Literary Vibes - Edition CIV (30-Apr-2021) (ARTICLES)
Title : My Farm House (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Literary Vibes - Edition CIV (30-Apr-2021) (ARTICLES)
01) Sreekumar K
SKIES BELONG TO OTHERS
AND THEN AGAIN
02) Ishwar Pati
SING ME A SONG...
03) Bidhu K Mohanti
THE STENO-SUB INSPECTOR OF POLICE AND THE SILVER SPOONS OF 1945
04) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
MINI CLASSROOM
05) Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
SAD, MAD OR BAD
06) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
YERANNA
07) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - ORIGIN OF SHIVA LINGAM WORSHIP
08) Jairam Seshadri
THE WUHAN EFFECT.
MENTION NOT
09) Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
THE ENCOUNTER
10) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE HORIZON
11) Ritika Sriram
THE DANCE OF DEATH
METRO PARENTING
12) Kavitha Jayasree
65, 75 AND 90
13) Sunil Biswal
MUSICAL JOURNEY OF A PASSIVE LISTENER
14) Padmini Janardhanan
IN CONVERSATION
15) Nikhil M. Kurien
THE DUE DEW
16) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA’S MUSINGS :: SWEETY
17) Rangamani N
RESERVATION
18) Minakshi Rath
TOWARDS A STORY
19) Meena J Mishra
HER BOSS
20) Sheena Rath
LOVE BITES
21) N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
A UNIQUE COFFEE TABLE BOOK
22) Satya N. Mohanty
IN COLD BLOOD
23) Vishakha Devi
BROKE
24) Sukumaran C. V.
THE WEB OF LIFE
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE SKY IS RED
As the mist of anaesthesia cleared from her senses a searing pain woke up Reena. She looked around for Ramani. She saw only Arpit, her husband.
Arpit moved closer to her. She had been brought back from the operation theatre only a while ago. The nurse had asked him to call her as soon as Reena opened her eyes.
As the nurse went away after giving her two tablets and a glass of water, Reena timidly asked Arpit where Ramani had gone.
“He came home late last night and went away before daybreak. No idea where he is. He wasn’t like this.
Arpit did not tell her about Ramani’s behaviour the previous night.
“What has happened to him, all of a sudden?” Reena dropped her guard.
“I have no idea. We hadn’t told him anything about this. But yesterday when he heard it for the first time, he could not take it somehow.”
Nothing had happened between the couple without Ramani hearing about it. Several times, when Reena went to see her doctor, Ramani had asked why. Sometimes when Arpit was not there, Ramani drove her to hospital. But she hadn’t told him anything. She just told him it was a tummy ache.
The couple was all set to move to the US the next year. The baby would have been a problem for sure.
“I’m sure he felt bad that we lied to him.” Reena was still thinking about Ramani.
“I think it’s more than that. He was so upset. Like this was HIS baby!”
Arpit laughed at his own joke. With a forced smile, Reena showed she got the joke. She had other thoughts on her mind.
Would he have cracked the same joke had it been someone else and not Ramani?
Ramani had been with them for three years now. He had come from somewhere in the south to take part in a gay pride parade in the city. He was clad in a trendy dress and wore heavy makeup. After the parade he missed the bus he had come in. In that appearance he could not even beg, let alone search for work.
Sunny, Arpit’s accountant, who had also been to the parade, took pity on him. Finding that Ramani knew driving, Sunny brought him straight to Arpit's home. Arpit had been looking for a driver.
amani proved to be a skilled driver as well as a trustworthy help in the home. His feminine nature had a certain warmth about it. And no doubt, a charm too.
Reena had often seen him having a live conversation with their cat. And singing the dog to sleep.
Arpit’s mom used to be like that.
Anyway, Ramani could be with them only for another three months. Parting with him might be painful then. Now it has been advanced by a year.
Reena heaved a sigh.
But she could not help wondering what had got into the fellow. She missed him rather badly.
Arpit too was thinking on similar lines. Ramani was like an overgrown baby for the couple who had no time for each other. They didn’t even have the time for a child at present.
True, at times, Arpit felt jealous of the young man, the way he charmed Reena by playing her. She was totally comfortable walking in front of him in her shorts or wearing a small towel. She also used to tell lewd stories connecting Ramani and Arpit to tease Ramani and to embarrass Arpit.
Unknown to both Ramani and Reena, there was a bit of truth in those stories. Arpit often felt an unnatural interest in Ramani who reminded him of his mother in several ways. Had that resemblance not been there, his infatuation could have gone much further.
Or was it the other way? Was the resemblance the reason why he took a fancy to Ramani in the first place? He was not sure. All he knew was that Reena resembled his mother much less than Ramani did.
Ramani had been visibly shocked when he was told about the abortion. How was it his concern anyway? Arpit had not even told anyone that Reena was pregnant. Ramani, of course, had sensed something and used to tease both of them about it. Reena had to repeatedly deny that she was pregnant. That and the fact that she was getting an abortion would be the only thing she kept from him.
The guy had never got drunk like this before. The whole of last night, he was shut up in his room, yelling and screaming for no reason. And this morning he was gone.
Arpit didn't want Reena to know all that. She had resisted getting this abortion as much as she could. She is probably worried about it even now. Ramani’s antics last night may be more than she can handle.
Ramani had not gone away. He was right outside the hospital, lying on a few sheets of newspaper in a deserted corner of the car park. He rolled up his shirt into a small bundle for a pillow and tried to catch some sleep.
Like a small child, he kept asking himself why Reena had not given over the child to him instead of killing it in the womb. He couldn’t find an answer.
Every now and then a baby was born in the maternity ward, a bell tolling to announce it, submerging for a moment the new born’s first cry.
Other babies too cried all the time. Sometimes they wanted milk, sometimes they wanted warmth but mostly they cried because another one was crying. That’s how babies are. They don’t even cry for themselves.
Hearing their repeated cries, Ramani felt a little better. With sleep slowly claiming him, he pulled out his bundled shirt and held it close to his bare chest. Hugging it as if it were a newborn, he dreamed of a baby as fair as Reena, with a face as handsome as Arpit’s.
Through the window I could still see the moon hanging in the western sky. What had woken me up? The air was quite cold and still, and there was no sound to be heard. Probably the crochet needles I was working with had again slipped from my fingers.
I looked at the wall across the bed and saw Sneha’s picture. It was a self-portrait she had done for a school project. She had done quite a few even afterwards. But this one is of special importance to me. This was done a few days before she knew about her disease. From then on her works began to have an aura of gaiety about them. The solitary self-portraits gave way to crowds of people. Market scenes, festivals, children flying kites, women near the village well, commuters getting off a busy evening train and the like became her favourite themes. It looked like she was sneering at the disease that was taking her away from the world. Even though she did a few self-portraits later, there was always a busy crowd scurrying about in the background.
She was good at several things. Most of it she got from her grandmother. When it comes to knitting or drawing or anything that needed some skill, both her father and me are complete klutz. But it was not the case with her grandmother. Sneha learned crochet from her grandmother, my mother. And it was from Sneha that I learned it, and I could never do it that well. There was a special swan design that her grandmother had discovered and let Sneha master. I could never do it. Never. And I don’t know someone who can.
I took up my crochet work. Sleep eludes me a lot these days. It is so bad when Sneha’s father has to be away for a day or two. He never stays away more than that. And that is when my memories haunt me the most. I try to keep myself busy as much as I can but sleep is a real problem. I am thrilled when I feel my fingers go numb and my hands go stiff and the crochet needles slip between my fingers and drop from my hands. The half-finished work in my hands melts and becomes a stream and I see it flowing into a blue lagoon, filling it up and overflowing from the other side. White water lilies have bloomed all over the lagoon and there are swans, swans everywhere, quiet and still, letting themselves be rocked to sleep by the ripples….ripples…..which……
The crochet needles would have slipped from my fingers again. And it is almost daybreak now. There is no moon in the western sky any more. I would have slept for quite some time. My half-finished crochet work had fallen off from my hands and onto the floor. Taking it up and shaking the dust off, I find, neatly stitched onto it, a design I could never do.
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 songs are blossoming again, struggling to come out of their vocal pods after a long, dry hibernation. My wife’s singing is somewhat scratchy, with her lyrical chords gathering rust all these years.
Time was, during the days of our courtship, her beautiful, captivating voice flowered from her lips like a splendid orchid before large gatherings. But her singing could never attain full bloom, wilting under the pressure of marriage and consequent relocation. In the domestic cacophony that followed, her musical notes withered and then fell silent. So keen she was to fulfil her role of a dutiful daughter-in-law, and then a responsible mother, that she was left with no time for music.
I did make an occasional effort to persuade her to sing, at least in small friendly get-togethers. But my request fell on deaf ears. “You think singing is so easy, do you?” she would snap at me. “A lot of devotion and concentration goes into it, you know. Can you ensure me that?”
I was silenced. I knew my transferable job and our growing kids were hardly conducive to furthering her musical aspirations. Though she never spoke of it, I could sense that in her heart of hearts she held our marriage — and especially me — guilty of strangulating her budding melodious career. I swallowed her unspoken indictment, though I still nurtured the hope that some day after the children had grown up and left our nest, the ember of singing lying dormant in her soul would be rekindled.
But when the thaw came, it was so unexpected that I was literally blown off my feet. In one of the cultural evenings taking place in our colony, my wife was somehow cajoled into singing. She joined the voices and soon she was intoxicated with the flow of songs. When the game ended, she was swamped with compliments.
After the party, there was a palpable restlessness in her steps as we made our way home. She started humming to herself too! I smiled and let her be. Next morning I was not surprised when she told me that she missed her old harmonium. It had been abandoned at her parents’ house along with her musical muse after our marriage. But I detected in her remark something more than mere nostalgia for an heirloom. I could discern the spark of revival in her heart, that overwhelming urge to sing. Under the circumstances, I indulged her whim and instead of opting to buy a new harmonium locally, I went all the way to my in-laws’ place by train to fetch her favourite one.
She is still tuning her harmonium and taking her time about it. No reason to hurry, she says. All the dust gathered by the instrument will take time to be brushed off after such a long period of idleness. Her voice too will need to break out of its self-imposed confinement.
So I am waiting, patiently. But I can feel the breeze that has started blowing from her newfound buoyancy. Her lilting voice suddenly wafts from the kitchen, humming odd bits of ragas or a mix of old songs. It starts slowly like a cuckoo’s, unsure of itself, then rises sharply to soar over mountains and flow into rivers before plunging down to earth as her breath gives way from lack of practice. But she doesn’t give up. She breathes in again before launching her voice once again on its tuneful plane into the skies. The barrenness of our home is now pregnant with a melody reborn.
Yes, after all these years the song blossoms are flowering again and the air is filling up with their fragrant decibels.
The Times of India, Sunday Supplement (Soul Curry), 26 July 2009
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.
THE STENO-SUB INSPECTOR OF POLICE AND THE SILVER SPOONS OF 1945
[Herbert N Hargreave, in front of official bungalow of S.P., Cuttack,1942]
Around 1937-38, Basant came to Cuttack, in those days the melting pot for any ambitious young person in the colonial Orissa province. His clear objective was to get into higher University education at the Ravenshaw College, Cuttack. His widowed mother Jemamani had to feed several mouths in the village house at Soro, Balasore. To get money from his family on a regular basis was unlikely to be assured.
Basant learnt rudimentary lessons on typing and short-hand writing. Timing is half the battle. He cycled around Cuttack, seeking a part-time job which would give him the financial support to live and study. In the British ruled India, the employment opportunities were limited. One early morning, he knocked at the gate of the residence bungalow of Cuttack’s superintendent of police, guarded by uniformed sentries. Basant pleaded to meet the SP. Used to meeting hordes of Oriya folks with complaints, petitions and supplication, the SP was to the point, “what exactly you want from me?” A prompt reply, “kindly give me some work to earn money, about ten rupees a month to continue my study”. He liked the very idea of helping a young Indian, “you start working as an assistant to my steno, report to work at the residential office”. What a relief, and to be in the vicinity of British powerhouse! Basant organized the files, kept memos, typed drafts, and took short-hand dictations; more or less becoming the points man at the intersection of all the functions between the steno and SP. The temporary job at the SP’s residential office, could be loosely called as sub-stenographer. This non-descript post became his calling. At this stage, it is unclear when he lost the pursuit of his study, and directed his energy towards acquiring the basic skills to enter the police force in British India.
His diligence was observed closely by Herbert Newton Hargreave, the SP of Cuttack district. Hargreave sahib, a horse-riding, athletic and judicious Englishman took a liking to Basant, on the threshold of 20 years of age.
The formation of a separate province of Orissa in 1936, under the colonial British rule, must have necessitated a strengthening of the imperial police and civil administration. Retracing this account after more than 80 years, it is not known how his mother Jemamani appreciated this career choice of her son. The start of his work life in British colonial police for Basant almost coincided with the creation of new administrative structures for the Orissa province (now Odisha state). The province started its administrative and law territory with six districts namely Cuttack, Puri, Balasore, Sambalpur, Koraput and Ganjam having its capital at Cuttack.
Far away, at a distance of 4954 miles from Cuttack, the British crown in 1936 faced its most tumultuous period in London. A king ascended the throne and abdicated within the same year. It was unlikely that King Edward VIII, who was anointed the British monarch on 20th January 1936, took any interest or was briefed by the Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin about the geo-political status of a newly created Orissa province in the British colony of India on 1st April 1936. The 41-year-old King, affectionately called David, had his heart and mind elsewhere, smitten by a much married American woman. By the late summer of 1936, the British King and his American mistress, Bessiewallis (shortened to Wallis) Simpson were in a deeply whirlwind affair and had set sails on Nahlin, a hired yacht, for the Mediterranean cruise. As winter swept inside the Buckingham Palace, Edward VIII abdicated the throne with a controversial expression that, “it was impossible to discharge the duties, without the help and support of the woman I love”. In most likelihood; Winston Churchill, the King’s friend, had written the statement for him. The instrument of abdication was signed on 10th December 1936.David and Wallis Simpson remained oblivious to the creation of Orissa province, barely eight months before.
[From the National Archives, UK; catalogued under document record PC11/1 for public domain]
Was it a turning point that marked a new beginning for the impoverished humanity of Orissa, the transition from its fragmented historical past to a territorial identity? Was it a vuelta for Basant, a long-distance race, in a lowly paid job? From the narratives provided by relatives and a few police officials, and from sketchy records obtained from the British Library in London, it is partly hazy and partly factual. People do not observe a person, a place and for that matter a time period carefully. Yet, the accounts do not become utterly useless.
During this period, from 1938 to 1945, Basant Kumar Mohanty worked directly under Herbert Newton Hargreave and Frank Frederick Percy Gill, two Britishers who served Indian Police in Orissa province. He had got selected into a regular post in Orissa Police as Steno-cum-Sub-Inspector (Steno-SI in official-speak) in 1940. Hargreave sahib and Percy Gill sahib, as providence would have it, defined and shaped his future career. The most endearing aspect of this part of my father’s life, a search for me in wilderness, was stitched by Dr. Anne Wickham and Mrs. Carmen Lavin. Both in their seventies live a very energetic life in England, with their spouses Richard and Patrick respectively. Anne is daughter of Hargreave and Carmen is daughter of Percy Gill. Since 2010, we have met and exchanged special moments.
They both hold the British legacy very dear and call themselves proudly as ‘two daughters of the Raj’, despite their own reservation about the power equation during that period.HN Hargreave was the SP at Cuttack between 1939 and 1944; and as well served in the special branch (crime investigation department, CID) of Orissa police. Percy Gill came transferred to the special branch as SP CID in 1937 and then got posted to Koraput district of the Orissa province during the Second World War years. Basant Kumar Mohanty served the beginning part of his career under these two British officers, who by then had worked for more than 15 years in Bihar-Orissa police. They both got transferred to the newly formed Orissa province, and left India between 1945 and 1946. As fate would have it, their journeys and experiences, their guidance and care were valuable skill learning process for Basant. It is a different matter that Hargreave sahib and Percy Gill sahib, from time to time, must have been amused by the occasional bursts of ‘standing up to the boss’ attribute of this young junior!
This story must be told and should be heard. Herbert Hargreave and Percy Gill must have left Orissa, in the 1940s, with unfinished business. On a Saturday, I returned to my house inside AIIMS, New Delhi campus in West Kidwai Nagar. It was a hot July afternoon in 2010, I looked forward to have lunch and then take my ritual nap after a week’s hospital works. As I sat down at the table, my wife, Tulika informed that there was a call on the house telephone line from Director General of Police, Orissa. Carrying on with the lunch, I assumed that it must be an inquiry for some cancer patient, or, an intimation for a referral to me. Just then the phone bell rang on the side and I answered to hear the voice of Mr. Manmohan Praharaj, DGP of Orissa calling from Cuttack.
What he narrated was a real slap on my assumption! A British lady came to Cuttack to have a look inside the official residence of SP and was directed to get permission from the DGP’s office. Anne met the DGP with due grace and fortitude, and Mr. Praharaj instantly understood the sentimental journey of a daughter, himself having served as SP of Cuttack in his early career posting. Anne and her husband Richard went to see the SP’s house. The official residence had changed from thatched one to a concrete roof-top and had been split into sections. She inquired from the police staff there; if they could tell about events and persons during her father’s tenure from 1939 to 1944 at Cuttack, and failed to get a positive response. Anne, the daughter of the Raj, returned back to Praharaj, ‘do you by any chance know of any remarkable event, or about any official who was officially attached to Hargreave?’ Perseverance can have a magical effect. This is where, the great sense of history and a raconteur’s mind in Manmohan Praharaj grasped the burning desire of Anne to connect with the present. “Yes, I met a retired police officer, Basant Kumar Mohanty in 1980s and he narrated several incidents related to the work tenure under your father. I know his son Bidhu who works as a Professor in AIIMS, New Delhi.”
Manmohan Praharaj wrote an email to Anne, marking a cc to me. This email must have been written after the phone call to my house and the meetings with Anne at Cuttack. I was dazed for a day and replied back the next day to Dr. Anne and Mr. Praharaj. Anne’s perseverance that day in 2010 opened up a channel of communication between the new world and the forgotten past of more than 70 years back. Our families, of Anne, Carmen and mine have met on a few occasions in India and UK. The grandchildren of Basant are lucky to have come to know about the British India of 1930s and 1940s and how we “the children of the Raj” from both sides can bridge the gap years and become teary.
It is such a scary thing to learn that Basant as a subordinate in the uniformed imperial police had the gumption to point out to Hargreave sahib the inappropriateness of an official letter; or, an incident his mother Jemamani told as to how he protested to Percy Gill about passing on a harsh punishment to a sub at Koraput. We are not sure, beside self-control and restraint; was forbearance a part of the training for the Britishers serving as Indian Police officers in the colonial system? HN Hargreave and Percy Gill were indulgent towards young Basant. When they left for England in 1945-46, beside the memories and curios, they must have carried a few tales to tell, from time to time in the family conversations. Those stories must have impressed Anne and Carmen and they must have vaguely remembered as toddlers playing around with Basant before they sailed back to England with their parents.
One Sunday evening, 26 Feb 2012, Anne and her husband Richard came to my official abode in AIIMS campus. It was later part of winter in Delhi, and we had finished the dinner. The two families, separated by two generations and two continents, sat down and retraced the steps taken by their parents 70 years back. Anne had brought albums containing photos of her parents, the Hargreave couple, in Cuttack during the 1940s. As well, she showed me the book chapters of SK Ghosh’s “Communal Riots in India: meet the challenge unitedly”, where official letters of her father, Herbert Newton Hargreave, were reproduced to exemplify the role and function of police system in British India (likely drafted and typed by young Basant as his steno-SI). When they got up to leave our house, Anne brought out a small box from her bag and handed it over to Tulika, my wife. A little flustered, I asked ‘what is this one for?’
Anne opened a box of silver spoons, engraved with the year 1945.While leaving India; her father had bought this box in Calcutta. With Richard looking intently, Anne said in her sing-song British accent, “I felt, your family deserves this, Bidhu”. I and Tulika remained speechless for some time and then I could just manage to say “Frankly Anne, my father was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth”. When I recollect my father's restrained narration about the financial difficulties in his youth; this ‘box of silver spoon' represented a part of living in aristocracy and wealth. This gift gave a very emotional tone to our meeting on that winter night. Anne and Richard went back to their hotel, The Royal Plaza on 19, Ashok Road, New Delhi and the next day took the return flight back to London. Later on, Anne wrote in her email, “I am so glad that you and Tulika liked the ‘little silver spoons’. I have always thought they were very pretty and I suddenly had the idea (maybe it was sent down from my father!), that you should have them as a special memento of the relationship between my father and yours. In time Sriya may be able to tell their story to your grandchildren! In fact, my father also came from a very poor family and his mother had a real struggle to bring up her seven children single-handed but they all did well, thanks to their education.”
What an amazing gift. Coming back to India after nearly seven decades, without any kind of back and forth negotiations between the governments of India and UK. It is a treasure for my family, and hopefully, Sriya, our daughter will value it more than us, as she connects to a global world.
[At Royal Society of Medicine, London,28 May 2012.L-R. Richard, Carmen, Anne, Bidhu, Patrick, Tulika]
The treasures from India; coins, artifacts, sculptures, jewels and other items of many centuries; often taken away forcibly or plundered or traded in a canny manner are on display in many countries including UK. Christopher Columbus of Genoa voyaged to the northern hemisphere mainland of north Americas between 1492 to 1502, and Vasco da Gama of Sines, Portugal sailed to the port of Calicut in southern India in 1498.Since the time shipping and trade became the focus of national imperialism, one country which gained control over another took out the antiquities with impunity. The last decade of the 15th century recorded such phenomenal explorations. Columbus opened the trans-Atlantic route for sea trade to the New World, and Vasco da Gama over a period of 10 months from July 1497 to May 1498 painstakingly showed the sea passage to India and Asia. Yet from Columbus and Da Gama to the present Somali pirates, the maritime history of the last five centuries has seen a mix of valiant exploration and insensitive exploitation.
[Vasco da Gama’s sea route from Portugal to India,1498.courtesy: "Map of Vasco da Gama's Expedition to India." Global Events: Milestone Events Throughout History. Ed. Jennifer Stock. Vol. 2: Asia and Oceania. Farmington Hills, MI: Gale, 2014. World History in Context. Web. 14 June 2015.]
Indian antiquities are show-cased in many museums around the world. Among all Indian antiquities, the sword and throne of Tipu Sultan taken away after his killing in 1799 and the Koh-I-Noor diamond confiscated by British East India Company on the defeat of Maharaja Ranjit Singh of Punjab in 1849 continue to haunt the Indian psyche as part of its lost heritage. We will never be sure how many items from India were removed over the centuries and what would be their value. Like Dan Brown authored Da Vinci Code which plots a frenetic search for a missing ‘keystone’ linked to the Holy Grail, the trails of those ancient sea traders and invaders will always get lost somewhere. Often mired by governmental lethargy, lack of an interest in history, and the modern day diplomatic expediency, those century-old Indian treasures and antiquities are going to remain in foreign shores, in museums or in unknown private collections. The moaning words of Cordelia in Shakespeare’s King Lear “We are not the first/Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst”. Yet, the seafarers’ journey was not always one sided. The recorded maritime history of Orissa, mainly of the ancient Kalinga Empire, stretched to the many countries of Southeast Asia, mainly to Sri Lanka, Java, Bali and Malayan peninsula of the period. During an official visit to Cambodia in June 2013, I was informed by the history conscious local bureaucrats that Angkor Wat, the temple city founded by the Khmer empire, has inscriptions and architects which can be traced to Kalinga temples of the 12th century. I could not travel from Phnom Penh to the Siem Reap, and had to be satisfied to look around its replica in the complex of the Royal Palace, a walking distance from The Plantation, the hotel where I stayed on 28 Street, Phnom Penh.
Declaration: The author states that the content has no conflict of interest and has no financial disclosure.
Bidhu K Mohanti, is an oncologist, former Professor at A.I.I.M.S., Delhi; and is presently the Director KIMS Cancer Centre, Kalinga Institute of Medical Sciences(KIMS), K.I.I.T. University, Bhubaneswar 751024, India. He occasionally writes non-medical pieces in popular medium. Email: drbkmohanti@gmail.com
It was 1983, when we were posted at Subdivisional Headquarters Hospital, Deogarh, myself as Gynecology Specialist and my wife as Lady Assistant Surgeon, that our daughter was born. Our son, the elder one, born in 1981, was staying at Cuttack under the care of his material grandparents. My father in law was the Principal of Ravenshaw college, Cuttack at that time. I was transferred to VSS Medical college, Burla and my wife to a nearby dispensary at Gosala. The dispensary was in a very beautiful place, full of greeneries, natural beauties with a Gosala, poultry farm, pork farm, a veterinary hospital and a dispensary for the employees of the farm. My wife joined their as the Medical Officer and was provided with a beautiful four roomed quarters surrounded with mango, guava and lemon trees. There was abundant space for gardening, 24 hour water supply and many support staff to help. My college was about 10 km away from Gosala. It was not a problem for me because busses were running very frequently to and from Burla. Moreover accommodation was an acute problem at Burla. So we decided to stay at Gosala and manage.
Next year my daughter was to be admitted to Nursery class. Since there were no good schools in Gosala, it was decided that her schooling will be at Burla in Satyasai Kiddies Abode. The best attraction of this school was Bindu Madam who was in charge of Nursery classes. She was not only a motherly figure, but a true custodian of all children. We had heard about her, so we had no second thought about admitting our daughter there. Our only problem was conveyance.
At that time our monthly salary was less than one thousand rupees, which was just enough for a hand to mouth living. Apart from routine expenditure we had to look after my parents and younger sisters at home and clear the loan taken during my younger sister's marriage. Our bank balance was hardly a few hundred rupees only. The only mode of conveyance available with me was an old bicycle, gifted by my father in law. The history of that invaluable vehicle was that it was his mode of conveyance when he was the Principal, GM College, Sambalpur. I was fortunate to receive and use it as the gift (dowry). I used that bicycle for local needs. But for my daughter's schooling at Burla a scooter was a minimum necessity. At that time Bajaj scooter had come to the market, but if one booked it, he had to wait for more then a year to buy it. So it wouldn't have served our purpose. Scooter was available in the black market at the price of ten thousand rupees which was a day dream for us. My wife drew money from her GPF account for this noble cause. At that time the inspector of police of Sambalpur police station was Mr Rabi Narayan Deo, who was a family friend of mine. He arranged a new Bajaj scooter from a business man and also helped to transfer the ownership of the vehicle. At last the Bajaj Super scooter was brought to our quarters, driven by my brother in law, after completing the "puja" and other rituals in the Samaleswari Temple. The light yellow color scooter OAS 5492 reached our quarters in the evening. Once again all evening rituals were completed, sweets distributed on the pious occasion of owning a two wheeler and my daughter was to inaugurate by sitting on the driver's seat and switching on the light and horn. What a joy on the face of my daughter and what a glow of satisfaction on the face of my wife for gifting the most valuable gift to us. The usually reserve and reticent husband in me couldn't but say a simple THANK YOU to my better half, the maker of my destiny.
I didn't know driving. What to speak of driving, I had actually sat on the wrong side of a scooter when I sat for the first time on a newly purchased Lambretta scooter driven by an anesthesiologist Dr. Rabi Patra in Burla during my postgraduate career. Dr RG Das, a senior veterinary officer was my Guru in teaching me how to drive a scooter. I was a slow learner. It took me about two months to achieve near perfection. I got the driving license through a brother in law working in the RTO office, - a really a tough task even on merit. Then I was ready to drive with confidence to Burla. My daughter's admission was done in Burla. It was planned that she would go and come back with me daily. Helmets and rain coats were purchased for both of us. My daughter started her academic journey on a two wheeler, like Maa Saraswati on her carriage, the Swan.
My daughter's classes started at 8 am and finished at 1 pm. In between there was a tiffin break of 30 minutes where all children enjoyed their home made tiffin. This was the beginning of their social bonding. They ate together, played together, fought and made up together. In worst situations they complained to Bindu Madam, who was the ultimate arbiter to solve any problem.
We started at 7.30 am daily. My daughter with school uniform, a pair of glasses and helmet stood in front and held the handles. In rainy season, a rain coat and in winter, full winter dresses (it is extremely cold at Burla) were the required accessories for my daughter. After praying to God we started our journey. It took nearly 30 to 40 minutes to reach our destination. My daughter felt jubilant experiencing the scenic beauties like the serpentine road, range of mountains (Bara Pahad, (meaning twelve mountains), beautiful buildings of the Sambalpur University, Jyoti Vihar, the Jagannath Temple on the top of a hill and the glimpses of the world famous Hirakud Dam, across the river Mahanadi. On the way I started taking a class of 30 minutes with her and revised with her the nursery subjects, taught in the class, rhymes old and new, stories and jokes. When we happily reached the school, Bindu Madam would be waiting to receive her with a jubilant golden smile. After dropping her in school I used to go to my hospital.
At 1pm the final bell rang. On free days I took her home direct from school. On other days like OPD days and OT days she accompanied me to the hospital and waited there till my work was over. During that waiting time she had made a number of friends starting from students to staff nurses and faculty members. She was loved by all. She found her ways on how to enjoy the waiting period even for hours together without any complaints. If she felt hungry, she usually took a few biscuits from her reserve stock and started her business of making friends. She not only made friendship with many, she developed some interest and inquisitiveness about medical science. Of course she chose the engineering stream later in life but one thing common she developed was the curiosity to learn. Apart from this, the waiting time taught her a few great lessons of life:
1. Patience of waiting.
2. Mixing with other people and interacting with them which taught her what social life is.
3. Understanding her father and sharing her thoughts with him happily.
After my work was over, she used to get ready and invariably demanded some variety of cold drink, a Frooti or a Lichi being her favourite. She used to take it from the famous Kesab bhaina's grocery shop. I also got time to do some shopping. Then both of us started our journey back to Gosala. There wasn't mobile service at that time. My wife would be waiting for the scooter horn to announce our presence.
During this return journey we discussed what was taught in the class on that day. If she had any doubt I clarified them. After reaching home it was her time to play and experiment new pranks on us till she went to bed.
This habit continued till she was admitted to class four in Madanabati Public School, Sambalpur. There was school bus service. So it was not a problem for her to commute to school. She caught the bus at 8 am and returned at 5 pm. For the first few days she was feeling like a fish out of water in the new school and she missed her scooter ride. But gradually she got used to it and started loving it to such an extent that she felt bored at home on holidays.
The conveyance changed from my Bajaj scooter to a shoolbus. School changed from a small school at Burla THE KIDDIES ABODE to a famous highly rated MADANABATI PUBLIC SCHOOL at Sambalpur, but what didn't change was my affinity to teach my daughter. Of course I knew that the pleasure of teaching on the scooter, THE MINI CLASSROOM, was different and wouldn't come again. But the momentum produced by the four years of continuous teaching continued till my daughter passed class ten. I was her teacher. I taught her all subjects except Hindi, which was taken care of by her mother. Moreover my daughter liked only my teaching. No tuition, no coaching, yet she came up with flying colors. She got her result and I got my reward. When I look back I feel it was a rare achievement for both of us.
And I can never forget the joy of those golden days till my last breath.
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
“Why don’t you tell us about one of your patients? You psychiatrists, surely, come across many interesting cases.”
This must be quite familiar to all psychiatrists and it was not the first time for me either. Actually, at times, it came across, more like a demand than a request. But, I meticulously avoided talking about my patients in social gatherings.
“Oh, I see, it is patient-doctor confidentiality, which must be troubling you “
“More to the point, it is probably unexciting,” I would say to myself, but I simply give an approving smile to bring such conversations to an unceremonious close.
That evening, however, was different. When someone, new to our social circle, asked for it, it made me curious as to what others found so fascinating about psychiatric patients. So, I set out to understand the image of psychiatry in public’s mind.
“It must be hard to figure out the nature of their problem, what is called diagnosis, in your Doctor’s language.” Someone piped in.
“In the first place, how do you make out who is sane and who is not?” another guest asked.
I could sense what was implied in this question. “So, you think, it would be easy to fake madness?” I said.
“Yes, for example, a perfectly sane murderer can feign madness to escape the gallows”
Now, it was getting increasingly clear in my mind, what the public thought of my job. Perhaps, I operated like a sophisticated lie detector, with a bag of tricks to catch people out, when they are trying to feign insanity by lying about their symptoms.
“Ah, you have watched too many movies and television dramas. Yes, faking illness to escape onerous duty or punishment is well known in medical circles and psychiatric patients are no exception. What makes you think malingering is more tricky in psychiatry?”
“It would be so easy; all they have to claim is that they hear voices. Who can prove that they don’t?”
“Of course, that is what happens in stories. But more bizarre things happen in real life. Psychiatric patients can lie too, when it suits them, but not necessarily in the way, you imagine. Wait until you hear about my patient.”
I continued, “Let’s give my patient a name: George. One night, George was found lying on the roadside, next to his motorbike. That stretch of the road was pitch dark. It seemed, his motorcycle had skidded off the road, leaving him in path of traffic. To his sheer good fortune, a motorist spotted him lying in the middle of the road before he could be hit by his car. He managed to drag George to safety, before any other vehicle appeared on the scene.”
Soon, police arrived on the scene. George’s speech was slurred and he smelled strongly of alcohol. He was duly transported to the local hospital, where the Doctors gave him a thorough check. To everyones’ relief, he had sustained no serious injuries from his fall off his bike. Apart from alcohol intoxication, there was no medical condition of note, which needed attention.
George was in no fit state to give a coherent account of himself or his actions; he was too drunk. The assumption was that he had drunk a lot before driving off on his bike and had skidded. After he sobered up, he was at a loss to explain where he was heading for, at midnight. He had no memory of how he landed where he was found.
Superficially, this looked like an accident; but questions on his state of mind and motive for this potentially deadly action, remained unanswered. The circumstances and events were unusual enough to indicate that he really didn’t care for his safety when he rode off that night. The degree of recklessness strongly suggested that his deadly journey was actually a suicide mission.
In due course, he found himself on the Psychiatry ward. As his head cleared, he appeared embarrassed at the stupidity of his actions that night. He was sorry for wasting valuable time of everyone, and the shock, he caused to the unwary passerby, who saved his life.
Alan had no previous contact with psychiatrists, but his involvement with police was extensive. He had several brushes with law: arrest for armed robbery and charges of firearms offences. He initially tried to write off that night’s events as an accident. While he acknowledged problems in his life, he put them as no more serious than what we all have.
On further probing, he admitted, he had been overwhelmed on that night by his relationship problems with his wife and had lost track of how much he had drunk. He was clearly not thinking straight and at that time, he did not care if he died.
The psychiatric evaluation included a thorough exploration of his thoughts, specifically into any lingering suicidal inclination. At the end, they concluded, he was not a suicide risk. He was released from hospital to resume his life and pick up the pieces from where he had left.
“How do you judge the risk of suicide and make the crucial decision on when a patient is safe to be released?”, someone asked.
“Not easily” was my short answer. I continued, “If I were a cancer specialist, would you ask how I decide when to operate?” assessing suicide risk is an equally complex operation.”
“Everyone thinks, psychiatrists are the expert on suicide”, was the rejoinder from the group.
“I know, but suicide is more of a social phenomenon than psychiatric.”
“But, they must be driven to the point of insanity, to kill themselves”
“Yes, suicide is a dreaded complication in our work, as some patients die by suicide. But calling everyone, who dies from suicide mad is somewhat simplistic. We all know, Africans dance well but we don’t automatically assume that their dark skin pigment makes them good dancers.”
“How do you guard against this dreaded outcome, then?”
“Not very well, I am afraid. Prevention of suicide is a bit like trying to stop water flowing out of a large leaky sieve; there are far too many factors in the equation to tackle.”
“What happened to George?”
“They got the judgement on his suicide risk right. But, he was not out of the woods, yet; he was in news, next, charged with murder”
The exact sequence of events was unclear. Although his account was disputed, this was his version. His relationship with his wife had been strained for some time, which triggered his first psychiatric contact. While she blamed his alcoholism for their marital and sexual problems, his coping strategy, for all problems, was to turn to drinking.
Following his release from hospital, their rows became more frequent. Soon, he figured, she was having an affair. Matters eventually came to a head, when she hinted at ending their marriage. One day, he snapped and in a fit of rage, fatally stabbed her.
“Oh, what a tragedy!”
Experts argued back and forth on his culpability for this tragic end. Debates raged on the name for his psychiatric condition and the link between his state of mind and the crime. While he was in custody, awaiting court appearance, he had a number of evaluations; psychiatrists peered into the depth of his mind and lawyers pored over his records for clues to this deadly crime.
Ordinarily, psychiatrists are concerned with treating patients and aiding their recovery. When a crime is added to the mix, matters take a different turn. For something as gruesome as murder, culpability for the crime is thrust to the forefront in Expert minds.
“What do you think is wrong with him?”
“Opinions varied; one line of thought focussed on his depression, typically associated with suicidal behaviour. The alternative explanation honed on his jealousy”.
Clinical minds debated about the nature of his condition and how to help him come to terms with the enormity of his action. Given the gravity of his offence, the Criminal Justice perspective zeroed on the role played by mental illness, if any.
As psychiatric opinions clashed, an alternative legal view was to reject medical explanations for his actions and treat him like any other criminal. He had a thorough psychiatric evaluation shortly before the offence, which showed nothing other than alcohol abuse.
“Sorry for the interruption. It should be easy for George to say that he heard voices asking him to kill his girlfriend. His insanity would exonerate him from the crime. Isn’t it?” someone asked.
“I was half expecting this question,” I said, adding, “There are no blood tests or brain scans to confirm or refute, if one is lying”.
“So, he got scot free?”
“No, the issue is not about feigning mental illness to evade punishment. It is the opposite, as you would soon see” I said.
“By the way, how did you get into this case?” was the next question.
“I was approached by his lawyer, Mr Singh, for an Expert opinion. Mr Singh had done his homework well. His position was that his client’s psychiatric evaluation, on his first presentation, was woefully incomplete. The severity of his mental illness was missed.”
“He went on to argue that they trivialised his suicide attempt and overlooked his urge to kill. His medical records showed no probes into homicidal thoughts.”
He continued, “Arguably, because they missed the severity of his mental illness and failed to grasp the homicide risk, he did not get the required treatment in the hospital. The gruesome outcome was due to medical negligence. Had they given him the right treatment, and taken adequate measures for his wife’s safety, this fatality would have been averted. In any case, his illness made him ideally suited for treatment in a hospital, rather than punishment in a prison.”
“So, he was saying, suicide and homicide are two sides of the same coin? What do you think?” asked my friend.
“Yes, that was his implication. The interface of suicide and homicide is a murky area. Psychiatry can barely unlock the conundrum of suicide; for homicides, its claim is far more tenuous. They have something in common, though; in homicide, aggression is directed outwards and in suicide, turned inwards.
“While the psychiatric question is whether he is sad or mad, the legal concern is how bad are his actions. But all agree that he is no good for society. Where he should be locked away, in an asylum or a prison, is the real question.” I said.
“But hospital is a place for treatment and sanctuary. How can you compare it with prisons,” my friend asked.
“Well, some Psychiatric hospitals are more fortified than prisons. If he is certified into such a hospital, his release is not straightforward, it is contingent on him being rid of his homicidal risk.
“Wouldn’t he get a long prison sentence, anyway, left to the Criminal Justice?”.
“But there is a difference; if he is incarcerated in a prison, he would be certain of his release after serving his sentence. To be released from the hospital, he would have to convince everyone that he was no longer a danger. Again, it is hard to prove a negative. And, how would he do it, from the confines of the hospital? It will be up to somebody else to certify him safe, before he is released.”
“Past behaviour, we know, is the strongest predictor of future actions. With his dangerous past record, it is not easy to say when he can be safely released. “
Assessment of suicide risk is an inexact science at best; in fact, it is an art. It is difficult to precisely predict the likelihood of dying by suicide. Predicting absence of future dangerous behaviour, you can imagine, is even more hazardous. As this is riddled with uncertainties, risk-averse doctors shy away from releasing patients with murder on their record.
Mr Singh was clear, George was sick in mind, which drove him to kill his wife. This homicide was, beyond any doubt, a result of misdiagnosed and untreated illness. It was a text book case of a deranged mind in need of treatment, not a crime deserving punishment.
But, as a veteran in this business, he also knew why someone in this situation would prefer Criminal Justice System to Psychiatric services for addressing their predicament. At least, they would be reasonably certain, when they are going to be get their liberty and, yes, their life back.
“If George becomes aware of the implications of being certified insane, what would be his preference?” Mr Singh wondered. He was in a bind, torn between his own conviction and his regards for his client’s wishes. Should he open up to George and reveal his dilemma? His insight seemed to be more a hindrance than an asset in guiding his client.
The audience, listening with rapt attention, seems to have got more than they bargained for. In stead of being entertained, they were left with a sense of intrigue. If they were looking for pearls of wisdom, they felt rather short-changed, ending up with more question than answers.
When I stopped talking, there was an awkward silence, until someone quipped, “You mean, it sometimes pays to deny the disease, because the remedy is even worse!”
I saw no need to respond to this comment beyond a nod.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
(Translated from Odia by : Malabika Patel)
The day the list of staff members due to retire at the close of the month reached Manoharpur station, delivered through the guard of Tata-Nagpur train, Yeranna became a different person.
Yeranna's talks became rambling. His gait lost earlier steadiness and his timings in reporting for duty was no longer clocklike. He was often seen sitting on the platform benches puffing away bidis while lost in thoughts. For quite some time, Yeranna did not look connected to the here and now.
Yeranna was the Shunting Jamadar of Manoharpur station. His relationship with the railways must have continued for half a century. But this link was going to be severed in a few days' time.
Yeranna's father was Yendayya. As a contract labour he was employed in the construction work of Raipur -Vijaynagaram railway track being built by the BNR Company. After the construction of the railway track, he was one of those few contract labours who got absorbed in the railways. So Yeranna, you can say, was a child of the railways; brought up by the railway hawa pani. Born in the slums of railway bastis, spending the childhood frolicking on the railway platforms; he lived largely on the largesse of the railways.
In those days, posted in Raipur station was a Telugu speaking Traffic Inspector. A huge strapping of a man, his powers were equally impressive. Yeranna's father was able to please the man by his words and deeds. One day at an opportune time Yendayya had popped the question to the Inspector; "Sir, can you not fit this motherless son of mine somewhere? "
- "Arre... this boy has not even got his first moustache. What work will he do?"
- "Sir! He can do everything. He can join couplings; he knows shunting, knows how to lock the points. Only you have to show mercy Sir"
Inspector sized up Yendayya from head to toe.
The "So it be" had not slipped from the Inspector's lips.
-"Sir he will do all errands in the morning and evening and can also tend to your garden if you wish"
-"Ok, let's see" The Inspector rose from his seat.
So, at the age of fifteen, Yeranna was hired as a substitute porter. In the books, it was written Yeranna, son of Yendayya, age eighteen years.
Yeranna had left studies after fifth standard. That is why from porter to points man, from points man to cabin man, his ascent to Shunting Jamadar had taken a long period of 30 years. Ten years back he had got his promotion as Station Shunting Jamadar and was posted to Manoharpur. Since then he had become one with the soul of the place. The railway station was a place of pilgrimage for him. The daily trip from colony to station, from station to siding, was for him a trip to a holy place and work of the railways like a religion. He ate, dreamt and slept railways. No wonder; he was the pet of Bade Babu, Chota Babu, Parcel Babu, Mal Babu etc. A life outside the railway station was unthinkable for him. Now that the time of reckoning was nearing, Yeranna had absolutely no idea of where to go and where to live after the day of retirement.
At Manoharpur, Yeranna wakes up to the sound of whistle of the goods train, then the whole day is spent in the station, where hours had passed into days, days into months and months into years, which Yeranna has kept no track of. Everyday new faces in the train, the variety of commuters with myriad dreams in their eyes passing through the station, had kept him rather fascinated; bangle wallas, pheriwalas, nautankias from Kolkata, contractors and traders from Mumbai; all sorts flitting in and out of Manoharpur; coolies, majdoors being exported from this station to Surat and Ahmedabad. Cries of chaiwala, badamwala, sobbing of new brides on their way to the in-laws' house and many such sounds added up to the atmosphere of the platform. Standing at the gate, in his khakhi uniform Yeranna soaks in the sights and sounds of the platform and squeals in delight.
Yaranna's wife was no more. His two grown up sons had set up their homes in Rourkela. The elder one was inducted into the railways by him. But in lure of a higher income he shifted to the Steel Plant, Rourkeia. The younger son also followed suit. These days; what kept him worrying was how to go and stay with the son's family in Rourkela after retirement.
Manoharpur station nestles at the end of Saranda jungle. In the night, the growl of cheetah can be heard in the station. In the day time peacocks send their high pitched call perched on the huge trees hemming the station. The tall Arjuna trees sport honey combs from their long limbs. The smell of mahul flowers wafts across from the back of colonies. A multihued fest of nature unfolds every day, an abundance Yeranna reveled at day after day and could not imagine exchanging for anything else in the world.
The last day of October. In the evening chairs and tables were laid down on the platform. A farewell function was organized in honour of Yeranna. Flanked by Station Master and Assistant Station Master on both sides Yeranna sat on the dais with a marigold garland hung from his neck. Many employees sang his praise. His commitment and loyalty to the institution of the Indian railways, his devotion to work, efficiency, and punctuality was eulogized while Yeranna kept silently sobbing like a child. He felt all his colleagues were not rail employees but like god send emissaries who are destined to work in this station. How to leave these people and where to go? Yeranna was distressed beyond words.
At the end, it was Yeranna's turn to speak. He stood up, folded his palms and said in a broken voice "Whole life I have lived in the station and grown up. Pulled levers, locked the points, and joined the couplings. I don't know how to talk. What shall I say? I have only one request. I cannot live elsewhere leaving the station. Please don't bar me from coming to the station".
In one voice all present said, "No, no! Why should anyone deny you from coming to the station? Whenever you feel like you can come here."
After the meeting ended the Station Master was sitting alone in his cabin. Yeranna went and stood with folded palms.
-"What happened Yeranna? You haven't gone home?"
-"I could not say in the meeting. To leave this place will be a big heart break for me. Can you please permit me to work here even though I am retired?
Station Master looked up a bit confused. He said "What work will you do?"
- Sir you know this; I have never been negligent to any of the work assigned to me; cabin work, siding work or what have you."
- "But these are all work related to safety "
- “Sir who knows more than me about these safety work?"
- "Not like that, to give such responsibility to retired staff would affect my position in case some higher ups come to know of it"
Yeranna was a bit unnerved. But he managed to say, "Sir, then I will ring the bell when the train arrives/ leaves. Please don't deny me this much Sir." He was pleading.
- "Will you not leave the quarters?"
- "Sir I have hired a jhopdi in the slum. I shall vacate the quarters and stay there"
One day. Line clear was granted to Down Saranda Passenger train. Yeranna wearing his khakhi uniform dutifully rang the long bell for line clear. After the train left the previous station Jareikala he rang the second bell. Then after the train crossed the station cabin he rang the third bell, which was a long one.
Generally the passenger trains leave after a halt of two to three minutes. Some passengers disembark. Some embark the train for their destination. That day the halt of ten minutes of Saranda Passenger train was a bit unusual. It made the passengers restless.
Saranda passenger is a commuter's train. Daily passengers use this train in the morning to go to their workplace. Some passengers came and enquired in the station.
-"Why is our train not leaving? "
- "First Geetanjali Express will leave." One staff member replied.
-"Our office time is getting delayed. You allow our train first."
The Station Master came and intervened. He said "This is control order. We cannot do anything."
Slowly other passengers joined in and gheraoed the Station Master. An altercation started. Some young men started shouting at him. The station Master remained firm in his stand. The dissatisfaction among the passengers snowballed. Some even went to the extent of damaging the telephone and other things in the Station Master's chamber.
Now the station resembled a battle field. The movement of angry protestors appeared like waves of a small tsunami. The station staff took to their heels. Some climbed the trees. Some escaped to the nearby busheries. Those who had bicycles sped away to their residential colonies. The chaiwalla of the stall hid under the plank of his wooden cabin.
Without the staff, chaos reigned supreme. Within minutes the mob started throwing things on to the railway track, the cups, saucers of the tea stall started flying like missiles and then were found rolling on the floor of the platform. The cap of the Station Master was flung to the track.
Yeranna who had gone to attend natures' call came back to see the platform turning into a mini battle field.
- "Hey Babus, what are you doing? The station property is your property".
-"Hey catch hold of this bugger, .... says station property is ours."
-"Come Babus, you wait. I will tell the control room. Your train will move first. Please calm down"; he was seen pleading with folded hands.
Then he picked up the control phone and started; "Hello Manoharpur, Manoharpur, calling from Manoharpur."
In the melee, the control phone had gone dead.
Now the collective ire of the mob turned towards Yeranna. Fisticuffs, kicks, slaps whatever the crowd felt like and was capable of, kept raining on poor Yeranna. The onslaught went on till Yeranna fell unconscious on the floor with blood oozing out of his wounds.
Yeranna was removed to Chakradharpur hospital. His sons after hearing the news came to see him from Rourkela. Some of the staff members attended to him in the hospital by turn.
Three weeks later Yeranna was discharged from the hospital.
While taking the train from Chakradharpur, his elder son said; "Bapa, you are coming with us to Rourkela, there is a big hospital there." The younger son said; "Yes, You have retired, you need not stay in Manoharpur now. You have not signed a bond to serve the railways for ever. Have you?" He was fuming with flared up nostrils.
Yeranna was morose inside. He kept quiet. The train crossed the Saranda tunnel. With closed eyes he lifted his two hands and prayed to some unknown God. He opened his eyes only when Posoita station receded into the background.
On the two sides of the train track was the thick forests of sal and mahogany. From the thickets were coming the sounds of the peacock and the monkey.
-"My sons, I want to say something."
- "Tell us what you want to say."
- "I cannot go to Rourkela and live there."
Before the elder son could say something, the younger son interjected; "Why? Why can't you stay in Rourkela? Why would you stay like a junglee in this jungle and get beaten up in good measure? What is wrong with Rourkela? Why are you so averse to it?"
"No Bapa, come with us. Who is there to look after you here? The elder son was persuading.
Yeranna was trying to explain. My entire life I gave to the railways. Was brought up by the railways. Walked along the tracks, ran on the platforms. This cabin lever, padlock, hand signal are like my toys. This station is a temple for me. The cries of birds in this place, like cuckoo, blue Jay sound like blowing of conch shells to my ears.
But not a word slipped from his mouth. His thoughts remained in the realm of thoughts only. They could hardly travel to his lips and find an utterance.
The train was chugging along the thick forest. There was a palpable silence in the compartment. The train was now nearing Manoharpur; Home signal was signaling that the train will be taken in the loop line.
For some reason the train stopped. Usually trains stop at this spot mostly due to pulling of chains. Vendors from the nearby villages with twigs for tooth brush, fire wood for kitchen, sal leaves for making of food plates, use this spot for transporting their wares to Rourkela.
Some of the station staff members at Manoharpur were waiting to welcome Yeranna at the station. The train slowly lumbered into the station. But Yeranna did not get down from the compartment. He was nowhere to be seen. Surprised, the two sons looked around in the compartment, but he was not around. Perplexed, they got down and searched for him in the platform and were wondering when the vanishing act took place.
The station master called his elder son and said; "You people go back to your place. Don't be worried for Yeranna; he must be somewhere around. He cannot stay without the hawapani of railways. Can the fish stay out of water for long?"
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Broken Nest’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - ORIGIN OF SHIVA LINGAM WORSHIP
Almost all religious followers believe in idol and/ pictorial worship. The Eastern religions like Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Chinese Folk, Taoism, Confucianism, Shintoism believe in and follow idol worship. Though Buddhism does not follow idol worship but many Mahayana Buddhists perform “rituals” to the idols. Judaism does not believe in idol worship. Sikhism, an Indian religion, does not believe in Idols but worships pictures of Sikh Gurus. Those pictures are garlanded with flowers, silk cloth, etc. Similarly, most Christians worship idols with exception of Pure Biblical and Protestant Christianity. They emphasize on the worship of large marble and golden idols, statues of Jesus, Mary, Father, Cross, etc. Eastern Christianity emphasizes on the idol worship. Central Asian religions like Zoroastrianism worship pictures of Farvarah and Zoroaster, though not Ahura Mazda. Even it involves doing some rites before idols of Zoroastrian Gods like Mithra. Yazidism worships idols of peacock and a deity close to Karthikeya / Muruga. Islam does not worship Idols but at least resembles worship to the big idol Kaaba. Muslims visit Mecca, bow before the Kaaba, chant gospels before the idol, go round it, consider it very sacred; the acts resemble Kaaba worship. In the East, they worship pictures of the Kaaba surrounded with a Moon, Star and Mohammad holding a sword with some Arabic words written over it. They are even garlanded and incenses are burnt near them. Such pictures are also available in Indian and Chinese Dargahs.
Idol worship in Hinduism
Idol worship is at the core of Hinduism. Idols have great religious and spiritual significance. All Hindu deities are themselves symbols of the abstract absolute and point to a particular aspect of the Brahman. The Trinity is represented by three Godheads namely Brahma - the creator, Vishnu - the protector, and Shiva - the destroyer. Each Hindu God and Goddess has many characteristics, like the dress, vehicle, weapons, etc., that are themselves symbols of the deity's power. Brahma holds the Vedas in his hands, which signifies that he has the supreme command over creative and religious knowledge. Vishnu holds a conch which stands for the five elements and eternity; a discus, which is the symbol of the mind; a bow that symbolizes power and a lotus which is the symbol of the cosmos. Shiva's trident represents the three gunas. Similarly, Krishna's flute symbolizes divine music. Many deities can be recognized by the symbols associated with them. Krishna can be identified by the peacock feather he wears in his head. Shiva is often symbolized by the lingam or tripundra - the three horizontal lines on his forehead.
A logo is a powerful symbol of a brand. A well-known company’s logo automatically identifies it with the company’s brand, even if there are no words to inform what it stands for. Symbols are very powerful means in worship. They remind us of God concerned and His deeds and the symbols inspire us to worship.
Origin of Shiva Lingam worship
According to the puranas (the Kurma Purana, the Vayu Purana andthe Shiva Purana), the legend on origin behind the Shiva Lingam is related to the Maha Shivaratri, a most significant festival of Hindus. The Shivaratri, a Hindu spiritual day in India and South East Asia is celebrated as the wedding day of Shiva and Parvati. For every Hindu temple, this is the day of the biggest Shiva worship of the year. Many of us know that Shiva is worshipped in the form of Shiva Lingam. It would be appropriate to know the available story in Hindu scriptures and beliefs which are behind Shiva Lingam worship.
Legend 1
This legend is mentioned in different scriptures and with some variations. It is the story of unsuccessful search to discover the Aadi (means beginning) and the Antha (means end) of Lord Shiva before the beginning of universe generation by Brahma and Vishnu. Finally they get confirmed about the supremacy of the Lord Mahadeva in the whole universe. According to the Puranas once Brahma and Vishnu were arguing with each other to prove each one more powerful than other one. Then the Supreme God Shiva was asked to intervene by other Gods. He decided to make everything clear between them. He assumed to create a flaming Lingam in between Brahma and Vishnu. He challenged both Brahma and Vishnu to search the beginning and the end of that flaming Lingam. One of them goes upper side and other one goes downside in searching for the end of flaming Lingam in order to establish each one’s supremacy over the other. Lord Brahma took a swan form and went upwards whereas Lord Vishnu took a Varaha form and went downwards. After searching for thousands of miles without any result both became fed up and returned. However, neither could find his appointed destination. Vishnu, satisfied, came up to Shiva and bowed down to him as a swarupa of Brahman. Brahm? did not give up so easily. As he was going up, he saw a ketaki flower, dear to Shiva, floating down. Ketaki told Shiva that she had been placed at the top of the Shiva flaming Lingam. Brahma’s ego forced him to ask the flower to bear false witness about Brahm?’s discovery of Shiva Lingam’s beginning. When Brahm? told his tale, Shiva, the all-knowing, became angry by the former’s ego. Shiva thus cursed him that no being in the three worlds will worship him. The flower of Ketaki, for bearing false witness, was cursed to be never used for the worship of Shiva. Vishnu admitted his failure to find the end of the flaming Lingam. Having heard both, Lord Shiva suddenly appeared in his full glory from the central part of the flaming pillar. He revealed the false statement of Brahma in front of Vishnu. Soon, both of them accepted the supremacy of Lord Shiva. He explained that both Brahma and Vishnu were born out of him. He also cursed the Ketaki flower for her wrong testifying and was banned forever to be used as an offering in any worship.
It was 14th day of dark fortnight of Phalgun month when Lord Shiva appeared himself in the form of a Lingam. (the day is an auspicious day for devotees), which is being celebrated as the Maha-shivaratri (means the grand night of Lord Shiva). Shiva Lingam is worshipped by the devotees on this festival with full belief and devotion in order to be blessed with happiness and prosperity
Legend 2
In hymn 4.6 of Shiva Puran the reason behind Shiva Lingam worship has been narrated and the same is briefly described. The sages curiously asked Sutaji about the purpose with which Parvati had decided to appear. Sutaji narrated the following story: Long ago, some sages used to do penance in a Shiva temple situated near Daruk forest. Shiva’s first wife had died and in his incredible sadness, he was roaming around restlessly, wandering alone in a forest, naked and like a madman. One day some sages went to collect woods needed for the Yangya. Lord Shiva wanted to test the devotion of sages’ wives, so he arrived before the sages’ wives in naked position holding his own phallus in his hand. The wives of the sages became frightened and attracted by Shiva’s appearance. When the sages returned after collecting woods, they became very furious to see a naked person luring their wives. They asked him to reveal his identity. When Shiva did not give any reply, they cursed him. The Phallus fell down from the hand of Lord Shiva and generated so much of heat that all the three worlds started to burn. The sages became very nervous and sought the help of Lord Brahma. Lord Brahma revealed to them that the person who they cursed was none other than Lord Shiva. He instructed them to please Goddess Parvati as she only could save them from Shiva’s wrath by appearing in the form of Vagina and holding the Phallus. The sages followed the instruction of Lord Brahma. Goddess Parvati appeared in the form of Vagina and held Shiva’s phallus in herself. The sages then worshipped the Shiva Lingam. This Shiva Lingam became famous by the name of “Haatkeshwar.”
Legend 3
There is another version in which the sages picked up stones and threw at him, which with their sharp edges cut off his phallus, so that fell down. No matter how exactly it happened, the phallus fell down to earth and where it fell, it stood erected as flaming Lingam and started burning like wildfire. Wherever it went it caused inferno and chaos. Bad things started happening in the world, as if the earth’s last day had arrived. Mountains burst, fire was spilling everywhere and people were in panic. Had the world come to its end? All Rishis went to Brahma, the creator of the world. He got to know what had happened and, together with everyone, reached Shiva. Everyone started pleading with him and praying: ‘Please, take your phallus back, it is destroying the world!’ Shiva was appeased by all these prayers and agreed, but with one condition: ‘Only if you start worshipping phallus, will he take it back!’ And that is how Shiva Lingams were installed across the earth in temples everywhere.
There is yet another small variation. In this version of the story, Shiva was already married to his second wife Parvati. He was nevertheless running around in the forest naked – not out of grief, just because he felt like it – and encountered the Rishis’ wives. They could not withstand the power of his attraction and hugged him. Their husbands were shocked and cursed his phallus, which promptly fell down, causing chaos and apocalyptic conditions all over the world. Everyone got together in crisis to find a solution. Who could catch Shiva’s phallus and hold on to it? Where should it go once captured? Oh yes, once the idea was found, it was very clear: only Parvati would be able to hold Shiva’s phallus in her! They all prayed to Parvati and that’s how it was done. That is how a Shiva Lingam was worshipped.
What Shiva Lingam represents?
Lingam as interpreted in the Shaiva Siddhanta tradition (a major school of Shaivism) comprises of two parts –(i) the upper part and (ii) the lower parts and are respectively named as Parashiva and Parashakti. In Wikipedia there is reference to Lingam (Sanskrit: ????? “sign, symbol or mark"), sometimes is referred to as an abstract or an iconic representation of Shiva in Shaivism. It is typically the primary murti or devotional image in temples dedicated to Shiva, also found as self-manifested natural objects. "Lingam" is additionally found in Sanskrit texts with the meaning of "evidence or proof" of God and God's existence. Lingam iconography found at archaeological sites of the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia which includes simple cylinders set inside a yoni; mukhalinga rounded pillars with carvings such as of one or more mukha (faces); and anatomically realistic representations of a phallus. In the Shaivite traditions, the Lingam is regarded as a form of spiritual iconography.
There is a great deal of misconception about the Lingam representing the phallus but the truth is that except in the Tantrik way of worship, the Lingam does not have anything remotely connected with the worship of genitals. The Sanskrit word ‘linga’ means a ‘mark’ or ‘symbol’ and is applied equally to both male and female forms. We remember that in any Indian language lessons at the school we learn that ‘Pu-linga’ or Purush Linga is the male gender and the corresponding term for the female gender is ‘Stree-Linga’. Here, Stree-linga is something that can be symbolized as female. It can be an actual female or a thing that can be considered as a female like a river etc. Similarly, Pul-linga is something that can be symbolized as male. Hence, it can be easily deducted that Shiva Lingam is a symbolization of Shiva.
There is a mysterious or indescribable power (or Shakti) in the Lingam. It is believed to induce concentration of the mind and help focus one's attention. That is why the ancient sages and saints of India prescribed Lingam to be installed in the temples of Lord Shiva. For a sincere devotee, the Lingam is not merely a block of stone, it is all-radiant. It talks to him, raises him above body-consciousness, and helps him communicate with the Lord. Lord Rama worshiped the Shiva Lingam at Rameshwaram. Ravana, the learned scholar, worshiped the golden Linga for its mystical powers. Practitioners in healing crystals and rocks believe the Shiva Lingam to be among the most powerful. It is said to bring balance and harmony to those who carry it and have great healing energy for all seven chakras. The Lingam is a symbol of creation. The "Linga Purana" says that the foremost Lingam is devoid of smell, colour, taste, etc., and is spoken of as Prakriti, or nature itself. In the post-Vedic period, the Lingam became symbolical of the generative power of Lord Shiva. The Lingam is like an egg and represents the Brahmanda (the cosmic egg). Lingam signifies that the creation is affected by the union of Prakriti and Purusha, the male and the female powers of nature. It also signifies Satya, Jnana, and Ananta—Truth, Knowledge, and Infinity.
Clarification of myths
The common myth among people is that the Shiva Lingam indicates the male genital organ. This is misinterpretation. The misleading, irrelevant and baseless interpretation was done post Vedic period when India came under foreign rulers and the Indian Vedic and spiritual literature came into the hands of the foreign researchers Thus Shiva lingam is just a differentiating icon and certainly not a sex symbol. The Linga Purana states that:
[This means that the Lingam is devoid of colour, taste, hearing or touch and is considered as prakriti or nature].
Another belief among the people is that lord Shiva is destroyer only as part of Trinity in Hinduism. However the nature itself is a Lingam or symbol of the Lord. The Shiva Lingam is a clear mark of Shiva who is the creator, sustainer and the destructor – all three life qualities of nature. It is appropriate to refer to the Skanda Purana which depicts that the whole universe is created from the supreme Shiva and it finally gets submerged there.
[This means that the endless sky is the Linga and the earth is the base. And at the end of it all exist the entire universe and all the Gods finally merge into the Lingam from where it originated.]
Contrary to the general belief, it is not just Shiva who is worshipped in this form but many of the Shakti temples also have the deity as small, conical or oval-shaped stones. So how did the identification of Shiva with the stone lingam begin? The Atharvaveda mentions the ‘Skambha’ or pillar as a manifestation of the eternal Brahman. (Hymn 7 of Book 10 of Atharvaveda is dedicated to the cosmic pillar that forms the axis of the universe). He, who has the form of the Agni Lingam or Jwala-Lingm is termed as 'Skambha' in Atharva Veda primarily because everything is created from him (his jwala-lingam), hence he is the Supreme master of everything as there is no other master above him.
Hymn VII book 10 of Atharva Veda - Skambha, the Pillar or Fulcrum of all existence
“Which of his members is the seat of Fervour: Which is the base
of Ceremonial Order? Where in him standeth Faith? Where Holy Duty? Where, in what part of him is truth implanted?
Out of which member glows the light of Agni? Form which proceeds the breath of M?tarisvan? From which doth Chandra measure out his journey, travelling
over Skambha's mighty body?
Which of his members is the earth's upholder? Which gives the
middle air a base to rest on?
Where, in which member is the sky established? Where hath
the space above the sky its dwelling?....”
The above verses show us the uncertainty that plagued the mind of the composer which gets further highlighted in the story from the Shiva Puran that co-relates this Skambha with Shiva. This scripture tells us the story of the time when Lord Brahma and Vishnu were debating about which of them was actually greater in position. While they were arguing, a massive pillar of fire (Agni Stambha) emerged between them going deep into the earth as well as rising high into the sky. The appearance of Shiva from the cosmic pillar of Fire is known as the Ling-odbhava form which means ‘emerging from the lingam’ and this Agni Stambha form of Lord Shiva took the form of a Shiva Linga. Even the Linga Purana describes this as a symbolic representation of God in the Nirguna or aniconic form. Shivalinga is nothing but a representation of that cosmic pillar on which we can concentrate (like on flame) and attribute our Shiva-emotions. That is why it is also called Jyotirlinga. Jyoti is the light that takes away the darkness inside us. The path of enlightenment leads to divine brilliance. This Jyoti is a representation of that Agni, by which that cosmic pillar was made up of.
What does a Shiva Lingam look like?
A Shiva Linga consists of three parts. The lowest of these is called the Brahma-Pitha; the middle one, the Vishnu-Pitha; the uppermost one, the Shiva-Pitha. These are associated with the Hindu pantheon of gods: Brahma (the Creator), Vishnu (the Preserver), and Shiva (the Destroyer). The typically circular base or peetham (Brahma-Pitha) holds an elongated bowl-like structure (Vishnu-Pitha) reminiscent of a flat teapot with a spout that has had the top cut off. Within the bowl rests a tall cylinder with a rounded head (Shiva-Pitha). It is in this portion of the Shiva Linga that many people see a phallus. The Shiva Linga is most often carved from stone. In Shiva Temples, they can be quite large, towering over devotees, though Lingam can also be small, close to knee-height. Many are adorned with traditional symbols or elaborate carvings, though some are somewhat industrial looking or relatively plain and simple.
Architecture of Shiva Lingam, as per Temple Purohit web site is in the following figure:
Shiva Lingam is the holy, spiritual and divine symbol of lord Shiva and all Shiva temples have Shiva Lingam. Why Lingam is worshipped? It is believe that god does not have any definite form and being omnipresent he is the most powerful. Shiva Lingam is icon of Shiva. Shiva Lingam is rounded, elliptical iconic image set on a circular base or Peetham or the Parashakthi, the manifesting power of the God. The Lingams are usually made up of stone some of which are carved accordingly while the others are naturally existing called the Svayambhu and gets shaped by a swift flowing river. Some Lingams can also be made of metal, precious stones, gems, wood or transitory material like ice. Some literatures believe that the transitory Shiva Lingams can be made from 12 different materials like from sand, rice, cooked food, river clay, cow dung, butter, rudraksha seeds, ashes, sandalwood, darbha grass, a flower garland or molasses. The supreme lord does not have any form and in fact every form is his form. Just like how when we see smoke we know that there is fire, the very moment we see a Shiva Lingam we can visualise the presence of the ultimate and supreme lord Shiva.
The Holiest Shiva Lingams of India
Of all the Shiva Lingas in India, a few stand out as holding the most importance. There are 12 Jyotir-lingas and five Pancha-bhuta Lingas in India.
- Jyotir-lingas: Found in Kedarnath, Kashi Vishwanath, Somnath, Baijnath, Rameswar, Ghrusneswar, Bhimshankar, Mahakal, Mallikarjun, Amaleshwar, Nageshwar, and Tryambakeshwar
- Pancha-bhuta Lingas: Found in Kalahastishwar, Jambukeshwar, Arunachaleshwar, Ekambareshwar of Kanjivaram, and Nataraja of Chidambaram.
The temple of Lord Mahalinga at Tiruvidaimarudur, known also as Madhyarjuna, is regarded as the great Shiva temple of South India.
The Quartz Shiva Linga- The Sphatika-linga is made of quartz. It is prescribed for the deepest kind of worship of Lord Shiva. It has no colour of its own but takes on the colour of the substance which it comes in contact with. It represents the Nirguna Brahman, the attribute-less Supreme Self or the formless Shiva.
What types of Shiva Lingam exist?
As per Karanagamam, one of the Agama Shastras, the Shiva lingams are classified into different types depending on how they came into existence. These have been described in Tamil in Agama Shastras as follows –
1. Swayambhu
Swayambhu lingams are believed to have been self-manifested.
2. Daiviga / Dhivya
Daiviga lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by Goddess Parvathy and other celestial Gods. They continue to exist in the present day on earth, but their origin is traditionally ascribed to the Gods.
3. Manusha
Manusha lingams have been installed by human patrons (rulers, chieftains, wealthy people etc.) in historical times.
4. Arshaga
Arshaga lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by sages (like Agasthiyar).
5. Rakshasa
Rakshasa lingams are believed to have been installed and worshipped by Asuras and Daityas (demons) for example, Lingam installed by Ravana.
Other types of Shiva Lingams
There are further varieties of Lingams known by the material from which Lingams have been constituted. The following 32 varieties are noticed and worshiped:-
- Ashtaloha Lingam : Ashtaloha Lingam is made of eight metals and cures leprosy.
- Vaidurya Lingam : Vaidurya Lingam is made of a precious stone called Vaiduryam – Lapis and protects one from the enemy’s arrogant attack.
- Spatika Lingam : Spatika Lingam is made of Crystal and bestows fulfilment of all desires.
- Padara Lingam : Padara Lingam is made of mercury and bestows inestimable fortune.
- Trapu Lingam : Trapu Lingam is made of Tagara metal and makes one’s life free from enemies, if adored.
- Ahasa Lingam : Ahasa Lingam is made of Vitriol of sulphate and relives one from the menace of enemies.
- Seesa Lingam : Seesa Lingam is made of Lead and makes the adorer invulnerable to foes.
- Ashtadhtu Lingam : Ashtadhtu Lingam is made of minerals and bestows sarvasiddhi – all super natural powers.
- Navaneetha Lingam : Navaneetha Lingam is made of pure butter and confers fame and wealth.
- Durvakadaja Lingam or Garika Lingam : Durvakadaja Lingam or Garika Lingam is made of a type of grass – Argostis linaries and saves the adorer from untimely or accidental death.
- Karpura Lingam : Karpura Lingam is made of camphor and bestows emancipation.
- Ayaskanta Lingam : Ayaskanta Lingam is made of magnet and confers Siddhi – super natural powers.
- Mouktika Lingam : Mouktika Lingam is made of ashes obtained by burning pearls and confers auspiciousness and fortune.
- Suvarna Lingam : Suvarna Lingam is made of gold and confers Mukti – deliverance of Soul from body.
- Rajita Lingam: Rajita Lingam is made of silver and confers fortune.
- Pittala Lingam or Kamsya Lingam: Pittala or Kamsya Lingam is made of brass and bell metal alloy and confers the release of soul from body.
- Bhasma Lingam : Bhasma Lingam is made of ash and confers all desirable merits.
- Guda Lingam or Sita Lingam: Guda Lingam or Sita Lingam is made of Jaggery or Sugar and confers blissful life when adored.
- Vamsankura Lingam: Vamsankura Lingam is made of tender leaves of bamboo, and confers a long line of genealogy.
- Pishta Lingam : Pishta Lingam is made of rice flour and blesses the adorer with education.
- Dahdhidhughda Lingam : Dahdhidhughda Lingam is made of milk and curd on separating the entire quantity of water, and blesses the adorer with property and happiness.
- Dhanya Lingam : Dhanya Lingam is made of grain and blesses bumper crops to the adorer.
- Phala Lingam : Phala Lingam is made of fruits and blesses the owner of orchards with good crops of fruits.
- Dhatri Lingam : Dhatri Lingam is made of a kind of acid fruit – phyllanthus Emblica and bestows liberation.
- Gandha Lingam : Gandha Lingam is made of Chandanam (sandal wood paste), three parts of Kumkumam and two parts of musk. Size determines the quantity and cost to be put in but the ratio remains constant. If worship is made to this Lingam, one gets blessed with Shivasayujyamukti – merging Jeevatma with Paramatma when one is consciousness. The cycle of birth and death comes to an end.
- Pushpa Lingam : Pushpa Lingam is made of various kinds of fresh, fragrant, multi-coloured pleasant flowers which blesses the adorer with kingship and acquisition of land.
- Gosakru Lingam : Gosakru Lingam is made of dung of brown coloured cow. The adorer will be blessed with wealth, if he worships the Lingam.
- Valuka Lingam : Valuka Lingam is made of fine sand and the worship confers the status of Vidhyakara, belonging to one of the denominations of worshipful angels, besides Shiva Sayujya Prapti.
- Yavagodhumasali Lingam : Yavagodhumasali Lingam is made of rice, maize and wheat flour, and if adored, it confers Sntana Prapti (blessing of child) in addition to wealth.
- Sitakhanda Lingam : Sitakhanda Lingam is made of Sugar candy and blesses the adorer with robust health and disease free easy life.
- Lavana Lingam : Lavana Lingam is made of salt mixed with powder of Hartal and Trikatukala.
- Tilapista Lingam : Tilapista Lingam is made with the paste of gingely (til) seeds, the desires are fulfilled, if worshipped.
Many of us visit Jyothirlingas to Lord Shiva’s blessings. When Adi Shankaracharya visited Kashi Viswanath Jyothirlinga he was spiritually overwhelmed and Adi Shankaracharya had the divine message which we all should know - “Forgive me Oh, Shiva! My three great sins! I came on a pilgrimage to Kashi forgetting that, you are omnipresent. In thinking about you, I forgot that you are beyond thought. In praying to you, I forgot that you are beyond words.”
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.
The house I live in is like a fish bowl. Neighbours can see into my living room, my dining room, my kitchen. Even my bedroom is accessible.
Yesterday when I was drinking water a portion went the wrong way and into my windpipe. I stared coughing. It was a dry sounding cough, so dry that the sound surprised me too. Strange I thought. I have never sounded like this. It was raspy. It was sudden. And I certainly did not sound as if I had a cold. And the cough persisted for long and try as I might I could not clear my throat and get the drizzle out of my windpipe. So I continued to cough and noisily clear my throat. And cough. And clear my throat. Loudly.
My neighbours heard me. I did not mean for them to hear. I was just not aware of their presence. Years of proximity in every which way has made me immune even in thought.
Later, after my coughing died down, I stepped outside. My neighbour to the right, was watering her plants but chose to quickly go inside without eye contact. She left her hose running with water. Even in the midst of this water shortage I thought.
My neighbour to the left, when I passed him on my dog-walk ritual, looked at me in alarm, his eyes pools of white, quickly turned his back and whipped out his mobile pretending to talk.
Of course I may be imagining all this. The first neighbour may well have had a sudden urge to answer a call of nature. The second may well have forgotten to place that order to sell all his shares in the wake of all this uncertainty and stock markets plummeting.
But then again me thinks it is the WUHAN effect!
Mrs Mondayr! Fourth Standard. Army Public School. New Delhi. She used to drive to school in a Padmini. Big deal those days when most were tooling around in Vespas.
Well obviously she was from a well to do family. Tall and graceful. At that age, of course, everyone seemed tall. . But Mondayr had poise. And when she put on her dark glasses before firing up her Padmini the class would swoon. Including the girls!
We also had a Hindi teacher. Replete with a ‘Choti’ that was tied into a small insignificant knot at the back of his head. That’s because “I am a pundit” he’d remind us everyday. “Don’t lie to the pundit. “Submit your homework to the pundit. “
He’d often be seen in a dhoti, the end of which would run between his legs and make the dhoti a separate wrap around his two legs. A pukka pundit with his salwar.
Anyway one day Miss Mondayr came into our class and after taking attendance told us that she had given a “lift” to the pundit to his home since he lived on the way. Apparently he was most grateful and thanked her profusely all the way.
All the way he could not but help express his gratitude in words bordering on “enough already”. When he got to where he was supposed to get off he thanked her one last time in a flourish.
Miss Mondayr said, dismissively and glad that his home had come said, “Oh Sir. don’t mention it”.
To this the pundit exclaimed in a hush, “oh. You can be rest assured madam! I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. It is a secret between us”.
And quickly departed.
She said that would be the last time she gave him a “lift”. Nine-year olds we were and we laughed.
Miss Mondayr! Where are you now? I need a lift to my home!
Jairam Seshadri returned from North America where he worked for several decades as a chartered accountant in senior positions in well established organisations. He now lives in Chennai with the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity with a smile on his mien induced by his three dogs. His legacy, he believes, will be his WOOF SONGS AND THE ETERNAL SELF SABOTEUR, a collection of poems dedicated to the memory of his three four-legged companions.
Date: 16th September 1979
Time: 7.45 pm in the evening
Place: Byree, my native village
That's the evening the most unfortunate, fateful and unforgettable event occurred in my life. Words fall short to narrate the notoriety of the event which of course, in course of time, established some milestones in the history of the locality.
The flow of events was like this. I was doing my post graduation in Pediatrics in SCB Medical College, Cuttack. The examination was completed in last week of August 1979. During my post graduation I had appeared in Odisha Public Service Commission (OPSC) and had been selected for the post of Assistant Surgeon in Odisha Peripheral Health Cadre in February 1979. I was posted in Pastikudi PHC of Kalahandi district and was asked to join within 15 days of the notification. As our Post-graduate course was not over, the Government was kind enough to allow us to join immediately after completion of our Post- graduate examination. My post-graduate course was over in the last week of August and after completing all the formalities in the College I returned to my native village in the first week of September to prepare myself for joining duty at my place of posting. I wanted to take some rest and pass some time with my family, to meet near and dear ones before proceeding to my place of posting which was around 500 km away from my place. Prior to that I had undergone 11 years of hard continuous study from 1968 to 1979 at Cuttack (2 years in Ravenshaw College, 6 years undergraduate and 3 years post graduate study in SCB Medical College). I decided to join my place of posting on Tuesday, the 18th of September and planned to board the Cuttack Bhawanipatna Bus on 17th. But the Almighty had altogether a different plan for me and the unanticipated event occurred just one day prior to my journey.
Ours was a big family consisting of 8 brothers (5 cousin brothers, and we the 3 brothers ), my widowed mother, one widowed sister, 6 sisters in law, their children, my wife and my bachelor younger brother. Our house was a closely knit thatched house like a court yard with three entry and exit doors and another two storeyed building, both in the same closed compound and separated by a narrow passage in between, surrounded with thorny wall. We, three brothers were in joint family and my cousin brothers were separated and had their independent establishments in the house complex. There was a drawing room used by we three brothers facing directly to the village road.
Our village was connected to Cuttack City by rail route and several passenger trains used to run on the route from Puri to Howrah. On that dreadful evening my maternal uncle came by Puri Howrah Passenger train and reached our house at 7.20 pm. I received him with all our traditional custom. While I was washing his feet before entering the household, I noticed some unknown people, may be 8 to 9, proceeding towards our house in a row. My younger brother was a contractor and had 20-25 people employed in his establishment. I didn't give much importance to these people as I thought probably they were employees of my younger brother and had come to meet him for some work. But to my horror they didn't stop at the gate. Dividing themselves into two groups, one group entered the open passage and through another entrance entered the interior of the house. From the other group, one person armed with a pistol forced both of us into the drawing room on gun point, threatening us not to shout and remain silent lest he would kill both of us. My uncle, an elderly person remained silent but I resisted. He reacted with a blow by the butt of the gun on my forehead causing a bleeding wound. I was wearing a kurta and a dhoti in the South Indian style . He pulled out the dhoti and with that tied both of my hands in the back. Then he left after bolting the door from outside and joined others in the interior of the house.
Both the groups started looting money and ornaments after breaking the almirahs and cupboards. In the meantime one of my cousin brothers and the widowed sister who were upstairs of the attached two storeyed building bolted their doors from inside and shouted at the top of their voice through the window urging the neighbours to come forward for help as dacoity was going on in the house. The ladies, who were present in the house cried loudly and shouted for help. One person from the other group was guarding the passage and the entrance from our side and had already made two blank fires at the persons proceeding to encounter the dacoits threatening to kill them if they proceed further. Taking advantage of the situation, my uncle released my hands and I was free to move and was prepared to take any step.
Our villagers are very brave and daring. Though they fight frequently among themselves, at the time of occurrence of adversity in the village by intruders, they get united forgetting their differences and fight tooth and nail with the culprits. This time also, they came to our rescue. In a very short time the news of loot and armed dacoity in our house spread like wild fire in the village. The villagers came out in large numbers to tackle the situation. They made a calculated plan. People in large numbers gathered in front of our house threatening the dacoit guarding the main entrance and forced him to focus his attention on them. On the other side, one of our brave neighbours who was well acquainted with the geography of our house and was a leprosy patient undergoing treatment, accepted the risk of sacrificing his life and from the back of our house crawled on the ground and pulled the leg of the miscreant forcing him to fall forward. Then like a wrestler he sat on his back. Seeing this favorable situation, the other villagers caught hold of the dacoit, snatched the pistol from him and entered into the house to tackle others.
Hearing the voices of our neighbours I gathered courage and managed to enter the other unlocked room by slipping through the gap between the separating wall and the thatched roof. Fortunately at that time I was unnoticed by the dacoit, who was with the gun and had injured me, standing barely a few feet away looking in other direction. With the lathi (hard stick) I had collected from the other room I gave a forceful blow on his head, grounding him. The pistol slipped from his hand and was collected by another neighbour. All the villagers surrounded the house from all directions and captured all the 8 dacoits present inside and beat them mercilessly inflicting grievous injuries on them.
In the meantime some villagers, using the land phone in the railway station, informed the Officer- in-charge of Badachana Police Station which was 13 km away from my village. Receiving the information, immediately one team of police personnel led by Mr Kulamani Deo, the probationary IPS Officer posted there for training, started for our village but by the time they reached our village the villagers had locked all the eight injured dacoits in a room.
After reaching the spot, the efficient police officer went into action and took control of the situation. Out of the eight dacoits, one person was identified as Ajaya Nayak, an inhabitant of our village. During interrogation the officer discovered that actually 9 dacoits had entered the house out of which eight were captured by the villagers and one dacoit had escaped from the spot. On the way to our village the officer had already managed to seal all the routes to our village to prevent escape of the dacoits from the scene of occurence. So anticipating that the dacoit could not have escaped and was still in the vicinity, a thorough search was made with powerful search lights. In a few minutes the missing dacoit was located hidden in the branches of a mango tree in the nearby paddy fields. He was threatened with a blank fire by the officer and he came down. After a search, three golden necklaces were found in his possession. The officer seized the articles and brought the culprit to the house.
The condition of four of the dacoits was grave and they were referred to SCB Medical College at Cuttack. But one of the dacoits died on the way to the hospital.
The police interrogation further revealed that there was another dacoit who was guarding the belongings of the group hardly half a kilometer away from my village near the foot of the hill surrounding our village. Terrified by the hallagula in the village he had stealthily escaped from the spot and could not be traced. Then the toughest interrogation began and it was revealed that Ajay Nayak, the person from our village, was the mastermind and had planned everything. He brought this gang from West Bengal to carry out the dacoity. He had shared all the information regarding our family with them. Before committing this heinous crime he had rehearsed thrice with the gang how to carry out the dacoity. As a doctor I had treated him and his family members many a times in the past. On one occasion during my post graduate study I had helped him to get rid of a deadly disease by getting him admitted in Medical College Hospital and spending money from my own pocket. Hardly four days prior to the dacoity he had met me at my house and consulted me regarding his health. Probably this meeting was a part of his plan to carry out the dacoity. What a treacherous and heinous act! He tried to loot the family of his savior. This is the darkest side of human nature.
Mr. Deo was an efficient Police Officer. He continued the investigation in a flawless manner. Some of our family members and some villagers were injured in the tussle. I took all of them in the police vehicle to Badachana Primary Health Center for their treatment and recording the injury for producing in the Court afterwards. All the procedures were completed in due course of time and the arrested culprits were forwarded to the Court. They were denied bail and sent to judicial custody. The trial of the case started and all of us attended the court as witnesses to give evidence. The case was proved beyond doubt, the culprits were found guilty and were punished with imprisonment. After their punishment was over Ajay Nayak never returned to our village for fear of being beaten to death by the irate villagers.
On the recommendation of Mr Deo and strong public demand one Police Outpost was opened in our village after a few months and in due course it was upgraded to a full fledged Police Station. The police officers' shooting training range near our village has since been upgraded to Police Training Institute. The main person, the leprosy patient who nabbed the first dacoit and held him to the ground, was treated meticulously and was cured. Two other young youths who acted in an exemplary way during the dacoity episode were selected as constables and absorbed in police service.
What a paradoxical situation! On one hand the person, who was most benefited by me, tried to loot the family and on the other hand our villagers who also I helped during my nine years of study at Medical College turned out to be our savior. This is the true picture of uncertainty of human nature and even the Almighty is not aware of the deed of an ordinary man.
And last but not the least, even till today can I forget this real Encounter which looks very much like the story of a hindi movie ? Certainly not.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo,MD (Pediatrics) is a retired Joint Director Grade 1 of Health and Family Welfare Department of Government of Odisha and now a practicing Pediatrician at Vyasnagar, the Steel City of Odisha. Besides being an eminent Pediatrician of Odisha he is also a prolific writer in Odia. He pens down the real happenings around him and his characters are his patients, the parents and his colleagues. He has contributed a book in Odia " BABU SAHOO KALAMARU " which is an unique characterisation of human values and nature and is adored by one and all. He is also a Columnist in Health Problems and writing on different aspects of current health issues since last several years in a local monthly Newspaper " The Kalinga Nagara Bulletin". He has represented the state in several National Platforms. He has a record number of 24 Awards, Local, State and National, noteworthy being PURBANCHAL SISHU BISESANGYA SHIROMANI AWARD 2017 and MAHATMA GANDHI AWARD 1997 by Government of Odisha. He is Life member of many Organisations including Indian Medical Association, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and National Neonatology Forum. At present he is State President of both, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and Pediatrics Allergy and Applied Immunology Chapter.
Sabi was getting late. The sun had already climbed over the head, but she had not reached the field. Hurriedly, she took Bhola in her arms and proceeded with a basket on her head, carrying food for Satura, her husband. She speeded up her walk thinking about Satura, how hungry and thirsty he might be, as he had left home in the wee hours before dawn with the plough-ridden bullocks.
The paddy fields extended for about two kilometers from the village boundary upto the mango grove near the mighty river. A long stretch of unruly green forest, containing varieties of mango trees, many species of tropical bushes, trees and woods separated the river from the paddy fields. The river used to be the life-line of the residents of the nearby villages as the inhabitants depended on it for their multipurpose needs, drinking water and irrigation for the fields as well .
On seeing Sabi and Bhola, Satura unchained the bullocks from the plough and goaded them to the nearby water body so that they could graze and relax. Sabi made arrangement for serving the meals in the utensils carried by her. The meals usually contained watery rice locally called “pakhal”, some leafy vegetables, home made pickles, a round piece of onion and salt. Bhola was keen to help his mother, but Satura took him in his lap and began to feed him the homely feast. “Do you remember, how we had met in the mango groves before our marriage?", Satura asked Sabi. “You came along with your village friends and I was on the mango tree busy in plucking mangoes. You all pleaded with me to share my collection with you and I had to pluck more magoes for you all”. Sabi shyly nodded her head and gave a meaningful smile to Satura which helped him to forget his physical and mental stress instantly.
A big banyan tree, standing on the narrow terrain of a rivulet which merged in the nearby river, was a silent witness to the romances of Sabi and Satura. But nobody dared to come near the tree as the villagers considered that ghosts were residing there. Only a large flock of Indian cranes and hornbills made this tree their home during most part of the year.
By the village standards, those who had the luxury of having rice meals three times a day were considered lucky. But that could be possible due to the hard work of people like Satura, who was not a land owner, but a share cropper of about ten acres of others’ land. His land owners were happy to see a good yield and better return on their land because of Satura’s meticulous planning and hard labour. They preferred to lease the lands to Satura for a longer duration.
The small world of Sabi was running smoothly by the grace of God. Bhola was the gift of God. Whenever, they shared time with each other, Satura and Sabi had a vision of their son’s future. Satura used to claim that he would send his son to school and see him pass the matriculation exam from the nearby High school. He had a dream to see him as a school master in his vision of horizon.
In the rural social set up, passing matriculation is a great achievement. Satura had not gone to school at all and received training on farming from his childhood as his father passed away when he was hardly five years of old. Sabi had attended class for about three years but dropped out at the as per prevailing social practice. So grooming their son up to matriculation was a clear vision which the proud parents could visualize .
Years passed on and Bhola enrolled as a student at the village lower primary school. The parents used to be in cloud nine when he stepped out for the school in the morning, initially accompanied by Sabi. The time rolled on. But the village social fabric was not good enough to allow a smooth running of time. The neighbors, who struggled to get a square meal a day, became jealous of others whose life was smooth. Another big villain with vulture and hawking eyes was the village money lender, Fakira. He could not tolerate any one who was self dependent and who never looked towards his credit line. He always focussed his hawkish eyes on others’ land, properties, jewelleries and of course, on beautiful women. Satura’s smooth life did not go to his mind easily and he was always looking for an opportunity to dispossess him of all his belongings. Some unscrupulous neighbors bonded with Fakira and searched for teaching a lesson to Satura for leading a happy, content life.
One fine morning, the priest of Gopinathjew Temple made a cacophonic cry announcing that the Hundi of the temple had been broken and the miscreants have taken away the cash and other offerings of the villagers. The village Head made a complaint at the nearby Police station. The police came for investigation, took out some photos and foot prints but could not come to any conclusion immediately.
After a couple of days, a strange thing happened. Fakira and some misguided neighbors of Satura invited a black magician to the village to find out the thief through the power of black magic. Most of the villagers were too gullible to disbelieve these type of Tantric acts. The black magician used a cot to be carried by four youths and cot was to be powered by a Spirit, under the command of the Tantric, to go up to house of the burglar. The villagers assembled to watch the supernatural, traumatic display of black magic. The Cot was made ready and was carried by four able bodied youths on their shoulders. The Black magician murmured something, beating the cot with a cane, and the cot started circling around for some time. Later the cot appeared moving forward with great force and stopped near the house of Satura.
The Black magician declared Satura was the real culprit and Fakira made the announcement running through the village. Although, many did not believe that Satura would have committed the crime, but they did not have the courage to go against the findings of the black magic. Life became difficult for Satura and Sabi to convince others, who were directed to disconnect the social bond with them. Bhola was afraid to play on the muddy roads along with his friends. In the school, Bhola was insulted by his class mates and it was unbearable on the part of his parents. Finally, Satura decided to leave the village, surrendering lands to the respective land owners, who never believed that Satura could have committed the crime. They had enough faith in Satura, but openly could not go against the call by the villagers to boycott the family.
On a serene morning, Satura, Sabi left the village holding the hand of Bhola, with their paltry belongings to the nearby town carrying tons of sorrow and tear inside them. But Sabi was consoling Satura that truth would be revealed and they would definitely come back to their home one day. Though Satura had a blurred vision of the horizon on the future of Bhola, Sabi did not lose hope. She insisted on the continuation of Bhola's studies. She did not allow the curtain to fall before her vision.
Satura could manage getting a small work through the help of his distant relatives who lived in the outskirts of the nearby township. They rented a dilapidated house in the vicinity and Sabi, through her feminine skills, could convert it to become their new home for sometime. Bhola was admitted to a primary section of a “Basti” school. By dent of his determination and labour, Satura could increase his earnings and he now enjoyed the company of the neighboring city dwellers of the “Basti’.
In the mean time, the Police who investigated the burglary at the village temple found the real thief and apprehended the temple priest for that crime. In the police station, the priest admitted his role in breaking up the ‘Hundi', removing the money, jewellery and other contentsp. He also confessed that the money was taken by him, but he had pledged the jewelry before Fakira, the unscrupulous money lender. The matter was solved by the police and the two culprits, i,e, the priest and Fakira were handcuffed and made to march for about 15 miles to reach the court the subsequent day, escorted by two constables. The villagers watched with amusement the scene of the real culprits being handcuffed and made to march under the hot sun.
Although the news spread like wild fire and reached Satura and Sabi, they did not venture to return to the village which had disowned them for no fault of theirs. City life had merits and demerits in equal proportions. One could have easy access to money, but spending needed a balancing act. Often, the gullible minds were designed to stray away from their normal habits and characters.
Satura’s newly bonded company tried their best to divert his mind to attractive pleasures like drinking and other associated vices. He was seen returning late to the family and developed a habit of quarreling with Sabi. She was shocked at the sudden turn in the habits of Satura. For Bhola, it became rare to get the company of his father and he missed him. But Satura was in the firm grip of a “Shaitan”. For Sabi it was more unbearable than the humiliation they had received in their village.
Sabi started packing up the household materials and asked Bhola to get ready to go back to the village. Satura was not keen at the sudden decision of Sabi. But seeing Sabi and Bhola leaving him alone and proceeding to the bus stand, he grudgingly followed them. The villagers and the neighbors were too happy to welcome back the family. The Land lords whose lands were surrendered earlier by Satura, came forward and requested him to take charge, as a share cropper, as before. The two bullocks and the plough were returned to the family by a neighbor care taker of their house.
For Sabi it was a challenge how to tread on their life backwards and reestablish her family. Satura had become alcoholic and had no liking for farming now. She was out of her wits when Bhola sat before her and assured that he can take up the farming like his father. On hearing this, Sabi’s earth began trembling below her feet and the vision she had on the horizon about Bhola’s future suddenly looked blurred as if a long curtain had engulfed the sky. She could not sleep that night shedding copious tears on the bed.
Morning was always hectic for the farmers and the primary school goers. Sabi could not look at Bhola, who instead of wearing the school uniform, was wearing his casuals, ready to go for farming along with the pair of bullocks. Barely had he stepped out, when Satura saw him and came running. He could not relish the view and began shouting at Bhola. He immediately took charge of the bullocks and asked Bhola to proceed to the school as usual .He hugged Bhola and asked him not to abandon his studies till he completes his Matriculation.
The tears of sorrow turned into happy tears in the eyes of Sabi, who thanked the Village Deity for having saved her family. The curtains, which had blocked the horizon lifted up, making the vision clear in her eyes.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
Edited by Sreekumar K
(Photo Courtesy: Nate North)
Madhur kept down his drum sticks crossed right on his drum and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief which he always kept around his neck. The fan moved the drum sticks a little this way and that, making an eerie drone.
He looked at the dead body, now hardly visible in the crowd. As usual, he could see only two kinds of people. Those who reminisced loudly about the dead and those who gossipped sofly about the living. Mourning is not always about the dead. It is rather about the gap he has left.
Madhur always wanted to perform in big music halls, drumming to a frenzy to thrill huge crowds. He had always loved music. He dreamt of being a drummer of royal court, or at least at wedding ceremonies! But who would jinx an auspicious occasion by letting him play.
Yes, Madhur was born in a family of mourners in Tamil Nadu where dancing to drum beats was one of the rites of passage.
Last night’s nightmare came back to him. The more he tried to forget it, the more insistent it was in returning to him in wakeful moments, nagging him like an unpaid moneylender.
He had seen several variations of the nightmare.
The peppy beats pump the vibrant stage. With the rising tempo, the excitement keeps increasing. The climax of the performance melts into a thunderous applause! Chill runs down his spine. Claps from hands stripped of flesh rise up. The skeletons stand up to give him a standing ovation. Their bones clanging louder than their applause.
Madhur shook his head and the rich old man’s garland-decked corpse shrouded in white silk faded into vision. The crowd had receded to give more room for a politician and his photographers. The hypocrisy of such events made Madhur writhe!
Just when he turned his head slightly to wipe sweat off his forehead, his eyes met a gleaming one. Dressed in a shiny pink frock was a two-year old girl. She was looking expectantly at Madhur.
She knew a language that superseded words. Bending her torso slightly, she wiggled her body: she was demanding music to follow her footsteps! Her radiance energized him. Grabbing the sticks he made a funny roll on his drum! She sent out a giggle. And a musical question-answer session had begun.
Just like the performance in his dreams and nightmares, with the rising tempo her excitement rose up.
His fellow drummers were dumbfounded by this sudden zeal in Madhur. Was he possessed? If so, of what?
What did they know! Here was his perfect audience, 'the one' who was actually celebrating life and death, completely ignorant of the ways of the world.
He could perform till the end of eternity for her!
No dance of death could be more lively!
Or lovely.
(Photo Courtesy: Ritika)
An email notification snapped her out of her day dream. Wonder when she phased out, her laptop's screen had automatically locked itself.
"Concentrate, Anu," her practicality chided her motherhood, "You have EMIs to pay!"
Her eyes drifted to the calendar on her desk. It was stuck in the month of February. Just like her life, she sighed.
On the same day last month, she left her nine-month old daughter in the day care for the first time against her family’s objections. How could a small baby survive a crowded day care! But Anu knew day care would develop her baby holistically, it had six-month old babies as well. That day, her mother-in-law cried when they left her baby but Anu felt it was an overreaction.
Today, on 8th of March, the day celebrating empowerment of women like herself, Anu felt feeble. Her baby had just recovered from a second viral fever attack, in less than a month! She had been on leave for a week, tending to the feeble soul who refused to take any solid food and demanded only its mother's lap and milk. And yet, she had to leave her in the custody of day care as she had no leave to spare, and an impending deadline to consider!
Her husband consoled her, that it was normal, babies develop immunity this way. But antibiotics, at such a tender age! As if her confident self had just seen its reflection on a watery surface and fallen face down.
On the other side of the office, Gaurav gulped his frustration and tried consoling her one last time. "It's ok! Calm down!" Running out of time and energy, he gave up and cut the call.
He looked at his phone's wallpaper. The picture perfect snap the three of them had taken on his son's first birthday.
Today's stark reality seemed to mock his reflection on that screen. It was one year already since they left their son with his parents. How else could they have managed their work!
He was frustrated when his parents refused to put up in Bangalore with him. So insensitive of them! Thus started his son's stay in his hometown and their weekly visits to the same. The whole of last month, work trapped them in Bangalore.
Last weekend, a belated birthday gift and their own faces were greeted with indifference. His son seemed to have forgotten them. His eyes were on a mobile phone which he could stay glued to the whole day. Seeing a combination of withdrawal and temper tantrum, Gaurav could sense early signs of some deep behavioural issue in his kid.
That night, he vented his guilt and frustration on his parents. How insensitive could they be to give his son's custody over to a phone, just to make childcare convenient! That night, everyone in the house seemed to take solace in their phones, avoiding any talk!
Gaurav's wife was inconsolable. Her own kid refused to sleep with her! She sobbed the whole night, every sob seemed to increase Gaurav’s throbbing headache.
His phone reflected a drained and underslept face now. The locked screen pointed out that it was time for lunch. He put on the mask of a jolly self and proceeded to his colleague's desk.
The canteen was bustling. The aroma of spices mixed with hushed gossips wafted through the air. For Gaurav the bustle seemed to have hushed his throbbing fatherhood. For Anu, it acted like a filter on the outer world and her ailing heart seemed to be deafening loud!
And they crossed each other. Anu hadn't met Gaurav post her maternity break. On seeing him climbing down the stairs, she remembered her last encounter. Gaurav was explaining to his teammates how they had decided to leave his son with his parents. Anu was shocked hearing that. She had kept her hand on her bulged belly and promised her baby not to do that. Why bear babies if you were to leave them like this, she thought.
It was Gaurav who waved a hi first. After the usual salutations, Gaurav inquired about Anu's kid. When she informed him that her kid is in day care, Gaurav gave such an animated reaction in disbelief. "Poor soul! She is so small, how could you leave her there!"
This was the last thing she wanted to hear. "I don't have awesome caring parents like you Gaurav," she retorted!
She could hardly imagine how sharp the irony of that sentence pinched him. They both again gulped their frustration and shoved away the topic with a laugh and parted.
Work consumed them post lunch.
When Anu started back on her scooter, she caught a glimpse of her key chain. It was oscillating with the din of the vehicle, just like her wobbly mind. Her mom had gifted her this key chain.
She remembered, one day her mom had asked her out of the blue, "Anu did you ever feel you were not loved enough!?"
This puzzled her since her mom never asked such questions. She just told mom you are the best and left the topic there. Today, she wondered whether her kid might be feeling not loved enough. Once, when her mom told her how and why she had put Anu in a creche when she was only six months old, Anu commented, "Haww.... You weaned me so early, how could you!"
And today she was partly guilty of the same. Her thoughts trailed to Gaurav. Yes, he was wrong in leaving his son. But wasn't she also guilty of parting with her kid! She could give an excuse of her career, but didn't her husband try to convince her mother-in-law to take early retirement. Wouldn't she have loved her more if she wasn't working and could stay with her. At least when her kid was sick! Wouldn't she love to have unlimited leaves when her kid needed her the most!
On the same road, the company bus was stuck on the traffic signal. Inside the bus, Gaurav was stuck on the "I am sorry" message typed for his parents. He didn't press the send button even today. How could he blame his parents for his failure to take care of his son. When he met Anu, didn't he wish he could also keep his son in a day care? But where! He and his wife travelled to opposite ends of the city. Could they make his kid travel with them, when this long travel and pollution were affecting their own health! He knew his parents couldn't cope with the language barrier and metro culture. He knew their knee pain restricted them to one corner, and his son with a phone to the other.
Both Anu and Gaurav puffed a sigh which got lost in the fuming sky. If only they could travel back in time and mend things. But even if they could, did they have the power to change anything! Weren't they shackled by the decisions they had taken in their life. If only......
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar K)
Death is a reality. It may be the only reality because everything else changes back and forth. Death doesn't.
Sorrow and depression will leave a mourning home in a day or two, even before the relatives leave. Then that home is only a place of togetherness where long unheard of people refresh their memory and update phone numbers.
And if the departed soul is old, death is taken as a necessity and the mourning is short and sweet. Every one feels happy to have given permission for the person to die.
The other day, in such a situation, when I met a seventy-five year old lady whose eighty year old man had just left her forever, I noticed the insensitive faces of the youngsters around her. Even sneering faces. They seemed to have warded off the aged, away from this world.
I was having a different vision. Her furrowed forehead seemed to have the indelible marks of a trillion kisses she had received from the day he held her hand for the first time. She was kissing her bed as if to savour his last breath lingering in it. A shiver ran down my spine, proving my friends' calling me an emotional being.
Sitting near me, that newly widowed old lady said, "We never had a fight. Really, really, never had one." Her words were too convincing for me to doubt her at all. "He never addressed me rudely. When my son did so to his wife, my husband used to scold him for that.
When she said that, a hidden smile and other signs of coyness flashed on her tear stained face. On her forehead shone a sindoor mark like a red signal to the ritualists. Touching it as if to make sure it was still there, she said, "He wanted me to wear this always. l'm sure he still does."
I smiled reassuringly at her.
One of her sons brought his close friend and introduced him to her. He also told her that the boy had his eyes on the old man's vintage bullet. Soon they went away as if they had come to impart that single piece of information.
"That 65 model bullet was his soulmate. He has not been on it for the last two years, after he partially lost his sight. He used to make me kick start it for him. He taught me to ride it. But I was too scared to do it alone."
Made happy by the surprise in my eyes, she chuckled and two drops of tears hanging on her eyelashes fell off. I held her hand on my palm. My eyes too welled up.
People wearing different expressions on their faces streamed in. I held my sobs and walked out. Propped against the wall in a corner was the 65 model machine which seemed to know that its rider was no more. The fog condensed on its single glassy eye was trickling down.
I went over to touch it. My hands were icy cold and shivering like in old age.
"You wanna buy it? I am first."
It was that young man who was hovering over it like a vulture over a chick.
I tried to smile but could only sigh.
I looked back at the house. The grandsire's garlanded picture was there. He smiled at me. He did.
God, soul and afterlife are all enigmas to me. Still, I prayed to God to grant that soul one more life. I could hear myself say "Dear God..."
Kavitha Jayasree is an MBA graduate. After her stint at Infosys, she went to the UK to pursue film studies. She writes for and directs Malayalam films. She likes music, travel, long rides and animal care. She lives in Trivandrum now with her mother Jayasree
MUSICAL JOURNEY OF A PASSIVE LISTENER
My friend Nazir was from Darjeeling. And to us, though a student like us, he was kind of an expert on Urdu.
“Most of those movie songs you so casually call Hindi songs are actually Urdu songs”, he would declare before us when we gathered on our evening stroll.
“How can you say so?” one of us would ask.
“Well, just think about the song you were humming along with Radio this afternoon ‘Ye din aur unke, nigahein ke saye, do you think it is a Hindi song?”, Nazir would throw a question at us.
And we realized, we actually did not understand a word of it. And it really did not seem like Hindi. We loved the tune and just enjoyed humming it. Seeing the blank expression on our face Nazir would go on “It is an Urdu song, “nigahen”, “sayen” are urdu words for seeing, shadow”
Our discussion would go on about Urdu as a language and realization would dawn on us that most of songs that we cherished were actually not Hindi songs but Urdu ones.
“Chandaan sa badan ……..Ye Kam Kaman bhawein teri, palkon ke kinaare kajra re” That’s the next song which was played on Vividh Bharati today afternoon, is’nt it? It is such a beautiful song using Urdu words for Bow, arrow , eye brow , eye lashes, kaajal etc telling poetically the beauty of lady love.
Such insightfull deliberations from Nazir increased our stock knowledge about melodious world of Hindi cinema (or Urdu Cinema?).
“You know, there are 108 names for a camel from its birth till death, each word accurately describing it age” Nazir would tell us.
“In Odia, we have several words to describe a cow from birth till death, bacchuri, chhada, gai, banjha,…” a friend who was little more skilled in our mother tongue Odia would chip in.
“Afsana” are feelings that one cannot express in words, where as “Fasana” are the opposite”, Nazir would say.
No wonder, so many songs dwell around these two words, we would exclaim!!!
Those evening sessions with Nazir were something we all relished. The discussions were casual and were mixed with many other things that young people find interesting.
Those were the days when we lived on a staple diet of Hindi movie songs played on various programs by All India Radio Vividh Bharati. Many students found the radio to increase their level of concentration. The radio on a study table, playing ever green Hindi movie numbers, created an isolation from the surrounding chaotic noise. Hence, a small Radio was an inseparable part of tool kit of any aspiring student. Towards late eighties, All India Radio came up with a late night radio program that more or less was on similar lines to Vividh Bharati but was up and about when all other regular channels were off.That further helped us put our wandering minds to our studies.
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Our generation was a blessed generation, because we witnessed the world change radically around us. The technology of recording and playing back music was one such aspect. During our school days Radio was primary source of listening to music and there was little content about children. We were passive listeners to music being played from Radio whose primary target were grown-ups. In our later years when we listened to those old time songs, it rhymed perfectly well and seemed so endearing to us, because subconsciously it reminded us about our carefree childhood days. We had few occasions in schools when music was played out through loud speaker. Ganesh Puja, Saraswati Puja and School Annual Day were such occasions when few loud speakers were placed on roof of school and the chart buster songs of the year were played in full volume creating the festive spirit amongst the students. I remember being selected to play the role of present day equivalent of disk jockey. The task was to carefully lift the stylus from the spinning vinyl record and put a new one, put the stylus on the first groove. It seemed a coveted job and being entrusted the duty to joggle all those vinyls , remove from their picturesque paper jacket, putting it on the spinning turn table, carefully putting the stylus on first groove of vinyl was enough to swell one’s chest with pride. And then there were requests from teachers to play a particular song for them. You had the power to decide whose request to fulfill first.
Few Hindi movie songs that I can recall listening to most part of our childhood are:-
1. Mein to aarati utarun … santoshi maata 2. Mein Shayar to nehin
3. Ek din bit jayega mati ke mol 4. Dum Maaro Dum Mit Jaye Gham
5. Chal Chal chal mera saathi.. 6. Roop Tera Mastana
7. Ek Pyaar Ka Nagma Hai 8.Kisi Ki Muskurahaton Pe Ho Nisar
9. Pal Pal Dil Ke Paas 10.Musafir Hoon Yaaron
11. Gum Hai Kisi Ke Pyar Mein 12. Bhool Gaya Sab Kuchh.
13. Kora Kagaj tha ye man mera. 14.Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein
15. Naam Gum Jaayega 16.Sawan ka mahina pawan kare shor
17. Tan dole mera man dole 18.Mere Naina Sawan Bhadon
19. Ruk Jaana Nahin Tu Kahin Haar Ke 20.Mera Jeevan Kora Kagaz
As we climbed up the ladders of school life, the vinyl was replaced with cassette players. The mega phone shaped metallic horn loud speakers lost out to woofer boxes. I still remember my first encounter with a cassette player. We looked transfixed at seeing the two small rotating discs in the player. We later came to know what those two small rotating things were. The real magic was in recording ones voice in a tape recorder.
The mono phonic sound systems were given quiet burial and the stereophonic systems were the in-thing. It made sense for Tarzan to yell the iconic “Yahoooo” from left speaker to which a lion’s roar could be heard from the right speaker. In no time people embraced Dolby noise reduction enabled audio recordings than normal recordings.
Sony came up with a new way of listening to music – WALKMAN. Walkman was an indispensable part of any music lover. The first time users of Walkman always spoke in a loud tone as they had earphones on and were objects of ridicule. Music recording shops opened up like mobile shops of today. You could walk into any such shop and custom make a cassette tape containing an hour of your favorite songs.
I remember many anecdotes about people ordering their choice of an audio tape at the music shop. A customer tried to hum his choice songs one by one before the music shop technician who wrote them on a piece of paper. Suddenly the customer confessed that he could not recall the lyrics of his favorite song but only could sing the tune.
‘No issue sir, just hum the tune and I will catch it”, the technician would say.
And the customer tried his best to replicate the tune. It soon became apparent his efforts were not igniting any chord within the technician’s wildest imagination. Then the customer tried to whistle the tune hoping to strike the correct tune. So, the song could finally be found after some trial and error.
By the time we reached institutions of higher learning Compact Discs appeared in the market. They created a paradigm shift in our mind about how music was digitized and how it produced hi fidelity music.
A friend of mine was very much attracted to a few songs. Whenever he sulked after a sibling rivalry with his elder sister, he refused to eat, refused do anything and sit outside the house for hours together.
“Sushant!!! Come running, come fast, you favorite song is now on radio” His sister would call out at him.
“Mein Jindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya….” would be the soothing song being played on radio.
So, Sushant forgot that he was sulking and went as fast as he could, grabbed the radio and kept it glued to his ears till the song was finished. That brought great relief to Sushant’s parents and his sister who did not know know how else to handle the sulking child.
Songs playing out from radio played the role of a mood changer, mood lifter for many in those days.
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My first encounter with Compact Disc was when it was launched in a star hotel in Madras. Out Electro Magnetic Theory professor who was a music lover himself took one full class telling us how the new media was digital in nature and how it is poised to replace the analog system used till that point. He had placed his CD Music system in his drawing room and entertained us with popular songs of those days recorded on CD. The high bass music played out from huge woofers just blew our mind.
He would put the CD on and ask us to keep quiet and press the play button.
“Chura liya hei tumne jo dilko….” The strumming of guitar filled the room reverberating in our heart. Then the voice in crystal clear tone and the high bass drum blew our mind.
We all listened with rapt attention devouring each note, soaking our souls with bliss of heavenly music.
Our professor would make one more revelation “Do you know that the voice in a movie is not analogue? It is always discrete, like your digital music from very beginning”.
“How is that?”, we would exclaim.
“If you inspect a film reel closely, you will find the voice recordings on one side of the reel and you will see the discrete nature of recordings. That’s the reason, older movie may have blurred and grainy picture but very sharp voice and music” Our professor added.
“But, I am saddened at the very thought of the imminent death of vinyl record based music system” our professor would declare with a heavy heart. “Vinyl is real, pure, though have limitation” He would further add. Our professor was obviously pointing at limitations of Vinyl records in which only one channel of music could be recorded and the world now was more focused on multi channel recordings where the playback simulated real life situations and overcame issues like back ground noise.
As technology went for an exponential jump, the music industry was one of most benefitted area. We crowded into cinemas where the banner said “6-tack stereo phonic with Dolby NR (noise reduction)”. A movie like Dracula became so realistic that we clung to our friends and looked up at the ceiling to check if the sound of bats flying away from the caves were actually over our heads. The trauma lasted for a few days but we enjoyed it as it meant the money spent on our ticket was completely recovered. It was before they came up with “Dolby Atmos surround sound”.
The CD quickly gave way to DVD that packed not only more songs, but also more channels. Walkman gave way to MP3 players and very soon the “disruptive gadget of all” appeared on the scene – Mobile phone. It made every other device obsolete and archaic. It was a device of convergence as more and more capabilities could be squeezed into it.
Though the medium of recording sound has gone for a sea change from Gramophone to Digital Multi-track recordings, one thing remains unchanged. We still tend to be drawn like firefly to fire when we subconsciously fall for music that we have etched in our minds in our formative years.
“How would you define your perfect day?” my friend asked me.
“A long drive in a rainy day with evergreen music of my childhood days, along the banks of a river, or Lake Chilika, or through valleys of eastern ghats” would be my instant response.
So, my dear reader, how would you define your perfect day?
Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal is a graduate Electrical Engineer and an entrepreneur. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha. His other interests are HAM Radio (an active HAM with call sign VU2MBS) , Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups) , Photography and a little bit of writing on diverse topics. He has a passion for communicating science to common man in a simple terms and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com
Gita: Wait. Wait. Hold it. Not so fast. Slow and steady wins the race; don’t you know the story of the tortoise and the hare?
Sita: Yes. I do know and I think that the moral of the story is not “slow and steady wins the race”.
Rita: Why?
Sita: Because, as the story goes, the tortoise did not win; the hare lost.
Gita: Is it not the same?
Sita: No, certainly not. “Other men’s failure can never save you”.
Rita: That’s a line from the song “Dare to do right”. Right?
Sita: Yes. And if I were the tortoise, I would be ashamed to call it my victory.
Gita: There I do not agree. The tortoise did its best. It undertook a task and did it to the best of its ability and well, won – why ever – but, still if I were the tortoise, I would still be proud, because I did my best and got rewarded for it.
Rita: True. Only, the reward was not for something you did right, but for what somebody else did wrong. And, what if the hare had not slept? I think it is fast and steady that wins the race.
Sita: That’s exactly my point. Also, the hare is competent. And, competent people have many choices. The hare had many options. It could have started late, as I do while working on assignments. I do not sit up and burn the midnight oil or get up at unearthly hours, or spend all my time doing nothing prescribed to get done tasks. It is because I have learnt how to work effectively and handle all my work; but, at very rarely redo.
Gita: Do it right the first time as they say, That, sure is a time saver.
Rita: I agree that if you have the competence you have many options. The hare could have picked flowers and nuts on the way, chatted with a friend, even slept for a little while and still have won the race. The hare lost not because it slept, but because it did not take care.
Gita: Yes. Overconfidence loses the race.
Sita: Well said. You pulled the words out of my mouth. That is exactly what I wanted to say. The moral of that story is not “Slow and steady wins the race”; but “Overconfidence loses the race”.
Gita: But, what about the tortoises of the world? Don’t they have a chance? I am one of them, you know.
Rita: No. I don’t know and I do know that you are not necessarily a tortoise all the time. You are just stuck up with that self image.
Sita: Again. That’s not the point. There are people who are tortoises and the question is, what about them?
Gita: Yes. What about them?
Sita: I think we each are made differently and have a place as we are. The tortoise, in my opinion, does not need to prove itself by winning a race with a hare and the hare cannot boast of or be proud of winning against a tortoise. You see, they are qualitatively different and qualitatively different things cannot be compared or compete quantitatively.
Rita: Well, it is really simple. Here is another version of the hare and the tortoise story in the modern world. The hare asks the tortoise for a race and the tortoise says: “Well. Let’s do have the race. But this time we will see who is the slowest of us! In our great, great grandfathers’ times, speed was a rarity and so was considered great; but you see, in this fast world of today, leisure is a rarity and slowness is to be appreciated!” The hare put down its tail and went away. So, you see, each has her place, the hare in the world of speed and the tortoise in the world of slow pace. You must find yours.
Sita: Well said, but still I think that story of yours though very reassuring is not very practical, because as you yourself have said, it is a fast world and we need to buck up.
Gita: I remember Alice in wonderland. There is sentence in it that says “You must run as fast as you can to stay where you are and faster than that to go one step forward.”
Rita: But, how does one run faster than one can?
Sita: Although that was meant to be satire, I think it makes sense. My cousin had one of these self-help books and I read a few pages. It was by a person called Norman Vincent Peal and he says: “Everyday in every way I am becoming better and better”. This, he says must be the motto and mantra of all people who want to grow and succeed.
Rita: You mean, succeed and grow.
Gita: I think growth and success form a spiral. One leads to another.
Sita: True. But, the point of discussion now is, “How can I do better than my best?” And, the answer is, your best today need not be your best tomorrow or next week or next year.
Rita: It should not be.
Gita: It better not be! But still, if the hares and the tortoises both become better than they are, then again, the tortoise is at a loss.
Rita: Only if the tortoise goes for a race with the hare. It can always take a stand saying, “I shall be the best tortoise that ever was and not compare or compete with the hares or the cows or the crows for that matter.”
Gita: I wonder if the hare will win the race with the crow.
Sita: No. And, it knows it won’t and that is why it had another strategy to win over the crow. There it was not a game of speed, but a game of wits.
Rita: That was a fox, stupid.
Sita: Why? It could have been a hare too! Why not?
Gita: Getting back to the story of the tortoise and the hare, I heard another one that I really loved. It goes like this. The two were asked to race and told that whoever came first within the stipulated time would win. There was no way the tortoise could make it within the time even at its best, but nevertheless, he hoped that something would happen as the price was too dear to be lost without even trying. They started the race, but soon found that there was a large pool of water that the hare could not negotiate. He was stuck and stayed stuck till the plodding tortoise came to that point. The two discussed the scenario and the tortoise took him on his back and after they had crossed the waters, the hare carried the tortoise on its back to make up for lost time and what have you? The two arrived together at the winning post! The price of course was shared.
Sita: That’s wonderful indeed. It is what is called the effect of synergy.
Gita: What is that?
Sita: That is another nice concept. It says that when we pool our energies and talents and work together, the result is more than the total of what each could have individually achieved.
Rita: Talk about collaborations and mergers and joint ventures and so on. They are all aiming at synergising.
Sita: Hopefully so. The whole world is now looking at using each other’s talents and strengths to grow together to make this world a better place to live in and leave behind.
Gita: And, I think that is just what has happened right now. I have learnt so much from this conversation.
Sita: Same here. There is a lot to think about.
Rita: For me too. And, thanks to the tortoise and hare and all those who gave us all these stories!
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.
Bharati, the young girl, finished handing over the evening tea to many of the shop keepers in Jewel Street and returned the big kettle to the vegetarian hotel. Iyer the hotel manager in return gave her the permission to collect the plastic water bottles as usual which the customers left behind after the meals. To Bharati, the water inside the bottles which the hotel customers left behind was more important than the bottles. A half bottle of water left behind was worth gold to Bharati and even a milliliter left behind wouldn’t be wasted by her. She would collect all the bottles and drain all the water into a vessel in her home. When she had a collection of bottles to be weighed more than a kilogram, she would sell it to the agent who took it for recycling of plastics. This was her livelihood.
The summer was scorching and made blisters on the skin of people who dared to stand under it when it was in its zenith. Already two people had died in the town when the sun stroked its cruel hands on them. The land was under a draught and people sweltered under the heat. Bharati was not able to collect sufficient amount of water as she used to from the left over bottles. The people after their meals in the hotel were drinking up even the last drop to quench their persisting thirst or were taking the remaining water along with them. The water scarcity was quite evident.
Bharati lived with her mother under an old tarpaulin sheet which hung down from the side of a building. The tarpaulin was put up there to cover a few pending repair works on that side of the building. Bharati and mother used the lower part of the tarpaulin which hung onto the street to make it into a tent with two sticks holding up the distant ends of the tarpaulin. It was something like living under the skirt which the building used to cover its defects.
It was nightfall and the streets were slowly emptying out. Her mother sat in the created tent while Bharati gently brushed the leaves of the drying creeper which climbed up the building beside the tarpaulin sheet. It was this creeper which once as a sapling gave the idea to Bharati and her mother that they too could find shelter under this tarpaulin. From the shades of the tarpaulin it was Bharati who nurtured and guided the creeper to the building wall, helping it cling onto the water pipe that passed up to the building. Over the time the plant grew into a big climber, rising up to the sunshade of the third floor window. The leaves had to be dusted from all the pollution which had settled on it during the day time. They had to be kept ready for the dew drops which would settle on it by early morning. Those were the drops that came directly from the heaven and Bharati would lick each leaf one by one to replenish her body with the only water that was freely available, meager though it was.
Even as she was dusting the leaves, her mother was telling her the activities of the day.
“A new tenant has come to occupy the top floor apartment left by Mr.Rao’s family”
“Oh is it?” the girl replied. "Is it a big family?"
“It is only a single person, a man who works in a big company, the mother explained.
“Then he might not have much furniture” Bharati concluded.
“Yes, he didn’t have many things. Only a few boxes and a big carton which I heard the new tenant tell the transporting people, “It’s the cooling thing, so be careful and handle it gently”.
“It’s the refrigerator”, said Bharati with an expression that she knew everything.
“It did not look like a refrigerator. This was different” the mother stated and added, “A lot of work was going on the wall of the third floor apartment too. I could hear the sounds".
The conversation between the mother and the daughter ended as Bharati finished cleaning all the leaves to her height. The leaves drooped to sleep and Bharati said her prayer before she lay down. Her only request in the prayer was to help her find a way to get some water.
The scorching heat of the day which was retained on the cemented town was released out into the midnight air. Mosquitoes hovered in the air and the stray dogs loitered around the building. In between was the long honk of a passing vehicle. It was just another sweaty night to move onto the next day.
The next morning had a surprise for Bharati. As her early morning routine, she woke up by five am and went to collect her due dew which the leaves of the creeper offered her. But what surprised her was that the soil around the creeper was all wet and the plant looked refreshed. Bharati checked the gutters in the road and the drainage to see if there was any puddle. There was not a drop of water. Only the dust was there. She didn’t know from where the water came. She asked around the street to her friends if there was any drizzle at night in any area of the town. They all said they wished something like that happened but it was just a dream.
The surprise continued the next morning too and this time Bharati was clever enough to keep a small plastic dish at the bottom of the creeper. The dish was brimming with water by morning. The day after that, she kept a small bucket and it too got filled up. The phenomenon was no longer a surprise but a miracle to Bharati. It continued to happen every morning. The creeper was providing her water while the land thirsted for water. She wanted to stay awake and see how the miracle happened but her mother warned her that miracles would cease to happen if she tried to reason it out. Miracles worked on the power of faith and not on reasoning power.
Usually it was around one O' clock at midnight that Mr.Swami would come into his newly rented apartment on the third floor of the building. His shift of work made him arrive home late. The moment he entered his apartment, he would switch on the air conditioner and then sleep like a log of wood. But before he slept he would switch on the timer so that the air conditioner would automatically turn off after three hours of working. He didn’t like to get frozen in the morning. For three hours the newly installed air conditioner would work quietly at night. The water which was generated from the outdoor condenser unit of the split air conditioner would fall on the sunshade and then drip down the creeper, enough to give Bharati more than the due dew every morning.
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
KANAKA’S MUSINGS :: SWEETY
Lathaprem Sakhya
I showed all my favourite hideouts for my delivery to my amma dear. She prepared those nooks with the help of Achen. She told me my kittens would be safe there until she returned from her mother's home.
Left on my own with the cocker spaniel ken and the miniature pinscher, Bamby for company and Karumi to feed us, I was not at all happy. I missed my amma, her loving call 'Sweety' reverberated in my ears. And I wanted her to be with me when I delivered. But her other commitments drew her away. She must have gone with a heavy heart. I decided to wait for her return. Five days passed by without any problem. I shared Bamby's box. She was such a motherly dog. Then on the sixth day I developed labour pain and I ran to Bamby's box. Like a loving mother she licked me while I delivered my three kittens and Ken stood guard. That night Bamby stood guard over me and my kittens. I felt very safe with them.
The next morning I fed my kittens and went out leaving them with Ken and Bamby. When I returned Karumi was holding two of my kittens and they were dead. She was asking Ken and Bamby what happened and they were barking their heads off. I ran to the box yes, my tricoloured baby was lying there curled up. Fortunately she was alive. So I curled around her. I didn't move away from her for two days. I wanted to give at least one to my amma. But on the third day feeling hungry and tired I went to take food. When I returned my kitten was lying dead. Bamby and Ken were sitting with woebegone looks on their doggy faces.
I cried my heart out while licking my baby. When Karumi came to feed us she took away my dead kitten. I meowed and meowed. Bamby lay near me licking and consoling me. But I could not be consoled. In my catty brain I had pictures of amma, holding three kittens in her hands and Dennis and Harry and Chechi triumphantly taking one home. I felt so sad.
I can't guess what happened to my bonnie kittens and I cannot hold Ken and Bamby culprits. They had brought me up as a kitten. I had grown up with them and Bamby, the size of a full grown cat was my doggy mother. But I learned a lesson. Amma was right, I should have delivered in the box which was kept in the loft of the kennel. While setting it Amma had told me, my kittens would be safe there until she returned. But my first labour pain scared me so much, I rushed to Bamby who like a mother licked me and sat with me. Even now she licks me and with her two fore legs hugs me close to her while Ken, curls up close to us trying to console me.
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
Sekar started his routine, soon after getting up from bed; he did not have sound sleep the previous night,though. And he got himself ready to leave for work, while his beloved wife was still busy preparing food he liked most.
Finding her husband getting ready early, she made a simple query : what is special, today.... you are leaving early.....anything important? ....and if only you had told me yesterday,I could have prepared everything well in time, getting up early. Never mind, please give me a couple of minutes, I am almost done with the cooking!
But Sekar left the house muttering 'I can't keep telling you everything; I may have umpteen problems.....and I am not going to die if I starve for a day!! ...forget it, you have your food and enjoy!!
He never waited to see her reaction either, and perhaps, even before those words fell on her ears, he was off on his bike!
Poor Kanaga, without telling anything, went back in, continued her cooking; that over, she became busy washing the clothes.
Sekar is working in a Post Office; and his wife is a typical home maker. It is more than 20 years since they are married-, a love marriage that happened much against the wishes or consent of his parents. In fact he fought with his parents then, to get his share of some ancestral property, too. Unfortunately, they have no children; that Kanaga couldn't bear his child was often bugging his mind. And sometimes he used to vent out; and he would say: 'Womanhood is not complete without attaining motherhood!!'
After day's work, Sekar returned home with a little upset mind; he was reprimanded and scolded by his chief for some silly mistakes he had committed during some documentation work. He could not tolerate or take it light, especially because the chief had shouted at him in the presence of other staff / fellow-workers.
With all love and affection Kanaga started serving food, many of his favourite dishes included; he sat at the table, only within seconds, to throw away the plate against the wall!
She was petrified, seeing his behaviour! And he started hollering: " is this the way you cook, so hot and spicy stuff....I can't eat.....hell with you...even after so many years you don't know how to cook?!"
(Actually the food wasn't hot or spicy; the scene at the PO was haunting his mind. !)
It's my fate..I have to bear all these nonsense with you! You are not fit to do anything properly!! You know how I had sacrificed so much in my life those days...shunned away from all my kith and kin, fought with them, to marry and live with you! ...and you are a maladi- couldn't bear a child!? I should have listened to my parents.....now whole life is in the dark....my hard earned money all these years have been spent for you only! And I should continue to do that, right, you will keep enjoying life....go on, hog well!"
With these words, he withdrew to his room, shutting the doors behind.
Kanaga could not understand anything; she thought to herself: even I had left my house without my elders' consent, and for him only!
She started wailing profusely. Confused, and thinking what could have gone wrong, she got on to tidying the area, and ultimately slept off lying on the floor, without taking any food.
Next day, the slight warmth of the sun's rays that refracted through the window woke her up.
And.... she started her routine.
Sekar left for office very early,and without uttering a word; he did not take with him the packed lunch, either.
A couple of hours into work, a little after noon, on that sweltering hot day, there appeared an elderly man, a fruit vendor at the PO. He lowered the basket of fruits at the entrance, came straight to the counter manned by Sekar; pulling out a few notes of currency, already wetted by his sweat, he kept them at the counter.
A thought flashed in his mind: ' whom is he so tirelessly working for, at this age?'
A moment after this thought, he asked the old man : how can I help you, sir ?
The old man showed an old receipt, ( toward payment done the previous month) and also gave him a letter ; 'please send this money to the address given and post this letter, too', he requested.
Seeing the address of an ' Home for the Aged/ Destitutes', Sekar's heart- beat increased rapidly for a moment! He was very keen to know from him why and whom the money was to reach; with a lot of hesitation, but mustering a little more strength he said: ' May I ask you something sir, though I feel I should not ask you?'
The old man did not mind.
Whom are you sending this money, is it for your wife?
The old man gave him a kind of surprise look, and Sekar got really scared ; he thought..."I should not have asked, it isn't proper and is too personal, again....."
Cool and composed and with a sense of pride, the old man asked: When I am alive, how can I leave her in the lurch?
Sekar listened to him more patiently and with keen intent as the old man continued....
'I have been doing this every month almost for 10 years now! And no one has ever asked me this question till date!' Though a little surprised, he desired to continue thus:
It's 40 years since I am married. She is very much with me. And we are destined not to have any child....Or should I say God has been only kind to us,in that we do not have any additional burden?! You know, she is a dumb, too.
At this juncture, he took a pause and asked Sekar for a glass of water.
In fact, our marriage was an interesting episode, so to say...... he continued.
Sekar was quick on his heels to get him some water.
Sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning almost on the counter from inside Sekar asked:
How did your marriage happen? And when and how did you come to know her? Please tell me sir, if you don't mind. I'm very eager to know!
Wiping the water on his neck with an hand towel, and sporting a gentle smile, continued:
I knew her, my wife, since she was a child. Only child to her parents, she was living in the same street. And when she was around 10 years old, she lost her father in a road accident; shocked at the sight of gory death of her dear dad, she lost her speech...., became dumb.
Her mom was managing the family, doing some simple menial job nearby, while she grew up slowly into an adult, with the same handicap. Somehow now one was showing her love and affection and she could not talk/converse with anyone even if she wished to. None of her relatives bothered or cared for her or the old mother. Situation was such that when she became nubile enough, no one was willing to marry her.
It was then, when my parents discussed with her mother and suggested that we get married.
Years passed, and slowly the seniors had left this world one by one; we, too, are quite old now!
She is like a small child to me, bro... ; the old man was stammering now, to say those words.
With a little trembling hand he took the towel again to wipe off his tears!
That had really pricked Sekar's heart! He kept gazing at the old man.
A little composed now, the vendor continued:
For her, I am the world; she doesn't know anyone else.
You know, when I was terribly sick and bed-ridden once, when I had no money left( actually no work- no pay situation), she had sold her only pride possession, - a couple of small gold beads, left behind by her loving mother, to get medical treatment for me ; wailing profusely, she pleaded with the doctor, in all possible sign language, to save my life. It's still green in my memory!
And now his eyes turned red like a ball of fire.
Fortunately I became all right soon and returned to work.
That was the time this serious thought occurred to me:
If she happens to die before I do, there is no problem; at least I would have had the mental satisfaction of having taken good care of her, till her last breath!!
On the contrary, if perchance, I leave this world early, before her life time, what would be her fate!?
That is the reason, I keep sending this money to the 'Home for the Aged/ Destitutes'; 50% of my contribution is for the welfare of the widow in-mates there and the other 50% , I want them to reserve as deposit for my wife's future stay there, when warranted!
My dear brother, did I not give you a letter to post? You may please open and read, if you feel like, before posing!!
With shivering hands and a heavy heart, Sekar read:
"Dear Trustees,
My wife and I are doing good. I have now sent some amount, whatever possible, this month. And in case you don't receive this mail and money,next month, that would imply that I am no more!
My humble request to you then is to take my wife to your 'home' and give her all the love and care, as you'd do to a small child!
That is my last wish.
Thanks"
Shaken, and tears rolling down his cheeks, Sekar looked into the old man's face with awe.
And the latter said: Ok, my dear bro, it's time up now. I get going; would you mind doing me one more small favour?
Yes, sir! Why not?
I have kept my fruit basket over there; would you please help me load it on my head? I would be obliged!
Out came Sekar, from his small kiosk-like cabin.
A closer look at the old man shocked him further!
Yes, the old vendor's left hand was missing; already amputated!
Giving a helping hand to keep the basket on his head, Sekar said very politely:
You are so much loyal and affectionate to your wife; wish you were blessed with a child and a little bit of wealth; would have been nice and you needn't be struggling like this?
But the old man replied, laughing a bit loud: she came with me, with all the faith in me, not with any anticipation of wealth or children. Whatever I carry on my head, for her, it is with pleasure and not with any pain or burden!
With those words, he started walking briskly, keeping his only hand as a support to the basket on his head.
With a total change in his temperament, Sekar, now a thoroughly refined person, went back home, all the while thinking of 'the best pair in the world, made for each other', for sure!
The care and affection shown by a woman to her husband in poverty,
And that shown by a man to his wife in senility......
The true love sealed for eternity!!
(In the present day scenario, especially in South, we see elderly parents (single or both) are accomodated in a Home for the Aged, paid or charity homes; this happens even if the children live in the same city or within India.
They call the elders 'old furniture/ baggages'.
In some cases, they are forced to live separately.
And a few young couples may not be able to cope with them, or feel incompatible, or financially not manageable.
Single parents are more often treated so.
There are cases where affordable parents prefer to stay alone in a Sr Citizens service apartments or a joint community living areas leaving their children!!
Imagine the condition of elderly poor people who do not have children; it's even more deplorable.
I don't know how the situation is in other parts of the country. Middle or lower middle class people are the worst hit perhaps.
By and large, the family bond and care and affection serm to be disappearing in the present generation.)
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
Translated from Oriya by the author and Bibhu Padhi
“Why don’t you write your new story? Do it today.” Sampad said in an irritated voice. Jhumpa nodded her head slightly while she prepared spiced potatoe in the kitchen. In a faint voice she replied,
“Yes, I will.” Jhumpa’s diffidence was neither visible nor audible.
It was already nine-thirty and her two younger children had to be ready to leave for their college any time. Her son Dhiru and her daughter Phutu were at the dining table, waiting for lunch to be served.
“Maa, please be quick.”
Jhumpa’s efficient hands served their lunch.
Sampad was going over the headlines of a local newspaper. He looked restless and badly needed a cup of Darjeeling tea. In a high-pitched voice he said, ?“Can’t you give me a cup of tea? What have you been doing? I’ve been waiting for it for more than an hour.”
wait for a minute,” Jhumpa replied. Her words were full of a feeling of guilt.
She came with two cups of tea, placed the tea on the round table and sat down on the sofa. Sampad took a sip and started again.
“How many times shall I tell you to write your next story? Your readers say that you are writing exceptionally well. That should be enough reason why you should write your new story."
Jhumpa didn’t feel like saying anthing, but said, “I will write in the afternoon, after I finish all my work.”
What would she write about? The world is full of stories. Jhumpa went on thinking about herself and her husband and children. For her, life was a sheet of clean white paper.
Life moved on and on. It seemed all around her, everyone was carrying bagfuls of stories. All the bags were full of sad stories. She had had her sufferings too. It had been disturbing. There were stories of others in which she could locate herself.
She went on recollecting some of the stories. There was the story of her neighbour—a middle-aged woman. She used to go to the bank with her husband every morning and return with her husband in the evening. A brown bag hung from her shoulder. The bag carried the story of an unhappy married life. The protagonist was their seventeen-year-old, wayward son who was a burden on them. The face of the woman looked like a hardbound book. Jhumpa used to meet her often on the corridor. The woman used to open the book and showed her the pages of grief.. Her eyes were moist with tears and her throat almost choked. Jhumpa listened to her stories empathetically.?
Another story came to her mind. It was the story of a childless couple. Sampad was in his study. He was struggling with a poem that might see the light of the day. He felt the murmur of a stream in his heart—an indication that the poem was about to come. It was always like this; he was engrossed in taking down the poem. The outside world seemed to be unreal, as if nothing existed except the poem taking shape.
Jhumpa realised that it was already eleven-thirty. The prawns had to be cleaned. At noon she had to go to the nursery school to pick up her granddaughter. Sampad’s voice could be heard clearly:
“Jhumpa, come, read my new poem. You know, you are my first reader. Come soon.” Jhumpa went inside Sampad’s study. She went through the poem.
“It is very good, quite different from your recent ones. The last two lines are just wonderful.” ?Sampad smiled. It was indeed a frank smile.
She cleaned the prawns like a machine, fried them. She got ready to go to the school. Her elder son and daughter-in-law were working at Mumbai and had left their daughter Pitun to be taken care of by her grandmother. Pitun was intelligent, sensitive and hypereactive. Every day she wanted that her grandmother should invent a new game and a new story. Her little world had so many stories. While Jhumpa narrated a story, she had to answer innumerable questions. How does a child come to this world? Why people die?
Why are the trees so silent? Why can’t they talk like us? What does a butterfly eat?
?After a bath, Pitun had her lunch. She ate very little, but she took almost an hour to finish her lunch. Sampad and Jhumpa had theirs soon after. It was past three. Pitun told Jhumpa,
“Jejemaa, tell me the frog-story and I will go to sleep.”
Jhumpa started the story she had told Pitun numerous times.
“Once there was a frog. It felt hungry. It ate and ate and ate. Her belly became bigger and bigger, and still bigger. Finally it burst. The poor frog died.”
Pitun said, “No, no, not such a short story. Tell me a long story, very long, and I will go to sleep.”
Jhumpa started to invent a story:
“Ok, I will tell you a long story. Go to sleep. Once there was a running competition. The runners were Rasgoolla, Ladoo, Peda and Sandesh. All the four were round in shape. They rolled and rolled. The story also rolled and was getting fat.
There were times when Rasgoolla led the race, was ahead of the others. Then, Ladoo took
the lead. All rolled and rolled …”
Pitun had gone to sleep—a deep, deep sleep. Jhumpa lay on the bed for some time, then got up. She had to write a story to make Sampad happy.
She brought a pen and sheets of ruled paper. When she started writing, her grandmother’s story floated in front of her eyes. She had never seen her grandma, but she had heard from others that she was fair and beautiful. "Her face was like the moon,” they said. There was a rare glow on her face. She had a very short life. She died when Jhumpa’s father was only two years old. The story of her short life was incomplete. Who would complete her story?
Jhumpa had to write a story. She went back in time and recalled Hena-maa (Hena’s mother). Hena-maa was a maid in her house a long time ago. Every morning she used to come with a sad face. She was regularly beaten by her drunken husband in the evening.
Every morning she came with a swollen face and pain all over her body. She came with her daughter, Hena. She would have a cup of tea and some food. Jhumpa was very fond of her, for she was very loving and caring. While her mother worked, Hena played with Dhiru and Phutu. Jhumpa finished preparing the lunch while they played.
After she worked for ten years in Jhumpa’s house, Hena-maa said one morning, ?“Madam, I won’t be able to work at your house from tomorrow. My mother-in-law is very sick. My husband is sending me and Hena to his village to take care of the old lady.”
As she said this, tears rolled down her cheeks. ?Hena-maa never came back. Her story remained unfinished. No one knew what happened to her and Hena after they left the town.
How does a story begin and how does it end? Life just goes on and on. Jhumpa couldn’t understand the mysteries life offered. There were many stories, some of which stay on and many were forgotten. Which story would she pick up out of so many?
It was already evening. She hadn’t been able to write the first line of a story. From the pages of history, stories were rushing out like white rabbits. They were dancing on the blank page. Jhumpa felt like moving her fingers gently on their fluffy bodies.
By now Pitun had left her bed. Jhumpa gave her a cup of warm milk. Pitun started playing with her friends. The room was full of noise. Jhumpa listened to it and thought about her story. She came out to the verandah. Sampad was listening to old Hindi and Bengali songs.
Jhumpa couldn’t stand the noise and desperately went to the balcony. Sitting on the cane chair, she looked at the sky. It was a new-moon evening. The tall trees on both sides of the road spoke to each other.?A few stars were shining in the sky. Birds were returning to their nests, bringing food for their children. People were returning from their offices. Young girls and boys crowded the road. Stories were there all over the sky. So many of them!
Jhumpa was back at her desk, but she pushed the papers into the cupboard and told herself. “Enough! There are too many stories in the world to be read. Why write a new story?”
She went into the kitchen to make some tea for Sampad. Pitun was still playting with her friends. In the kitchen, she waited for the first line of a new story.
Minakshi Rath has been writing stories in Oriya for the past 16 years. Her second book of short stories is scheduled to appear later this year. She taught Philosophy.
I was standing on the street, my hair fragrant with the lingering scent of the expensive shampoo that the parlour boy had massaged my scalp with. I was clad in a beautiful, yellow sari laced with intricate embroidery, and thin, yellow bangles adorned my wrists. I looked at myself, in the mirror of a nearby car, examining myself. I looked beautiful! For once, I decided to wear Indian attire to office. As I raised my head to look at the sky and greet the Sun – I observed how the Sun was wearing a sparkling, yellow attire just the way I was. Moments later, I saw a rainbow-coloured spot make its way towards me from a distance. This rainbow-coloured spot, on approaching, grew into a young woman, with a broad figure, and a familiar mole on her chin. My heart skipped a beat, as I curled my fists and rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. After all these years, my childhood best friend was walking towards me. She was one of the most memorable people of my childhood, simply because of the unique aura that she carried. She personified mystery – a different kind of beauty, which can rarely be found in today’s world. Her beauty was the true kind of beauty, something that could be found only in the heart and the soul. She wasn’t tall, slim, fair, and eye-catching like other girls in the party. Instead, she was short, plump, and dark. Irrespective of these imperfections, she stood out as one of the most glamorous girls in our school. She had long, black hair that hung in low curls around her shoulders. Her eyes were a mixture of blue and green, something that was a light turquoise colour. She had dusky skin, and she wore silver bangles around her wrists which twinkled like stars in the night sky. In school she was known for her loud, deep voice that emerged from her in ripples and waves and could be heard much before coming into view. She had this tendency to wear extremely bright clothes that were most often a combination of pinks and purples. She was the most upbeat and care-free girl of our class.
Whenever friends would try to tease her about her height, build, complexion or laughter, she would not only take it lightly but also participate in it. Despite being my age, Rosa had taught me a lot more than my teachers had and being with her had helped me learn the extremely essential lesson of self-acceptance. I had a strong fondness for her since the time she was my classmate in Primary school, in New Delhi. Even as a toddler, Rosa was one of the most high-spirited girls of the class. I remember how she had once fallen down from a playground slide, and the stones on the ground cut into her skin, leaving immensely deep gashes, as blood oozed out. Even then, she did not cry.
After my father was transferred to Mumbai, we lost touch. I would often remember the striking colour of her eyes whenever I would sit down to paint, especially when I saw green and blue colours, because I believed it was only when one could merge these colours – would one get the colour of her eyes. She ran towards me and gave me a tight hug. Oh! I could actually feel the warmth. I was taller than her, yet the warmth of her embrace seeped into my soul and made me feel as though every cell in my body was filled with sunshine. She was alit with glee and so was I. It appeared that the entire sky, with the shimmering, golden light and the sun-soaked clouds had folded themselves into our hearts, and the light that reflected on our faces emerged from that place within.
“So, you work here?” she inquired. Before I could answer her, she tossed her jet-black hair and said, “How foolish of me!” “This is an official party and only those who work here are invited. I have been transferred to this office just month ago. So, didn’t get a chance to see you. Anyways, which department?” As usual before I could utter a word, she pronounced, “Just forget it. How does it matter?”. In spite of myself, I grinned. Even after so many years, Rosa was the same – loud, confident, and ever so talkative. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and there were beads of perspiration on her forehead – so clearly reminiscent of the sports girl that she was. She dragged me towards a chair and said, “Good to see you after so many years. I was dying to talk to a buddy. I just wanted to come across someone I knew; someone I was absolutely and completely familiar with. You know, how immensely expressive I am – I just cannot stand loneliness. This is a new city, new office, new people and you know quite well that I don’t pour my heart out too easily in front of most people until and unless they are close to me.” “How are your parents doing? How are our other friends?” I asked. “They are perfectly fine,” she replied in a jiffy as if I were wasting her time. She was a woman brimming with impulse, and still had an overwhelming love for things that happened instantly. She despised silence, and filled every moment of her life, and the lives of people around her with words and conversation.
“I want to share something about my new boss with you,” she said. I took it as a hint to lend her my ears with my mouth shut. “Ok, shoot,” I said. And she began. “This boss of mine, he is the most ill-mannered person I have ever seen. Even if I am just five minutes late, he gets angry. He keeps me on my toes throughout the day. My whole energy gets drained meeting the deadlines given by him. He smiles only with the clients, otherwise he has such a sullen face as if he needs to pay someone for smiling. He is arrogant, proud, haughty, over-confident and self-importance personified. And the worst part is that every worker in our office is petrified of him. He wears tightly buttoned shirts, balances a pair of spectacles on his nose, and looks at us over them, rather than through them. His eyes are sharp and penetrating, and they look like green lights moving from place to place, almost looking into all the secrets that we have kept hidden from him. Nobody in this office wants to work for him that is why they had to get a secretary from New Delhi office. I don’t know how to deal with him.” She was fuming with annoyance while speaking. After venting out her anger, she looked serene – though there were still frown lines on her forehead. She reminded me of a seashore that had just experienced a raging tsunami, and still bore traces of rubble and destruction.
After engaging in a light-hearted conversation about our common friends, our lives and other womanly topics, she handed the reins of the conversation over to me. “Once we shifted to Mumbai, I made new friends in my new school. I completed my LLB and became a lawyer. I fell in love with the hottest and sexiest boy of my batch,” I began, my cheeks alit with a soft, romantic blush. I felt as though the Juliet within me had risen again, and the entire romantic rendezvous that I had indulged in, seemed to reflect in my eyes. “Oh, you just can’t imagine how it was! So many girls craved for him, but he was mine. Such an adorable boyfriend he was! After we got settled in our careers, we had a word with our parents and got married. Oh, the overwhelming joy of putting a wedding garland around his neck and coming to terms with the fact that this brilliant and bedazzling young man was mine forever! You know, every petal on the flower of our wedding garland seemed to be damp with tears of joy. I know it was actually dew but I would like to consider it as the tears of flowers, and I would like to believe that the flowers were crying tears of joy and happiness....” I completed my story in a nutshell, polishing my sentences with what I would call my characteristic poetic touch. She had a smirk on her face. “So, how’s he now?” she asked. “Did he change after marriage or he is still the same?” I had to admit that he had changed. “He has become more responsible, loving, caring, and understanding. Even though he is extremely busy in his profession he is just a phone call away, whenever I need him. He is a warm, affectionate, devoted, and amorous husband. Even though he is my husband, I like to call him my one-man-family, because in him – I see the love of a mother, the jest of an elder brother, the innocence of a child, and the caring love of a father. Both of us are bonded by the shackles of our professional life, but we still eat dinner together every evening. On weekends we order out, and on weekdays, we cook a meal together. Both of us get into the kitchen and make fun of each other’s pathetic cooking skills! Do you know, we get into slight arguments as well – for example, whether to use carrots in the soup – or onions, but there is great pleasure and a warm sense of fulfilment even while arguing with him, because every argument results in joyful laughter! I am blessed to have him in my life. Not only that, but he also takes care of my parents more than I do. He cooks for them, sings songs with them, and engages in deep, mythological discussions about the Ramayana and Mahabharata with them, something I never managed to do in all my years. He is more of a son than a son in law to them. You know, during Diwali, he remembered that my mother prefers a certain kind of sweetmeat and drove over a mile to get that for her. And, at times, my mother complains about me to him!” Her face was a mirror to the happiness on my face that seemed to increase as I delved deeper into the heart of my story. Her eyes seemed to reflect the bright pink clouds of love and happiness in my eyes, and she clasped my hand tightly. There were footprints of tears on her cheeks – tears that had slowly begun to emerge. “I am so happy for you...” she whispered softly. I was moved by this sight. My once exuberant and constantly excited friend was reduced to a heap of emotions, and it felt ever so blissful to see that the soft truth of my life impacted her so much.
After a few moments, I realized that I was getting late and before we parted I asked her casually, “What is the name of your boss?” She whispered into my ears, looked around to see if someone was watching.
“Mr. J. K. Mishra......”
I gave her the naughtiest smile and bid her goodbye.
Oh, only if she knew....
A second later, she turned around, looked at me and winked.
What if she already did?
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.
I was in an interactive session with Rahul, which included learning names of family members. I have been working on this for almost a year now and he has picked up words. This particular session was initiated by Rahul and when I get such opportunities everything else takes a back seat and I'm totally deaf to everything else that is happening around me.
The words are::::
Papa, Mama, Mesho, Mashima, ArjunBhai and Rohini(his face always breaks into a smile when I take her name, she is extremely beautiful).
Recently I have added Hushkoo's name(Hakku)but so far Rahul has never shown an eagerness to utter his name otherwise.
In any situation i would always give a higher credit to Rahul over Hakku by saying...... "Hakku notty(naughty) doggy,always sleeping and jumping, but Rahul "good boy, always happy, smiling and sitting. These words would invariably bring a smile on his face.
Our session continued with Hakku in deep slumber sleep, even a tiny piece of chicken wouldn't wake him up,he loves his afternoon siesta. Despite the fact that he is an animal he has understood somewhere that Rahul is different,but his concern for him is even more than his parents.
So during this session for the first time Rahul uttered "Hakku"without any verbal prompts from my side. Hearing his name being called out and that too from his dearest Rahul bhaiya, startled ,he sprang from whichever corner he was asleep and came running to Rahul,his joy knew no bounds. Rahul smiled with all his teeth flashing white and caressed him willingly,Hakku was all over him and between us. This is a photo of that moment(2 days ago) If you take a closer look at the pic, you can see that Hakku is giving him a sustained eye contact much to his disbelief.
***Hakku you are nature, you know all, please tell your superiors to take Korona (corona) away. Mommy no like Korona Korona, you go to goodnight and sleep tight.
For love bites :::mommy give you kashoo kashoo (cashew), first you good doggy.
Autism is all about Love Love and more Love that is forever overflowing.
#ForAutismAwareness
#PatienceAndLove
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
‘The 50 INSPIRING WOMEN ‘ comprises profiles of celebrities in various fields / professions and includes the differently abled and the third gender as well (their stories are mentioned briefly in my writeup)which makes it the first of its kind. The questions posed to all of us were : the word we love most, the biggest blessing in life and what the younger generation can learn from us.
Jyothi ,born with a visually challenged condition is a singer supported fully by Kalai, her single mother .Jyothi who is a graduate in Music made her debut in Tamil cinema by singing in the film Alangathey composed by G.V.Prakash.
‘FRIENDSHIP’ is the word jyothi loves most and that is what Jyothi and I share’ ,said her mother Kalai when she was asked to speak at the launch of the book. She went on to briefly relate how she accepted the situation with fortitude which helped her in reinforcing the friendship with her daughter. Her biggest blessing in life is Music ,her ability to take on independently has been possible because of music’, she said. Regarding the lesson the younger generation can learn is, ‘you can never live for society or strive to fulfil its expectations .It is your life and nothing is impossible and all you need to have is a positive eye to see life’. Then she passed on the mike to Kalai who regaled us with a song on Friendship in her melodious voice .
The second Inspiring woman who featured in the book is Jaya, currently the General Manager of an NGO Sahodaran, founded with an intention of creating a safe space to the LGBTIQ community. The word she loves most is EFFECTIVE ,’I believe living an efficient life is very important, especially in our community,as low self esteem is a prevalent issue. Work is the key to break this block. A Commerce graduate with a post graduate degree in Sociology, the biggest blessing in her life is serving for the upliftment of her community.The lesson she wishes the younger generation to learn is to treat everyone equally and pay attention to education.
Sundari Subbu,who has been living with cerebral palsy loves the word SANGUINE.’It’s about sunshine, sunny spirit –seeing the brighter side of life. ‘The biggest blessing in my life is being conscious and mindful of my thoughts, emotions and feelings which helped me to rise above my challenges and remain positive despite circumstances ’, she says.`
The lesson the younger generation can learn is’ if you love something passionately you will get it no matter the Himalayan challenges you face in life’, reiterates she.
Sundari Subbu started as a banker and later discovered her passion for writing .She has published her memoir ‘A Bumblebee’s Balcony’ which chronicles her life’s experiences as a person with cerebral palsy and now she is not labelled as a disabled girl anymore.
I am happy to say I have been featured as one among the 50 Inspiring women in the Coffee table book .The word I love most is HUMOUR because that keeps me going in life .I owe my success as a writer to God’s Grace which makes me continue with my passion which is writing .The lesson to younger generation is to work for your success as it cannot be achieved overnight.
‘The 50 Inspiring Women’ which is the initiative of Amar Ramesh ,founder of Studio A an ,curated by SPI EDGE S.S.Sriram and his team is sponsored by MGM Healthcare , Chennai
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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.
The messenger from the neighboring police station had come and had handed over the all too important message to Archana Deshpande. On the 26th of January, she would receive the Police gallantry award from the His Excellency the Governor of Maharashtra on behalf of her deceased husband Arjun Deshpande, Sub- Inspector in Mumbai Police. The police jeep would come at 7 AM and take her to the parade ground where the awards would be given after the march past and before the contingents march out of Shivaji maidan. It was only a week back she had received the message on telephone. But there were some disturbance on the line and the elaborate message was not clearly audible. All she could figure out was an award was being given posthumously to Arjun Deshpande and as the wife of the deceased she would have to receive it.
After Arjun’s accidental demise, she was trying to put the pieces of her life together. She vacated the police quarters at Naigaon police lines within 3 months, went back to her job as the biology teacher in Matunga high school. Her father had helped her in the transfer from Alibaug in Raigad district. Her mother came over to join her in the rented house taken not too far away from the school. The insurance money out of the policy and some service benefits came to her account as the nominee. She didn’t have time of check what came and what was yet to come. Now this award came, as if the past had to resurface from time to time like an unwelcome guest.
Archana knew that Arjun was involved in some operation. But after marriage she mostly stayed in the back office coordinating operations. Some reprieve provided by his boss. Their marriage was only 3 month old. Whenever there was an operation, he came back late and was lost in deep thought. In any case, he hardly talked and used to brood often ordering his favourite hot cup of milk instead of tea which his colleagues often drank with short gaps. If Arjun was not in direct operation, how could he be named for a gallantry award? She had raised this point and her mother who was a police officer’s wife herself helpfully explained that someone higher up might have tried to help by showing him as part of the operation. A gallantry award would mean a life time pension, a cash award and life time free travel in the state transport corporation. Even some police accommodation was possible in smaller places but Mumbai had acute shortage of accommodation. It hardly mattered to her as her school in Matunga was far away for police lines where accommodation would be available.
Now instinctively she looked at her swollen up stomach and smiled. She has been pregnant for four months now. Her skin acquired a smoothness, the mouth was soft and the eyes, with their new placid touch looked larger and more pronounced. Now the child would grow without a father. She had not thought about a possible re-marriage. But it was technically possible but difficult with a child. But she was determined to take care of the child. After all, she had a teacher’s job in a high school, a decent salary and career prospects too. “I would not only manage, I would try to give the best to the child.” She had not bothered to test whether it was a boy and girl. Lifetime benefits associated with the gallantry award are also shackles which ties you down to the past, which she wanted to forget. They last as long as one was unmarried. Frankly, she didn’t care much for it. But past had its uncanny way of creeping back on her, even though she wanted to forget it for her sanity.
Taking the award would mean wearing a white dress or at least a white dupatta covering her head. No bindi, no makeup. She would have to receive the award with her head down. But when the Governor says something, she would have to raise her head and thank. The eyes must be moist then. That was not very difficult. There was no acting involved. She would have to be herself, underplaying her personality and vivacity. The problem would come in the tea ceremony after that, where Arjun’s colleagues, seniors, well-wishers or otherwise would come to her to commiserate. The situation requires completely appropriate behavior. She had already decided to skip the evening “At home”, at Raj Bhavan. It would be a great strain on her and everyone would understand. Widowhood and meaningless celebratory gathering do not go together.
She stood before the mirror with the white dupatta on and a very light touch up. She tried a faint sad smile. It came out rather peculiar and she tried it again. “Thank you, your Excellency”. It was said too brightly and too loud. The voice sounded peculiar too.
“Thank you, your excellency. It was very thoughtful of you to give this award to Arjun.” It came out much better.
“He would be happy in the heaven.” She added. Now her eyes were moist and she pulled the dupatta across her face, turning her head a little and away from the person facing him.
‘This requires a little work’ she thought to herself. Now the devastating event that changed her life forever flashed in her mind. It was around three months back when Arjun and she went to Arjun’s village on a peculiar mission. The village was named Degloor on the border of Telangana. Marathawada region received very little rain and a drought was staring into the eyes. The villagers planned a two day ‘Yagna’ for propitiating ‘Rain God’. As the erstwhile Deshmukh of the village, it was his obligation to be the karta, to conduct ‘Yagna’ and offer ablutions. They reached the village 3 day in advance. His plan was to spend some time with his mother. Being the only child, the lady was expected to stay with him. But Mumbai accommodation was small and it needed someone to look after 20 bighas of land in the village. The lady was overwhelmed by his son’s visit and made sure that the entire kitchen affairs were handled only by herself. Of course, there were servants for every item of work.
On the first day of arrival a neighbourhood girl called Saachala dropt by. She was familiar with the household and never behaved like a guest. Arjun and Saachala were too familiar for Archana’s comfort. Thereafter, Arjun was mostly away somewhere in neighbourhood. Archana thought that he was moving around in connection with the ‘Yagna’ until the cat came out when someone came looking for Arjun. “Check in Chavan’s house. He must be there”. Archana’s antenna went up as it meant Saachala’s household. A red flag went up in her mind but she didn’t get time to broach it with Arjun. But information started spilling in bits and pieces through the distant nieces and aunts. Saachala wanted a career in TV and Maniamma, Arjun’s mother felt that career she would not fit into a life of a landed gentry cum police officers wife. She stalled it,
“Is this visit rekindling the old flame of their relationship?” Archana thought to herself. She had not seen much and as a science teacher observation was critical to her conclusion.
But the day before the starting of Yagna, Arjun told her in the night that when they return Saachala would accompany them. “Where will she stay?’
“In our house. She is looking for a TV career . Let her explore. This is the minimum I can do for her.”
Archana was feeling queasy.
“How long will she stay there?” she asked.
“As long as she wants.”
“That will disturb our privacy. Her staying in our house may not be appropriate when a child is on his way.” she added.
“Look here. I wanted to marry her. She will come and stay in my house as long as she wants and may be forever.”
“That is not acceptable. You decide which woman you want. Your lawfully wedded wife or your old flame.”
‘My decision is clear. If you don’t like to stay with her in the same house , stay back in the village with Tai then. She will stay with me. That is final.’
She sat very still watching him with a kind of dazed horror and each word of his was taking him away from her, only the face stayed highlighted.
“What about our child?”
“I will give you money and see to it that you are looked after but no fuss about this. Both of us are better off with this arrangement.”
Her first instinct was not to believe it at all. May be it didn’t even happen to begin with and she herself only imagined the whole thing. May be if she went about her chores , she may find that it never occurred. She heard Maniamma hailing for her and left. By the time she came back Arjun was fast asleep. But sleep had abandoned her despite all her effort. Only very late into the night she fell asleep.
Next day was the ‘Yagna’ day and she would have to get up early to help Tai with everything. Not that Tai would delegate anything to her. By the time she got up it was already 6.30 AM, quite late by Degloor standard. Arjun was ready already. She was feeling guilty herself when Arjun said.
“I have thought about it. You stay back in the village with Tai. Saachala is going with me.” His face was serious.
“So, it all happened for real last night.” She thought to herself and before she could open her mouth, Arjun had marched out. She proceeded to kitchen after taking her bath. Arjun was perhaps angry because she took him on; that was her vague conviction. Time could heal such weird thoughts, she was thinking.
Maniamma was already in command and cooking was already on.
“You need not bother. You relax. You will have to take care of yourself in Mumbai with your pregnancy,” Maniamma said
“No, I will stay in kitchen and help you” was her answer.
The Yagna started at 9 AM and went on till 4 PM. Arjun came and had a glass of butter milk before having his lunch. The Yagna had taken a toll on him. He was missing his glass of hot milk and said so to Maniamma. But it was late for lunch which was served soon. He had light jowar roti- besan curry dinner before he went to sleep. Next morning when Archana woke up, Arjun said
“Separate your stuff from mine. Put my stuff in the smaller suitcase. Yagna ends today. I will start for Mumbai tomorrow morning. I will send you money every month.”
“Why did you have to marry me, if this was your game plan. I had teacher’s job in Raigad. I had to pack off from there.’ She was dazed. She didn’t feel anything except for a slight nausea and a desire to vomit.
“It had to be like this. I married to you to please Tai. But Saachala was always there in my heart and mind.” Arjun answered.
‘What about the child?’ she said looking at her distended belly.
“He would be looked after. He would be a Deshmukh like his father and grandfather. Hope, you would not create a fuss. If you do, you stand to lose.” Arjun said this and stormed out of the room. It looked he didn’t like extending the conversation, lest he changed his mind. Archana could not feel her feet touching the floor when she reached the kitchen. Somehow the ground had vanished. She was distracted and kept brooding. Her answers and questions were abbreviated. She was wondering how easy it was for Arjun to abandon her. She was already pregnant for one month . In a manner she had given up the job and now she was a castaway. What would he feel if he was discarded like that. But it won’t happen because he was a man. What a brute she was married to . She wished she could get even. All sorts of ideas were whirring in her mind when Maniamma said.
“Archana, put some mint and coriander leaves in the butter milk. Today, the Yagna will end at 3 PM” .
Something flashed in Archana’s mind before she said.
“His favourite is a hot glass of milk. Yesterday, he asked you too. But it was late then. Today it is finishing up quickly, you may give a glass of milk.” She also knew something which comes from the Chullah would be directly handled by Tai alone and she herself would offer the glass to her son. She was a biology teacher. The process and effect which were unknown to many was not a secret to her.
When Arjun was offered a glass of hot milk, he gleefully accepted.
“Tai, the Yagna Ahuti, you should have seen. Surely rain God will be pleased.”
“I know. You have taken so much of pain, God will be pleased. Not often the village sees a devout Deshmukh. Most of them are profligate humans.” Maniamma answered.
Arjun was about to tell that Archana would stay back and Saachala would accompany him. But he stopped short after hearing the answer.
In thirty minutes time, things changed. Arjun’s face bloated all of a sudden, he got a bitter taste in mouth as if some poison was administered.
“Who cooked the milk, Tai.”
“Why. I did it myself. But your face is bloating up. Sitting next to fire must have done it,” Tai answered. Arjun didn’t tell what had come to his mind. In ten minutes he slumped to one side of the chair with froth on his mouth.
Dr. Sabnavis who was called by Manniamma entered then. He checked his pulse rate and heartbeat and finally declared him dead. The body was cremated that evening and wailing continued in the neighbourhood. Archana could not cry. She was stunned into silence. Life of three women had changed in hours. Archana left for Alibaug to her parent’s house after fifteen days.
Some days later, the insurance payment of Rs. 25 lakhs came to Archana’s account.
“It would be helpful for the child”. She thought.
Now the bell rang and she came out of the reverie. She opened the door, the messenger had carried the invitation to the tea following the award. There were a new set of things to be taken care of. She moved to the mirror, imagined her interlocutor expressing her condolence for this untimely snatching away. She tried to cry just enough.
‘ We are glad that Arjun got this gallantry award. He deserved it every bit”. The person was adding. Now her head was down.
“ At least his soul would be happy in the heaven. God bless his soul. All your prayers mean so much to us”. Then she broke into tears but composed herself soon.
She wiped her tears and started giggling . She was glad that there were no finger prints on the wall or anywhere for that matter.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delhi.
I stared in utmost horror at the mangled corpse, which lay lifeless before me. The events took place within a few minutes. I never meant for it to turn out this way...
I opened my eyes with a drive. "This time would be my best", I said to myself, as I determinedly stepped out of the room, leaving her alone. The work had gone smoothly up until now — better than the others before. But something was missing, something which sparked originality. I needed a tool to make my signature mark. Grabbing the car keys off the acacia table, I sped out the front door and crammed myself into the teeny tiny car parked obtusely outside the gate. I threw my grey hoodie over my face and went about town looking for the perfect tool that would suit my nimble fingers best.
I set foot in the store and swallowed the lump in my throat with my nervousness as well. All the tools deserving of being my associates lined up at the counter, awaiting their turn unabatingly while my eyes bounced from one to another. Making a choice was getting complicated. I ran my fingers along the sleek wooden handle and imagined the fortune I could gain. The fortune I could gain if all went well. As I slid the money to the cashier while thrusting the shiny fettling knife and wire cutters in my bag, I envisioned what was to come and a content simper crept up my face. Nothing could go wrong! Or so I presumed.
The jingle of the keys echoed through the silent corridors of the decrepit rental apartment. Once I entered my home, I made my way to the only place in the world where I felt in control, my workbench.
Advancing toward the table, I saw the pretty woman I had left there a few hours ago — her skin porcelain, fair and flawless — Her beauty radiated across the room and my fortune was so close that I could feel it embrace me. My hopes soared and I felt a whisper of happiness but my sudden flare of joy was short-lived. My excitement got the better of me, I had celebrated too soon and my delicate clay sculpture slipped out of reach, along with my hopes and dreams. A shrill squeak escaped my lips which was promptly followed by the anticipated yet undesired thud.
I stared in utmost horror at the mangled corpse, which lay lifeless before me.
Vishakha Devi, the second daughter of Mrs and Mr S. Vijayaraj, is born and brought up in Chennai. She did her primary schooling at Rosary Matriculation School, Santhome and is now pursuing her middle school education at Vruksha Montessori School, Abhiramapuram. Vishakha, currently in the eighth grade, loves the English language and has a significant penchant for writing short stories. She has received many awards for oratorical and essay writing competitions at the school and inter-school events.
Encouraged by her English teacher, Ms Vidya Shankar, she has now begun her maiden journey into the world of poetry.
The earth doesn't belong to man, man belongs to the earth. Man didn't weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.—Chief Seattle.
January 2021 brought three haunting and quite poignant images that show the travails of wildlife in India. The first one was the image of a majestic tusker running in panic with its head on fire. It was from Masinagudi in Tamilnadu. The second image was from Kerala. A mother elephant was electrocuted by the 'owner' of the land which is actually forest. It was heartbreaking to see the baby elephant walking around the body of its mother and being forcefully removed. It will have to spend the rest of its life in captivity. The third image was that of a gour (Indian bison) that was wandering near Wellington in Ooty after its mouth was shattered by a crude bomb it bit. The hapless animal died after a week of excruciating pain.
The tragic death of the majestic wild elephant in Masinagudi by a burning object thrown at its head by a man who was running an illegal homestay was needed to initiate action against 55 illegal homestays and resorts that operate in the buffer zones of Mudumalai Tiger reserve tells volumes on the spirit of our wildlife protection. In Kerala six elephants including a pregnant one were killed within one year. And it is said that six gours had been killed in Tamilnadu by crude bombs meant for wild boars during the last two years. We can imagine how many wild boars are killed by "eating" the bombs that explode their heads.
The image of the Masinagudi elephant running with his head ablaze and trumpeting in agony makes me shudder. The sound of his trumpets in agony has been reverberating in my ears. Another such horrific incident is the killing of a wild elephant in Munnar in Kerala using a JCB two years ago. The tusker used to wander around a resort. It was a peaceful animal and one day when it was standing in front of the resort, the resort owner sent his JCB, and the JCB driver repeatedly hit on the head of the elephant with the trunk of the JCB. The elephant ran away and found dead the next day.
Mazinagudi always reminds me of E.R.C. Davidar, the wildlife conservationist who lived among the elephants and other animals befriending them. He named the home he built at Sigur, which was called Tusker Valley, Cheetal Walk. In his autobiography, which is titled Cheetal Walk: Living in the Wilderness, he says: “We had plenty of opportunities to observe solitary bull elephants. The more we observed them, the more we were convinced of their similarity with humans. They behaved just as older men would—they were affable or crusty, noisy or quiet, outgoing or withdrawn, aggressive or amiable—in fact, they displayed the whole range of human behavioural patterns, except that they were not as complicated.”
Davidar has even named the elephants. The names were Udayar, Bumpty, Kumariah etc. Just like the humans, the elephants can also be playful. See Udayar playing with the buffaloes in Davidar’s words: “One morning my wife, Peter and I had gone to Masinagudi, leaving Priya and Mark behind. They were watching Gowda’s buffaloes grazing in the open in front, when Udayar charged at them. The children expected a massacre. Instead, it turned out to be a game. The buffaloes and the bull elephant chased each other alternately all over the clearing, Udayar squealing with delight. When they got tired of it, the players parted company and went their different ways.”
It is one of the descendents of the majestic elephants like Udayar, ‘one of the finest bulls’ Davidar has ‘ever set eyes on’, was seen running with his head on fire and subsequently died. When will the humans learn that the earth does not belong to humans alone? When will they have the wisdom of Chief Seattle who said thus 175 years ago: “What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of the spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.”? When will the humans understand the great truth contains in these words of Prerna Singh Bindra written in her book The Vanishing: India's Wildlife Crisis: “When we ravage nature, we are threatening our future. When we war with wildlife, it is a war against ourselves.”?
In our country, the population of elephants is hardly 30000. And almost every month, we hear the tragic death of at least one elephant. Six elephants were killed in Kerala alone within the last 12 months. Of these six, two were killed by bombs hidden inside the eatables; two were killed by deliberate electrocution, and in the other deaths also human role is suspected. All their forests are encroached by the humans and when these poor animals enter the encroached lands in search of food, they are accused of 'encroaching' into human territory! And they are electrocuted; they are given bombs hidden inside pineapples or coconuts to eat and their mouths shatter and they roam around in agony and die suffering excruciating pain, their mouths festering and worm-filled.
It is high time the humans learnt that they are digging the mass graves for themselves by eliminating the diverse flora and fauna that make human life possible on earth. The quite painful sights of the Masinagudi elephant running with its head on fire, the Wellington gour wandering with its mouth exploded, the baby elephant walking around its mother who was killed by electrocution remind me of the words the Emperor of Brobdingnag tells Gulliver in Jonathan Swift’s immortal satire Gulliver's Travels: “I cannot but conclude the bulk of your natives (the humans) to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth.”
The author who hails from Palakkad district of Kerala has completed his post graduation from JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University), New Delhi. His articles on gender, environmental and other socio-political issues are published in The Hindu, The New Indian Express, The Hans India and the current affairs weekly Mainstream etc. His writings focus on the serenity of Nature and he writes against the Environmental destruction the humans are perpetrating in the name of development that brings climate catastrophes and ecological disasters like the 2015 Chennai floods and the floods Kerala witnessed in 2018 August and 2019 August. A collection of his published articles titled Leaves torn out of life: Woman the real spine of the home and other articles was published in 2019. He is a person of great literary talent and esoteric taste. One of his articles (Where have all the birds gone?) published in The Hindu is included in the Class XII English textbook in Maharashtra by the Maharashtra State Board of Secondary and Higher Secondary Education.
- Roshni, O Roshni, where are you? Kahan gayi meri gudiya, meri jaan?
Old Usman Baba called out to his grand daughter. He was thirsty and could not find where the girl had kept the earthen pot with water. The feeble voice echoed from the four walls of the room and returned to him.... meri gudiya.... meri jaan...... meri gudiya.... meri jaan....
Indeed, she was his life - the only thread that held his shattered life together. She was the reason he lived, groping his way on the arduous path of life, through eyes unable to see any more. He had gone blind six years back, the doctor at the government hospital said it was glaucoma, an eye condition that was irreversible.
Roshni - Roshnara, the twelve year old lissome girl, with a natural fluidity that she inherited from her mother, was away at the second household where she worked in the mornings for a wage of thousand rupees a month, doing cleaning up of utensils, washing of clothes and mopping of floors. She did the same job for the same amount of wages at another household and the two thousand rupees she earned was a steady and substantive part of her income.
She and Usman Baba earned a few hundred, sometimes a thousand rupees a month by painting on the pavements at the bazaar in the afternoons. Usman Baba had magic in his fingers. Trees, flowers, hills, rivers and the moon got a life of their own when he drew them on the pavement. They were perfectly drawn, despite his blindness. He had been a painter all his life, drawing vibrant pictures, painting them on small canvases and selling them in the bazaar. But the last six years have been dreary, desolate for him. After his blindness he tried to draw pictures from his mind and splashed colours on them, but the errors were too many. He finally gave up. When Roshni lost her parents and came to live with him, he took to painting on the pavements to earn some money for sustenance. He would draw the pictures and ask Roshni to paint them with coloured powder. They would then play Hindi songs on the old cassette player and Roshni would break into a dance, her body and mind lost in the rhythm of the songs. Soon onlookers would throw money onto the painting on the pavement - coins or notes of small denomination.
Usman Baba loved to draw the sky, so much that often people would call him Aasmaan baba - old man of the sky. Sometimes he would draw vast expanses of the sky spraying blue colours on them. And on the sky he would build castles, hills, forests, moon and stars - all tucked in perfect harmony. He would always choose the perfect blue colour for his sky. On the dirty pavement it would often be difficult to get the right tone of colour. But in his mind he would see the blue and coax Roshni to use a lighter colour or a deeper one depending on the mood of the sky - a brooding sky, an angry sky, a playful sky, a happy, radiant, smiling sky. Or a sky covered with white clouds, dark clouds, rainy sky, thunderous, sparks of lightning drawing white streak on the pavement. He would draw patterns with the clouds, the royal procession, the elephants marching or small bundles of fluffy rabbits crawling leisurely to their safe haven. The pavement would welcome the sky with open arms and the sky would sit there in its full splendour, preening like a dancing peacock, its majesty shining benignly on the onlookers. When Usman baba finished drawing the picture of the sky with all its accompanying regalia, and Roshni painted it with colours on his precise instruction, people marvelled at it, often wondering which one was real, the one above or the one on the pavement.
And Roshnara? She would go wild with joy, looking at the painting. She would switch on the cassette player and start dancing. She had magic in her feet, the pavement hardly the fitting platform for her majestic dance, combining wild abandon with subtle, precise movements. Pirouetting on her slender legs, her billowing skirt creating a magical beauty, she would sway like an Anarkali performing in a royal courtyard. The onlookers would go crazy, throwing coins and notes on the painted pavement.
On a few occasions some large hearted men would tuck a hundred rupees note in her hand and pat her on the back, or squeeze her soft hand. She would take extra care to say her thanks to them bending and gesturing shukriya with her palms, her eyes shining with glee. Usman baba would straight go to the mutton shop and buy goat meat for a gala dinner. He would cook rice and a delicious mutton curry for both of them.
After Roshnara cleaned the plates, they would go to sleep. And Usman baba would weave dreams for her. Once he got some money he would send her to a dance school, a proper school where she would learn Kathak and many other dance forms. One day she would be famous! Who knows she might be invited to Bollywood to dance in movies. Usman baba was sure she had talent, only the opportunity was lacking. May be some big man, connected to big people would spot her while dancing on the pavement and sponsor her for a dance school. May be, one day she would dance a big number like the one in Mughal-E-Azam and the whole of Hindustan would be held in rapture. Once she became a famous dancer, Inshallah, she could become a heroine in the films. She would earn in millions, they would move into a big bungalow.
Talking of a bungalow, Usman baba's mind would take a flight of fancy. "Ah," he would say, "Roshni, meri jaan, the bungalow would be yours, but you must leave the designing to me. I would paint the walls, the doors, the windows in blue. I will bring the sky down for you, pluck a piece of it and drape it on your walls. Another piece will be on your window with the moon smiling in it, the ceiling would have clouds and stars hanging like chandeliers. In the darkness of the nights the stars will break into twinkling dance. And you know what name we would give to your house? Aasmaan Mahal, The Sky Palace! Nothing less would do for my Jigar ka tukda."
And Usman baba would go on,
"When you have lots and lots of money, I will buy two small pieces of land in the sky. No, no, not two pieces, four pieces of land. One for me, one for your Dadijaan, and one each for your Ammi and Abba. Don't worry, I will find them in Jannat, sweet and smiling as ever. We will all have our graves together in those small pieces of land in the sky"
Roshnara would giggle,
"What about me? You are forgetting me Dadajaan?"
Usman baba would pat her head lovingly,
"You won't need a grave my child, you will live in the hearts of people of Hindustan, as long as the sun shines and the moon smiles from the sky. You will reign over the kingdom of people's love forever, like Madhubala or Anarkali."
With that dream dancing before her eyes Roshnara would quietly drift off to sleep. Usman baba would look to the sky through the window of their small, broken-down house. The sky would never cease to fascinate him. What is there, beyond its blue facade? Is it all vacuum, or is there an empire above the clouds where kings, queens sit in royal splendour, winged angels dance and singers like Rafi Saab or painters like Usman baba are greeted and feted?
Usman Baba's blind eyes would turn towards Roshnara. Ah, what beautiful dancing feet she had, her face must be sweet and angelic like her mother's! When she danced the wind stood still, mesmerised, the trees swayed in ecstacy and the leaves murmur in appreciation. The poor girl should have been born in a big haveli to some rich parents, not to two poor wage earners who followed each other, struck by some unknown disease. Would luck ever smile on Roshnara? Would there be someone who would notice her, give her a break and make her a big dancer? Usman Baba would pray silently and wish his dream came true.
xxxxx
My dear readers, I could keep weaving a dream out of this tale, giving more colours to Usman Baba's paintings and more rhythms to Roshnara's dance. After all dreams are meant to be open-ended, aren't they? But life is not a dream. Poor souls like Usman Baba and Roshnara are entitled to small rations of such luxuries. They come in small dribbles and can evaporate in the blink of an eye or like glass shattered by the gust of a wind.
On a night when Usman Baba and Roshnara had gone to sleep, with yet another dose of dreams, tragedy struck in the form of four assailants who entered the house stealthily, with silent footsteps. They lifted poor, delicate Roshnara like a sack of potatoes, closing her mouth with their powerful hands and took her to an abandoned building half a kilometre away. They stuffed her mouth with a piece of cloth and brutalised her in turns. She was discovered next morning, almost lifeless, by some passersby.
Usman Baba woke up in the morning to the shouts of neighbours and found his world collapsed. The police did the investigations and quickly found out the identity of the assailants. They swung into action. Usman Baba was taken to the police station and thrashed mercilessly till he signed a statement that from time to time he would entice clients by showing off Roshnara on the streets and offering her to them for a suitable fee. They let Usman Baba go home with a warning that he should keep quiet, otherwise they might visit the girl in the nights for interrogation. The case was solved in less than twenty four hours, no complaint registered, no charge sheet filed.
Usman Baba returned to his house from the police station in the evening, his mind in turmoil, head hung in shame, his skin burning and body in excruciating pain. There was no noise inside, the house was ominously silent. Roshni was sitting in a corner, her face hidden between her drawn-up knees. She had not spoken a word since the morning when she was brought from the abandoned building. She hadn't eaten anything, nor sipped a drop of water. She just sat there, eyes swollen, tears dried up on her cheeks.
Usman Baba took a glass of water to her and sat near her, and softly whispered,
"Roshni, meri gudiya, meri jaan....."
Roshni looked at her Dadajaan with tired, swollen eyes. She raised a feeble hand to his mouth and closed it. She just shook her head and burst into sobs.
Outside darkness was creeping in, the sky was grey, heavy clouds hung like foreboding blankets. After a long night the silence of the morning was broken by deafening cries as the neighbours found two bodies sprawled on the floor covered in blood, the wrists cut with a sharp knife. They found a few lines scribbled on the wall, Usman Baba's final piece of art before life ebbed out of him, "I always thought the sky was blue. How wrong I was! The sky is red, it will always be red, drenched with the blood of the innocent."
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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