Akhtar Islam
Courage, anguished soul!
The boatman knows his way,
Across the waters -
Like the breath, flowing from soul to soul.
Regard!
The gnarled hands of the sentries on the bank,
Trying to reach out to comfort,
Though denuded themselves they are of all warmth.
Partake,
Of the amber wisdom,
That the sun let slip from its day's casserole.
The bridge looms overhead,
Like the ribcage of an overburdened soul.
The boatman sings his river song,
His call, a sweet lullaby,
A reminder,
And a sorting of sorts.
Your life's gatherings,
Your offering here!
Put on the garb of serenity
Repast in memories,
The birds in their nests
Are listening to your tales
This here is the temple of old age.
And the boatman knows his way,
And the waters flow their way.
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.
Jittery over my thoughts,
Embedded deep in my mind,
From the day I left my job,
Even in the midst of happiness,
I was like a sinking boat.
Dared not to dream,
Devalued myself.
But I removed the blanket,
From my hazy mind,lids blinded.
My eyes focussed
I gained courage and audacity.
Realised the miracles and fruitfulness.
Perceived the endless possibilities.
Enjoyed the mellifluous flow of joy and tranquility.
Learned to be an optimist.
Learned to invite the bounty.
Learned to see the whole universe as opulence.
On the day I completed-
The twenty one days of abundance-
A blissful meditation challenge.
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.
O child of mine
Why can’t you see?
You’re a beauty...you’re free!
You’re the brook.. you’re the sea!
You’re anything you wish to be!!
O child of mine
Why can’t you hear?
My heart breaks.. with every tear!
You’re brave ... have no fear!
Just reach out.. you’ll always have me near!
O child of mine
Let go off the troubles of the world
You are loved .. you are adored!
You are protected...in my arms safely curled!
You are worthy... you are my Pearl!!
I had an imaginary friend once
And called him Mr. Frodo
He looked all funny
And talking to him
Brought me joy
But Mr. Frodo was not all cuddly
He feasted on me
When I cried!
He thrived on my tears and despair
And I don’t know why I loved him
When all he did
Was bring down my defenses
And my soul, rip and tear.
But Mr. Frodo always challenged me
To be all sunshine and laughter
And gradually as I learnt his hard lessons
Mr. Frodo began to shrivel and die.
As I performed his funeral rites
And felt the last vestiges disappear
I smiled..
..coz even at his meanest
Mr. Frodo had prepared me
For my hardest battle..
..called LIFE!!
Yes, I’m wild
And no..that’s no reason
For me to apologize.
If my insanity drives you mad
There’s your reason
To walk away
It definitely won’t make me sad.
For in my dementia
I can see clearly
Your attitude most certainly
Won’t make you any dearer to me.
For I was created ‘normal’ too
Just like you love to claim to be
But the monster that stands before you
Is the love child of your own stupidity.
You drove me to this state
Of inner instability
With your desire to control..
..Mould me into someone
You thought you’d like to see.
Well I hope you’re happy currently
With the ‘ME’ you’ve crafted..
.. a reflection of your own misery.
For in this lunacy
You’ve introduced me to my best friend
A demon that resides within
Only to help me conquer
All the world’s outwardly sins.
So, yes, I’m wild
And no... I see no reason at all
To apologize.
Dear Fellow Writers
Wherever you may be
Let’s bring out our mighty pen swords!
And make the mental anguish flee!
We hold the strongest army
In the words that we write
And with our warmth and tenderness
We can surely help the world fight!
Mother Nature has proved to us
That we’re no match for her
But in this time, let’s with our words
Help each other feel dear!
I’ll tag you and you tag me
And let’s all start a chain
For we never know whose wounds we heal
What a victory it’ll be over all the pain!
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
OUMUAMUA OF YESTERDAY,TODAY & TOMORROW
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak MBBS,MD,FCCP
Our “Oumuamua”,
Vanished over Bermuda,
Must be afloat,
Around Uranus,
Singing our glory,
“Oumuamua, Oumuamua….
Oumuamua of yesteryears,
Omuamua of todays,
Omuammua of tomorrow !!
Myth to Oumuamua,
Bermuda to Oumuamua,
Beyond or at Karman line,
Sudden loss of control,
Taken over by,
Interstellar hijackers
Helpful in the interstellar region.
Oumuamua to Oumuamua,
Fly hand in hand,
Synchronised non stop flying,
From Interstellar to interstellar,
Since eight centuries..??
All these,
Hickam’s dictum
To Occam’ s razor,
Establishes the truth
Not alone are we
Mystery is the space,
Oumuamua would be many.
Ecstasy or inquisitiveness,
Landmark or otherwise,
Daredevil advance or nervous,
To achieve the feat,
Is a dream,
But not an utopia,
When scientific,
Has led to victory,
“Beyond the Karman lines”,
(An imaginary boundary 100 kms,
Above mean sea level.
Our identification,
We all are aliens,
“Beyond Karman lines”.
A mysterious celestial object
spotted five years ago,
Oumuamua,
moving at beyond comparison
speed,
beyond comparison
luminosity,
beyond comparison
brightness.
By the time the
Stargazers composed themselves,
For a close up tryst,
It took a twist,
Leaving behind,
No trace ,
Of another Oumuamua
To add to
Billions !!
Notes: Aliens Already Visited Us in 2017, Scientists Ignored it, Claims Harvard Astronomer Avi Loeb.
The celestial object that was spotted five years ago, named as Oumuamua, Loeb maintains was not an ordinary rock or asteroid but an alien sail. The object was reportedly moving so fast that it could have come from another star only – the first recorded interstellar interloper. Unlike other comets, the celestial body did not expelled any gas or debris. Aliens at Proxima Centauri? Researchers Claim to Have Receive Radio Waves from the Star.
WIKIPEDIA:
“The name comes from Hawaiian ?oumuamua 'scout' (from ?ou 'reach out for', and mua, reduplicated for emphasis 'first, in advance of'and reflects the way the object is like a scout or messenger sent from the distant past to reach out to humanity. It roughly translates to 'first distant messenger'.The first character is a Hawaiian ?okina, not an apostrophe, and is pronounced as a glottal stop; the Pan-STARRS team chose the name in consultation with Ka?iu Kimura and Larry Kimura of the University of Hawai?i at Hilo
Before the official name was decided, Rama was suggested, the name given to an alien spacecraft discovered under similar circumstances in the 1973 science fiction novel Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clark”
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha, MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he has been working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin.
COLD THOUGHTS !
Prof. Niranjan Barik
It is cold ,real cold
A chilling and biting cold
Why it made my mind cold
I think of not those left in the cold
Nothing to hide from the cold
They are in the open
Under the open sky
But are they as cold as Mahanadi
Whose every drop must be freezing to be ice-cold
I wish I were on its bank
Not with a blanket
But lighting a fire
The fire could warm it up
Near the fire we would be eating Mumphali to fire the Cold.
GREEN THOUGHTS
Prof. Niranjan Barik
I am the Dongria speaking
The Dongria Kandha
My stand is now vindicated
The hills are mine
No so-called Development should have an inch of place here
The whole hills are my worship, my God
Niyangiri is mine
Niyamgiri is my Heaven
No smoke should cloud its beauty
Companies you go away
Leave things unto me that are mine
I am from Nature to live with Nature and to Nature returnest !
Mahanadi is also mine
No National or Multinational
Should cloud its view
Should take a drop of water
Or dump filth into it
It is pristine
It is immaculate
No word can describe its grandeur, its grace
Mahanadi is mine
So also Niyamgiri
Polluting it, I will not let in
Rather lay down my life to maintain its beauty and purity!
Smoke may be the sign of your progress, your development,
But smoke strangulates me, is the sign of death for us the Nature-livers
I am the Dongria Kandha speaking !
*Dongria Kondh tribe ,a very primitive tribe lives in the Niyamgiri hill range in the Western part of Odisha (formerly Orissa) state which lies in the eastern part of India. Niyamgiri is an area of densely forested hills, deep gorges and cascading streams that could be very ideal for eco-tourism which instead of disturbing the eco-system could rather be revenue generating.
On the other hand attempt to mine the hills by Vedanta Alumina Company, a UK based multinational , one of the World’s top mining giants , has drawn protest from the hill dwellers ,the Dongria Kondhs as it would not only affect their sustainable livelihoods ,but endanger the whole ecosystem and their way of life.
Dongria Kondhs farm the hills’ fertile slopes, harvest their produce in a sustainable economy that is culturally unique and rich They worship the mountain god Niyam Raja and the hills he presides over. The Dongria Kondhs , though most of them are otherwise poor by modern standards & mostly uneducated lead a happy life .They won a major battle in the highest court of India (Supreme Court of India) against the proposed mining by Vedanta Aluminium.,. The later planned to create an open-cast mine that would not only violate the Niyam Dongar, but disrupt its rivers and spell the end of the Dongria Kondh as a distinct people.
“The deep reverence that the Dongria have for their gods, hills and streams pervades every aspect of their lives. Even their art reflects the mountains, in the triangular designs found on village shrines to the many gods of the village, farm and forests and their leader, Niyam Raja. They derive their name from dongar, meaning ‘hill’ and the name for themselves is Jharnia: protector of streams.”- https://www.survivalinternational.org/tribes/dongria )
The indigenous Dongria Kondhs have lived in Niyamgiri for thousands of years and their lifestyle and religion have helped nurture the area’s dense forests and unusually rich wildlife and biodiversity.
The bauxite-capped Niyamgiri hills soak up the monsoon’s rain, giving rise to more than a hundred perennial streams and rivers, including the river ,Vamshadhara . These streams provide the water that is vital for the communities who live in the hills , and provide critical drinking and irrigation water for those in the plains, where drought and starvation have made national news. The Vamshadhara provides drinking and irrigation water to millions of people in the states of Odisha and Andhra Pradesh. Over centuries, the Dongria have helped to maintain the rich biodiversity of their forests, where tigers, leopards, giant squirrels and sloth bears roam. (Ibid)
The Dongria Kondhs don’t have stakes in the waters of Mahanadi ,the longest river of Odisha , (which flows from the hills in the West to Plains in the East ,before draining into the Bay of Bengal ), but the imagery has been extended to it in the name of Dongria as the River or Nature around the basin is equally threatened by industries and companies and vitiated by pipes and pollution !
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.
THE ERRANT EARRING
Sulochana RamMohan
All hell broke loose
the day I lost the new gold earring.
It was specially made
for the bride viewing ceremony
carefully craftily planned for.
The girl has to be sold
with all marketing techniques
tried and tested,
the buyer has to be reeled in
with the unique qualities displayed
seemingly randomly.
'Oh you naughty girl'
Amma started screaming in rage
'do you know what the price of gold is now?
More than forty thousand per sovereign!
And you go and throw it away
with no care, no thought of our loss,
not thinking of how much we plan and plod
to get you into a good family....
See how calm she is,
how complacent, how cool,
Words failed her,
English professor though she is,
Or maybe it was the rhyming that failed
All those other words
lacking in rhyme and maybe reason too
might have eluded her
in that time of need.
'Go and search for it dear girl'
Acha tried the next trick
They always complemented each other
when tackling the stubborn child
When she blows up he calms down
When he rants and raves
she is as quiet as the proverbial mouse.
As I start the search for the
errant piece of yellow metal
I muse,
Have I learnt it all well enough
Am I all prepared to play my part
with the stranger who comes to assess me
All tricks of trade by rote,
All feminine wiles to trap him on hand?
I remove all my books and papers
scattered higgledy piggledy
on my work table
As I remember taking off the earring
standing by the table
immersed in a book lying open on it.
If it had slipped off my hands then,
it should be lying somewhere amidst this mess, surely?
But no, it still plays hide and seek
maybe enjoying creating commotion
or maybe resenting being used as a bait
for a traditional bride viewing ceremony,
so very passe nowadays.
Amma comes in brandishing a broom
I suppress a giggle
seeing the ferocious look,
so like a witch flying on the broomstick
seeking revenge or redemption.
She sweeps the floor
clearing all the nooks and crannies
Nothing crawls out, chastened.
No skeletons in my cupboard,
I wanted to crack a joke,
but stopped myself, the time was not right for any sort of levity.
A wedding in the offing,
the most important of all affairs,
Oh sorry, no pun intended here,
Important, not just for the bride and groom,
But for the parents, siblings,
Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, first, second, third,
Neighbours, friends, colleagues, classmates,
And the whole damned world.
Acha finds a stout torch
and shines into all dark corners
hoping for a glint of gold,
a gleeful smile from the truant.
But nothing gleams or grins,
the earring is determined to hide
and spoil the ceremony.
So inauspicious a beginning,
Amma started wailing again,
Shall we phone them and postpone this viewing?
It was too late for that, we all knew,
the would be groom would be on his way already.
Acha looks at the books scattered on my table
and asks, softly, Have you looked amongst those, Molu?
Amma sees the mess and stares,
enraged all over again.
Oh my, so many books, papers, pens,
Why do you need all these?
No wonder you lose things, girl,
The earring must be there somewhere
Here, put your books into this,
She holds up a cardboard box
And says, with some satisfaction,
You won't be needing books and pens in your new home,
Like me take up the broom and pan and cleaning liquid.
As she gathers the books and drops them anyhow into the gaping box,
I shout in frustration,
No Amma I will do it, please leave.
Acha takes her arm and leads her out
Winking at me in cahoots.
I close and lock the door
Sit down on the bed
And just like any other bride to be,
Cry my heart out.
Marriage means sacrifice,
I remind myself,
Learn to give up,
Your desires, dignity,
dreams, day to day routine.
Like an uprooted plant
Survive in another place, another home.
Adapt. Adjust.
I heave a sigh, wipe my tears,
Getting up, I take my books off the table
Dropping them one by one
into the waiting box,
I tell them, I don't really need you,
Not the impractical visions you give
Not the wondrous yarns you spin
Not even the miracles you create,
Rainbows out of raindrops,
Gossamer threads of hope
From the dark depths of despair!!
The bared table looks nude
Only the writing pads I scribble poetry on
Are left.
But there is no sign of the culprit
It is still a missing piece,
may be part of some greater puzzle.
But the puzzle is cleared later
By the knight in shining armour
who walks into my room
to start the assessment procedure.
He sees that I wear just one earring
And fishes out the story of the errant partner.
He laughs at the muddle and meddle
And says I am an original story teller.
He takes my books out of the box
And arranges them neatly on my table
And hey hey look who is there,
The cunning earring back in place
Rolling out from its hiding place
Inside the cover of a book.
It looks up into the knights face
And whoops, it is enamoured
Fallen in love!!!
My groom to be picks it up gently
And smiling again, says,
Maybe this is the auspicious sign we were waiting for!
Tenderly he puts it on
my bare earlobe
And gives it a sweet kiss too!!
Now you can see the errant earring
clinging to my blushing face
Who is more in love,
Me or it?
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
I gaze and gaze
on the contours
of the deep blue sea
ranging bright upon a blue sky with tinges of brown,
languid waves dancing bright,
surf ebb and flow in perpetual rhythms
advancing,
retreating, again advancing ceaseless,
drenching pant and feet, mind and soul,
countless epiphanies float
in the wind
murmuring surf
singing tremors of thousands of years.
Vision soothed,
sun's rays softening the wrinkled face
piercing the porous skin,
tides efface the signs imprinted on dazzling sands,
nothing remains,
neither pride nor glory, only vapours
vanity vanitatum.
TRUE LOVE, AN ABERRATION?
Pradeep Rath
Is true love an aberration that perplexes human race since inception?
It is a fairy
that hounds you
when you search for it
and as soon as you turn
your back to see the damsel
eludes your vision
and vanishes
somewhere in the clouds
in the evening bright?
May be, true love
is the silver lining in the dark clouds
where adulterated spirits
run amock
and simple folks are duped in broad daylight.
Even Kunti, Draupadi of Mahabharat fame,
are denied of true love,
their tragic tales
stuff of wild dreams,
men, breakers of the rules fought great battles
to defend precious honour of the wronged female.
Now, as starlets from tinsel world long rule
the scene,
love is equated with ephemeral brows of some wild temptress
and males,
basically polygamous,
find instant love and charm.
May be, true love
is a misnomer,
found in ancient Mosuo tribe of Himalayas
where fleeting grace of promiscuous females scripts the rules.
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.
If someone had told me a couple of days back that in a matter of hours I would be hiding in my Saket flat in Delhi like a scared fugitive, I wouldn’t have believed it. But things have turned out real bad for me. Today I am hanging by a thin thread of fear, prone to collapse at the slightest knock on my door. Every footstep on the stairs brings out a pounding in my heart. The tiniest sound of someone talking or a child running outside makes me shiver with the fear of impending doom.
All alone in my flat, I am the wreck of a man engulfed by a sheet of endless terror. My wife Vandana and son Rajat are away at Bhubaneswar for the summer holidays. The past two days I have switched off my mobile. But I know, soon I will have to talk to Vandana to assure that everything is ok, she need not rush back to Delhi just because we haven’t spoken to each other for two days.
Minor incidents in Delhi do not get publicity in the Bhubaneswar media. But the incident that has scared the life out of me has been a major news in Delhi for the past two days. For the first few hours after the incident, all the local channels were full of the ghastly picture of the dead police constable, with photographs from all angles, the location of the murder, the wide roads all around. And endless speculation on the cause of murder, on possible witnesses - every news anchor wondering how at a busy intersection a policeman was killed and no one was coming forward with any information!
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Can a short, lean man of five feet five inches kill a burly six feet Jat? And that too with a single slap? Impossible, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have believed it, if I had not done it myself! Yes sir, I am the killer of Raghuvir Singh, the policeman.
But wait a minute, why am I calling him a policeman? Raghuvir Singh, a policeman? Of course not! That bloody, cunning animal is an insult to the police profession!
And why do I call it a murder? In the eyes of law it may be a murder, but in reality it is a deliverance, an act of valour the society can be proud of. In one single slap I rid the society of a despicable brute! From now on dozens of Delhites who have faced the terror of Raghuvir Singh will heave a sigh of relief. The sordid saga of the brutalities of a uniformed criminal has come to a close. Thank me, Akshay Rout, for that!
I can tell you for sure, a slap can kill a person if it carries with it the solidified anger from years of frustration and torment. My family and friends may not believe it when it comes out that I have killed a policeman with a solid slap. They all know me as a non-descript nincompoop, one who walks with his head down and minds his own business. My friends say, Akshay is a mild man of few words, but prone to illusions of correcting the “system”. Talk about corruption or injustice to the common man, Akshay will go on and on. And suddenly he will stop, kick the ground and say, “Forget it yaar, nothing will change in this hopeless country, why lose your sleep over it!”
Yes, I am Akshay Rout, the colourless, harmless non-entity, the supine doormat, whom everyone uses to climb the ladder of success, and leaves behind to gather dust. I have always been like that, as a child, as a student, and now as a Section Officer in the Home Ministry in Government of India. Nobody, not even Vandana, knows about the piled-up burden of my thirty years of frustration and anger against those who have wronged me.
After fate had dealt me many cruel blows in life I landed up as a Section Officer in the Home Ministry of Central Government working hard at the office, to compensate for those colleagues who hardly work. Sometimes I get terribly angry with God and all my pent-up anger maddens me. The most difficult section of the Home Ministry is entrusted to me. I am supposedly the most efficient worker. All my friends laugh at the way loads of work are heaped on me. Brahma, the wise one, says that my bosses take me for granted because I am a harmless creature.
The Under Secretary and Deputy Secretary don’t care for the Joint Secretary (JS) and tell him on his face that they won’t stay in office beyond 5.30. JS calls me at six in the evening and says, “Rout, please get the file ready by tomorrow morning. The Secretary is depending on me. Don’t let me down.” So I work in the office till eleven in the night. Sometimes I get so tired that I feel like staying back for the night, but the loneliness of the ancient Home Ministry building scares me. The high ceilings, the roaming bats, and the eerie sound force me to leave. The late night bus drops me two kilometers away from home and I trudge down to the silent apartment dragging my tired feet and the worn-out shoes.
Vandana opens the door and starts shouting,
“Late again? When will you learn to be firm with your boss? Why do you work so late when others leave for home by six? Will you ever grow up and behave like a real man?”
In eight years of marriage I have seldom shouted at Vandana, nor replied back to her. I am one of those peace-at-any-cost type of persons. I just flash a weak smile at her and go off to sleep holding our son Rajat to my heart and dreaming that one day he would be a doctor or an engineer or an MBA graduate. Anything but a section officer in a Ministry!
Although generally a quiet person, the other day I lost my temper with Vandana.
I got really angry with her. That evening we had gone to Sarojini Market and were walking back to the parking lot to get my motorbike, when Vandana nudged me and said,
“Do you know what happened a few minutes back?”
I stopped and looked at her. Rajat kept eating his ice cream and waited to hear some kind of an exciting real-life story.
“A bunch of loafers were overtaking us and one of them pinched my bottom and walked away.”
Rajat started grinning, but I felt someone has stabbed my heart with a hot iron. I shouted,
“What? Someone did that to you and you didn’t even tell me?”
“Tell you? Why? What’s the use?”
“What do you mean? You think I am so thoroughly useless that I would have tolerated an insult to my wife? Why, it is molestation of my wife! And you think I would have kept quiet?”
“I have never seen you hurting even a fly! What’s the use of telling you?”
My blood started boiling at this humiliation. My wife thinks I am spineless?
I started screaming,
“What has happened to this country? Why are we so helpless? Is there no respect for law here? Where is the police? A woman gets molested in a busy market and the criminals get away! Are we completely devoid of decency?”
Couple of fellows passing by stopped and looked at me with interest. Vandana felt embarrassed and started dragging me away from there.
“Don’t create a scene here. It will be of no use. Do you think people care? No one wants to get involved! And what use is the police? These loafers and ruffians are the potential political leaders of tomorrow. You think the police will touch them? The police will heap more humiliation on you. Come, let’s go home. Don’t try to reform the system. Who are you to do that? What is your worth in the society?”
Vandana used one more opportunity to remind me that I am a nobody, a good-for-nothing, worthless buffoon! I felt hurt, but kept mum. Like many similar occasions in the past, a silent protest and a quiet anger rose inside me but quickly subsided like a dormant volcano.
And guess what? The same Vandana, who gave me such a big lecture that evening about the rotten system, behaved in a very strange way next week. We were returning home after dinner at the Officer’s Club on Sunday night when I saw a teenager getting mercilessly thrashed on the Safdarjung flyover. A car and a motorcycle were parked in the curb. A couple of cars passed but nobody cared to stop. I slowed down my motorbike, trying to find out about the incident. Vandana started screaming, like she was possessed by a spirit,
“What are you doing? Are you crazy? So many cars passed, no one stopped. Why are you trying to be a hero?”
I reminded her of our duty to the society and of her Sarojini Market speech. She started screaming louder,
“Oh, you have become public-spirited after my lecture! Then drop me and Rajat at home and come back to rescue the boy. Don’t be crazy. How can you even think of such foolishness? Look at those men. Are you a match on them?”
I felt like laughing. Will Vandana ever consider me a match on anybody on earth? As usual I kept mum and we went home. But Vandana’s words kept rankling me for a long time.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Constable Raghuvir Singh of Delhi Police is a street terror. After nine in the evening his real “duty” starts. He gets drunk, parks his motorbike on a road near India Gate and starts harassing the passersby. For him, the motorbike riders are easy targets, particularly young boys and girls, some of whom may not like to be dragged to police station or face the possibility of the parents being called and given a big lecture. Raghuvir demands to see their driving license and finds some excuse to threaten them. He blackmails them, and asks for their home phone number to call their parents for checking their identity for “security reasons.” In no time his pockets fill up and he goes home contented after a hard day’s “work”.
Some have tried to lodge complaints against Raghuvir. But nothing happens to him – his elder brother is the son-in-law of a minister in Haryana, the neighboring state of Delhi. A phone call from the powerful relative and Raghuvir goes scot-free. After a few drinks the animal in him takes over and he becomes a terror on the streets. Even the Police Commissioner of Delhi knows about his misdeeds, but pleads helplessness.
Two days back, around eight o’ clock on Sunday evening, I was alone at home. Vandana and Rajat were away at Bhubaneswar for the summer holidays. I had just started watching the IPL cricket match on TV when the call came. It was the Joint Secretary asking me to rush to the office. An important order had to be issued immediately. I knew it was a Sunday, bus service would be severely curtailed and I may not get a bus to return home in the night. So I took out my motorbike and drove down to North Block. I took instructions from the JS over phone, typed out an order, and carried it to JS’s house to get his approval. Then I returned to office, typed out the fair version of the order, and obtained JS’s signature at his home. By the time I sent the order to dispatch section, it was past midnight.
I came out of the office, tired and exhausted. Suddenly I felt like taking a round of the India Gate on my bike. The monument gives an exotic experience in the night, with the lights on it looking like a garland, and the Amar Jawan Jyoti, the perennial sacred pyre burning like an eternal tribute to the soldiers who laid down their lives for the country. Every time I cross India Gate I start humming the immortal Lata Mangeshkar song – Aye mere watan ki logon, Jara ankhmein bhar lo paani…. That Sunday night my mood ligtened and the tiredness vanished while taking a drive around the India Gate circle.
I was slowly crossing the intersection of Shahjahan Road and Prithviraj Avenue when Raghuvir Singh stopped me,
“Hey, get down saaley, are you drunk? Which whorehouse are you coming from?”
I stopped. There was the unmistakable stink of alcohol coming from Raghubir Singh’s mouth.
I was stunned! This rogue of a policeman, who seems to be horribly drunk, is asking me if I am drunk? I, Akshay Rout, who has never touched a drop of alcohol in my life! I got down from the bike and tried to reason with him,
“Look Bhai saab………
“Shut up, saaley, I am a police officer, how dare you address me as Bhai saab?”
“Look, I am also from the Home Ministry, I am a Section Officer there.”
If Raghuvir had not been so hopelessly drunk, the mention of Home Ministry would probably have restrained him, but that was not to be.
“So? Home Ministry? You are throwing me big names? What will you do to me, you Home Ministry swine? Take it out, quick!”
I got a little nervous.
“What? What do I take out?”
“Your license saaley. How dare you question me back? Want a kick on your back?”
I was getting angry. How can he be so rude to me, or for that matter, to anyone? Don’t they teach politeness to policemen in their training school? I took out my driving license and also my Home Ministry ID card. I thought the ID card would do the trick.
A cruel smile spread on Raghuvir’s face. He took the license and the ID and was about to put them in his pocket. I realized, once they are in his pocket, it will cost me at least a thousand rupees to get them back.
With the speed of lightning, I snatched the license and ID card from his hand and put them back in my pocket.
Raghuvir Singh was livid with anger. Taking back the driving license from him was like snatching a prey from a tiger’s mouth! He was getting choleric and pushed me hard on my chest.
“You rascal! How dare you touch a policeman? Obstructing me in my duty? Come, let’s go to the police station. I will lock you up there.”
It dawned on me that there is no use arguing with this drunk policeman. It was too late in the night to disturb the JS or ask anybody else to intervene. I started panicking. What a horrible mess I have landed myself in! Tomorrow is a working day. I have to be back at the office by nine! Raghuvir Singh must have noticed the faint shadow of fear on my face.
His drunk face brightened with a mocking smile.
“Kyoon saaley, got scared? Are you a gutless, spineless imbecile, a hinjdaa?”
Before I could react, an obscene smirk appeared on his face.
“Come on; take me to your home. I will show your wife what true virility means. She must be sick of the half-man that you are – I will show her what a real man can do.”
In every person’s life, there comes a defining moment – when his past, present and future roll into one moment of timelessness - the earth, the sky and the space beyond reverberate with a deafening call, to come out and catch life by its neck and shake it with the vigour of a man possessed, to question the meaning of one’s very existence and seek answers to a million piled-up instances of cruelty and injustice.
I was beside myself in a volcano of anger. For a moment I must have died and risen again from the ashes, a man reborn. I felt as if the sinews inside my head had burst into flames and smoke was coming out of it. In a few seconds, years of accumulated frustration turned into an uncontrollable rage. My raised right hand turned into a hammer of iron. For a brief moment, Raghuvir must have guessed what was coming, and there was an unknown fear in his eyes. If his senses were not numbed by alcohol, he would have probably reacted. My iron hand flew with lightning speed and delivered a resounding slap just below his left ear, stunning him and felling him to the ground.
I didn’t wait to see if the dark life of Raghuvir came to an end. Trembling, and out of breath, I got onto the motorbike and drove like mad. I don’t remember which route I took. The pavements, the trees, the pedestrians and other vehicles passed me by like a blur. God knows when I reached my apartment, parked the bike, and ran up the stairs. My hands were shaking so much it took me a while to put the key into the lock. I finally got inside, switched on the light and immediately switched it off. What if someone has followed me here? I must hide! Gulping down two bottles of water, I slumped on the bed.
For the past two days I have no idea how long I have slept and how many hours I have kept awake, staring at the ceiling. A few hours past midnight on Sunday, all the TV channels were full of the sensational news of Raguvir Singh’s murder along with the pictures, the speculation and the expert comments. I kept staring at the TV screen. Is someone taking my name, has my motorbike been seen, is there a description of the killer? I sighed with relief every time my name was not mentioned.
But I knew it was just a matter of time before the long arm of law would catch up with me. There would be a knock on my door and a pair of handcuffs would stare me in the face.
I called my office, applied for a week’s leave, and stayed at home in darkness, watching TV with the sound muted. Gradually the news about Raghuvir’s murder got relegated to the less significant. India is a vast country, thank God for that! All kinds of things happen here – sensation after sensation, movie after dance, song after drama, to keep the half-starving millions entertained and to make them forget their pangs of hunger!
Raghuvir’s murder gradually got downgraded to a scroll at the bottom of the screen. The Police Department has strongly condemned the murder of an officer on duty and appealed to the public to provide any useful information to the Control Room or at the designated telephone numbers of investigating agencies. They are hoping that there would be some eye-witness. My bones chill at that possibility! My dependence on the Gods and Goddesses has redoubled. Even in my sleep I have started chanting my favorite mantras. In my present frame of mind it is beyond me to learn new mantras to appeal to the Gods, but I am sure they will understand.
Two hours back I had called Vandana and told her that I am on leave from office for a week. She wanted to know the reason. I had shouted partly out of anger and partly out of fear,
“What do they think of me? Am I a donkey, to be flogged and made to work all the time? Do they think I am an idiot?’
Vandana was pleased.
“Ah, my hero! I have been waiting for the past eight years to hear these brave words from you! I wish I was with you to witness this moment of glory.........”
I interrupted her. I knew she was warming up to give me a long lecture and I was in no mood for that. Moreover, she had unwittingly used the word ‘witness’ and a chill had run down my spine.
“Ok, ok. Let me take some rest. I just want to sleep and not think of anything. Don’t worry. I am sure I will be a changed man from now. Do enjoy the stay with your parents. We will talk when you return”
I switched off the mobile and tried to sleep. I don’t know when I slipped into a deep slumber, but all of a sudden I felt I was experiencing an earthquake or a thunder and the whole room was shaking. I opened my eyes and came to my senses. I slowly realized that the thunder and earthquake were nothing but loud knocks on the door. It sounded like the knock of authority!
I started shivering uncontrollably. So, the moment of doom has finally arrived! This must be the police. The end of my life has come. How will I show my face to Vandana, my son Rajat, my mother and all the relatives? My father used to tell me when I was a child, “You are the best student in your class, one day you will be a great man and make this village proud of you!” Now I realized that my father’s words were prophetic. I will make my village famous, not as a great man, but as a killer whose picture will be flashed in the newspapers and TV screens all over the country!
Suddenly I was desperate to get away from the police. For a moment I considered jumping out of the balcony.
I didn’t do that when I realized someone was calling my name loudly and it sounded like the voice of my Joint Secretary. I was nonplussed. My JS! Why is he here? He must be aware that I am on leave! The voice outside and the knocks were getting more insistent.
I opened the door. It was indeed the JS! And there was another man with him, his face was vaguely familiar. Wait a minute! It is Vermaji, the Police Commissioner of Delhi! Looking at him, my relief at seeing the JS vanished. Somewhere from deep inside me the shivering started again, although I tried my best not to display my fear to these two senior officers. I just stood there, not knowing what to say.
The JS broke the silence.
“What Rout, won’t you call us inside? What happened to your famous Oriya hospitality?”
I came round.
“Sir Namaskar! Please come in. How is it you remembered me when I am on leave?”
“Rout, first you give us some cold water. We have been waiting outside your door for more than ten minutes and it is awfully hot. I am sure you know Vermaji, the Police Commissioner?”
I weakly nodded my head. Yes, I know Vermaji, my nemesis! I tried to suppress the icy feeling of terror that was spreading through my body and making me colder by every minute. I brought two glasses of water and offered to them.
“Sorry sir, can’t offer you anything else. My wife is away at Bhubaneswar.”
The JS tried to reassure me, “Yes, yes, don’t bother. I know your wife is away, you told me last week. Don’t you remember?”
He started smiling in a naughty kind of way, implying, ‘of course you would have forgotten. Who can remember his mundane conversation with the boss when he is running away from law like a cheap fugitive and hiding like a miserable rat in a hole? But he didn’t utter these words, he just tried to make things easy for me. After all, he had come all the way only for that - to facilitate the arrest and may be, to ensure that I don’t get roughed up by the police!
“Rout, Vermaji is a good friend of mine. We were roommates in the hostel at Allahabad University. He rang me up and told me that he wants to get some information from you. I offered to come with him. I told him, Rout is the most sincere, dependable, and hardworking chap in my office and my favorite officer in the ministry. It is my duty to stand by him when police comes to question him.”
I raised my weak, tired eyes to look at Vermaji. Fear was gnawing in my stomach like a pack of wild dogs on the scent of blood. Vermaji had not smiled, not even once, since he entered the apartment. Now his face became stern and I knew he was starting a painful journey which had only one possible end – my arrest, and eventual execution at the gallows.
“Rout, the records at the Home Ministry gate show that you left the office at 12.15 on Sunday night. Where did you go after that?”
Before answering him I looked at the JS. He had closed his eyes, completely unconcerned with the questioning. If I had any hope that he would come to my rescue, it was useless. The dogs in my stomach started licking the blood. To collect my wits, I went to the fridge and drank some water.
“Sir, I came home.”
“Which route did you take?”
“Sorry sir, I don’t remember. It was quite late and I was feeling sleepy.”
Vermaji emitted a cruel laugh.
“Yes, yes, I can imagine that. Do you know that a police constable named Raghuvir Singh was murdered that night?”
One of the dogs inside my stomach tore at the inside with a sharp claw.
“Yes sir, I have seen the news on the TV.”
Vermaji’s voice became stern and severe, the kind one sees in the interrogation by professional police in movies.
“Since the murder took place at the time you were out on the streets, can you throw some light on that?”
I could distinctly feel the dozens of claws tearing at my inside and the dogs howling in the most frightening manner. Although the dogs were invisible and operating in my stomach, for some strange reason, that reminded me of the freezing fear of Count Dracula’s dogs howling and spreading terror like naked flames.
“No sir, I don’t have any information on that.”
Vermaji’s eyes narrowed. He fixed me with a steely stare and said,
“You know, we had appealed to the public to give us information on the murder. A young man called me last night and volunteered some information. He said he was driving his car that night near the intersection of Shahjahan Road and Prithviraj Avenue and had actually seen the killing of Raghuvir.”
Vermaji paused for a moment and looked at me quizzically. The dogs howled with joy inside my stomach, finding what they wanted. I felt a churning from deep within me and threatening to come out in a mix of bile and vomit. Like an emaciated goat’s weak bleat I could only say,
“Sir?”
“Yes, the young man told me that he would like to share some information, but before that I must give him an assurance. I told him, nothing doing. I must protect law and if something comes in the way of that, no assurance is possible. The man paused for half a minute and said, ‘ok sir, you listen to my story and decide what you want to do.’ The young man’s story was somewhat like this –
"Last week I had gone to Kamani Auditorium with my sister to watch a drama. After it got over we had dinner at the Karim’s in Chandni Chowk and finally we were on our way home around 11.30 in the night. Somewhere near India Gate Constable Raghuvir Singh stopped us. First he looked at us from the driver’s side and then went to the other side, near my sister. He tapped the window with his stick and asked her to roll down the glass. When he poked his head inside the car we realized he was totally drunk. He touched my sister’s cheek. She flinched in disgust, Raghuvir didn’t care. He asked me,
“Oey, where are you going at midnight and who is this red-hot sizzler with you?”
My sister was horrified, this was the first time ever she had seen a policeman so close. She screamed,
“How dare you talk like that? I am his sister!”
Raghuvir gave us an evil, snake-like grin. He pinched her cheek and mimicked,
“I am his sister! I am his sister! Every slut says this when caught with a boy!”
I folded my hands and requested him not to use such filthy words. I told my sister to give him her mobile and asked him to call our parents and verify the fact. He took the mobile and a devilish smirk spread over his face. He shouted,
“Give me your driving license!”
I handed over the license to him. When he coolly pocketed the mobile and the license, I realized we were in a deeper mess than what we had feared. We were dealing not with a drunk police man but a cunning brute.
“Do you think I have the time and patience to call people at midnight to verify if their kids are home or at India Gate? Now both of you will have to come with me to the police station. I will see you doing drama in the lockup.”
My sister started crying. Raghuvir patted her cheek and said in a drunken voice,
“Don’t cry my little flower, ask your brother to have some sense and you will be able to go home”
I knew what he was after.
“How much?”
“Two thousand, that is the Raghuvir tax. Pay that and then go home, go to a bar, a hotel or a park, go wherever you want, you will have Raghuvir Singh’s permission to enjoy life.”
I tried to reason with him.
“Why do you bring dishonour to your profession? You are supposed to protect people, not to harass them.”
Raghuvir’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Oye, chhokrey, don’t try to lecture me. If you do that, the tax will go up to five thousand. Just pay and run.”
I paid up, collected the mobile and the license and drove home.”
Vermaji asked the young man why he didn’t lodge a complaint at the police station. The young man replied that he went to the police station the next day, but the station in-charge just laughed it off.
“It can’t be true. Raghuvir is on leave for the past two days”, and added pointedly, “his brother, who is the son-in-law of a minister in Haryana, is sick and Raghuvir is attending on him”
The young man was asked not to waste time with false and frivolous complaints.
At this point I lost my temper and screamed at Vermaji,
“So much wrong is happening everywhere. What has this country come to? How is it that nobody cares?” JS opened his eyes when I screamed. He looked at me with concern and I realized the world is about to come crashing at my feet. Vermaji looked at me - again one of those professional, police officer’s looks - and the gnawing by the dogs came back inside me. I had temporarily forgotten it while listening to the young man’s story.
“We care, that’s why we are here. Last year I had received serious complaints about Raghuvir Singh and transferred him to a far-off place, but he used political influence and got posted near India Gate area again. Frankly, I am quite happy and relieved that Raghuvir, a despicable blot on the police force, has been killed. But as an officer of law I must complete this inquiry. Now, you must tell me what you know about the murder. In fact, that young man had seen the motorbike of Raghuvir’s killer and had noted down the registration number on the license plate. I took the number from him and had asked one of my trusted inspectors to ascertain the name of the motorbike’s owner. Only I and the inspector know the identity of the man with the bike.”
At that precise moment, I realized the dogs finally shred the innards of my stomach and I was going to be violently sick. Suddenly from nowhere a hammer started pounding my head, my heart throbs sounded like the beating of a huge, monstrous drum and I thought my brain was about to burst. I looked at the JS and Vermaji. For some strange reason they were smiling.
I was left with very little feeling at the moment, but it occurred to me that these two gentlemen must be the cruelest and the most heartless specimens of humanity. Sitting so close, how can somebody smile at a person about to hear his death sentence? I was losing my sense and drifting away from them. A voice floated in, as if from a thousand miles away. I realized it was Vermaji speaking.
“Rout, I don’t know if you had seen another small piece of news in the media on Monday. On Sunday night a reckless man was driving his motorbike very fast and at Moolchand flyover he lost control. His bike skidded and hit a pillar. He died on the spot and the motorbike was smashed to smithereens. But the license plate was intact and we recovered it. It showed the same registration number the young man had given me. Looks like that man who died under the Moolchand flyover was the killer of Raghuvir Singh!”
I was not sure if I had heard him right. My heart skipped a huge beat. And then with unseeing eyes I looked at the JS and Vermaji. Suddenly my heartbeat changed to normal, the pounding in the head stopped and the wild dogs in my stomach vanished. A calmness descended on me. I was aware of the fan whirring above us, but I could hear nothing. What I felt was beyond words.
With his typical benign smile the JS looked at me and said,
“Rout, you have been under stress for some time. Just before I came here I met the Home Minister. There is a vacancy of the Home Ministry at our Embassy in Paris at the level of Section Officer. I have got the Minister’s approval to post you there for a tenure of five years. You have to leave in fifteen days. You are the most sincere, honest and hard-working officer in our Ministry. I am sure you will make us proud of you during your stint at Paris”.
Those words somehow reminded me of my father. My eyes brightened and I blurted out.
“Sir, my village will also be proud of me”.
The JS didn’t understand the context, but nodded his head.
“Yes, of course, your village also”.
Relief writ large on my face, I slumped on the chair. I simply didn’t have the energy to get up. The JS and Vermaji wanted me to be alone to savour my euphoric state. They got up and shook my hand. Just before leaving, Vermaji patted me on the back.
“Rout, you must get rid of your old belongings while leaving for Paris, particularly your motorbike!” He paused at the door.
“And don’t forget to ask the buyer to get a new registration number and change the license plate!”
With that, JS and Vermaji walked away, leaving the door open – a door of new life for 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.
BOOK REVIEW
Name of the Book: Ruminations on Foggy Mornings : An anthology of short essays exploring the conundrums facing contemporary society
Author: Supriya Pattanayak
Publisher: Authorspress
Year of publication: 2021
Price: Rs 295 in Amazon India (Also available Amazon stores worldwide)
Blurb: Our lives are filled with moments of contemplation and subsequent decisions. Should we consume more technology to make our life easy and efficient or less, to avoid being adversely influenced by it? Should we buy that coffee to support a local business or not, for the disposable cup pollutes the environment? The small choices we make, lead us to not just define our lives as an individual and as a family but collectively impacts society and shapes humanity. This collection of essays explores some of the conundrums we face in our daily lives and makes an attempt to find a balanced approach.
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/ .
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