Literary Vibes - Edition CV (28-May-2021) (ARTICLES)
Title : Sun Rising (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Literary Vibes - Edition CV (28-May-2021) (ARTICLES)
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MUNNI
02) Sreekumar K
RAINY DAYS
NEW DISCOVERIES IN LIFE SCIENCE
03) Ishwar Pati
RAIN, RAIN GO AWAY...
PILGRIMAGE TO MUSSOORIE
04) Dr. Ajay Upadhyaya
DREAM FOR DUMMIES
05) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION
06) Krupasagar Sahoo
THOSE BLUE EYES
07) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA 'S MUSINGS :: WRESTLING
08) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
RIGHT PLACE FOR A ‘THAKKAR’
09) Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
DESTINY
10) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - BILVA PATRA FOR OFFERING TO SHIVA
11) Gourang Charan Roul
MY EXPERIENCE OF THE MAJESTIC NEW ENGLAND FALL
12) Nidhish G
LEMON TEA
13) P. Ranga Raj
LAKSHMI
PROJECT UPMA
14) Seema Jain
THE KOELS HAVE TO GO
15) Nikhil M. Kurien
SAM
16) Dr. Satya N. Mohanty
THE PARABLE OF TANDAV KISHORE SARKAR
17) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE BREAK JOURNEY
18) Hema Ravi
THE CUCKOO SINGS AGAIN.....
19) G K Maya
THE CHEMPADA TAAL
20) Setaluri Padmavathi
WHAT'S SUCCESS?
21) N. Meera Raghvendra Rao
DOMESTIC HUMAN RESOURCE IN CHENNAI
22) Prof. (Dr.) Viyatprajna Acharya
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
23) S. Ritika
THE DARKNESS ILLUMINATED
SELF EXPLORATION
24) Sukumaran C. V.
SHAKESPEARE AND THE PANDEMIC
25) Dilip Mahapatra
THE TRANSIENT TEMPTRESS
26) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PERFUME
Munni came to live with us when Ritu and I were married hardly for a year, and staying in Bombay, now called Mumbai. She lived with us for a few months only, before disappearing like air from inside a collapsed birthday party balloon by the next morning. When I recall the incidents, standing in the afternoon of life, a sensation passes through my spine, of fear and relief, both emotions wrapped with a final touch of frivolity and humour.
After our wedding Ritu and i had a month long honeymoon in a rented flat in Bombay where otherwise I was working while living in a lodge in a suburb area called Chembur. After our month long staying together, my wife went back to her rural posting as a Gram Sevika, a female village development worker. She was posted in a village called Malhar Pur, close to her parent’s village Mukund Pur in Odisha. I moved back into the same room in the lodge that I had temporarily vacated keeping my space reserved.
Those days, easy communication through mobile phones had not yet arrived. Even land line telephones were not large in number. Main routes of long-distance communication were either writing letters, or in the case of urgency, resorting to long distance trunk calls at a cut-throat price, or resorting to postal telegrams. The last method was cheap and within ordinary man’s affordability.
Ritu informed me, after a month of her return in a letter dripping with shy vibes that she had morning sickness, leaving the rest to my guesswork. In those times of coy emotions, couples shied away from saying ‘I love you’. Only letters blushed with such tender words if the writer had the gift of gab. But my wife had dared writing those three magic words. I concluded, putting two and two together, that she was pregnant. It made me deliriously happy, yet simultaneously worried. I felt unequal to shoulder the responsibility of the big word ‘father’. I wasn’t settled in life so far.
In my central government job, having joined just a year ago, I was not eligible to get government accommodation. I was told, it could take months, even a year. Rented accommodations in Bombay required cut-throat rents and murderous deposits. After sending my father half of my salary, the remaining part of my salary only enabled me to afford a cot in a double bedded room in a down town lodge. A full rental accommodation was beyond my affordability at the time.
During the arrangements by our parents for my marriage to Ritu, when I had opened the narrative of my hardship, my mother drew a long face, and told to my father, “Didn’t I tell you? Your son is just a useless, good for nothing Gobar Ganesh. Just look at Gobind, our Aditya’s duffer classmate. He works as a clerk in the state excise department. His salary is just a pittance. But, he is already building a two-storey house at Bhubaneswar and is moving in a car of his own. Earning money is an art.”
My roommate in the decrepit lodge worked as an RSS pracharak, whatever that job might mean, but I knew, he received a money order every month of a small amount from his headquarters, he called it his allowance, and he had to sustain on that miserable amount. He counted every pie before spending. His finances were no better than mine. I did not know his full name. I called him Goutam bhai like all others. When I moved in, he had already been occupying one of the two beds.
So, we were good friends, though we were poles apart in our life’s philosophy. He was a silent type, would read only the literature, newspaper, books, and journals he received from his organization, that contained a weird interpretation of our Hindu religion, Indian society, and humanity in general. The organization dreamt of rewriting the history of India, and create a new social order, as the people of the organization neither accepted the history, nor the prevalent secular democratic culture.
Any goodies, that ever arrived from home through messengers, friends, or relatives, I would reserve a portion aside for Goutam, a Gujarati who by habit was fond of sweets and savouries: and he was like a brother to me. He could hardly afford those goodies to eat. And as he had run away like Goutam Buddha from home leaving behind a young wife, he could hardly expect anything from his family.
During our lodge life, Goutam had introduced me to the cheapest restaurants, the cheapest tailors, and shops selling the cheapest toiletry stuff and fabrics for keeping oneself clean, crisp, with the smartest possible looks at minimum expenses. Goutam knew the value of money, and its prudent use. We proudly attributed it to our thriftiness, though our detractors would consider it to be our inadequacy to earn big money and proclaiming, - ‘Grapes are sour’.
Living in such a tight budget, I didn’t know how to afford a wife’s expenses, and possibly along with that of a child on its way. But Goutam offered me half of his meagre monthly allowance, showing a large heart, and giving the inspiration ‘when there is a will, there is a way’. Though I did not have to take half of his allowance, for at a later stage, my wife would come forward to contribute funds required from her savings. But Goutam’s offer was the greatest inspiration. I was emboldened to congratulate Ritu as the mother of our first child on its way, and that bound us with a stronger bond of love.
I was eager to be by Ritu’s side. To reach her I took the thirty-nine-hour long train ride by Konark Express, followed by five hours by bus, plus two-kilometer on foot. Now, roughly thirty years later, when I take stock of that time, it looks like stone-age.
I saw my wife from a distance, standing in the village lane chatting with some villagers. She looked emaciated. When she noticed me walking to her from a distance, she seemed to jump like encountering an apparition. She rubbed her eyes, but stood still, rooted to the spot.
When I finally touched her on her shoulders, to the amusement of villagers, she backed away, and then came forward to touch me all over, thumping and scratching me like I was a piece of vegetable in a market kiosk. I would know later that my telegram about my travel had not reached her. It in fact arrived two days after I arrived. But the delay was nothing compared to a case I had read in a newspaper. A telegram once had reached a war-widow from her husband at the front who had already died in action and his dead body had been delivered to her. The telegram read, “I am in good health. Leave approved. Reaching home in a week.”
She pinched herself, asking a villager to pinch her hard and carrying out a few more of such rurally practiced scientific experiments, she concluded, it was me and not my ghost or a bahurupia, a disguised lookalike; and she was not dreaming. Then she broke into loud bursts of joy, followed by lots of tears. The wise villagers dispersed leaving us to meet properly. Only a few gawking urchins were standing about, teetering and enjoying that rare outdoor reunion scene of a young married couple, so uncommon in those days in a village lane in Odisha. Their curiosity changed into disappointment when we walked towards Ritu’s rented accommodation.
Later Ritu formally introduced me to the villagers, “This is my husband Aditya. Do you recall the post-wedding feast I had thrown after returning from Bombay? Like me my husband has a government job in Bombay.” An Alec Smart quipped, “Oh, he is a Gram-Sevak, rather a City-Sevak, a city development officer in Bombay?”
I told Ritu my plans to take her to Bombay with me to have proper medical checkups and childbirth in a good nursing home there. I had already booked two railway tickets to travel back to the mega city after spending twenty days in Odisha. She had to apply for leave immediately.
I was treated like the son-in-law of the family in whose big house Ritu had her rented quarters. The snacks and meals were delicious. Even the entire village seemed in a celebratory mood as if I was their collective son-in-law who was making his first post-marriage visit.
I doubt today, if any non-Odia would understand this exotic son-in-law related joyous sentiments of that time in a village of Odisha. So, Ritu’s landlady’s family would happily receive fish caught by nighbours from their ponds, bananas and green coconuts from their gardens, delicious smoked rice cakes, fried, baked or steamed goodies made by the loving hands of ladies who looked upon Ritu as their daughter.
I left that lovely village Malhar Pur after four days to visit my parents in my village, followed by a visit to Ritu’s parents in theirs, spending a few days at each place. In Ritu’s village, her parents had arranged a girl of fifteen, named Munni, from their neighbourhood to go to Bombay after a few months to give company to Ritu before and after the child birth. She was a high-school dropout and was biding her time to get married.
In villages, almost all the girls, including Munni, harboured great dreams about a married life, almost of fairytale proportion. Their sources of information were in fact the little fairy tale books and cheap magazines like ‘Manohar Kahania’, magazines of sloppy romance. But in reality, girls of tender age in villages, once married would get immediately pregnant. They were trampled like delicate petals under-foot, getting old before even becoming young because of repeated childbearing before their bodies were matured enough to take the brunt.
In addition to this physical abuse, the girls of very tender age would be burdened with disproportionately big responsibilities in their in-laws’ houses. They faced daily bone-crushing work in kitchens, fields, households; eat poor and insufficient food, and these added to repeated child births, made them old before their time. But none of these real-time horrors, seen day in and day out, entered the thick skulls of village maidens, each drunk with the romantic thoughts about her own prince-charming.
Munni was no exception. Study was boring to her. She loved daydreaming. Her family lived in a hand to mouth existence, her parents and elder brother worked in others’ fields and gardens on daily wage basis. It was arranged that Munni would go to Mumbai in a few days’ time. We had to provide her lodging and boarding, plus send a money order every month to her parents towards her monthly salary.
Munni looked rather younger and smaller than her fifteen years. It might be due to malnutrition, I guessed. She was a dark little girl with pretty features. I liked her innocent smiles. When I asked her wishes about her year long Bombay-stay, she was too shy to say anything at all. I could decipher from her silence a mixed feeling – she seemed happy as well as afraid about her visit to a distant unknown city.
Ritu gave birth to our baby girl in an upmarket nursing home of Bombay. Her mother had arrived with Munni about a month before the baby’s birth. Her mother returned after staying with us for a month after Ritu’s delivery.
I observed with the passage of time, Munni growing unhappy and restless in our house. It appeared I and Ritu were no suitable company for young Munni. She would play a while with our little daughter when she was awake, but as the kid mostly spent her time in sleep, Munni would spend time looking vacantly into space, possibly daydreaming.
Sent on small errands like getting milk or newspaper from the street corner or going to the laundryman in the adjacent building to give or collect an urgent bundle of clothes, she would return very late. A few times I went down to look for her out of worry. I would at times find her talking to boys of her age, whose alert and shifty eyes would notice me from a distance, and they would slink away. I presumed it was normal in Munni’s age to make male friends among the children of her own age-group. Seeing me approaching from a distance, Munni would hurry home by some other route, reaching our place before me. She would pretend to have not seen me. Ritu however would give her a bad firing, often going to physical punishments like a few slaps.
I felt Munni’s restlessness and alienated behaviour. Her life in Bombay seemed salt-less. The situation seemed going out of hands. I told Munni in private, “In a few months we all would go to Odisha. Then I would leave it to you if you stay back or return with us. If you decide to stay back, tell me in advance, I can make arrangements for another babysitter in your place.” But she would reply, “No, uncle, I would return to Bombay with you. You keep sending my monthly wages to my father. They can eat a little better food with that money.”
After around two months, one morning, Ritu came to bed in the morning with two steaming cups, saw me lying in bed with eyes wide open and started, “You might have sent Munni down to bring your morning paper. We must change this newspaper man, who is so irregular.” I replied, “No. Newspaper might have been delivered at the door. I will just check. And I have not sent Munni down for newspaper or anything.” Then, we both asked simultaneously, “Where is Munni?”
By eleven in the morning, it was almost clear, Munni was not going to return from any errand of ours or her own, for we had looked into the closet in the wall in which Munni kept her bag of personal things including some of her family photographs. The big bag was also missing. I took leave for the day from my office, and now proceeded to police station with a photograph of Munni to lodge a missing person’s complaint.
We were scared and worried for the pubescent girl who hardly knew the mega-city and spoke little Hindi or English. She also didn’t know Marathi, the local language. She could speak only Odia fluently. We were afraid she might be picked up by wrong people and be sold in the flesh market, a part of pandemic human trafficking in India. We were also afraid of organ harvesters, and agencies who would sell such girls to work in houses as made servants, or for marriage to elderly men or widowers to warm their beds and slave in their houses like maid servants.
We were afraid of breaking the bad news to Munni’s or Ritu’s parents. We were scared to face them for our carelessness. We blamed ourselves squarely for Munni’s disappearance. Our life was burdened with guilt and repentance. After Munni disappeared we didn’t have an hour of peace. Every minute we were waiting for good news about Munni being located by the police, NGOs or friends we were depending on.
We privately enquired from all sources at our command, and were after the police to find her at the earliest. Looking at my official ID, the station-in-charge of the police station softened, yet politely rebuked me, “Don’t you know sir, it is an offence to engage a minor girl for child-sitting? Anyway, we are all guilty of such minor offences. In your complaint we have therefore recorded that you had brought her from village to send her to school in Bombay. You better be sure to parrot this in all your transactions with any authority or NGO, that you engage for her search. We will do our best to find her for you.”
The police asked us to keep them in the loop in all developments, and not to take any steps, like independently handling a ransom call etc. They also took our consent for putting my office and house phone lines under constant surveillance, and warned me not to do any private deal with criminals.
I wrote to Ritu’s father a careful letter after a month, choosing words, hinting him about Munni’s missing, telling him half the truth, but not the entire truth. Whatever he understood, he replied in his letter, “Aditya ji, things are ok this end. Don’t worry about Munni’s parents. We would manage them to everyone’s satisfaction. You may even say your end of the story to Munni’s father. He may appreciate that.”
I thought, “The old man was head over heels to free his daughter and her husband from worries.” I was overwhelmed by his calm handling of the tricky issue. ‘These old timers have a stupendous sense of judgement. How easily he understood our unwittingly committed negligence, our good intentions, and our sincere efforts. I had apprehended that he might scream at us, but he hands down soothing balm!’ My respect for Ritu’s father rose up several notches.
I wrote to Munni’s father, “Respected mousa (uncle), sending you double the monthly remuneration fixed for Munni’s work. It is double, because we were doubly satisfied with Munni’s help around the house. My father-in-law, I presume, has shared our side of the story with you, including our anguish about what Munni did. We really miss her.” Our double dose of Munni’s remuneration was to assuage Munni’s parents’ hard feelings towards us, a sort of bribe, that was making me and Ritu uneasy. We consoled ourselves, “Let’s presume the money to be a bit of compensation, not bribe.”
The old man, Munni’s father, proved better than Ritu’s father in quarters of kind heartedness, as he wrote back, “God is great, my dear Aditya babu. Munni has gone, where she was destined to go. We have left the problem to the higher powers, that be. Speaking of the worldly things, your double remuneration towards Munni’s salary would be of great help to us. In fact, in the present scenario, nothing was due on you, but you are too kind. Ramji would be taking good care of Munni, we are sure.” I was baffled by the simplicity and deep faith of our rural folks in lord Ram. Though this man’s daughter was lost, but he had complete faith in his Ram ji, and the lord’s higher powers. His letter made us breathe easier.
Followed a ray of hope, as the police found from a semi-blind, hard-of-hearing-aged-man in our locality in Bombay that he had seen Munni hobnobbing with a boy over a few days before her disappearance. On the morning of her disappearance, she had been seen walking away with that boy, carrying a hefty bag. Police concluded it to be a case of eloping for love. So, they started spreading their informer-network over the numerous cheap hotels and lodges to take the eloping minor couple into custody.
One day, my friend Goutam surfaced like a rabbit from a magician’s empty hat, and he gave me more hope on Munni. We accidentally came face to face, when I went to take a taxi from which he was alighting. We met like long lost brothers. We went to a nearby restaurant for a cup of tea.
I learnt that he had shifted to the same area where I was living with Ritu. He now lived in an upmarket lodge with boarding facility, not far from where we had our flat. It was an RSS run establishment and there, as a senior pracharak, Goutam had a lot of authority. His boarding, lodging, and room service were free, but his monthly allowance had increased too.
I told him my worries about Munni and showed him her photograph. When he saw Munni’s photograph, he recalled a strange story, “I have talked to this Munni. She had come to the reading room of our lodge with a junior pracharak Rameshwar Sharma about a month back, could be the day of her disappearance from your house. This Rameshwar Sharma had been staying in the lodge for a month before that, and that very day wnen Munni had come there with him, he checked out.” He added an afterthought, “I can assure you Aditya that Rameshwar will not harm Munni, being a man brought up in RSS culture.” That was pretty well reassuring. But Goutam could not give me Rameshwar Sharma’s whereabouts. He also gave very little hope of finding it from his RSS office, as the organization was secretive about its members.
Muni remained untraced and we, Ritu and me, heartbroken. No ransom call came, not a blade of grass moved. The police closed the file temporarily, classifying it as a pending eloping case, until new clues surface. Almost ten months passed after Munni’s disappearance.
I got an invitation from my father-in-law over telephone, “Aditya babu, the little one is more than a year old already. Your last visit to Odisha has been more than one and half year. It is high time we meet our granddaughter. So, take leave and visit us. We want you here on Kumar Purnima*.” I blurted out guiltily, “But about Munni…..?” He replied in an offhand manner, “Don’t worry about Munni. We have settled most of the things with Munni’s parents and our villagers. The rest would have a happy ending during your stay here. There would be a celebration by inviting all our village people for a feast in our house in the evening of auspicious Kumar Purnima. Come straight, don’t you worry.”
I told Ritu what I had learnt from her father. We were amazed how cool our elders were, capable of balancing even the most difficult unbalanced-equations in life. Ritu commented, “My father is a magician. Let’s go and see him pulling rabbits out of empty hats.” After ten days flat, we alighted from a state transport bus at a stop around a kilometer from Ritu’s village, the distance to be covered by foot.
Ritu’s father along with Ritu’s younger brother Ramu, a shy boy of about eighteen, were waiting at the bus stop to receive us. Two porters had been brought from the village to carry our bags. We seven, counting our little girl in arms, trooped out on foot for Ritu’s village somewhere hidden in the dense tree-line on the other end of the expanse of rice fields with standing green paddy crops stretching before us.
During the leisurely walk of half an hour, our little prattling baby, changing hands between her grandpa and maternal uncle Ramu, was giggling away, keeping all in splits. I noticed that Ritu’s chest was on the point of bursting, out of pride that it was she who had borne that little wonder. In those moments of great joy, I noticed two things, we were entering the village lane, and a dampening scenario was approaching us from the other side at a distance.
Munni’s father was coming from the opposite end of the village lane. He was with a young man, looking like his son. My legs froze, but without showing my panic on face, I dragged my feet on and on. The small distance between us seemed like a hundred kilometers. Finally, the moment of reckoning was on us and I closed my eyes apprehending a detonation.
But I heard more giggles and laughs. I opened my eyes and saw the most wonderful thing of my life. Munni’s father and brother were playing with our baby and sharing her giggles. The old man looked at me and gave me a welcome smile, so did Munni’s brother. I was deeply moved, “How forgiving these simple villagers are! No malice, no accusing looks even after such a great loss to them because of us. Munni was still missing!"
On the way, Ritu’s father had informed us in an apologetic manner how their son Ramu’s marriage had been solemnized quietly because of the unconventional way it had happened. It had been an inter-caste marriage. I and Ritu exchanged glances. We at Bombay never knew that Ramu had been married. But how could he marry? He was still a minor, not out of his teens. Yet I consoled my distraught sounding father-in-law out of formality, “Sir, such things could happen in any family.” He agreed with me, and informed us that because of that very reason, he had arranged the pending village feast on Kumar Purnima. That would assuage the villagers’ hard feelings, if there would be any. As everything so far had been a lowkey affair, it was going to be a formal function that day with the usual pomp, like a reception, followed by a lavish feast and fireworks.
My father-in-law was again apologetic for not having invited us, me and Ritu, to Ramu’s simple altar wedding. He said, “I thought you both must be struggling to keep your four-months old little angel in your big city’s busy life. The marriage ceremony was just a formality to solemnize a done-thing. Because the bride and groom had married by exchanging puja-garlands in the premises of Puri’s holy Jagannath temple, followed by a seven-day-honeymoon in a hotel on the Puri beach as husband and wife. So, we just called a priest, and the girl’s father for a formal Kanya Dan* ceremony. We decided to time the real celebration with appropriate fanfare with your annual visit, so that you two could take part in it.”
Ritu said, “We are really sorry Papa, about Munni, the way she disappeared. It was perhaps a bit carelessness on our part.” I thought it was prudent to stop Ritu halfway, so, I butted in, ‘Why to scratch old wounds, dear?’ Her father agreed with me, adding, “It is an old thing already. Why to think about it and be bitter in the present?”
We had brought something for every member of Ritu’s family, our gifts from Bombay market, except for Ramu’s bride. We really didn’t know about his marriage. But, Ritu whispered to me, “Don’t worry, Adi, I have an idea. I will present her with two of my old gold bangles.” That was real fast thinking on Ritu’s part. I thanked her for saving us from embarrassment.
Ramu’s bride was presented to us. A little thin woman in saree, her face hidden behind the traditional veil of a new bride. She came forward to touch our feet. Ritu took off two of her gold bangles from her own wrist, apologetically offering them as our gift to the bride with words, “Sorry dear, what’s your name? We didn’t know about Ramu’s marriage at all until this morning. So, we didn’t buy any gift for you. I think, you won’t mind these old bangles of mine.”
The bride extended her palms, cupping them together to receive her gift. The convention demanded, we were to see her face and give her our gift. Ritu removed the bride’s veil covering her face. We couldn’t believe what we saw. We stood in shock. We were staring into the most wanted face in recent Bombay police files and the face that had caused us so much of stress, guilt, and had made us so apologetic to all our relatives. Ramu’s bride was Munni!
She smiled at us sheepishly and said, “Sorry”. But the mystery thickened like milk curdling. Why were we kept in the dark? Ritu burst out, “You bloody bitch, stupid girl, what do you mean by ‘sorry’?” Then she turned angrily to her father, “Why, papa, we were never told that Munni had come here as Ramu’s bride?” But her father looked equally baffled by the developments.
Ritu’s father quickly got his voice and roared, “Ramu!” But where was Ramu? Ramu had vanished from the scene. It transpired from the old man’s narrative that Ramu had informed his father over telephone about his eloping with Muni the very day they had eloped. Munni being from a farmer class and Ramu a pure breed Sharma-brahmin, his father, had expressed his great displeasure over the inter-caste bravado, but had instructed Ramu to telephone and inform the matter to me and Ritu then and there. Ramu had meekly agreed to do so.
Ramu and Munni had surfaced in the village as a married couple after about ten days of that crucial telephone to his father. By then, they had been married for a week already by exchanging garlands in the Jagannath temple, and having lived a week as husband and wife in a hotel room. This had sent shivers through the village caste-arteries but the parents of Ramu and Munni doused it by soft-talking. When the old man was dithering how to break the bizarre news of marriage to us, again Ramu had taken the responsibility to pass on the news of his marriage with Munni to me and Ritu. But Ramu never informed us anything about eloping with Munni or his marriage to her.
The jigsaw puzzle was solving itself. My father-in-law’s and Munni’s father’s soft response to my worry about Munni’s disappearance, my RSS pracharak friend Goutam’s Rameshwar Sharma, and Munni’s father’s Ram ji taking care of Munni (Rameshwar Sharma being Ramu, and Ram ji, being also Ramu, not lord Ram), and our Bombay neighbourhood’s semi-blind uncle’s reported boy meeting Munni over so many days, all the levers fell into slots to make a seamless picture. I agreed to myself, our village folks were always, steps ahead of the town folks.
(Kumar Purnima* - A full-moon night in the Autumn season is celebrated in Odisha as a night for the unmarried youths.
Kanya Dan* - A marriage ritual among the Hindus when the father of the bride symbolically gives his daughter’s hand in the bridegroom’s hand, thus transferring his responsibility to the latter.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is a poet/ story writer/translator/literary critic, living in Mumbai, India. The publishers - Rupa & Co. and Allied Publishers Pvt Ltd have published his three books of poems – VIGIL (1993), LIPS OF A CANYON (2000), and LITMUS (2005). His poems have been widely anthologized in fourteen different volumes of anthology by publishers, such as – Rupa & Co, Virgo Publication, Penguin Books, Adhayan Publishers and Distributors, Panchabati Publications, Authorspress, Poetrywala, Prakriti Foundation, Hidden Book Press, Penguin Ananda, Sahitya Akademi etc. over the period spanning over 1993 to 2020. Awards won - Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award, JIWE Poetry Prize. Former president of Poetry Circle (Mumbai), former editor of this poet-association’s poetry journal POIESIS. He edited a book of short stories by the iconic Odia writer in English translation – FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM, VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI. He is widely published in literary magazines; lately in Kavya Bharati, Literary Vibes, Our Poetry Archives (OPA) and Spillwords.
Rashiyappan wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve and looked around. The rain might get worse and the wind might blow it into the shed. He and a few others had been sitting there, on chairs placed at a distance from one another.
The first test was rather quick. But this one was taking a long time.
The previous day, he had to dive into a medical shop to hide from a policeman. The pharmacist stared at him and his bundle of scraps and shouted at him to get out. But before that he had caught enough of that news on TV in the shop.
The news was not about any place he had seen. He tried to figure it out and finally gave up. But it didn’t leave him. A sumptuous meal disturbed his sleep. When he woke up that morning, he got it. The District Hospital, the dirty buildings from where he was once picked up by the police.
He didn’t hesitate. He checked himself and he whistled. Nothing new, but he had all the right symptoms, temperature, body pain and wheezing. Wheezhing he always had.
And here he was, hungry and thirsty, waiting for his second test result.
He had had no breakfast that morning. The water tap was on the other side of the building. If he went there to drink water, given his luck, that might be exactly when they called his name.
He decided to stay in the shed.
This was nothing new. He had starved for days. Being this close to his dream, he didn’t want to miss it for a cup of water.
Last week, a street palmist had told him things might take an unexpected turn. But he had no idea it would be this quick.
He had heard at a corner meeting that hard work is the way to be rich. He had always been working as hard as he could. But hard work seemed to be too hard. He would never be able to do that kind of hardwork, he was sure.
His only dream now was to have three sumptuous meals the same day, just one day. He wouldn’t mind if he got run over by a bus or something after that. Or got sick and died.
Not because he was so fond of food. Only because he had craved so much for food when he starved. He remembered how he had puked when he drank water in the morning after days of starvation. His tongue still tasted sour and bitter when he remembered that.
These people promised food not just for a day or two, but for an entire month.
“Rashiyappan, 13 years.”
A nurse with a sunny smile was looking at a register and announcing his name. She gave him a clean piece of paper and tapped on his shoulders signalling him to move on.
He blinked at her. She hadn’t told him where to go.
He moved forward.
Suddenly she blocked him. She wasn’t smiling now.
“Where are you rushing, little one? Go home. See, it’s negative.”
He turned around, the clean piece of paper still in his hand.
Outside it had turned darker. It had started raining, though not where he was standing.
The slip of paper in his hand was getting drenched anyway.
NEW DISCOVERIES IN LIFE SCIENCE
The third time I saw Niharika she had put on a few more pounds. Her dancing eyes, her smile and her crystal clear voice were still the same, though a few wisps of hair looked copper from dyeing.
‘Had I graduated in education, I would have become at least a vice-principal by now. Since my degree is in commerce I continue as the office administrator. But I like it here.’
I thought of my first meeting with her. I was the field manager of a text book publishing company and it was not doing well. There wasn’t much salary to speak of but a very high target to chase. That particular year it was thirty million.
It was at St. Thomas near Pune that I met her for the first time. I had learned and practiced quite a lot of self- help books in sales and I had decided to win a good invoice from that school.
It was a small school and she was in charge of admission as well as purchase. I began with a question about the fresh orchids on her table. In fact, they looked far from fresh. Her answer was a generous smile and I wondered what she meant.
What was it.....?
'You thought I was that well informed! You made my day, man!'
Or was it....?
'Oh, you have read Dale Carnegie! I hate that fool!'
I didn’t expect her to follow up on her own smile. I took it for an answer which, like many things in life, men don’t understand.
The manager was busy and I had to wait. She invited me for a cup of coffee from the school canteen. Whatever.
As we were sipping coffee, it was drizzling outside. Hard to say whether it is a drizzle or the mist condensing in the cold wind. Around here this happens as the monsoon sets in.
‘Though they are called black angels, it is actually dark violet’
It took me a minute to decode it.
She continued, "It is not a commercial variety as they don’t last long once they are cut. Hardly a week. I brought them from my own home today.’
I had very little time to spare. So, I started talking business and explained our offers without taking much time.
That day, when we parted, I thought of giving her my personal number. Finally decided not to. If she wanted to reach me, she had my business card. Just because she said an extra word about the orchids, why should I go into reveries?
I didn’t get any invoice from that school. I ran around like a dog to make it to the target that year. I collected my bonus and promptly resigned.
I shifted a couple of jobs and she shifted a couple of schools and now we were meeting again. She had got into a bigger school and I was chasing a bigger target with four people under me to do some of my chasing.
As she saw me, she came out of the cabin and greeted me. She had cut her hair short and she looked tall now. She was wearing stilettos.
This was in Bhopal, far away from her home. Niharika’s mother was no more and she had taken a new house near the school to take care of her ailing father, her only family. Over the coffee we talked a lot about jobs, movies, plants and schools. The orchids on her table were fresh this time. Not black angels.
That time again, our meeting didn't take much time. But this time, I gave her my personal number.
That was a successful visit. I got a heavy invoice from that school. I also got a wedding invitation by post. Niharika’s wedding. I rang her up to congratulate her and also to thank her. I asked her about her fiancé.
Nirmal Chibber was a fairly well-known painter. Niharika had gone to some fine arts college where he was teaching. She went as a model. That was how she met him. He was already married. His wife was also a painter though she was said to be overshadowed by him. Later she left him and went abroad. That was how this happened. I had read somewhere how short- lived marriages among artists had become.
‘I didn’t fall for him. I fell for a portrait he did. It doesn’t look like me at all. But it is me. If anyone has seen through me, I know it is him. To say that God answered my prayers is to say that I was cursing his first wife. But I did pray.’ Her words choked at her throat.
I talked to her over the phone even after she got married. Once I also talked to Nirmal.
And then there was a long gap.
I wasn’t a salesman any more, at least not one to sell for others. I took franchise of smart classroom, an interactive display board for premium segment schools. I started here since Niharika’ name was on the staff list on their site.
She introduced me to the Principal and showed me some classrooms where the installations had to be done. It was a big school.
She told me about her life. Her father was really sick and had to be taken care of. She had hired a home nurse for that.
Her marriage didn’t last long. Nirmal was abroad with his first former wife.
By the time I had collected the invoice, it was afternoon.
‘Could you please drop me at the city? I usually take the school bus. Today, I need to buy medicine for my father. OK, I am getting out now...’
I bought medicines for her father and dropped her at her place outside the city. I met her father. He was very ill and had lost all his memory.
‘Don’t run away. Let me relieve the home nurse. I am making tea for you. Or, do you want coffee?”
“Tea is fine.”
Sitting in the extensive garden behind her home, we sipped hot tea. I had no idea to stay there for the day. But as light faded and we went on chatting, I thought of staying back for the night.
It was actually her uncle’s house. She had to give it back when her father dies and she was planning to move into the school boarding then.
“Nirmal did one good thing for me. He didn’t give me a child. I don’t know what I would have done with a baby. O, I forgot to tell you, you have to come with me for a short walk tomorrow morning. We need to attend a ceremony.”
We were far outside the city and I knew that the drizzling was clean and fresh like a baby’s hug.
City lights could not be seen but over to the northern side, far away, the sky seemed to be lit up from below. Around us, along with the needle-like drops, the moonlight also descended on the shrubs, though the moon itself was hardly visible. We went on chatting and when it became too cold she brought a woollen blanket and spread it around my shoulders. As I put my arm around her shoulder, she hunched her back and got into the warmth of the blanket like a small girl getting under her dad's umbrella. After while, without looking at me she put he head down on my lap, again like a small child, very quiet.
An old song rose up in my mind and I tried humming it softly. She turned her head towards me and was still quiet. I could see that with every batting of her eyelids she was flipping one thought after another. She asked me to sing. The weather being what it was, I could not raise my voice above a whisper but, with the moon and the mist showering over us, I wanted the wind to carry my voice down into the valley and fill it up, just like the mist and the moonlight. And the chill.
I moved my palm softly and slowly over her cheeks and sang a single line again and again in different ways. I surprised myself how the same line could be sung in so many different ways.
Niharika closed her eyes and was drifting off to sleep. Suddenly she opened her eyes. Without turning her head, she looked around for something. She found them. I too saw them. Under a jasmine shrub, a pair of eyes shining in the dark, staring at us. They slowly faded and disappeared into the thick furry darkness like getting under a blanket.
‘It’s is a mongoose. My dad brought it from somewhere when it was still a baby. He was very fond of it. I used to play with it. It used to wander freely in our house, with no fear. Rodents are all like that. Now it has a family, with five or six members and doesn’t come into the house so much........’
I looked around. The garden was a small primeval forest. Nothing was pruned or arranged. Everything grew as it liked. Here and there, the spiders were still weaving or repairing their webs which shone golden in the moonlight. Dewdrops dropped from leaves to leaves as if they were stepping down carefully from the trees. It was humid and I found it hard to breathe. Everything looked still but nothing was bored or boring. There was a lucid flow of life everywhere. Niharika went on about the various occupants of her garden. From small insects to a golden yellow rat snake about six feet long, all of them considered it their rightful settlement. Some of the trees were planted by her father, her uncles and some of her cousins. Some others, she said, grew on their own.
‘Over to the other side there is a stream which skirts a gulmohar there and runs down and joins a bigger stream down in the valley. Beyond the valley it is an extensive field; pulses, sugarcane and corn. Shanti’s house is at the very end.’
‘Shanti?’
‘You saw her, no? The home nurse. She helps with a little bit of domestic chores too. Her husband fell in the canal and drowned two months ago. He was drunk, they said. He was always drunk. Used to come begging to my father. He was legally married to Shanti but he grabbed her sister too. He died when Shanti's sister was eight months big with his baby. For over a week everyone in that house was wailing out loud. He was nothing but trouble for them.’
‘ So, who are we visiting tomorrow?’
‘Shanti and her family.’
‘What is the ceremony?’
‘That is a surprise.’
That night as I lay on her bed in her room upstairs, I knew that it would be a night imprinted on my mind forever. A draft of chilling breeze came in through the window and gave her goosebumps all over. In the dim golden rays that streaked in, she was like the fragrance of jasmine dropped off the wind. Or rather like the stream in her garden now thickened with the moonlight dripping into it and flowing over the bed, just over it, not touching it. The song I sang still went on in my mind and my blind fingers went over her body as if on an exotic unfamiliar musical instrument. A flower, and then an entire spring was opening up in my arms petal by petal. She shivered like a leaf in a storm and then she became the storm to escape from which her mind, soul and thoughts homed into my heart like flustered pigeons. A rapid rushed against a boulder and turned around into a whirlpool, not knowing where to go. Her arms and legs became what they weren’t as she hugged me harder and harder. As the storm began to subside, her breath became audible like when you run up a hill and lie down to catch your breath. Clad in her husky breath, her words reached me where I had flown to. They had the same sound as the rose petals made when the wind knocked them down in her garden. Sweat streamed down her throat and over her cold breasts. Stretching herself, she looked far taller than me. Her eyes still half closed, she whispered my name repeatedly and then her speech began to be clearer. A smile, like a dab of moonlight lingered on her lips but still failed to reach her eyes. Hugging me languidly and closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
I woke up only when she brought me the morning tea.
‘Wake up and get ready, or have you forgetten about it all?’
She took the blanket away and a chill, as if to make her jealous, claimed me.
We walked along the fields of corn, sugar-cane and pulses. On the way, she stopped to point out several small things to me, some were living and some might be.
She said that the fields used to be much more extensive when she was young. The wild pond in which she had her first swimming lessons was now deep inside some thick grown shrubs and probably dry.
At Shanti’s place, everyone was eagerly waiting for us. They would have been watching us from the moment we entered the field. Shanti’s sister was carrying a baby in her arms. Niharika rushed to her and asked her something in Marathi. She introduced me to them. Each of them eyed me in different ways. The ceremony was about to start.
‘Ajith, just a minute,’ Niharika called me over to her side .
She took me to a corner of the courtyard and said, ‘That is Shanti’s sister, Mala. She is unmarried. Shanti’s husband left a baby for her too. He is being named today. Shall I give him your name?’
‘My name is old fashioned. This is a baby.’
‘That is OK. It is a rare name here anyway.’
She herself named the child. She had brought a gift for the baby. I gave them some cash I had. They all touched my feet.
I went back to the corner of the courtyard and looked at Niharika’s home from there. I could spot the taller trees in the garden.
Niharika came over and stood close to me. She gave me a kind of doughnut Shanti gave her. It was bitter and sweet and I had a hard time swallowing it.
‘There were four families here. The government has acquired their land. An international stadium is to be built here. The other three families have gone away. Shanti and her people have not been given any land in return. I don’t think they will quit even if they are given due compensation of any kind. This is the only world they know.’
On our way back I asked Niharika what her name meant. As usual her answer was a thoughtful smile. But she added that it was given by her grandfather. No one seemed to know what it means. Perhaps, it was from some Buddhist text.’
On our way back she was walking in front. So, I found it easy to ask her, ‘Niharika, will you accept a gift from me? A baby like that and my life as an add on.?’
‘Your life? Small size, won’t fit me. You are too young. And the baby. That is a good joke. You would have understood it if you had graduated in zoology. But yours is botany. Ajith, if I have to bear a baby I will have to die and be reborn.’
Her reply pained me. I had never thought about her age. She was always the young office assistant I had seen at that reception desk long ago.
Two years later, when I got married I could not invite her. In fact, I did a send an invitation in her office address. It came back undelivered. I tried but failed to contact her over the phone.
Then one day, quiet unexpectedly, I got a letter from Niharika. There were the seals of half a dozen post offices on it. It was redirected from every place I had worked.
It wasn’t a long letter. But there were several important things. One was her father’s death which had happened three years ago. Two years ago Nirmal Chibber’s first wife passed away. I had read that in the newspaper. The death of a famous painter. The title was interesting. Drug draws artist to death.
Shanti's sister was dead and her family had migrated to Mumbai.
And then her words choked me. Those were the last lines.
‘I am returning to Nirmal. Not because he asked me but since I feel I should. I did something so as never to forget you at all. When Shanti and her family left for Mumabi, I took little Ajith from them. Even otherwise, I can never forget the night with you. You, the moonlight, drizzle and the chill together gave me memories that even death won’t take away from me.
I folded the paper and looked outside.
Everything was melting away in the hot sun. I couldn’t even look out. Green had become black to my eyes.
Still, deep inside, soft moonlight went on drizzling.
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.
It started slowly, with a few drops. Drop... drop... drop. Then suddenly the drops came in a wave, like corona virus, to sweep away all the dirt. But we were safe from the rain inside the market building. We had just finished shopping and paid the cashier when the downpour caught us on the wrong foot. Stranded in our shelter, there was nothing to do but twiddle our thumbs till the rain subsided. People ran helter skelter for refuge—inside shops, on a veranda or even under a makeshift awning! A pigeon coolly shook off the water on its back, bobbing its beak from side to side. A coolie standing quietly under a rickety thatch looked worried. If the rain did not abate, he would have no work and no food that day. All I could do was sympathise with him from my privileged position.
It occurred to me that I had not had a shower under the deep grey clouds ever since my boyhood. My shower now was confined to the four walls of the bathroom. In the village it was not uncommon during the rainy season to get soaked on the way to school. Oh, it was so full of fun! How I missed my village days and the fun we had dancing in the rain!
But I parted with that charming life when I moved to the city and its concrete jungle, where rain is a nuisance. Not only does it disrupt daily movement, but it also unleashes all the filth of the city into its gutters. Both of us stared silently at the falling drops. What was my wife thinking? Was it about yesterday’s kitty party or the fiery mood of her boss? I knew that she had made a kill at the kitty and was in a jolly good mood. I sat in my own brown study, studying each individual drip as it fell to the ground. Some fell on cars and some on the grass, but most fell flat under the shoes of shoppers.
“A penny for your thoughts!” I whispered and touched her arm. She jumped up in her seat and turned to me, as if to ask, “What?” I smiled and grabbed her arm. Why not? If I couldn’t go to the village for a drenching, I could bring the thrill of dancing in the rain to the city! “Are you crazy?” she asked. But before she could protest further, I grabbed her arm and pulled her into the pouring rain. She was terrified as the first drop of water hit her. But she didn’t push me away! On the other hand, she pulled me with both hands and together we went round and round in circles, getting thoroughly drenched. We left a crowd of shocked onlookers behind when we ran to our car. We were still laughing when a sudden shriek from my wife drowned our merry making. The resident lizard of our car decided to go undercover and travel up River Nile on my wife’s leg!
Mussoorie as a pilgrim centre? What an absurd idea! But that was the discovery I made on my trip there with my family.
Actually, our original destination was Rishikesh, for ages one of the principal centres for Hindu pilgrims. A dip in the pure waters of the flowing Ganga is said to wash away one’s cumulative sins, just like a beleaguered Argentina writing off its accumulated debts in one stroke, to start the business of life afresh.
Rishikesh was so soothing. Calmly the Ganga flowed down from the lap of the Himalayas, under the two hanging footbridges of Ram Jhoola and Lachhman Jhoola, before moving on to Har Ki Paowdi at Hardwar. I felt like meditating there forever, just by looking at the gentle flow of the river, which is what the “rishis”, the sages of ancient days, did, giving the place its name.
But Rishikesh is no longer tranquil. Disturbance due to vehicular traffic (especially the “phut-phutties” or auto rickshaws running constantly up and down the hilly roads) has forced the “rishis” to retreat higher into the bosom of the Himalayas. So Rishikesh had been left to modern variants of spiritualism, like the Sivananda Ashram, to administer lessons in divinity to lesser mortals. People from all over the world come to these ashrams, meditate, sing bhajans, do yoga, partake of spartan food and mingle with each other — before going back to their previous existence of indulgence and anxiety. They come to Rishikesh for much the same reason as Hindus do, release from their inner contradictions and relief from piled-up stress. But they don’t go for the symbolic dip in the Ganga. I myself desisted from a holy dip. The water was so cold that I could put only my feet in it. In any case, the quantum of my sins didn’t call for a full dip.
Having come all the way to Hardwar and Rishikesh, we decided to rope in that queen of hill stations, Mussoorie, in our itinerary. So off we went to Dehra Dun and then up the steep incline to Mussoorie sitting majestically on top of a mountain. If I had looked forward to a quiet weekend at Mussoorie, I was in for a rude shock. Like a swarm of bees, a horde of tourists had descended on Mussoorie. There was hardly any walking space on the famous Mall. How then could one get a breathtaking view of the valley far below, over the numerous heads and shoulders in front? Mussoorie may still be the queen of hill stations. But its queen bee had lost control over the multitude of her workers, the salves that had been drawn to her because of her charisma.
With great difficulty we found a roof to sleep under. To find a table at a decent restaurant overlooking the street, our waiting was rewarded. It was so enjoyable to watch the carefree crowd below, tourists from all over, laughing and joking, their inhibitions locked up at home. The food and service were superb, in the true tradition of Kwality.
By the time we walked back to our hotel, it was late and also quite chilly. The street was almost deserted. Leaning on the railing on the Mall, I had a 70mm view of the ascending peaks in the moonlight. Heavenly! Below me the flickering lights showed that the village people in the valley were still awake, though the vast expanse surrounding them was in darkness. Was this the culmination of my pilgrimage, a communion with the silent mountains at that sublime moment of virgin beauty?
But like a pilgrim being allowed only a fleeting “darshan” of Lord Jagannath at Puri or Lord Venkateswar at Tirupati before being hustled out of the sanctum, I was dragged away by my family who couldn’t stand the bitter cold. Besides, it was getting very late.
We got up late also and, packing our things, walked to the parking area where our vehicle was kept. On the way I stepped into a bookshop. It was a small one, with books tripped over each other on the floor and threatening to overflow onto the street. I browsed through the titles, looking for nothing in particular, when my eyes fell on a series of Ruskin Bond’s books. I already had them in my collection. Only one. “Mussoorie and Landour” by Bond and Ganesh Saili, seemed to be a new addition. As I flipped through its pages, I casually asked the lady at the counter where Ruskin Bond lived in Mussoorie, his adopted home. She pointed to the end of the main road, from where we would have to drive up a winding street till we came to his “Ivy Cottage”. I took the book.
Then we got in and drove our car up the twisted path hugging the hillside. I had to make inquiries only once before we found ourselves in front of “Ivy Cottage”. Ruskin Bond was obviously a well-known — and much loved — resident of Mussoorie. I could hardly believe when I saw the ramshackle, weather-beaten wooden shed where he lived. The occupants downstairs told us that the famous author lived upstairs. So we climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on his door. I was left starting at the great man when he himself came to open the door. I had seen him many times in pictures and on TV. But here he was, in real flesh and blood, before his devotee who had worshipped his writings for so many years!
He was in a pair of ordinary pajamas under a much-used sweater. He told us politely that he had to leave for Dehra Dun immediately. So could we come back and meet him the next day? Unfortunately, we were leaving for Delhi the same day on our way home. But could he autograph my book, i.e. his book I had in my hand, the one I had bought at the bookshop? He readily agreed and wrote ‘With Best Wishes’ over his signature.
I couldn’t help observing the simplicity of the house, with a couple of worn-out chairs serving as furniture in the drawing room. In a corner rested his favourite typewriter, battered by years of unflinching service to its master. Not much else. If ever there was a true display of the principle of “plain living and high thinking”, it was here — in the abode of Ruskin Bond. I realised then that I had fulfilled my personal pilgrimage, and in the process attained enlightenment for myself. The business of living for me was energised with a new mantra — to try and emulate my God of letters.
God is not always found in a temple. He can shine equally from the pages of a book.
(The Statesman, 30 December 2002)
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.
Amol and I were out on our usual morning walk. Although it had become an established routine, each walk was a new journey. Our conversation on such walks was varied, following no particular order; but always stimulating enough to nudge our sluggish minds to action for facing the day. One topic led to another and the flow of ideas rarely dried up, rather conveniently, until we approached the end of our walk.
Something about these conversations made me to look forward to the morning walk. Perhaps, it is the freshness in Amol’s perspective; his novel take on most things. His unorthodox views seem to fly in face of conventional thinking, but made me question what I had taken for granted.
That day, while we were walking past our neighbour’s house, Amol’s gaze turned to their garden. He did not have to utter a word. The look on his face was enough; it reflected the cheerless sight of the garden. Although it was filled with flower beds, the only colour to catch our eyes, came from the grass in its lawn. The plants were dwarfed, their stems buckled, like the diminutive and bowed legs of semi-starving children. The leaves were lustreless and the their branches ended in stumps, devoid of flowers. The garden stood out in sharp contrast against all others around it.
“They need a good gardener, to spruce up their dismal garden. Gardening is a delicate business. From choosing the time of the planting to pruning them at correct angles and watering them at the right time of the day, it’s a skilled enterprise,” I said.
“But, I hear, their gardener is the best in the town,” Amol replied.
“What do you think is the matter, then?”
“Their garden badly needs visitors”
Amol’s comments puzzled me. I knew my neighbours well; they used their garden to the full and got together often with their friends. He was probably mistaken in this matter; so, I asked him what he knew about our neighbours and their visitors.
“Did you notice, there are very few birds?” He asked in return.
“What has that got to do with flowers?”
“Have you ever asked the flowers for whom they bloom?” was his question in response.
“Oh, come off it; no kidding please,” I said instinctively.
“No, on a serious note, do we really know the effect of the birdsongs on flowers? The melody in their cooing and the rhythm in their chatter have such a mesmerising effect on us. We can appreciate the playful modulation of their warbles, as if they are teasing each other. How can the plants show the cheery effect of birdsongs on them? Their only way of telling the world how thrilled they are, is by blooming.”
“Do you really believe in all this?”
“You know, pets and babies grow up confident and cheerful, if you talk or sing to them. Who knows, how much they understand, and what our words or songs mean to them. But its effect is obvious; you can see in their actions.”
“Do flowers really bloom for the birds?”
“Exactly,” Amol said emphatically.
I could not quite bring myself to agree with Amol’s theory. At this point, my mobile phone rang and I got distracted by the call. By the time, I finished talking, we had lost the thread of our conversation. As we were about to finish our walk, that morning’s conversation ended prematurely without coming to a conclusion.
We had a break in our regular morning walk, as some personal business took me out of town for next few weeks. In my moments of solitude, I could not help thinking about Amol’s thesis on birds and flowers. But my work did keep me absorbed enough to deny my full attention to this.
When I returned from my trip, I reached home late in night. Tired from the journey, I slept off in no time. I had a rather vivid dream, where I was back in time to my schooldays.
I was around eight years old; walking back from school, with my friends. The path from the school back home ran alongside the boundary wall of an orchard. We could see the shining oranges, ripe guavas and lush mangoes, nestled in its greenery. All our eyes were drawn to this inviting scene. But, there was the compound wall, separating us from this paradise. The wall was rather high for kids like us, but not enough to deter us; the spectacle was irresistible. We were soon exchanging glances; silent communication channels were switched open and we could feel our little legs and arms urged into action. Before long, we see ourselves climbing over the compound wall, one by one.
Once inside the orchard, my friends lost no time in getting up the trees. Soon, their school bags were getting heavy with fruits. I found the fruits too high for me to reach. In any case, I was so enchanted by the garden; I had not seen so many different fruits, all in one place, with a smell, of the kind, I had never known before. Soon, I got lost in its folds. I had no idea where my friends were, until I heard them calling out. “Run, run, they are out to catch us.”
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, but they were getting tired and heavy. I plumped for the next hedge I could find to hide behind. I was breathless from the sprint and it took me some time to catch my breath. I lay there thinking of an exit strategy out of the orchard, when I could hear foot steps, getting progressively louder. Soon, I could also hear of a man and woman, talking. Their voice gradually grew from an almost inaudible chatter to a clear conversation. The tone was animated; it sounded more like an argument.
I don’t know, whether they were looking for me or where they were headed to. Their foot steps suddenly stopped. It seems, their heated conversation also needed a pause.
“It looks like they have got away,” he said.
“It’s a pity. I was hoping to catch them before they could run off,” she replied.
“Since, my last encounter with them the past year, no children dared to sneak into our garden for a along time. These children are probably new to the school, who have not tasted my temper,” was his response.
“No, these are the same school children, whom I was hoping to catch today, only to reassure them that they are welcome in the orchard,” she said.
“That will only encourage these vandals to loot our orchard as and when they please. It has taken us so much of time and effort to get it to this state,” he replied in an annoyed voice.
I was hiding behind the shrubs with bated breath. Although I had controlled my breathing to near silence, my body was trembling with fear. I was expecting, they would find me any moment and give me a good hiding.
But they were too engrossed in their arguments to notice me.
“They deserve a thrashing for trespassing into our orchard and stealing our fruits. But, you, instead, treat them as guests of honour, who were obliging us by their graceful presence,” he continued.
“Haven’t you noticed how the garden has bloomed in recent months? I do not understand your reluctance to share the produce with the children. Anyway, behind your back, I have been letting them in and encouraging them to take whatever they fancied. After all, we still have plenty left for us. You can see the result of my actions on the garden for yourself,” .
“Are you crazy to invite these children for vandalising our orchard?” he asked.
“We had a disappointing output in the last season. I gave in to your whims after I caught you chastising the children for sneaking into our garden and helping themselves with oranges and guavas. As you threatened to report their trespass and stealing to their parents, no children dared to enter our orchard.”
“I was glad, it put a stop to the vandalism.”
“But the yield of fruits in the last season was also the worst,” she said.
“So, you think the fruits grow for the pleasure of trespassing children?”
“What else could the reason be for the bonanza of this year?” Was her verdict.
I was woken up by the harsh cawing of crows; it was getting rapid and louder, announcing the arrival of more of them. Son, my dream was broken by the clamour of other birds joining in. I could still make out, in this melee, the tweeting of sparrows, chirping of robins and cooing of pigeons. The songbirds’ desire and determination to be noticed, made up for their feeble voices; their chatter and warble could not be drowned by all the raucous ravens.
Altogether, they sounded like a musical performance: a continuous and undulating drone in the background, punctuated by rhythmic shrill and sharp pips. Instinctively, I looked out of our bedroom window at our garden. But, this was all coming, not from ours but our neighbour’s garden, where an even bigger surprise was waiting for me.
Flocks of pigeons, sparrows and crows had descended to their garden: a sight never seen before. And, it had been transformed from a dull brown carpet into an abstract collage of vivid colours, as if by strokes of a magic brush. In a matter of weeks, the garden had changed to the point of being unrecognisable. I rubbed my eyes, to make sure, I was not still dreaming.
At a distance, I could see Amol walking away, all alone. Walking pst our neighbour’s garden, he was throwing something from his out stretched hands. “Ah, these seeds must be special,” I said to myself. But, what about all these birds; what has brought them here in hordes today? I wondered.
I realised, the magical seed he was sprinkling was a fistful of bird feed!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION
On 24th April 2021 my granddaughter Trishna delivered a short speech of 5 minutes in her SAI SANSKAR class on a virtual platform. The subject was the same as the title of my short story "NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION". All the teachers and students of Sai International School were spellbound. At the end, the teacher commented, "Trishna! You are wonderful. No speech can be better than yours. Listening to your speech my eyes became wet. You are a real fighter. Marvelous! May God bless you." She got a standing ovation.
Trishna is a student of class V, Sai International school, Bhubaneswar, ranked No.1 in the country. She is a gifted talent. Not only she is a good student, she's a versatile orator and an excellent Odisi dancer. She is smart but shy, strong but simple, courteous but clever and disciplined but decisive .
She had told her madam that she would talk from her recent experience because it's said that experience is the greatest teacher. At present she was staying with her parents at Hirakud. His father is an engineer in HINDALCO Company. He got COVID positive and was symptomatic. He was shifted to SUM COVID HOSPITAL, BHUBANESWAR in his company ambulance. Since her mother was asymptomatic both she and her mother stayed back at Hirakud.
After two days her mother Reema became symptomatic with fever, cough and severe weakness. She became too weak to do her routine work, what to speak of cooking and other household work. Because of her mother’s condition I felt insecure and both mother and child were ambulance lifted to Bhubaneswar. All necessary tests related to Covid was done. Reema came out to be Covid positive with other parameters remaining normal. Home isolation was advised. But to her bad luck fever continued in spite of treatment. So she was hospitalized after three days.
Trishna remained with us under home isolation. Her mother was nervous as well as anxious. When her mother left for hospital Trishna never lost her control. Rather she gave her mother courage and wished her early recovery. My granddaughter was confident that she will manage herself witout being a burden on us or creating any problem.
She was confined to one room and strictly followed the guidelines of COVID. She attended all her online classes, did her home work, took her food on time, washed her plates and clothes, cleaned her room. She did her own work perfectly without depending on us.
At night she slept alone guarded by two heavy pillows on either side, keeping the door open.
As a habit she sleeps late after reciting all evening prayers like MAHA MRUTYUNJAY MANTRA, GAYATRI MANTRA, HANUMAN CHALISA AND ACHUTAM KESAVAM. After her prayer she talks to her father and mother wishing them, "Good night, see you, love you and take care." Then she goes to sleep with her friend, A TOY GANAPATIBABA, which she keeps near her pillow. She wakes up late in the morning at 8 am and gets ready for the morning classes. Apart from the routine works she takes care of her mother's small kitchen garden.
Now she has become self confident and self dependant.
One day out of curiosity I asked her how does she feel being imprisoned in a room sometimes with a mask on. She freely replied, "I feel irritated, bored and at times saddened. I don't know why I am irritated, but it happens. I don't get irritated on anybody but on myself. No food is tasty, no music is sweet, no TV serial is entertaining to me. It is very difficult to pass time. Everything is virtual, no friends to play with, no birthday party and no get together, so I am getting bored. I am saddened because I can't understand why God punished me, why my parents are in the hospital and how long I will be alone without them ."
Then I consoled her and taught her the tricks how to get rid of these three demons, irritation / anger, boredom and sadness.
She ventilates her feelings freely. As a child of only ten years she appears to be matured enough to understand the unprecedented situation, accommodates and compromises with it as and when required but never forgets her duties and responsibilities.
I tried to convince her that there's nothing to blame herself nor feel guilty. Rather she should feel proud that she's able to handle the situation and cooperate with us for everything. She will definitely be in God's good book. In spite of doing this if she still gets irritated she should take a pause and ask herself why am I irritated without any substance? Within few seconds her irritation will vanish. If it fails, with full concentration she should count backwards from 20 to 0. These tricks acted like magic bullet on her. She got over her anger and irritation.
Yes boredom is natural when a child remains alone, that too with a mask talking with anybody at a distance of 6 feet or more for a few minutes only. It's just mechanical. "How to love solitude?" asked Trishna. Then I advised her to develop the habit of reading books. She gleefully accepted. Books of her choice were arranged. I was really thrilled to see her enthusiasm of reading books. Not only she reads, she tells me and her mother in hospital, the whole story in her language . Within a few days she could finish around 10 books like fairy tales, historical books, scientific fictions, discoveries and so on. It was amazing. She admits, "Jeje, I have made solitude my friend and I have defeated boredom."
Now she has developed READING BOOKS as her new hobby. Really what a precious gift!
She admitted that she was saddened because of two reasons. Number one, for the first time she's staying alone that too in an isolated room. Never before she had led a solitary life. Second, how her mother and father will be leading their life in hospital staying separately in general ward? What feelings will they be having seeing so many patients suffering? At times these thoughts brought tears to her eyes subconsciously. Knowing these feelings I told her, "You see NATUNI (I call her in generic name in Odia , for granddaughter), let's go to the gate of the COVID hospital. You can see the pathetic condition of the patients who are returning without getting a bed . We are fortunate enough that we have got beds at least and treatment has started." Then I told her the story of a boy who was demanding his parents a pair of new shoes and crying, when his demand was not fulfilled. When he saw a child without legs, he understood how lucky he was that he at least had legs, felt sorry for the disabled child and stopped crying. Since then he never demanded anything. Now my NATUNI got motivated and never became sad.
The most heart touching part of her speech was the concluding lines. This goes like, "Esteemed teachers and my dear friends, I pray God that none of you would land in a situation like mine. At the same time I can firmly say that this terrible period is a blessing in disguise in spite of all its disadvantages. I have learned how to adjust in isolation. Now solitude has become my friend. I have become self dependent and self confident. I have developed a new hobby in reading books as a result of which I have become a voracious reader.
Yes, I have suffered, no doubt about it. But I wish nobody should suffer like me. Let all of us follow and create awareness among others to follow, the basic life saving protocols of COVID.
1. Wear masks properly.
2. Maintain social distancing of 6 feet.
3. Frequent hand washing with soap and water.
4. Two doses of vaccinations to eligible people.
If we fight unitedly against Corona, we'll be victorious.
These bad days will not last long. Good days are ahead.
Stay blessed, healthy and happy.
Let's enjoy every moment good or bad.
Let positive thoughts come to us from every side.
While concluding, she clearly hid her emotions behind her mask but not her watery eyes. Then Trishna got a standing ovation. Everyone felt she deserved it.
Her teacher complimented, "Marvelous and heart touching. YOU ARE NO LESS THAN A COVID WARRIOR. Everyone should learn from you.”
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
THOSE BLUE EYES
Krupa Sagar Sahoo
Kidnapping is the most lucrative industry of the people of this area. It is the inextricable part of their chores: whether it involved children from school, officials from the office, wage-earners from the fields and housewives from the market places. It all happened in the twinkle of an eye. It is awfully difficult to say who would kidnap whom and when. And we the people who fend for a living here, make our silent prayers to all the 330 million Gods for keeping us safe before we step out in the open.
Bholanath was posted as a conductor of a train and was my subordinate. On a particular day all his colleagues had seen him leaving on outstation duties. But no one had seen him returning to the headquarter. There are, of course instances of the employees getting down midway for some work or the other. So no one put any importance on his return that day.
But when Bholanath did not return by well past midnight nor any information was made available about his whereabouts, everyone thought that he was kidnapped. There was nothing unusual or unnatural about this. So everyone in his home started to get worried.
The next morning his wife made for my house with their only son. “Throughout the night I searched for him,” she said helplessly, with tears welling up in her eyes. “I called up thousands of people, but in vain. Please do something about it or else my world would be ruined."
I tried to console her as she returned home.
I asked some of my most faithfuls to come to office early.
The news of Bholanath's kidnapping spread like wild fire, from ear to ear, to the colony and the nearest bazar. The rumours also started flying in every nook and corner. Some said, his position is like a tree that bears fruits of money only. Someone might have kidnapped him for this.
Yet no telephone rang for ransom though a good fifteen hours had passed in the mean time. So we would not buy the theory of kidnap for money.
Sometime back Bholanath had a heated argument with a policeman over ticket checking. A false case was lodged against him by the Police Inspector. Some thought he was perhaps hiding from the police.
But I knew Bholanath had already procured an anticipatory bail, so the question of hiding from the police did not arise.
Some railway employees meanwhile had adopted some novel method for securing employment for their children in face of acute unemployment. They simply melted away into thin air so that their children would get the job on compassionate ground.
But such an apprehension in his case was unfounded. Bholanath had a very late marriage and his only son was yet to reach his teens.
Those days some people drugged the travellers or the employees to loot them. The conductors on the train happened to be the living treasuries of the central government. If a receipt book is lost from their pocket, the government incurs loss of a lakh of rupees. Something of similar nature might have happened to Bholanath- we thought in the beginning. But nothing was there to confirm it.
Those days the Naxalites were on the rampage. They hid in the neighbouring jungles and indulged in mindless acts of violence, and even their activities engulfed the state capital also. They were hell-bent on toppling the administration, so they had been targeting government officers, treasury and even government employees every day. We thought they might have kidnapped Bholanath.
Since the local police were cross with Bholanath, a police complaint appeared to be unacceptable. So I instructed the railway police personnel go to different cities and stations to search for the man, but in vain.
Some six feet tall, this heavily built man, Bholanath, sent shock waves among the ticketless travellers. He did not spare political leaders, bureaucrats, lawyers, doctors or even college goers.
Yet this externally rough looking man was exceedingly popular among his colleagues, who considered him an epitome of fellowship and friendliness. So... entire talk of the office and colony populace centered around Bholanath for the day. Some of them even chalked out a plan to strike work.
The next day morning the sudden appearance of Bholanath stunned everyone around. The control room had an information of a man lying unconscious on the platform bench of a small railway station. He was around fifty, of a sound physical heath with long moustches that matched with Bholanath's. I reached there, with a number of officials. Bholanath's wife and son were in the group.
It was a very small station. It had no goods shed. No parcel office. A very few passenger trains that ply this route had their halts there. The station was otherwise ill reputed for chain-pulls. The station had only two platforms on one of which stood the station building. The other side was exposed to a dense acacia forest. Some of there trees grew remarkably tall to touch the sky. They were planted some years ago under the aforestation programme.
This part of the platform provides an easy access route to the ticketless travellers to escape. Some of the trees provided natural canopy for the passengers to rest under their shade. Bholanath lay on a cement platform with outstretched limbs.
A stray dog stared at the man in the queer apparel thinking that a strange drama was going to unfold, A beggar was engrossed in cooking undernealth another tree. He began to leave along with the dog as we arrived there.
We all -including Bholanath's wife and child- could not help a loud laughter as we saw Bholanath in a strange kind of dress but we had to restrain our laughter as we saw the Station Master who came to pay his regards along with the station porter in tow who was holding few cups of tea.
I flared up as I saw the station master coming with tea, "You are now ready for civility when someone is lying unconscious there. Have you arranged for the man's medical assistance, even the first aid?"
- Yes sir, I have informed the control room to send for the doctor.
- Why have you not got him inside the station office?
- But Sir, first of all he is a stranger in strange robes. Secondly he is so heavy that it is difficult to lift him up.
Suppressing my laughter, I roared: Your station does not have even a pail of water to sprinkle on his face?
Soon, Bholanath began to stir. May be our laughter and my angry words woke him up from senselessness.
Bholanath did not have on his body the white trousers, black coat and ties which are usually provided by Railways. Not even the dresses to cover his entire body. He was in choli and ghagra which made him feel too embarassed to lift his face before his boss and wife and children.
He went to the station office to change his dress. On our way back on a jeep, he began to break the story of his kidnap.
- It happened when I was just returning after my duty on the Chambal Express was over. There were not enough passengers on the AC 2 tier bogies. After checking the coach. I went to the toilet to refresh myself. It is a bit odd habit whith me, Sir, Once inside the toilet I hum a tune. Sometimes I forget as to why I had gone there.
- Then? Some of his colleagues asked together in curiosity.
- I was humming the hit song of 'Bunty Aur Babli'. I cannot recall how long I was there. I was lost in its tune. As I got out of the room I saw evening had already descended on the earth. The bogie's blue light had made the evening look mysterious as never before. Just then someone beckoned to me from the other side of the bogie. It was the figure of a woman, sparkling in the feeble evening light. She was in choli and ghagra and looked like Aishwarya Rai from head to toe. Thin like her she also possessed a pair of blue eyes. She now called me. Before I could follow her she disappeared under the veil of the curtains.
- Then what did you do?
- I felt that it was not just a bait that could send the fish to the throes of death. It was not just an eye, but a vortex that could suck a helpless leaf down in the its centre.
Bholanath's narration had the romance and magic of a comedy that began to pump up our curiousity.
- What did you see behind the curtains?
- The mysterious woman with blue eyes. There were many. I was sorrounded by group of eunuchs.
With an exception of Bholanath's son, all of us burst into a wild laughter. The driver could not also suppress his own, The jeep went on a slow motion.
There was no reflection of a reaction on Bholanath's face. He felt shattered within himself as his experience with the eunuchs flashed across his mind. Then he continued.
- They tied me tight and stuffed my face with cotton clothes. The train slowed down before it made a halt. May be someone from among them pulled the chain. Then they put me as though on a coffin to carry me on the rough road. On the way they were showering me with choicest abuses. O the black-coated Yama! For so long we were waiting for a chance. Today you have come to our clutches. This time we will see you. What did you say? We are beggars? Effeminates? Work-shirkers? And you are a he-man? You are the only guardian of the bogies? You will not allow anybody there without ticket? I tried my best to free myself. But could not. They carried me to a place miles away.
I asked Bholanath, why were the hinjras after him?
- Sir, Once I was celebrating my son's birthday in my house. When I was taking care of the guests a group of hinjaras entered my house and started dancing shaking their bangles. What a farcical dance! One of them took my son on his shoulder and started dancing. Then I burst into a rage and asked them to leave threatening them with a club. They said- we have come to bless your son. I said- my son will be senseless on seeing you. They kept on pestering me - give us two hundred rupees or else we will not go. Therefore, I had to summon my pet dog to oust them. Sir, these hinjras always travel in trains without ticket and harass the passengers. If anybody refuses to pay them. they abuse him. It is their regular habit. When they enter my train. I call the RPF staff to oust them. Perhaps they were looking for an opportunity to teach me a lesson and seeing the bogie empty they took revenge.
- Where did they take you?
- They took me to their bustee. They drugged me. I slept the whole day.
Next day I discovered myself in their courtyard. The tops of the eucalyptus trees were only visible to me. They made me lie down on a mat. They changed my uniform and made me wear choli-ghagra. About a dozen hinjras were singing. An old hinjra was playing dholak. The young one who was used as a bait for me was dancing. I came to my sense on hearing the song and waited to see what was to happen next. "Guruji arrived, Guruji arrived" was heard from outside and the song and dance stopped immediately. Fire was burning in the middle of the courtyard. Puja offerings were kept on the side. Guruji started Puja. She was one old lady full of white hairs on her head. She was wearing a jasmine garland on her top. Her wrist was full of ornaments.
She recited some mantra. I was not able to decipher what she was reciting. Then she ordered - Bring the weapon. Then I came to my senses. I saw a shining knife brought by a hanjra. Four hinjras came rushing towards me. Then I could guess what was their next step. I could not see either the sky or the earth. Everything was dark. I started shivering. I started to cry. I thought, is this my fate? The dholak started beating widly. A chorus leapt to the air. The clanging of bangles was tearing the darkness. I thought after sometime my world will change. I will forget my past and leap in to an uncertain future. Thus thinking, I kicked Guruji on her front and jumped. The hinjras were running after me. I ran, ran and ran. The sound of the whistle of a train rang in my ears. This was like the cry of a cow which had been separated from her calf. Then sahib, I did not see anything either on my left or on my right and I headed towards the direction where the sound of the train was coming from.
Bholanath smiled, a man who had gone through the fire of hell and came out unhurt.
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.
KANAKA 'S MUSINGS :: WRESTLING
Kanaka was reading "In the Beginning: A New Interpretation of Genesis" by Karen Armstrong where she came across the episode of Jacob's struggle with a mysterious stranger on the banks of the Jabbok stream. The narrator explains that "it is the most haunting seen in Genesis. The Story goes like this " In a moment of crisis Jacob was returning to his homeland after an absence of twenty years. He feared that his brother, Esau, whom he had gravely wronged would kill him when they met the next day. He was full of dread and felt inadequate for the task God had set him. That night Jacob camped alone at the wild gorge of the Jabbok stream on the borders of Canaan. There 'a man wrestled with him until daybreak.' When he found that he could not overpower Jacob his assailant struck him on his hip, dislocating it, just as the dawn was breaking! Still Jacob refused to let him go and, for once in his confused life was able to rise superbly to the occasion. He knew that this was no ordinary opponent yet he did not ask for revelation or miracle instead he asked for a blessing." He was blessed. Kanaka's mind started wandering and lighted upon Flory aunty who told her once "Yes, you will have to wrestle with God sometimes and get what you want from Him".
Flory Aunty had shared with her an incident which created horripilation while listening. As a young college lecturer she was in charge of the BA English class and so she knew her students' background and could relate to them empathetically whenever they came to her with problems. There was a plump girl in the class who came always gaudily dressed, wearing unmatching heavy danglers, necklaces and bangles. Her brown mousy hair, tied behind, was untidy and full of strangles. She was always distastefully dressed, but a look at her face would disarm everyone. She had such a sweet face that dimpled instantly with a smile that lit up her whole face and lighted up her eyes and created dimples on her two cheeks.
Flory aunty noticed her from the first day itself. She had asked her students to write a self introduction. Just to find out their language skills...when all the girls wrote from paper torn from notebooks she alone wrote in a foolscap paper. But there was nothing much there, only her name and her parents name in broken english. Her handwriting was illegible and untidy. But she was very attentive in class. After the first week when the class settled down Flory aunty started preparing the file on each student for the tutorial sessions. For the efficient conduct of the sessions, the class was divided into two batches of fifteen students each and assigned to two teachers . Flory aunty got the batch which had this girl. Whenever the girls were free and when she was free Flory aunty would call the girls one by one to the staff room to fill in the questionnaire which covered all the background details of the students.Thus when her turn came she went to Flory Aunty As she filled up the questionnaire she learned more about her. She was Rina Ravi. She lived with her parents in a small hut on the side of the Periyar valley canal. She had a brother who was older than her. Her father was a cobbler and her mother was a house maid and that accounted, Flory aunty guessed, for her strange attires.
By the end of the first semester she became one of the best loved students' in the class in spite of her poor performance in studies. The teachers in the Department gave special attention to her. As Flory aunty was staying close by she stayed back to help Rina with her lessons. By the end of the second semester Rina was almost in level with the average students in the class.
Life was going smooth for Rina who was now smarter and better dressed; maybe it was her friends' influence. Suddenly fate unmercifully shattered her family. Her father who was returning from work one night was killed in a hit and run accident. He fell on the side of the road where there was a clump of bush, so his body was found only in the dawn. By then he had died, Rina was inconsolable. She was absent for two weeks, when she came back her classmates gave her the copies of all the notes she had missed.
The following weeks the teachers and students generously helped her to catch up with all that she had missed in class. But Flory aunty noticed that as days passed by the light in her eyes was fading and she would sit brooding lost in thought. One day after lunch she called Rina and they went to the chapel. Once seated near the window Flory aunty asked her gently "What is it child? What is troubling you?" The floodgates of sorrow opened and Rina started crying. Flory's eyes were also dimmed with tears as she listened to Rina speaking incoherently about her father. When she finally collected herself, with a wan smile she said she was missing her father. He had been proud of her, everyday he used to bring some delicacy for her, for she was his youngest child. He dreamed of her as a teacher. He was so proud of the fact that she was studying in a Government college. He always told her he would go to any limit to educate her and help her stand on her feet as a school teacher. He bought for her the best of writing materials and stationery she needed for her studies. Flory listened patiently, patting her and encouraging her to spill out her agony while deciding mentally to provide everything she needed for her studies like her father used to.
Rina now concentrated more and more on her studies after that she was more goal oriented. Her efforts were paying well. She started writing english without errors and even communicating in good English. The teachers were delighted and supported and encouraged her as best as they could. Then in the fourth semester an incident occurred that created havoc for everyone connected to Rina. It was the first death anniversary of Rina's father. All her relatives had come for the ceremony.
It was the day of the internal viva voce of the Communicative English Add -on Course conducted by the Department. When the last girl took her viva, Ma'm sent for Rina. The girl came back saying Rina had not turned up. So they concluded she would come after lunch and as it was a Departmental course they could conduct it for her in the fourth hour. But Rina didn’t turn up.
The fifth hour started and the teachers who had classes left for their various classes. Flory Aunty and the Head ma'm were consolidating the mark list when they heard a din outside the Department and someone wailing loudly. The sound advanced closer, the Department door burst open and a group of people chomped in led by a fair slim girl in saree. Ma'm' s face relaxed recognising her as one of the former students of the college.
"What is it Renuka?"ma'm asked. Without answering she darted questions at ma'm which stunned them.
"Where is Rina?"
"What did you all do to our Rina? She hasn't come home after the viva. To whom did you sell her? We have a proof of a recorded phone call in which Flory Miss is bargaining with a man and fixing 5000 Rupees for her. Where is Rina?"
Ma'm and Flory Aunty, too shocked, couldn't utter a word. The ungainly group consisted of her mother who was crying quietly, an older woman who was wailing loudly, creating an uproar and three women passive and unblinking, supporters of the actress before them and four men. The men were drunk and didn' t utter a word. Meanwhile the security and the peons interfered and they were sent off to the Principal' s room. Ma'm and Flory aunty too followed them. By then Renuka' s stance changed and she started weeping. She was Rina's first cousin. One of the first to be educated and a degree holder. So they had brought her as their spokes woman. She recounted to the Principal everything that happened. The Principal then turned to Ma'm to listen to their side of the incident. After listening quietly, he told Rina' s mother that she should wait for Rina to return that day. If she doesn’t turn up they should file a complaint to the Police. He calmed them and sent them off.
Flory aunty, who was the class teacher, had the worst time answering questions from her colleagues. She had known it was Rina' s father’s death anniversary for she had come to the Department to take permission to come after the puja for her viva and the Head Ma'm had granted permission. But she had not turned up for the Viva. From what she understood from Renuka, Rina was missing from the moment the bali (sacrifice) for the dead was over. She had told them she was going to college as she had an exam. So after the lunch her relatives from her maternal and paternal side decided to conduct her betrothal with her cousin which they had secretly planned. They discussed and fixed the date for engagement. The marriage would be fixed only after the exam. It was then her mother noted that she had not returned. Her cousin who went in search returned saying she had not gone to college for the exam.
They put the whole blame on Flory Aunty. She was the main accused as she was Rina' s class teacher and rather close to her. They accused her of selling Rina, which Flory couldn't understand. She couldn't figure it out. But deep inside she knew there was something fishy. Rina had never told her about a marriage as such, she had only one goal and that was to complete a degree to fulfil her father’s wish.
Even her friends never knew anything about her marriage . Flory aunty knew that there was something wrong. What surprised her and the college staff was their reluctance to go to the police and their interest in pinning the whole thing on Flory.
So she was totally upset. She checked her tutorial file to get some clue or other and called all the friends of Rina and questioned them. None had any idea as to what happened to her. Those days rape rackets were mushrooming everywhere. Was Rina kidnapped? Flory's mind was in turmoil. Now a story too, that she had sold her off, why should she? The very thought made her feel squeasy. Why should she sell her or for that matter to whom. In a fit of rage she thought if she ever got Renuka in her hands she would tear her into pieces. She felt like cursing her to ashes. But teachers are not expected to do that. So she took refuge in God and never uttered an unnecessary word to any about the sordid incident. For now everything was between her and God. She did not trust any humans. Rina was such a sweet girl, but then where had she gone?
That evening when Flory went to shop, she felt she was being stalked. She stopped in front of a shop where a cobbler was sitting and immediately she found she was covered by three men. One man fully drunk came forward and asked her
"Where is our Rina?"
"How do I know?"
"You know, because you are her favourite teacher and very close to her, you must have hid her somewhere."
Florry shook her head, "Don't say such things, why should I hide her?" She was shivering inside. Never in her life had she been in such a situation. She was in a strange land with no one to help her. Her husband was out of station, her only son was in the hostel. As she stood rooted, she mustered up all her courage and asked "Why are you blocking me?" "Come let us go to the police Station, there we will settle this."
Florry moved forward, she knew the police station was round the corner. She would be safe there until she could get connected with her friends or reach her husband. But slowly they slunk away. One man came pushing forward and blocked her way and with folded hands said jn tamil,
"Amma please don't curse my daughter,"
To the question in her eyes he said
"I am Renuka' s father. I ask your forgiveness. Please don't curse her . She should never have uttered those words to you or spoken so rudely to her teachers." And he started weeping loudly. He was also totally drunk. She assumed he must have been in the group that came to the college.
By now Flory Aunty was in jitters she wanted to escape before she fell down. She turned round, hailed an auto and went home.
Florry was in a state of confusion, she was shivering from head to toe and was feeling sick. No one was at home and she felt miserable. My Lord, what is this? Please give me a clue as to where this girl is? She went to the prayer corner in her room where her prayers were always answered or she was consoled. She prostrated on the floor and imagined holding on to God's feet and cried out loudly, " My Lord, my Lord answer me where is this girl.? What happened to Rina? Please answer me? she felt her heart would break and no one could hear her so she wailed loudly, all her pent up feelings came out in a flood then she heard someone else crying along with her and looked around. Her faithful German shepherd, Lassie standing on her hind legs was looking at her through the open window and howling because she guessed Flory was in pain. Flory Aunty cried and cried refusing to get up. She went on uttering in between her sobs ``My Lord I want to know where Rina is, now itself, no I won't stop my pleading I won't let you go without you telling me where the girl had gone." Flory forgot for how many hours she lay like that weeping nonstop, struggling for an answer. She was becoming tired and hoarse because of her reckless weeping. Her eyes and face had swollen up but still she cried her heart out. Then she heard the phone ring and she got up and picked up the phone. The house was in utter darkness, she never knew that it was so late. She couldn't see the number as her eyes were clouded with tears so she took the call and hoarsely said hello and from the other end came a reply "Miss this is Rina...," "Rina..." Flory burst into a fresh bout of weeping and asked "where are you child?"
"In my aunt' s house in Pollachi". I am sorry Miss, please don't cry, I couldn't sleep Miss, your face, troubled and sad loomed large before my eyes, that is why I decided to call at this unearthly hour."
"Oh, God, you are safe. God has answered my prayer." Flory sobbed afresh this time in joyful thanksgiving. God had taken pity on her, a worm, and deemed to answer her. Her heart was full of gratitude for His Mercy. She wanted to shout to the world about His Mercy and kindness towards her.
Rina was sobbing on the other side.Then, through her sobs she narrated the sordid tale. How her brother had come to know accidentally about the marriage her father's relatives were scheming. Knowing very well that Rina hated the boy they had chosen and wouldn’t consent for the marriage with the man who had tried to molest her twice, he told Rina and they decided to take their mother's brother into confidence. He, understanding the gravity of the situation and knowing that there would be a conflict if they didn't consent to the demand from the paternal side, decided to shift her to Pollachi. So in the night itself a plan was chalked out. After the puja she would go with her brother for the viva voce. Near the college she would be handed over to her cousin who would take her to Pollachi to his house. They also decided to marry her off the very next day to her mother's elder nephew in Pollachi itself. So no one could abduct her away or molest her.
But what was awesome was God' s response to Flory Aunty. She realized that if you cling on to God your prayer will be answered because nothing is impossible for God. Like the Bible says sometimes you will have to wrestle with God to get your answer or blessing like Jacob, you should cling on till He answers you.
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
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
Pankaj Mishra was my first boss in the IRS, when I joined the field at Ahmedabad in June 1978, after my professional training at NADT, Nagpur. Perhaps my being from Allahabad and him from Kanpur, prompted him to be noticeably patronising towards me. Known for his honesty and integrity, he was equally feared and respected by those who had to deal with him. His wife Sunita stood behind him like an anchor and together they reared two fine children. Their daughter Netra was 12 and elder to their son Ankit by six years. Both the children were well behaved and cordial to me. Though Pankaj was only fifteen years elder to me, Sunita insisted on calling me 'Beta’ (son) and the children followed suit by addressing me as 'Bade Bhaiya’ (elder brother). Pankaj though always addressed me by my first name.
Pankaj had a humble background. His father was the headmaster of a village school in UP and had brought him up with sound morals. Fortunately, Sunita, though from a rich family had few needs which her husband's salary could not meet. Apart from his household articles, he was the proud owner of a Premier Padmini car, which he used during weekends and holidays, for family outings.
The couple found a small apartment for me near their quarters and helped me set up a bachelor's pad. Sunita engaged her maid and cook to look after my household and within no time, I settled down comfortably in my new abode. Despite my protests, she would invite me over to her house for meals from time to time and often send an additional dish for me along with her husband's lunch.
A year after my arrival, I got married to Suman. Sunita doted on her and took on the role of her friend, philosopher, and guide. For a young woman, who had never stepped out of her town, this was a welcome gesture and soon, both the ladies bonded very thickly. Sunita called her 'Bahu Rani’ (daughter-in-law) and treated her like a daughter. Netra and Ankit called her ‘Bhabhi’(sister-in-law), showering her with great affection. In a strange city, Suman found refuge in their house and we would visit them daily. As days passed, she too became a part of their family while our bond with the Mishras got stronger.
A few months after my arrival, Pankaj had come across a young and then-unknown artist, Pritesh Thakkar, who was born in Ahmedabad in a middle-class family. Though he was average academically, right from childhood, he had displayed a flair for painting. He had won many state-level competitions during his school days. When he took admission to an arts college, he concentrated less on his studies and more on his passion, aiming to become a professional artist.
It was during a state-level painting competition that Pankaj, who was the Chief Guest, had noticed his work. So impressed was he that he called Pritesh up and after learning about the young man’s ambition, motivated him to hold an exhibition of his paintings to publicise his talent. At that time, Pritesh was barely twenty. Pankaj also assured him of any help with logistics and sponsorship.
With Pankaj’s assurance, Pritesh got busy with his canvasses, devoting hours to his work. After about a year, at the Department’s annual day, Pritesh had his first exhibition in our auditorium. Pankaj being the Chief Guest inaugurated the exhibition, which had attracted a huge crowd. Though only a few of them had any artistic taste, almost everyone saw a bright future for the young artist. In no time, all the paintings on display were sold out.
When Pritesh gifted him one of his paintings, Pankaj refused to accept it unless he paid for it. Pritesh relented and Pankaj bought it for a princely sum of five thousand rupees. The paintings titled ‘Sunset Years’ found a prominent place on Pankaj's living room wall. It depicted an old couple, gazing at the crimson sunset in the distance, watching over a couple of frolicking children. The peace and serenity in the couple's demeanour had been captured very beautifully by Pritesh.
The exhibition’s success coupled with the sale proceeds helped Pritesh realise his dream of training under a well-known Italian artist in Milan, to hone his skills.
Since his departure to Italy, Pritesh kept in touch with us even though he was far away in Milan. Whenever he visited India, he made it a point to look us up, wherever we were posted. As years passed by, he became a well-known artist throughout the world and all art collectors craved to possess his paintings. He organized exhibitions around the world, with his paintings being auctioned from time to time at the Sotheby’s, for princely sums. In the ‘Art World’, his paintings became famous by his surname ‘Khattar’.
A couple of years later, Pankaj was posted out to Mumbai, much to our dismay. We were sad but accepted it as inevitable in a central service. By the time Pankaj retired in 1998, we had served together in Mumbai, Kolkata, and Delhi.
Meanwhile, Netra had completed her MBBS and moved to the UK for her specialisation. Over there she fell in love with a colleague from Pune, who too worked in the same hospital as her, in London. They ended up getting married and settling down in the UK. Ankit on the other hand, after completing his studies had joined a multinational company in Delhi itself where he eventually settled down.
About five years before his retirement, Pankaj decided to invest in a house in Noida, choosing a reputed builder who had assured the handover of the house within three years. Unfortunately, the project got stalled due to unforeseen delays in getting sanctions and litigations. Despite having paid almost ninety per cent of the cost of the house, it was nowhere near completion.
When Pankaj retired, he had no place of his own to reside and very little savings left. At that time, a house constructed by my father was lying unoccupied. Looking for a tenant myself, I offered the accommodation to Pankaj. He accepted my proposal and moved into the house with his family, paying me a fair rental amount every month. Meanwhile, he kept pursuing the builder to obtain possession of his house.
Post-retirement Pankaj was offered many lucrative posts by top Indian and foreign companies, which he turned down politely. "How can I work against the interest of the Department where I worked for three and half decades?" He would tell me. " Do you think I will be comfortable working under people who waited hours outside my office for an appointment with me?" He argued further. I knew him better, not to disagree with him.
After some years, in the year 2003, tragedy struck the family. A few days before his marriage, Ankit met with a severe car accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Short of finances, Pankaj sought my help to sell ‘Sunset Years’ to an art collector. Fortunately, I was able to negotiate with an industrialist who was looking for a ‘Khattar’ for his private collection. The deal was struck at Rupees forty lakhs.
Not having to burden his family with the state of his finances, Pankaj pleaded with me to have a replica made and replace the original without the knowledge of his wife or daughter. I engaged a young artist, who made a close copy of the painting for a sum of ten thousand rupees only. Such was his work that it looked as good as the original. Having got the duplicate made, Pankaj had it displayed in the same spot in his living room. Sunita who was shuttling between the ICU and her home was unaware of the ruse.
Unfortunately, despite the best treatment available to him, Ankit could not be saved. The family was devastated, and Pankaj could not reconcile with the loss of his son. Sunita too was crestfallen but hid her sorrow behind a facade.
Grieved by the sudden demise of his son, Pankaj developed medical complications himself and gradually, his health deteriorated. Finally, after five years, he breathed his last due to a massive stroke. I was posted at Delhi in the Ministry at that time and helped Sunita and Netra with the cremation ceremony and the last rites.
Pritesh, who could not attend the last rites, arrived for the 'Thirteenth Day' ceremony. He spent a week in Delhi, spending most of his time with the Mishra family. Netra stayed with her mother for another fortnight, before leaving for the UK. Pritesh went back to Milan, where he had settled down after marrying the famous artist Valerina.
Ironically, right after Pankaj’s death, the house which was under litigation was handed over to Sunita. The builder had lost a decade long court case. Sunita though did not want to shift out of the house where Pankaj and Ankit had spent their last days. I helped her sell the house and invest her money in various financial ventures.
Being in Delhi, Suman and I became Sunita’s anchor and provided all the psychological and social support. We spent most of our weekends together, either at her home or ours. Even during weekdays, Suman would visit her once a day while returning from her errands. Finally, when I retired in 2013, we could devote more time to look after Sunita, who had been a mother figure to us for decades. The death of her son and husband had turned her into a sociopath and she had slowly dissociated herself from all her other friends and family members. Pritesh also made it a point to visit her whenever he was in India, usually every four to six months. Netra too visited or sent her children over once every three to four months to their grandmother, apart from maintaining daily interaction over the phone.
After two years of widowhood, Sunita too bade goodbye to the world. We waited for Netra to arrive before cremating the body. She requested me to conduct the cremation and religious rites for her mother. This time, Pritesh was able to attend the cremation and stayed throughout the ritual.
As per her will, which Sunita had left with her lawyer, all her assets were bequeathed to Netra. I helped her complete all the formalities with banks and other financial institutions. She decided to give away all the personal and household items to the domestic help and the cook. The car (a Maruti Esteem) was gifted to the driver and Sunita’s personal effects were distributed amongst the poor. Netra requested that I accept the ‘Sunset Years’ as a gift from her parents. Knowing that it was a fake, I took the painting with feigned hesitation. I did not want the poor girl to learn the truth and feel sorry for her father.
After the 'Thirteenth Day' rituals were over, Pritesh visited us before he departed from India. Being occupied with the funeral, I did not have the time and patience to hang the painting and had placed it on the mantle. Upon seeing that, he smiled and mildly chided me, "Be careful with that. It may fetch a crore of rupees in the art world today."
I was bewildered that the artist himself could not recognise a reproduction of his paintings and asked, "You are aware that it is fake, right?"
He laughed, exclaiming, "What rubbish! Let me show you something. Do you have a magnifying glass? "
I went into my study and fetched him the magnifying glass. He focused it on to the right bottom corner of the painting and there, below his signature was a date - 08 May 2005.
What Pritesh told me next was quite a revelation. "After Pankaj’s demise, when I visited Sunita to offer my condolences, I saw the painting and it immediately dawned on me that it was a fake. I guessed what could have happened to the original. I told Sunita that it needed preservation and I could do it for her during the next couple of days. I made a new one and took it back to her. The fake painting is now hung in the house of the chef of one of the hotels."
Taken aback by this new piece of information and realising the true value of the painting, I told Pritesh, “Had you told me earlier, I would not have accepted the painting from Netra. I guess I will have to return it to her."
"Let the secret remain with us. By returning the painting, you will let the cat out of the bag and cause her grief." He pleaded with me.
I saw the point he was making and decided to do the only right thing. I rang up Netra and conveyed my decision to her. After a bit of persuasion on my part, she agreed to my proposal that the painting should serve to keep the memory of her parents alive and find a rightful place.
The curator was elated when I went and handed her the painting. “We are grateful to the family for their kind gesture in gifting a precious ‘Thakkar’. We have been hunting for one for many years but couldn’t afford the price. I will ensure that it is displayed prominently,” she assured me.
When you visit the National Gallery next, you will find on display in the new Wing, a painting titled ‘Sunset Years, Circa 2005, painted by Pritesh Thakkar and donated by Pankaj and Sunita Mishra.’
An alumnus of Sainik School Bhubaneswar, National Defence Academy, IIT Delhi and Osmania University, Lt Gen N P Padhi was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers in June 1976. During his career spanning 39 years, he held many challenging technical and administrative appointments, namely; Chief Engineer of a Corps, Works Adviser to the Air Headquarters, Chief of Staff of Tri-service Andaman & Nicobar Command, Chief Engineer of Southern Army Command, Director General Works in Ministry of Defence, Chief of Staff of Eastern Army Command. As Director General Weapons and Equipment in the Ministry of Defence, he was responsible for Capital procurement of weapon systems for the Army. Apart from winning the Silver Grenade as the best Young Officer, best officer in Mountain Adventure Course, he won the Gold Medal in BE and a CGPA of 10.0 in M Tech from IIT, Delhi. He was awarded the Harkirat Singh Gold Medal for Excellence in field of Engineering in 2000, Commendations of CISC ( 2005), Chief of Army Staff (2008 and 2010) and Chief of Air Staff( 2009). The officer is recipient of the Vishist Seva Medal from the President of India in 2014 for Distinguished Service of a High Order and the Param Vishist Seva Medal in 2015 from the President of India for Distinguished Service of the Most Exceptional Order. On superannuation in May 2015, he worked as President and Unit Head in a 1980 MW Super Critical Thermal Power Plant at Allahabad.
DESTINY
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
Life is never smooth. At times it takes unprecedented turn and puts you in such a precarious situation that your life becomes hell and miserable. If you surrender, you perish. You fight, you are the conqueror.
It was 18th December 2007, an ill-fated day of my service career. Then I was the Chief Medical Officer, Community Health Center (CHC), Sainkul in the district of Keonjhar which was at a distance of 20 km from my native place Vyasanagar. Being a specialist in children diseases I was treating the children and looking after their well being. Simultaneously, being the Chief Medical Officer I had to carry out administrative work and implement all the health programs of the National Rural Health Mission. Sterilization operation program (Tubectomy operation in women and Vasectomy operation in men) was one of them. My job was to arrange the operations in the headquarter CHC and seven other Primary Health Centers (PHC) under the jurisdiction of the CHC and to provide operating surgeons to operate. Three operating surgeons, two from my CHC and one from adjoining CHC were performing in turn at different times as per their availability.
One operation camp was scheduled on the aforesaid date in Bhandaridiha PHC and 28 women were listed to undergo sterilization operation. The Operation Theatre of the PHC was used for operation, maintaining all the hygiene procedures stringently. As per schedule the operation commenced at 10 AM. Till lunch at 2pm, 24 operations were carried out smoothly and successfully without any untoward event. Dr Rashmi Ranjan Mohanty, the Medical Officer of the PHC was all along present, managing the work with some staff from the headquarter CHC. I joined the camp at 1pm. We three Medical Officers took lunch along with other assisting staff. After taking some rest, operation resumed at 3 pm and two cases were operated successfully. Then arrived Mrs Sabita Hansda, the prime person of this unfortunate incident. After lunch I had been to the nearby village to check out implementation of some program. When I returned to the PHC bad news was waiting for me. During my absence sterilization operation of Sabita had been completed. But to my horror the operating surgeon informed that during the procedure a part of her intestine was injured inadvertently and he had repaired the injury successfully and was confident that there would be no untoward problem. When asked about the future course of action, he stressed that there was no need of referring the woman to a higher centre and she could be managed in the PHC by the Medical Officer by conservative treatment. As it was quite impossible on my part to visualize the injured and subsequently repaired intestine inside the abdomen, I had to trust the surgeon who was a very efficient surgeon and had performed thousands of sterilization operations in the past. Sabita was admitted in the PHC and treatment continued as per the advice of the surgeon under the supervision of the local Medical Officer. Nilamani Sahoo, the pharmacist and his wife Mrs Anjali Sahoo, the female health worker of the PHC were hardworking, dedicated and very much competent. They were assigned to moniter the health status of the woman constantly round the clock and report to me. Mr Bijay Kuanar, the Stastistical Assistant and Mrs Kamini Pradhan, the Lady Health Visitor of the parent CHC were instructed to have a constant watch on the situation and to report me as and when required. The vehicle of the CHC with the driver was stationed there to tackle any untoward situation. Arranging everything satisfactorily, I returned to the CHC in the evening as I had to attend a state level workshop on the next day.
Before proceeding to Baripada on 19th December, I enquired about the case, there was no problem, the woman was stable and everything was going smoothly. All the staff were performing their duty as per the schedule. Mr Kuanar was advised to proceed to the PHC and assist the Medical Officer. The condition of the patient was stable till 4 pm when mild abdominal distention developed which increased with passage of time. I was still at Baripada and when informed about the situation I instructed Mr Kuanar to shift the patient to the Sub-Divisional Hospital and accompany the patient. She was admitted there, the surgery specialist of the hospital examined her and decided not to reopen the abdomen and treated her conservatively.
Now the ordeal began. On 20th December after returning from Baripada I straight reached the Sub-Divisional hospital at Ghasipura and found the condition of the patient pretty bad. After telephonic consultation with the Asst. Dist. Medical Officer Family Welfare, Dr Sukanti Jena and the Chief District Medical Offcer Dr Chandrabhanu Sethi at Keonjhar the patient was shifted to District Headquarter Hospital, Keonjhar with the vehicle of my CHC. Mr Bijay Kuanar and Sri Tarun Chakra, Male Health Worker accompanied her along with her husband. The road was in the stage of conversion to 4 lane category and its condition was very bad. It took five hours and they reached Keonjhar at 6 pm. The surgery specialist, a friend of mine, was present. He immediately examined the patient. Ultrasonography was done. It was found that the patient was having fecal peritonitis and the abdomen of the patient must be opened. By that time the condition of the patient was critical and the surgeon did not dare to do surgery and referred her to SCB Medical College,Cuttack. The CDMO then apprised the situation to the Director of Health Services, Odisha who in turn talked with the Superintendent of SCB Medical College, Cuttack and all arrangements were made. At this stage transportation of the patient was too risky, the condition of the road was pretty bad and it would take minimum seven hours to reach Cuttack. We took the challenge and the journey started around 11 pm. I was awake whole night and monitoring the condition of the patient. On the way between Keonjhar and Cuttack my CHC was situated. The Medical Officer on duty in the CHC was alerted. The patient reached the CHC around 4 am. Dr Pradosh Kumar Mohapatra, the surgery specialist on duty, examined the patient, gave some medication as she was in critical condition and after stabilizing the patient he sent her to Cuttack. She reached the emergency department of SCB Medical College, Cuttack around 6.30 am. Treatment immediately started to stabilize the patient as the team was ready due to prior intimation and the patient was shifted to the surgery ward. Dr Mohapatra and myself reached the medical college at 10.30 am. Fortunately the operating surgeon was a good friend of Dr Mohapatra. The patient was taken to the operation theatre (OT) immediately and abdomen was opened. Dr Mohapatra being a surgeon was also present in the OT during the procedure. It was found that the injured intestine was not perfectly repaired and stool oozing from the wound had infected the internal organs and the intestine could not be repaired at that point. So colostomy (an opening in the lower abdomen) was done, the intestine was connected to it so that stool would pass outside through the hole without passing through the anus. The opening would be covered with a plastic bag to collect fecal material and the bag would be disposed everyday, allowing the lower intestine to rest. In another session after one month the intestine would be repaired. The patient hailed from a poor scheduled tribe family and had four children ranging from two to ten years. The husband could not remain in the hospital and two of our staff took care of the patient on rotation basis. On the 3rd day Bijay and Tarun were replaced with Mr Binod Hota and Braja Kishore Majhi. Bijay again joined there after two days finalizing the CHC work with two employees of my CHC who donated blood and two units of blood transfusion was done. The patient stayed in the hospital for ten days and was brought to remain in our CHC under our supervision till the second part of the operation.
Mr Mirja Hansda, the husband, after returning from Cuttack brought the four children to our CHC and expressed his inability to feed himself and the children. He was adjusted in one of the room of my official quarters, utensils were purchased, ration was supplied to him to cook for him and the children. Sabita remained in our CHC for three weeks. Though she was supplied diet from the hospital, her other requirements such as the plastic bag to collect stool, oil, soap (both bath and cleaning), surf powder, tooth brush, paste, shampoo, comb etc had to be provided by us as she was demanding things one after another every alternate day as if it was our duty to look after all her needs. Mrs Kamini Pradhan and Bijay looked after them though the recurring expenditure was borne by me.
After three weeks she was again admitted in Cuttack for the final operation. She was found unfit for GA (General Anesthesia) as she was anemic and another two units of blood, donated by our staff, were transfused. As the repair was not an emergency procedure it was very difficult to get a date for operation. Again the state administration intervened, on priority basis she was adjusted in OT schedule and finally surgery was conducted successfully. This time also her husband did not accompany her and stayed back in the pretext of looking after the children. Why should he bother? His attitude was that the CHC had done the operation and was therefore responsible for everything. He presumed himself to be the CHC guest and had to do nothing. Again the employees of our Institution, Bijay, Binod, Tarun, Braja and Sudarshan attended on Sabita on rotation basis during her hospital stay. Both the times, I used to visit the hospital every third or fourth day to sort out the problems. However, her hospital stay passed uneventfully and after removal of stitches she was discharged on the 10th day of operation.
Now the event took another twist. They did not agree to return back to their village lest any untoward incident may happen to her health. So the total family again stayed in the quarters and all their daily requirements including ration were made available. They were not in a mood to give up the easily available amenities and proceed home. With much persuasion and cajoling they agreed to proceed home on the condition that they be supplied with ration minimum for a week. Finding no better option we had to comply, in the office vehicle they were sent home and the local female health worker was instructed to supervise Sabita's health status.
I could succeed and achieve my aim due to the unstinted support of the higher authority, both medical and revenue. The Sub-Collector of the sub-division was well aware of the fact and he was intimated the developments from time to time. He stood with me like a wall and offered all possible help as and when required. All the procedure was completed in such a way that the media could not smell anything. When the patient finally went home the media came to know the facts. They met the Sub-Collector and he gave all the details of the steps taken by us date by date and there was no hue and cry. But I am still in dark as to why the media did not meet me and chose to meet the Sub-Collector.
So at last the mission was accomplished and over in ten weeks. Those ten weeks were horrible for me like the Sword of Democles hanging over my head with the support of a thin thread. The administration helped me but the financial burden was borne by me. The patient was insured for twenty five thousand rupees to cover the cost of medical treatment but that did not cover the expenditure of the patient and her family and our staff. I had to spend 69,000 rupees from my pocket. Vouchers amounting to 25000 rupees along with all the documents and bank account number of the patient were sent to the Insurance Company complying all the formalities. But the irony is that the insured money would be deposited in the account of the patient which would never be handed over to the Medical Officer who had actually borne the expenditure cost. I was transferred from the CHC in July and the insured money never came back to me. I can never forget the dedication and sincerity of my staff at that juncture. I especially owe my gratitude to Mr Bijay Kuanar and Mrs Kamini Pradhan who were all along with me. I am sure without their unstinted support my mission could not have been accomplished.
I feel, in some inscrutable way of God, Sabita's destiny was linked to mine. If she had not survived the ordeal, I would have earned a black spot in my career. I always assure myself, all is well that ends well.
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.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - BILVA PATRA FOR OFFERING TO SHIVA
Shiva’s Appearance
Every devotee imagines in the mind’s eye the appearance of Shiva and Shiva Linga. However popularly Shiva is described as the dark-skinned austere with a blue throat and Shiva’s hair is matted and coiled on his head, adorned with a snake and a crescent moon.The river Ganga is always depicted flowing out of his topknot. Shiva is also the God with three eyes and the third eye, in the middle of his forehead, is always closed and only opens to annihilate an evildoer. While the Gods adorned gold and gemstones and gave up things that weren’t too pretty, Shiva is adorned with a garland of skulls, Rudraksha beads, or a snake hangs from his neck. The serpent race was despised and feared by all other creatures, but found a place of honour on Shiva’s sacred person, simply because he was moved by their plight. Shiva has in one hand holds his Trishul, the Pinaka. The Trishul usually has a damaru or drum tied to it. On another hand, he holds a conch , and in the third, a rudraksha rosary, a club, or a bow. He wears a tiger or leopard skin around his waist, and his upper body is usually bare, but smeared with bhasma or bibhuti or ashes, as befits an ascetic. His third eye is believed to have appeared when Parvati (Parvati, the goddess of power, is Shiva’s cosmic consort), in a playful mood, covered his eyes with her hands. Immediately, the universe was plunged into darkness and there was chaos. To restore order, Shiva formed another eye on his forehead, from which emerged fire to restore the light. He wears snakes as armlets and bracelets.
It is said that Lord Shiva is a deity who gets easily impressed. One does not need to have elaborate functions or follow meticulous rituals to please him. This is the reason why Lord Shiva is also known as 'Ashutosh' meaning the God who can be easily pleased, and Bholenath, the innocent God. According to the scriptures, Lord Shiva is the only deity who resides on earth, very near to his devotees. Shiva's abode is Mount Kailash in the Himalayas. Lord Shiva is also a deity who is an ascetic who wears minimal clothing and is satisfied with minimal offerings. Shiva neither craves for being honoured by devotees nor fears any insult. He is free from all the worldly pleasures and hence it is extremely easy to please him. It is said that even if a devotee prays to him with a simple thing like a Bel patra with pure mind, Lord Shiva blesses him/her. But there are certain items of which Lord Shiva is absolutely fond of. These items are generally offered when the ritual of Abhishekha is performed. Let us take a look at the most important thing namely Bilva patra used to worship Lord Shiva.
A significant offering for Shiva is clear, unblemished, and undamaged Bilva patra. The botanical name of Bilva is Aegle marmelos or Sriphal or Shivadruma (the tree of shiva) in Sanskrit, Bel or Bael in Hindi, and as wood apple, stone apple, Bengal quince, Indian quince, holy fruit or golden apple in English, is an important medicinal tree. Bilva is very auspicious tree which is mentioned in Atharvaveda. It is very important in 'Shiva Pujan' to offer Him ????? ????. The three leaves of 'Bel-Patra' represent three eyes of 'Shiva', three 'Gunas' (Satogun, Rajogun, and Tamogun), and three weapons (?????????? ). It has come out of the heart of Goddess Laxmi and liked very much by shiva. It kills Papam (???) of three Janma (????).
Shri Shiva Bilvashtakam was composed by Jagadguru Sri Adi Shankaracharya. Shri Shiva Bilvashtakam is a powerful chant that speaks of the power and glory of offering bilva leaves to Lord Shiva. Bilva leaf is trifoliate which signifies the holy Trinity: Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh. It also signifies the three eyes of Shiva. According to Shiva Purana, the bilva is the symbol of lord Shiva. It is adored even by the Gods. It is difficult to understand its greatness. Blessed are the ones who offer Bilva to Lord Shiva. One Bilva is considered equal to a thousand lotus, says the Siva Purana. The first 'shloka' of 'Bilvastakam' is recited while Bel-Patra is offered to 'Shiva'. It is said thus:-
Legends
It is believed that the Bilva tree was created by Lord Brahma. However, the tree originated from the right hand of Lakshmi due to her long penance. The Padma Purana and the Brahma Purana say that Shiva once hid in the bel to escape conquering demons. The Skanda Purana holds that the bel grew from Parvati's perspiration, which fell to the ground on the Mandrachal mountain while she performed penance. It also says that the various incarnations of Parvati reside in each part of the tree. Hence, it is believed that the Goddess resides in this tree in all forms. She resides as Girija in the roots of the tree, as Maheshwari in its trunk, as Dakshayani in its branches, Parvati in its leaves, Katyayani in its fruit and as Gauri in its flowers. Therefore, Shiva is extremely fond of its leaves. According to the Agni Purana, on any auspicious day in Bhadra, Shiva should be worshipped with a daylong fast and the eating of bel leaves at night.
In a battle with Devtas, Tarakasur the demon gathered the most destructive things in the Universe and made a weapon to destroy the earth and to prevent Lord Shiva to establish the 51 Shakti-peeths formed out of the limbs of Sati fallen on earth and prevent the Devas getting power. Lord Shiva absorbed the weapon in his body and that formed the third eye, the eye of destruction. It is opened by Lord Shiva only when he wants to totally destroy anybody. Some believe that the third eye signifies wisdom and is source of his untamed energy.
There are many stories prevalent on the subject of offering of bel patra on Shiva Linga. But one story tells more about its importance which is very ancient. That is the story of the “Samundar Manthan”. When both the Gods and the demons churned the seas, many things came out during the churning; one of them was poison that could spread in the whole world, so Lord Shiva drank this poison for the welfare of the world and took it into his throat, due to which Lord Shiva is called Neelkanth. The effect of this poison was so terrible that Lord Shiva's brain became warm and Lord Shiva became restless. Then the Gods sprinkled water on Lord Shiva's head. The coolness of the water provided relief to the brain, but the burning of the throat did not subside. The Gods then fed the leaves of Bel to Lord Shiva, because Belpatra has properties to reduce the effect of poison. Therefore, Bel leaf has special importance in the worship of Shiva. Bhavishya Purana narrates that after the samudra manthan, Lakshmi,emerged from the ocean on the ninth day of Bhadra and rested on the bel tree, so the bel is worshipped every year on that day.
Another legend is in Brihaddharma Purana which narrates thus: Lakshmi had been doing penance and prayed to Shiva every day and offered him 10,000 lotus buds. One day she fell short by two buds. Remembering that Vishnu had compared her breasts to lotus buds, she humbly cut one off and offered it. Before she could cut the other, Shiva, pleased with her, stopped her. Her cut breast became the bel fruit. There is small variation. Lakshmi used to offer 1000 lotuses to Lord Shiva on every puja. Once, two lotuses went missing from those thousand ones. At the time of worship when Lakshmi became extremely worried, Lord Vishnu said that Lakshmi’s two breasts are as pious and auspicious as lotus and that she can offer those to Shiva. Then she cut off her breasts and offered them to Shiva. Shiva was pleased by her devotion and blessed her stating that, her breasts would be there on the Bilva tree as fruits. Bilva tree, therefore, is considered as the form of Shiva.
The Hunter and the Bilva tree
The Shiva Purana also relates the following story or myth. Once there was a cruel-hearted hunter by the name of Gurudruh who lived in the lonely forest. On the auspicious day of Maha Shivaratri he had to go out hunting because his family had nothing to eat. Maha Shivaratri is the most sacred time for fasts, prayers and offerings, when even the most involuntary acts, if pleasing to Lord Shiva, are made holy. By sunset Gurudruh had not been successful in the hunt. Coming to a lake, he climbed a tree and waited for some unsuspecting animal to come and drink. He did not notice that the tree he had climbed was the Bilva tree. Neither did he notice the Shiva lingam beneath it, nor the water pot hanging in the branch just above it.
After some time a gentle deer came to quench her thirst and Gurudruh prepared to shoot. As he drew his bow, he accidentally knocked the water pot hanging in the tree and some water fell down on the Shiva lingam beneath, along with a few Bilva leaves. Thus, unknowingly and unwittingly, Gurudruh had worshipped Shiva in the first quarter of the night. As a result his heart was a little purified by this act performed on such an auspicious night. Meanwhile the deer, startled by the movement in the tree, looked up and saw the hunter about to release his arrow. “Please do not kill me,” pleaded the deer. “I must first take care of my children, and then I will return to be food for your family.” The hunter, whose heart had been softened a little by the accidental worship, on noticing the beauty of the deer, let her go on condition that she would return on the next morning to give her body as food for his family.
Later that same night, the sister of the deer came looking for her. Once more the hunter took aim and once more, without he being aware, the water and the Bilva leaves fell down upon the Shiva lingam. Again, unknowingly, the hunter had worshipped Shiva in the second quarter of the night. The effect of this was that Gurudruh’s heart was further purified. His life and heart softened a little more, and he allowed this animal to also go and tend to its young, provided she returned the next day to provide him and his family with food.
In the third quarter of the night, the mate of the first deer came in search of her, and again the strange worship took place as the hunter took aim for the third time. But the hunter’s heart was beginning to melt due to the worship, and he let the deer’s mate go also for the same reason and under the same conditions. Later when the three deer met together, they discussed who should go and offer themselves for the hunter’s food. Even the children offered to give their lives. Finally the whole family decided to surrender to the hunter together, for none of them could bear to live without the others. Thus they set off towards the lake with heavy hearts.
When they arrived at the Bilva tree, Gurudruh was very pleased and relieved to see them, and he immediately prepared for the kill. He took aim for the fourth time, but in the same accidental manner as before, worship in the fourth quarter of the night took place unknown to him. This final action of Gurudruh brought about a complete change of heart and, as he was about to release the first arrow, his heart overflowed with pity for the innocent deer. Tears filled his eyes at the thought of all the animals he had killed in the past, and slowly he lowered his bow. Greatly moved by the selfless action of these animals, he felt ashamed and allowed the whole family of deer to leave unharmed. Such is the purity and spiritual power of the Bilva tree that, even without his knowledge or conscious effort, the cruel-hearted hunter had been transformed into a man of compassion and understanding, and was delivered from his past bad karma by the grace of Shiva and the Bilva tree.
The trifoilate Bel Leaves
The triangular leaves or 3 leaflets of the Bilva tree are offered to Shiva as they are very dear to Him. It is also believed that the worship of Shiva without offering good Bilva leaf is fruitless. Question arises as to how to select good Bilva Patra? While selecting Bilva leaves one should ensure that the Chakra and the Bajra are not present on the leaves. The Chakra is a white mark made by insects on the Bilva leaves, while the Bajra is the thick portion towards the stalk. The Bilva leaves used in pooja should be of 3 leaflets. If one of the leaves gets detached of three leaves then it is not proper to offer. Bilva leaves of tri-foliate form, are placed on Shiva Lingam along with Shiva Mantras by the priests in temples more specially in the Shravan month. Bel tree is a sacred tree having sacrificial importance. Its trifoliate leaf is symbolic of Trikaal or the Hindu Trinity.
Why is this leaf so sacred to Lord Shiva especially during Shravan month? Bel leaves are important as their trifoliate shape signifies Shiva’s three eyes as well as the three spokes of the Lord’s Trishul. Since they have cooling effect, they are offered to the Shiva linga to soothe Lord Shiva. Those who perform Shiva and Parvati puja, using the bel leaves, may be endowed with spiritual powers. Even a fallen bel is never used as firewood, for fear of arousing Shiva’s wrath. Its wood is used only in sacrificial fires.
The three segments of Bel leaf symbolically represent the three Gunas i.e. Tamas (physical body), Rajas (emotions) and Satvic (intellect). The proportion of satvic component is more, hence the bel leaf has more capacity to absorb and emit Satvic frequencies. Tridosh cure (Adhi-Bhotik, Adhi -Atmic and Adhi- Devic) is achieved. If one uses these three i.e. physical, mental and intellectual in a balanced manner, the soul attains liberation i.e. Moksha.
It is believed that they reduce the raja-tama particles present in the atmosphere When the bel leaves are brought in proximity of a person suffering from negative energy like anger and destruction, such negative energy present within him is reduced by the attraction of un- manifest and manifest divine frequencies of Shiva form emitted from bel leaves in the form of circles which disintegrate the negative energy.
Medicinal Value of Bel tree
Its roots, fruits and leafs have been used from times immemorial in traditional systems of medicine particularly in Ayurveda. They are known to relieve diarrhoea, dysentery, constipation, peptic ulcer and respiratory infections. they are anti diabetic, anti microbial, anti inflammatory, antipyretic, analgesic, cardio protective, anti spermogenic, aphrodisiac, anti cancer and radio protective. It is taken in the form of drink made from the fruit (bel sharbat) chewing of leaves and powdered roots, Patent medicines are also available .
Health benefits of bel: The Kayakalpa chapter in the Ayurveda discusses the importance of partaking juice of trifoliate bel leaves. Ayurveda refers to the fruit of the bel as nectar. There is no disease that cannot be cured with bel. If some medicine is not available, the bel should be used; however, a pregnant woman should not be given bel, as it may lead to complications of the foetus.
As the shade of this tree should not fall on the building and the people should never rest under the shade of these trees, Bel trees should not be planted in the open space surrounding the building as per Vastu Shastra. Except Neem most other trees including Bel emit carbon dioxide at night. Carbon dioxide is harmful to the human being. It is advised that they be planted on roadsides.
Psychological reasons for offering trifoliate bel leaves to Shiva
H.H. Parashram Pande Maharaj, Devad, Panvel, Maharashtra explains the psychological reasons for offering trifoliate bel leaves to Shiva as follows: ‘Creation, Sustenance and Dissolution take place due to Sattva, Raja and Tama components. The bel leaves should be offered to Shiva as a symbol of three stages in man’s life – adolescence, youth and old age. In other words, we should express our desire to go beyond the three stages; because it is only when we go beyond the three components that God meets us.’ He further explains that when we function by coming to the physical state from the state of ‘beyond the three components’ like bel and durva do, we remain detached despite performing the functions: “Shiva is fond of trifoliate bel. This means He is fond of the one who offers Him all the three components – Sattva, Raja and Tama and carries on God’s mission with the intellect surrendered. He further highlights that it is difficult for an ordinary individual to worship nirgun and nirakar (without form) form of God. With the help of the leaves of bel and durva, which are also in a trigun?atit (Beyond Sattva, Raja and Tama components) state, and by performing sagun?-bhakti, it becomes easier for a devotee to progress from the sagun? to the nirgun?.
As per Sanatan’s Holy Text ‘Shiva’ and reporting of Hindu Janajagruti Samiti how to offer bel leaves according to the tarak and marak form of worship have been explained. The bel leaves emit tarak waves; whereas, their stalk emits marak waves. The basic nature of a worshipper who worships the tarak form benefits from the tarak waves of Shiva, and should offer bel leaves with the stalk towards the pind?i and the upper portion of the leaf towards themselves. The Shakta sect worships the marak form to benefit from the marak waves of Shiva, worshippers offer bel leaves with its upper portion towards the pind?i and the stalk towards themselves. A pind?i contains two types of pavitraks (Subtle-most particles containing Chaitanya) from both – the Ahatnada (Sound produced through friction or by striking an object) and the Anahatnada (An experience of Akashtattva in the form of a continuous divine sound, similar to the blowing of a conch, ringing of temple bells etc). To absorb the three pavitraks, that is, the two pavitraks from the pind?i as well as those in the bel leaves, which are offered upon the pind?i, trifoliate bel is offered to Shiva. Tender bel leaves can unite Ahatnada (Language of sound, that of humans) and Anahatnada (Language of light, that of Gods). The leaves should be offered with their stalk towards the worshipper and the leaf should be placed upside down on the pind?i. The objective in this is to attract the combined energy of the trifoliate leaves towards the worshipper. The combined energy of these three pavitraks facilitates the reduction of the trigunas.
According to Vedic scriptures the three leaves of a Bilva denotes: three eyes of Lord Shiva; trimurthi swaroopam – Brahma, Vishnu and Maheswara [ In an Eka bilvam (A single trifoliate bel-patra), Left leaf is Brahma, Right leaf is Vishnu and the middle leaf is Shiva.] ; three syllables of Aumkara (Omkara) – Akara, Ukara and Makara; a worshipper should offer Trifoliate meaning three leaves together called Bilva dalam. The Bilva leaf enshrines Pooja, Stotra and Gyana - it is believed that by offering a single bilva leaf, one can get rid of darkness caused due to agyanam /ignorance. Thus, bilva leaf represents Srusthi (Creation), Sthithi (Sustaining) and Laya (dissolution). The following Bilvashaktam mantra should be chanted when offering bilva leaves
Meaning: Born from the heart of Goddess Lakshmi, the Bilva tree is ever dear to Mahadeva. So I ask this tree to offer one Bilva leaf to Lord Shiva. Even if one sees the Bilva tree, and touches it, he is surely freed from sin. The most terrible karma is destroyed when a Bilva leaf is offered to Lord Shiva.
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.
MY EXPERIENCE OF THE MAJESTIC NEW ENGLAND FALL
The autumn season is known as fall in US and Canada as one of the characteristics of the season is shedding of leaves from deciduous trees. Many authors have written about fall including Keats’s “To Autumn” and Thoreau’s “Autumnal Tints” to celebrate this season of colors. Samuel Butler writes “autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers, we more than gain in fruits.”. Further, some authors have articulated fall as the season of colors, whereas others have portrayed it as the season of ripeness and harvest. Some, mournfully, have portrayed fall as the season of decay (and consequently death?). I had always been curious to experience New England fall and decide for myself which side of the literary assembly to lean towards.
We started on a long drive from our Foxborough, residence at 8 AM on the last Sunday of October and drove through some famous picturesque fall routes in the New England states of America. There is a popular saying that New Englanders are lucky living in one of the best places of the country for leaf-peeping. Accordingly, we took the foliage drive from Foxboro, Massachusetts to Mount Washington in New Hampshire, for the best leaf-peeping. At the peak of fall, the brilliant glory of colours of fall foliage, in radiant russet and gold colours are captivating and a lingering feast for the eyes. Usually, September is the month, when the air is almost exuding with the sweet smell of fall. In North America, Summer may be fun, but when the weather gets cooler and the leaves start falling, one can notice the change every passing day. Autumn is the season of transition from the hot, bright sunny months into cold, dark nights of winter. It is said that when fall begins, people just hop, skip and jump away from Halloween, Thanksgiving into the week-long celebrations from Christmas to New Year.
As the area surrounding New Hampshire’s White Mountains and its slope are a great choice for leaf peeping, generally the fall watchers mostly select their off days in October and early November for a long drive in and around that captivating scenic region. The high altitudes of this northern region make for early season foliage peak and North Conway or Jackson, in New Hampshire, are most colourful places to take it all in a single day. The colours were all associate with the fall – the transition from green to light yellow, deep gold, orange, crimson and dark red- are all inspired by the natural process. As the ripe golden colored leaves, of Maple and Oak, are strewn in the court yards and up on the streets, and on the lawn, nature’s contributions appear to be a trick or treat to the beholden passersby casting a magical spell, sailing them to a dream land. It is quite amazing and nostalgic to watch fallen leaves dancing on a windy day in the back yard, on the lawn and street. Falling leaves and the colours of the season have fascinated writers and poets for centuries. Robert Frost who hailed from this place has been greatly influenced by the enchanting foliage of these place and has written the famous lines-
The woods are lovely dark and deep, I have promises to keep. And miles to I go before I sleep, and miles to go before I Sleep.
I am reminded of a melodious and uplifting song rendered by Mukesh- “Ye Kaun Chitrakar hai, Kaun Chitrakar ***Ye Kisi Kabiki Kalpana ***Chamatkar Hai”- (Film: Boond Jo Bangei Moti). That immortal melodious song has gratefully acknowledged and appreciated the Chitrakar (Painter) who has created this beautiful and colorful Universe we inherited. Albert Camus the French philosopher, author and the second youngest recipient of Nobel Prize in Literature has said “fall is the 2nd spring in America when every leaf turns into flower.”
During our long drive amidst the colorful fall foliage, we enjoyed the windy, rain soaked, sunshine bathed Sunday in and around Edward Macdowell lake maintained by the USA Army Corps of Engineers and Miler State Park located on 2290 foot summit of Pack Monadnock in Peterborough, New Hampshire. On our return drive, we drove through Washington State Park. There is a railway ascending the western slope of the mountain. The much sought-after ride in the Mount Washington Auto Road which climbs to the summit slowly gliding on the track, offer the joyride enthusiast a lifetime experience. The mountain is visited by hikers, and Appalachian trail crosses the summit. Other common activities include glider flying, back country skiing, and annual cycle and running races such as the Auto Road Bicycle, Hill climb and Road Race. The windy paved road leading to the scenic summit is open for visitors to drive from mid October to early November.
The effects of fall foliage are reflected in the mood of the people as they adopt a fresh new outlook on life and find enjoyment in the little things. There may be fewer flowers, but there are plenty of ripe fruits to be found. People head out for some apple picking at local orchard, hit up the corn maze or go to the pumpkin patch to see the abundant beauty of all that nature has to offer during this period. Many churches and local organizations have pumpkin patches where you can go and snap pictures and buy pumpkins. People pick up pumpkins as per their choice from a bountiful pumpkin patch rolling over by umpteen number of deep brownish pumpkins to make a pie or a Halloween lantern. There are provisions undertaking a hayride to go deep inside the pumpkin patch amidst the pastoral scenic beauties. Though pumpkins cost a little more in the farms than in the malls, because of the value of pastoral pleasure, people do not mind coughing up the extra bucks. Seeing the huge collection of pumpkins in a wayside Farm we visited, my 5 year old granddaughter Adya jumped into the pumpkin heap and posed for a photograph. We were tempted to buy some brownish pumpkins for making pie and decorative use in the ensuing Halloween barely a week ahead.
Now, I have a little more clarity on which written words hold the most meaning of fall for me. As with most creations of nature, we could all be looking at the colors of fall but seeing very different things! I think these immortal words by Thoreau best capture the emotion of fall to me!
It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and rustling leaves.
How beautifully they go to their graves!
How gently lay themselves down and turn to mould!
Painted of a thousand hues, and fit to make the beds of us living.
So they troop to their last resting place, light and frisky.
They put on no weeds, but merrily they go scampering over the earth,
selecting the spot, choosing a lot, ordering no iron fence…
How many flutterings before they rest quietly in their graves!
They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low,
resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree,
and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high!
They teach us how to die.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
(Translated by Sreekumar K)
"Yesterday, the postmortem took long, right?"
I had walked past a four-member gang under a tree, a coin stuck on their forehead, eyes closed and meditating on the sun, when Martin, a radio jockey in track suit, coming from the other side, threw that question at me in passing.
"Whose?" My voice quivered.
Martin halted forcing his breath down his throat. He seemed to have second thoughts about asking that question. Embarrassed at his mistake, keeping his head down and his voice low, he forced out a few words, "That friend. She used to walk here with you. Oh, I’m really sorry. Thought you'd heard."
"You mean Linda?" I asked, my voice still quivering.
He nodded to say yes. I froze. He raised his head to glance at me and went on jogging. Someone in a crowd doing exercises on the other side of the track, laughed out loud and it echoed more loudly in my tummy. I had to sit down somewhere. A little bit away were the carpeted steps to the stadium. I staggered forward. A lean young man feeding the pigeons ran over to me to help me. The pigeons on his shoulders flew up and perched on the edges of the canopy above us. He helped me walk slowly to the carpet and made me sit down there. I gestured to him that I was alright. He took a bottle of water from his hip pocket and offered it to me. I took a gulp and thanked him. Finding that I had caught my breath, he told me to rest there for a while and went back to feed the pigeons.
Linda's face came up in my mind. I felt heaviness in my chest.
I had noticed her when I saw that she was attentive to everything around her but pretending not to be so. Just like me. She too, a loner, kept her thoughts to herself and smiled to herself. Everybody around would have noticed her, for sure. By the time she finished one round, I usually reached the stadium. Parking my old Activa outside, I would get into the stadium, walk ten feet and there she would be coming from the other side. She would pass by with no regard to my presence.
Once a girl roller-skating lost her control and crashed onto the ground. We both ran in to help her and that was when we first talked to each other. That day we sipped lemon tea together for the first time. The Bihari young man at the tea shop made lemon tea exactly as she instructed him. I liked lemon tea but I won't take it from anywhere, only from chosen shops because it is hard to get it to taste right. During the painting exhibition at Kottayam, I used to be a regular at a tea shop there. Those who tasted his lemon tea once will take it only from him thereafter. It is just lemon, ginger and sugar added to tea, but there is something magical in its blend. You feel a tang on your tongue the moment you take the first sip. This tea was not that good but still OK.
"I don't talk much to people. You know why. It's irritating. Our people've started a music band, I play guitar there. No good, man. Looking for a better offer. Nothing's happening, buddy. I stay with a friend here. Tell me if you find anything cool." She didn't sound like a stranger anymore. She wasn't.
"I will check. Whatsapp your details." She was happy to hear that though there wasn’t much hope in it. We exchanged numbers and parted.
From the very next day, we made several rounds in the stadium together. Once, glancing at a lean fair youth jogging around very stiff and bolted, she said, "Doesn't that guy look like a Chinese doll, down in the dumps?"
She was right. There were a good number of people moving around in either direction, outside the tracks, some racing, some jogging and some riding their bicycles, many types. If you quietly studied them, your minds would churn up stories, many many stories. That was our pastime. Linda told me stories about them like she was reading out what I myself had in my mind about them. We teamed up to weave new stories around them. Walking close to each other, we exchanged such stories in whispers. With stories we thrilled each other, entertained each other and enjoyed a cup of piping hot lemon tea before we said bye for the day.
Once she pointed out a dude in tight T-shirt and shorts. We were at a cancer awareness program, flying blue and while balloons. He looked young from far but up close, we saw wrinkles hidden in thick makeup and all that. Earphones in ears, a red cap hiding his wig, he was an old dude trying hard to look cool.
"Check him out." Linda whispered to me.
"Mm" I responded.
I saw him ogling at Linda. Not particularly at Linda, he was eyeing every woman around him. I took him to be just one of the many gawkers around. Harmless zombies.
"Leave him," I said.
"No, no. See what he is staring at. My private parts. Always. Idiot!"
Linda blew her top and it made me look at him again. I saw him doing the same thing to a twelve year old girl as he passed by her. When he passed by us, I stared sternly at him but he missed it.
We had other company too at the stadium. There was this man who played aerobic music on his music player very loudly, while he finished a cup of tea, a cigarette and a daily. People would come and jive a bit to his music but he himself was a clumsy fellow, a loafer. After his routine consumption, he would plod away with his music player. Then there was this middle aged son who came to walk his aged mother. And another mother who entertained her autistic daughter singing and chatting as they went for their rounds in the stadium. We got warm smiles from all of them, every day.
There were four tea stalls around the stadium frequented by their regulars. They used to look at us with some sort of suspicion. They would all go silent as we went past them. We knew why. And what they were thinking. But we were not bothered. We found a special pleasure in disregarding them as if they didn't even exist.
One day when it rained heavily early in the morning, I was late to show up. I missed her at her usual place. It was drizzling but I walked on. A few cars whirred by. Very few had turned up that day at the stadium. The first tea stall had a small crowd sipping their tea, smoking and chatting away. It felt so good to walk in the drizzle. Moving a little forward, I saw Linda, sheltered under the canopy, splashing around the water dripping from the edge of the canopy, waving her hands like she was dancing. She looked charming in her white and light blue track suit. She looked sad and thoughtful. There were times like this when her fizzy self would give way to cloudy weather. Seeing me walking in the drizzle which maturing to be a rain again, she ran to me, spreading her arms, and whirled around, the cold raindrops making her squint her eyes. She got dripping wet and her features showed through her pretty dress.
Right then, the dude in red cap passed by, his wolfish eyes feasting on her body. In a second, her mirth drained out from her.
"Let’s kill that son of a bitch when he comes for his next round," she yelled.
I came up with a plan. I let her go for a jog round the stadium alone while I walked inside the canopy fast enough to catch up with her. Two kids rode by on their bicycles. Pigeons could be heard crooning. When the red cap came around again, Linda slowed down and smiled at him. I kept close to them. He was pleasantly surprised. She then gestured at him to go with her. He fell for it.
As Linda brought him near the pavilion and moved under the stairs, I appeared from behind a pillar and locked him in my arms from behind. Linda now turned around sharply towards him and scrapped her modesty, revealing what he had always wanted to see but was scared to look at now.
"Wasn't this what you wanted to see? Have enough of it, dirty prick!"
Even I was thrown off balance at that. No way he could turn his eyes away. He was in my tight grip. My hands sensed a rumbling in his stomach spreading all over his body. Before its tremors ended Linda punched him hard on his face. Again and again. He went limp and I lost my grip on him. He slumped on to the ground, blood gushing from his nostrils as he lay there snorting in pain.
"Come. Let’s go," said Linda. She was pulling up her lower.
By the time I had picked up his red cap, Linda was jogging down the track. I ran to catch up with her. She stopped at the tea stall and nodded at the Bihari boy for two cups of tea. We didn't care to sit down and finished our tea rather fast, standing.
The following days, when we reached near the steps where the encounter had taken place, she would smile at me and I would smile in return. Once, willy-nilly, I asked her, "How come you are so moody at times?"
"Hey! Nothing like that. Some money is yet to come from a couple of programs we had done. Very tight. My brother isn't well. Nothing to worry. Mom will manage things somehow."
I offered her some money.
"No need now. Only that, please don't ask me about these things."
She started jogging and moved ahead. I could see her wiping her eyes.
I deliberately avoided such questions from then on.
She rang me up one day to tell me she got in as a sweeper at the metro rails. She was beyond herself with joy. The same day, she brought over her friend Swathi and gave us a treat for getting that job.
"Find someone else to walk with you from tomorrow!"
"Let me see if I could find that dude in red cap."
She laughed at my joke but her eyes were moist.
“When you go for your walk, visit our den too." said Swathi. She told me how to get there.
My paths became lonely again. Busy with exhibitions and work, I could not find time to meet Linda for some time.
Once, I was at a meeting of our organization when Linda called me. I picked up the call and said to her enthusiastically, "Linda, I am in your city now."
"Me too!"
"Oh! Really? We can meet then. I am free in the afternoon. What about you?"
"Can you come to the medical college? Brother is serious."
I got a jolt.
Linda's brother had some bone problem with a strange name. He was in severe pain. He could not move his limbs at all. I softly touched his fingers and his eyes twinkled a bit.
Linda told me he was at a critical stage
Her mother was sitting at the bed, keeping her head down and staring at the floor. She didn't look at Linda or me.
"She never spoke after I left my home. She never did," said Linda.
I nodded. No words to console her came to my mind.
When I left, I forced some money on her. She didn’t raise her face or look up at me. I was glad she took the money.
I got up from the red carpet under the canopy. The young man who was feeding the pigeons had disappeared. Some pigeons were crooning and strutting up and down, pecking at the grains on the floor. Some others were unsettled and shuttling between the ground below and the canopy above.
I started my scooter and followed the directions Swathi had told me that day. Through narrow paths I rode on till I saw an ambulance parked outside a small house.
There was a thin crowd outside, ten or twelve people. Seeing me Swathi came over with some lukewarm drink in a paper cup. She forced it on me. Her face was swollen and tear stained. Near me, she let go again. I put my hands around her shoulder my own eyes going moist.
"After her mother and brother left, she was in the dumps. There were problems at the metro too. But she was, like, getting over it all. Don't know how such a bold one could do this. Only we were there to receive the body. She hasn't got anyone. Taking it to the crematorium now."
I bit my lips and nodded.
Linda's body was placed on a bed in her own room. I didn't want to see her like that. I waited there and saw her body clad in white being loaded into the ambulance. The crowd, guys from her music band, got into two cars and followed the ambulance.
"Are you coming?" Swathi asked. She was on her scooter.
I shook my head to say no.
Leaving me alone there, they all left.
From neatly pruned jasmine shrubs around the house flowers had fallen on the ground. Over to the left a rainbow colored banner of her music band fluttered in the wind.
"May I ask you something?"
"Why such a formality? Just shoot!"
I sold my mom's little bit of land to buy a small apartment here. Can't we move in and stay together? I don't think anyone can understand me the way you do."
True, such thought had become alien to me. I had given up on all that long ago. Much before we met. Still, I should have been more careful in answering her.
I took a sip from the paper cup Swathi had forced on me. The acidic bitterness of fresh lemon went down my throat, burning it all the way.
Nidhish G, a Senior Civil Police Officer in Police Department, Kerala, writes short stories frequently in Malayalam periodicals. He has brought out two short story collections – Hippopotamus and, Vellila.
“Lakshmi came!” Whenever I hear these words from my wife, I become jittery. Not that Lakshmi, who is our maid for more than a decade, is a terror. She hardly speaks to me and ditto from my side. The problem here is that from the time she enters the house and till she leaves, I become untouchable in my own house. “Lakshmi is coming to clean the drawing room, go to your room!”, “Lakshmi is coming to clean your room, go to the sit-out!”, “Lakshmi is coming to clean the sit-out, go to the terrace! “. . . These are the kinds of commands I keep getting from my wife when Lakshmi is doing her chores. This may give you an impression that Lakshmi is a beautiful, 20-22 year-old damsel and that my wife is trying to either protect her from me or protect me from her. I am sorry, if I have given you that impression. To clear your doubt, Lakshmi is a very ordinary looking lady who is on the wrong side of 50. Just as you may wonder, I absolutely have no idea why my wife tries to keep me away from her or vice versa for that matter.
Another habit of my wife which I despise is, making me a villain in the eyes of Lakshmi. I have often heard my wife telling Lakshmi, “My husband says that you are not washing the vessels properly. He found a lump of soap on the plate he was eating yesterday” or “My husband says, you are not watering the garden properly. He found some plants wilting without water” or “Today my husband was asking whether Lakshmi has stopped sweeping the pathway? He found the pathway very dirty” . . . .so on. I have asked my wife several times why she is taking my name when I have never told those things? She has a ready answer for it. She says, “You do not know these things. If I say you have observed these things, it will carry more weight as you are the “Yejaman” of the house”. I am sure Lakshmi knows who is the actual “Yejaman” of the house. After all, she has been working in our house for so many years and surely she must have been privy to so many of our “friendly” and “not so friendly” exchanges.
In spite of her flaws, Lakshmi enjoys a special treatment in our house and most of the times, better than what I get. Lakshmi is very choosy about her food ever since she started consulting a “Naadi Vaidya”. She doesn’t eat bread, biscuit, wheat products and a host of other items which we consume regularly. She doesn’t like certain vegetables, including tomatoes, which is my favourite. So, my wife takes a lot of pains to see that she gets to eat only those items which she is permitted or likes to eat. I am left to adjust to Lakshmi’s choice or starve.
My wife also makes sure that our image is not tarnished in the eyes of Lakshmi. One day I saw my wife making Upma. I had seen a vessel full of dose batter of the previous day in the fridge. When I asked her why she is preparing upma when there is so much dosa batter in the house, she replied, “I am making this for Lakshmi. I have given her dosa yesterday and If I give her dosa today also, what will she think of us?”. So, Lakshmi had fresh upma for breakfast that day and after she left, I was served with dosa.
Talking about breakfast, we have a beautiful dining table but I hardly get a chance to enjoy my breakfast sitting on it. Thanks to Lakshmi again. I eat my breakfast at different places depending on where Lakshmi is, or rather, where she isn’t. Some times in my bed room, some times in the drawing room or some times in the first floor of the house.
Lakshmi is the reservoir of information for my wife. She routinely updates her about all the happenings around us. She feeds her with her own version of every event or incident which becomes my wife’s bedrock. However much I try to correct her with proof, it will not alter her belief. Her standard answer is, “Lakshmi told me so and she got it from a very reliable source. It has to be true.”
Some time back, Lakshmi’s daughter and son both got married and she got a daughter-in-law and a son-in-law almost at the same time. After that, the topic of conversation shifted to son-in-law and daughter-in-law issues. Here, my wife who never had the experience of handling a son-in-law or a daughter-in-law, became Lakshmi’s adviser and guide in the matter of handling her daughter-in-law as well as her son-in-law.
One thing I have observed is that my wife and Lakshmi have a very perfect understanding of each other. They appreciate each other’s domain knowledge and accept it unquestioningly. There is never an argument or dispute over any matter overtly. I said “overtly” because, though they both look so compatible with each other, behind Lakshmi’s back my wife makes a lot of critical comments on her and who knows, Lakshmi also may be making similar comments about my wife with someone who is her confidant.
It was a lazy Sunday morning. I had finished my morning walk and was enjoying reading the morning newspaper, simultaneously sipping my hot cup of coffee. My wife was still in bed, may be giving finishing touches to her overnight dream. I was almost halfway through my newspaper when I heard my wife calling out from the bed. ‘’Darling, what are you doing?” I said, I am reading the newspaper and having my coffee. The wife continued, “ You see I was watching a movie till late in the night yesterday and I am not in a mood to get up so soon. Will you please prepare breakfast today?” Before I could react, she continued further. “ You see, you make very good upma. I always enjoy eating it. Why don’t you prepare upma today?” Muttering that there is no need to put me on a pedestal to make me prepare breakfast, I set out to the kitchen.
As I was entering the kitchen, my wife called out again, of course from the bed. “Don’t put too much vegetables. It makes the upma soggy”. My ratio of preparing upma is rava and vegetables in equal proportions. But, if madam wants it differently, do I have a choice? As I was reaching for Bansi rava, wife called again. “Don’t use Bansi rava, use Bombay rava instead. Hotel people make upma from Bombay rava and it tastes so good”. Had to fall in line again. Was selecting ripe tomatoes when she called again, still from her bed. “Don’t put tomatoes. Lakshmi doesn’t like tomatoes in upma”. Lakshmi, for your information is, our decorated maid. I always put tomato in my upma. Why upma, I put tomato in almost everything. I like it. It gives a good flavor to whichever dish it is added. But, since our Lakshmi doesn’t like it, the tomatoes went back to the bench.
Finally, I finished making upma and was looking for a lime to squeeze it on to give the final touch. “Don’t squeeze lime. It spoils the taste”. I looked around to see whether she has installed a CCTV in the kitchen. Didn’t find any. But still, lying on the bed in our bed room, she could follow each and every move I was making in the kitchen. It was very eerie. But then, this eeriness is not strange to married men as most wives are well endowed with intuitions and my wife is definitely not an exception.
As I was finishing, my darling wife called again. “Honey, make some coffee also. I will be there in five minutes”. By the time she came out of the bedroom, our Lakshmi also came and was going about her routine. “Lakshmi, come and have breakfast. Today my husband has made his special upma”, my wife called out to the maid.
Finally, it was the verdict time. We all took upma in our plates and started eating. After eating a couple of spoons, my wife declared, “This is not the kind of upma you usually make. It tastes totally different. Looks like you have not put your heart and soul in to it”. “What say you, Lakshmi?”, she asked. And, our Lakshmi nodded in agreement from the kitchen.
“Who said it is my upma? I prepared it as per your instructions and whatever is the outcome, it is your product, not mine”. This is what I wanted to say but my better sense prevailed and my Sunday passed off peacefully.
P. Ranga Raj is a former General Manager of Canara Bank. He always had a passion for writing and took it up seriously post retirement. His daily “Morning Musings” which he was circulating among his close circle of friends continuously for more than two years, was widely appreciated. He has now started writing stories and articles and this is his first attempt to go public with his ceations. Apart from writing, he enjoys travelling, meeting people and driving long distances. He lives in Mangalore. His motto in life: “Life is Beautiful”.
Dr. Anirudh changed the gear of the car and increased the pressure of the foot on the accelerator. The car was now speeding through the incessant flow of traffic on the busy road. The flow of thoughts going on his mind after that phone call was as rapid and ceaseless.
Just before he was leaving the hospital, the phone bell had rung. It was from his father, who was about 75, retired and enjoying the solitude of an idyllic life. But today he could feel the stress in his voice as he told him that the house they were living in had been sold off to some builder, who would probably erect a multi-storeyed shopping complex there.
So, the moment of truth had finally come. His parents had been living in that house for the past 42 years now. They had wanted to buy this house but earlier the landlady didn’t want to sell it. And recently, due to market forces, there was a boom in real estate and the commercial value of this piece of pastoral beauty had skyrocketed, and was estimated to be in crores. So, the landlady had sold it off as it suited her best.
He remembered the time when they had come to his house. He was only six year old. His whole childhood, adolescence and his life till his career and marriage belonged to this house.
But for his parents, this was their soul, their life as it were, a place which had been a witness to all the important phases of their life: their joys, their sorrows, their winters, summers and springs were deeply interwoven into every brick of this building. Every nook and corner of the house, every blade of the sprawling lush-green lawn, the cooing of the koel on the mango tree, the dancing branches of the pomegranate tree, were all a part of them.
Anirudh realized the inevitability of the situation which meant that they would have to vacate the house. It was decided to shift their belongings to his house. But his heart was heavy to think of their emotional turmoil, the sense of being uprooted. It was like digging the roots of a banyan tree and planting it afresh.
When Anirudh went to vacate the house, standing in the vast courtyard of the house, under the shade of the mango tree, laden with unripe fruit, he heard a koel cooing melodiously. With a pang in his heart, the nostalgically recollected his childhood-how they would put their lips avidly to the mangoes of this very tree; how on summer evenings, the bricked floor and the sun-baked walls and the lawn and the plants sprinkled with water emanated a sweet fragrance; how all of them enjoyed the evening a sweet fragrance; how all of them enjoyed the evening coolness and how after dinner, under the star-lit sky, they were caressed to sleep by cool breezes from the swaying branches of the trees around, long before the coolers and the A.Cs had come in vogue. By contrast, the thought of the childhood of his own kids, used to A.Cs and cars, fed upon the cable culture, used to playing video-games or watching cricket matches on TV, cloistered inside the room.
Anirudh wondered how things changed with time. And in a flash, the revelation came to him: this onward march of time was an irreversible process, as inevitable as the changing of day and night of the seasons. Its unyielding force could not be arrested and we were all caught up in the python-like grip of this inexorable flux of time. The flowers, the grass, the trees and the koels have to give way to this ruthless race of progress, paving the way for the modern-day malls and skyscrapers.
Seema Jain is a bilingual poet writing in English and Hindi, a short story writer and a translator with four books of Hindi and English poems, one book of translation and two edited books. She recently retired as Associate Professor & Head, P G Dept of English at KMV Jalandhar with 39 years' experience of teaching English Literature and Language.
Her poems and short stories have been widely published, translated, anthologized and recited during International Poetry Conferences, Webinars, and on TV and radio. Recipient of many awards, she is the Founder President of Litspark: A Literary Forum.
The phone kept ringing. He and his friends were immersed in cans of beer and music. One of his friends was holding a weekend party. It was in its third attempt that the phone was able to catch his attention. Hearing the phone he took it. It was his father who wanted to have a conversation with him. He immediately moved out from the room so that his father wouldn’t hear the cacophony his friends were making. He answered the phone, trying his best to keep the voice steady without slurring.
“We lost Sam.” His father informed him the sad news, short and precise as is expected from an ex-military man and he kept the phone down. The man understood that his son was in an inebriated state and he didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation either.
It was a shock to the boy who was in an elated state of mind. He stood there silently holding to the grill of the window. After a minute he moved in a slow pace towards the sofa in the room where his friends were still continuing to have fun. Then he wept out loud. His friends were taken aback by the sudden change in emotion of their dear friend. Leaving aside their can of fun, they huddled around and consoled him. Although the protagonist didn’t tell his reason for weeping, his friends came to the conclusion that it must be the loss of a dear one. They tried to console and calm him. But he just kept on weeping. One tried to share his cigarette with him and another passed a can of beer, but he didn’t want either. After a few minutes he stopped his weeping all of a sudden.
He thought for a moment to himself. About which Sam did his father mention. His dear school friend who was now working in Europe was a Sam. They both lost contact with each other after school and it was just recently, after five years, they re-established their contact again. In fact Sam had promised him to take him too to Europe and the paper works were going on. The tragic news shattered him. More than the departure of his friend, it was his cancelled departure to Europe that gave him convulsions in between.
But on thinking again the boy convinced himself that it could be the octogenarian Sam, his neighbour. Sam was supposed to celebrate his ninetieth birthday in a few days. The neighbours were in the process of arranging a small birthday function which would surprise the old man. But what really worried the boy was that old Sam had promised him a bottle of French wine which was older than the old man himself. Now that bottle had popped out of hand.
On scanning his brain thoroughly it hit upon him that maybe it could be his pet gold fish Sam his father mentioned about. He began to have exasperated thoughts on what could have happened to his fish. The cat had an eye on it every time it passed by his room or was it some other reason. He will be devastated if the fish was indeed lost.
On mulling over the phone call again, the boy perceived that it could be Sam the movie super hero whom he idolised and worshipped. Even his father was a big fan of the actor after seeing few of his movies in the role of a commando. Maybe an accident had occurred during the movie shooting. If it was so, then the movie industry was going to suffer a big loss. All of Sam’s fans will be bereaved. The boy took an oath then itself that he would never watch a movie again in his life when Sam was no more there on the screen. His friends immediately switched on the news channel but there was no report on any such incident.
Then on considering all the prospects a little higher and further, the boy anticipated that it could be SAM, the surface to air missile. It was a favourite topic for his father and he used to discuss it with his son. His father had once been in command of an artillery unit. The subject was also in the news lately that the army was planning to test its newly developed medium range missile. His father was very much tensed and kept on praying for the success of the SAM test. The launch was to be carried out on any day by the army. If his father had said that the SAM was lost, than it meant that the missile had failed. But in the television there was no breaking news of it either.
He could hear his friends around him asking as to who the hell was this Sam for whom he was crying so much. The boy absolutely had no answer. He was wondering about the same thing. Which Sam was it? He had to call back his father and ask him which of these Sams had left them. So he took his cell phone and called his father. His father took the phone promptly. In a remorseful voice he asked his father while his friends stood holding their breath.
“Father, it was about which Sam that you were talking about? Who is it the one departed from us?
“Departed?” his father deplored.
“You had said that a Sam died!” he asked back in a very subtle tone.
“Me?” The army man was bit furious. "When did I ever say such a thing? I never said anything like that”. He affirmed.
But his son was not ready to leave the issue. He needed some clarity on the earlier phone conversation. “You called me some time back and said that we lost Sam."
“Yes. I said that”. His father exclaimed.
“Then who is this Sam?” The boy questioned his father.
“Oh, Jesus.” His father said annoyed. It is you who is Sam.”
“Me?” Then after a pause he continued. “Of course I am Sam. But did I die?” Sam asked bemused
“Heavens! How much beer did you drink Sam?" His father asked overwhelmed.
Sam realised he was caught in between absurdity and intoxication. But he still managed to make his father tell him as to what it was all about.
His father explained. “I said we lost, Sam. I was telling you, my son Sam, that our favourite club ‘Royal Riders’ have lost the game in the final match. We lost the cup."
It was then that Sam remembered about the game. The old Lieutenant Colonel was devastated by the failure of his beloved team. He knew his son too would be heart broken. But he had a duty to report the loss of the team to his son. He just reported it short and precise, like an Army officer.
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
THE PARABLE OF TANDAV KISHORE SARKAR
Sambhunath Pandey had just announced his son Abhimanyu as his successor Mahabali (strong man) of the area under his control. This meant he would move away from direct responsibility of head strongman and it would now be Abhimanyu’s charge. The ceremonies associated with handing over of the charge was astoundingly elaborate and intricate.
“After you take charge, you would be the boss. I won’t be able to advise you. This is the occasion, I want to take advantage of and give advice as an equal, last time perhaps.
Abhimanyu who knew the protocol nodded.
“I would tell you the Parable of Tandav Kishore Sarkar.” Said Sambhunath. Tandav worked with Krishna Prasad Pandey, father of Sambhunath, who was the famous Mahabali of North Kolkotta, from Barra Bazar to Manik Tala, Kakurganj, Salt Lake City, Lake Town and Dum Dum Sambhu was the apple of his eye as he got a son after twenty years of marriage and after three daughters, Krishna Prasad was a pioneer in this geography. There was none in his outfit anywhere close to him. He had strength, experience and wisdom. No one could talk to him informally.
In walks a thirty year old Tandav Kishore. Not too tall, actually an inch taller than short with well groomed thin beard with great felicity in speech and street smartness. His oratory was so good that he could have been in politics. Actually, the ruling party then offered him a councillor’s seat in Kokatta Muncipal Corporation election, His name was Manav Kishore Sarkar. How this name changed later will have to wait, but for now let’s stick to the name Tandav. There was a freshness about his speech, confidence about his response and a street smartness about his solution.
In keeping with the tradition of the Mahabali both father and son had a bottle of whiskey next to them. When they used to take a sip they would extend their arms, cross the outstretched arm of the other, fold their forearm towards oneself to take the drink. Now Sambhunath paused and extended his arm with the drink, Abhimanyu did the same and they completed the ceremony of taking the drink. This is something Krishna Prasad learnt from the Burmese émigré he used stay among in the early part of his career.
Tandav had grown up sitting on a culvert. He could spin yarn effortlessly. Once he explained away lack of any wire based communication in ancient India to the presence of wireless communication. Birth of Kauravas was attributed to stem cell technology and Brahmastras to missile technology. He took great pride in being a self made man and often harked back ro 1958 when he was a vendor of Jhalmurri in running train. Reference was to Sukna station where he used to get into the train and sell his wares in the train. Warts said that the station in Jalpaiguri- Sukna came up in 1969. But brushed these claims as kite flying , but never confronted him on this .
“He could explain away any science in his cavalier fashion. Any knowledge for that matter. He could explain away how petrol can come out of water, gas out of sewage and Cadbury chocolate could be made merely by boiling milk with maida and finally by pressing the cover foil.”
“The man never said die. He was quick, had a reply for anything and had great confidence Pitaji who was tired of seeing the same old faces of hood times every day liked this young man who was an energetic bachelor. He was well dressed, confident and could think in his shoes even though he probably did not study much. He claimed that he was a graduate of Unitersity of Kalkatta. But among his contemporaries no one had seen him in the college or University. But Pitaji liked his confidence, quick wittedness and his willingness to engage with him, when all his co-workers never dared to.”
“There was a strange combination of attributes of a supplicant and an equal in Tandav. Pitaji started taking his around with him. One was like an elephant, ponderously walking, the other like a rat jumping around, moving heads while talking and desperate to prove proximity and equality before others. Pitaji found these features enjoyable and indulged him.
“He impressed Krishna Prasad Mahabali so much that he almost got semi-autonomy for his charge area Maniktala. My father didn’t have so much of time to look after Maniktala and he was happy that Tandav had relieved him of some onerous work. Pandav collected hafta from the shop keepers and dutifully handed over the amount to Mahabali.
“Unbeknoweth to Mahabali, Tandav had a trait. He had sat on the culvert for long and took in the smell in the ambience where dregs were carried. He got inured to the smell. His idea mostly unexpressed were oozing out like sewage from a cracked pipe and trickling along the road side making a small pond of sewage. His mind had a small smelly pond which Mahabali was not aware of. He thought that before him no one similar held the charge, nothing comparable ever happened. He was power and publicity hungry. He was not happy just getting even. He always made sure that his adversary was smashed. He spun stories and made others believe it. There was no depth he would not plumb to bad mouth a guy. Ah! I must tell you how his name changed.
“Yes Papa, how did it happen, “Abhimanyu asked with enthusiasm.
“He started enhancing the hafta, removed his deputies and Mahabali had to adjust them in Dum Dum. He brought in his portly friend Sushasana. Mondal to assist him. That man was a real crook. He harassed people for real. Manav was only giving to everyone distancing himself from ‘strong arm’ work. But he used to give clearance to Sushasana for all strong arm work , but tactfully distanced himself for public consumption. From Manav his name became ‘Tana’ and finally became ‘Tandav’ as someone spotted his witlessness and wondered why Mahabali had left him alone and why so much of forbearance was given to him.
Now both father and son took a piece of kebab and ate it following the same protocol, as the drink.
“I was small. So Pitaji never used to take me along on his visits. I joined him much later and spotted that something was wrong with Tandav. But that is for later.
“Tandav, instead of treating the Pada as one, he divided it into on the basis of lanes, of course, each pada was differently treated. If there was a Muslim Pada, the hafta he double, Within the Hindu Pada, the rate went up by 20-30 percent. He passed on 10% of the enhanced amount to Mahabali and retained the rest.
“Sushashan got his henchmen in. Both of them together controlled Maniktala. Tandav left all dirty work to Sushashan who in turn used all the dirty tricks in the book to extract money. Sometimes extortions were done with strong arm tactic too. Everyone knew Tandav’s proximity to Mahabali and no one dared to open his mouth.
“He got close to the deputy at Kakurganj and there was much horsing around as people say. But he used to bitch about him before Mahabali. That is not standard in our kind of business. Mahabali collected information from different sources but deputies are not expected to carry tales. By that time I had grown up to the age of 18. I found it strange but kept quiet because the old man did not reprimand him. He was actually so fond of him that one could see the blind spot.
“Now Sushasan tried to collect a 10% surcharge on Kakurganj hafta. The deputy there, Samarendra Kundu didn’t like it one bit and told Tandav to back out. Tandav got the hint and backed out. But his expensive tastes required money and he wanted to please Mahabali by increasing the amount every year. But without Kakurganj surcharge it was not possible.
“Another stream of his earning was in faujdari Makadama (criminal case) and in land grab, Abhimanyu, please take note that there is no adverserial relationship between us and police officers or revenue or municipal officers. There is a convergence at certain level. That is why we retain retired officers as Advisors. But Tandav had changed the advisors and took a dismissed surveyor and compulsorily retired constable as his advisors. They were effective and they were used to all sorts of crookey. Only problem was they were used to bludgeoning their way through and there was no plan for exiting if there was a mess up. More often than not they used a tank to kill a fly.
“These two worthies advised how to create confusion in faujdari case and land encroachment in Kakurganj. Because of one or two positive solutions, they started dealing with Tandav directly. This was obviously not liked by Kundu, the deputy there. But he want along for sometime waiting for the right time to get even.
“Around the time I was 21, I started accompanying my father. I saw the simple incongruity. Tandav would refer to everything as ‘we’, “our”, “Ourselves”. Knowing Mahabali I knew he was not fond of being parenthesized with others or others trying to hyphenator themselves with him. But somehow when it came from Tandav he did not make much fuss of it nor did he stop him from saying so. Standing beside Pitaji, Tandav will say “we would like to know …….” Instead of ‘Mahabali will like to know………”. While the standard statement would have been “Mahabali instructs that ……” , he would stay “please take note that our decision is the following………”
One could see an urge to be equal with Mahabali while cringing before him. I then wondered whether he was positioning himself for future Mahabali position. But I was there. I had trained myself well in akhada, I was disciplined and strong, how could he usurp my position? But instead of asking Pitaji, I thought I would bid my time. But it was a strange sight, like a rat prancing around next to an elephant and refering to ‘we’ while talking to others.
“Meanwhile Sushasana with the help of the retired police constable had set up an elaborate information network. All letters coming to Padas used to be first checked with reference to sender’s name and then allowed to be distributed by the post man. Some letters were going back and forth between DGP office and Soumen Ghoshal household. Soumen had recently died in harness survived by his wife and daughter Bharati Ghoshal. Bharati had completed her graduation. Tall, erect and beautiful she somehow attracted Tandav’s attention. But she was prim and proper and Tandav did not know how to handle the issue.
“In our line, such kinds of glad eye or weaknesses are frowned upon. But Tandav lived by his own rules and was unmarried. Sometimes he would pass a light comment on Bharati after she had passed but never face to face. But Bharati was smart enough not to join issues. This fanned Tandav’s interest further. She would not encourage him nor she answered him back.
“Tandav had already spent 10 years as deputy in Manik Tala. His control was complete. All hatchet jobs used to be done by Sushasana. He spent a lot of time preening himself before the mirror, wearing nice dresses, whenever he used to come to Bharati’s Pada. Slowly a feeling of invincibility came in. He was lowering his guards. Often he used to visit without his ring of henchmen, so high was his confidence that nothing untoward would happen. Meanwhile, Kundu of neighbouring Kakurganj had his plans.”
“Kundu started informing Mahabali that Tandav was encroaching into his area and openly flaunting his proximity with Mahabali. Everything he said he quoted Mahabali, Kundu averred. Pitaji didn’t like it, because Tandav was never discussing anything in detail with him. Nor did Mahabali ever allowed him to encroach into Kakurganj.
“He behaves like Mahabali himself”, Kundu said. Dad’s antenna went up. Lifetime experience had taught him that there is no space or more than one Mahabali.
“OK. Let me go to Manik Tala and take stock.” Dad said.
“Meanwhile, Tandav was spending a lot of time in Bharati’s neighbour’s house, Munu, an eight year old boy and Chunni a five year old girl were close to Bharati. Tandav would take chocolates for them and sometimes take them out in the Pada to buy them savouries. Bharati was absent most of the time. She had a job of a teacher and she met the Chief Minister it appeared when he organized an open house on ‘Women’s safety in Kolkatta.” Bharati apparently spoke very well and she was noticed. The grandfather like CM told her that any problem about women’s safety she could contact his camp office on a number and the leave the message and his office would act and he would personally monitor.
“Pitaji went to Manik Tala after a day or two. I accompanied him. “Tandav was a funny guy. The way he speaks we, “our and us”. I said. It made an impression on Pitaji and he nodded. But he replied” he means well.” I knew he meant to ward off the discussion for the time being. “But surely he is very ambitious”, I said and let my statement hang.
Now Pitaji went around the Pada. Tandav was keeping pace. Same prancing around. At the pandal near the banyan tree he had called the Pada’s shopkeepers. He started.
“Ours is a very fair system. We have been very kind to you. Tell Mahabali if you have anything to tell.
Mahabali turned to him and said “there is no we. Mahabali is one man.” It was in open view. Everyone saw it and Tandav shrank in public view. One minute the magic was gone. So was the presumption that Tandav has Mahabali’s mandate. The prancing stopped, the cockiness vanished and the confidence evaporated. The message was not lost on the shopkeepers.
“Many of us have financial problem this year. We never renege on a payment. But sometimes we may need time,” the shop keepers said.
“Two or three of you can come directly and tell me. Of course, every year is not the same and every event is not the same. I will try to accommodate you.” Mahabali said.
The shopkeepers were surprised. It is an open invitation to bye-pass Tandav who felt very small. The word went around. Following that Tandav did not visit for a few days.
“After 15 days or so Tandav landed up in the Pada and behaved as if nothing had happened. He went straight to Bharati’s neighbours house and took both the kids for the savouries. He was sitting on the Choupal when he found Bharati coming towards him. He perked up for this encounter which he had always waited for.
“Why are you taking Munnu and Chunnu so frequently? Don’t you try to influence them? I don’t want them to spend time with you and learn all wrong things.
“You want them to meet you but not me. Fair, but when you move to my house they can come to and meet both of us, I guess.” There was a leer in his eyes, taunt in his voice and a slight grin on his face which had tilled a bit now. A knot people had gathered there and they were surprised by the new found confidence of Bharati Devi.
Out of the blue, Bharati gave a slap to Tandav. Tandav was all alone. He was stunned but he would not take it lying down from a woman, he tried to lunge for her and hit back. She moved back a step and Tandav missed the target he could not catch her cheek. “Khabardar. Don’t touch a police officer. Bharati Ghosal, Probationary Police Sub-Inspector Kolkatta police. One more step you will be in the jail.” Bharti announced confidently.
Tandav didn’t believe it and he was advancing menacingly when he heard a police whistle. A posse of police men with an Inspector was advancing towards him. She must have informed before leaving her house to confront him.
“Obviously it was all planned in advance. Is it true that she is a police officer now. The idiot Sushasan is not around with his henchmen,” he thought.
“No Sahib. I am leaving now. I would never touch a woman, that to Bharati Devi who is like a sister.”
Tandav backed out and vanished. He never reappeared again. It is said that their henchmen including Sushasan and others were thrashed by Kundu’s men and staying in the city was no longer an option. They apparently moved to Asansal to recuperate and re-form.
“Son, take your lessons from this parable. At top everyone is lonely. But don’t allow the others to take advantage. Don’t have weakness for those attributes which are big no-no. Never reinvent a wheel. Never think that you are exceptional. Remember it and it will serve you well.
“Cheers” said Sambhunath.
They lifted their tumblers, crossed their forearm to take their drinks. The ultimate in friendship and equality, before a new innings started.
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.
THE BREAK JOURNEY
Gokul Chandra Mishra
Trying to sleep comfortably after dinner, i just looked at my mobile and glanced at the Whats App messages posted by my friends, the last thing I used to do before calling it a day. Suddenly, I found the story “The Walk” authored by Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi. I tried to position myself in the situation of Sadananda, who being alone losing his wife five years back, had no reason to bolt his house whenever he ventured out.
The cold breeze coming from the sea was very much intoxicating to me for a sound sleep. Gone through half of the story, I could not control my sleepy eyes. I saw my family members surrounding me and probably mourning. “What are they doing and why are they crying”? I could not make out.
I felt as if I was in a cloud sitting on an ethereal plane making a journey world wide. On the way I passed through my native village whose feet were cleansed by the mighty river Mahanadi. Suddenly, Ravenshaw college came on the way of my journey and I could vividly watch Lord Buddha sitting under the Peepal tree in his usual pensive mudra.
I was delighted to see a saffron robe clad Baba approaching me. He asked me to follow him, but I was bit careful not to blindly obey him. I have seen how Babas took advantage of the mental weakness of their followers and exploit them. But this Baba was different. He was holding a long cane and consistently murmuring “KalaRudramani Bhaje…” Then I could make out. Probably, Baba had descended from our Village Danda Nach where all the Danduas (People who observe self penance and worship Shakti in utmost austerity for about 13 days to 27 days just before the day of Mahabishub Sankranti, called Meru) always chant “KalaRudramani Bhaje”. Or else he could be Narada.
I was in a dilemma thinking that Narada might be taking me to “Indraloka”. “ Why should I go to Indraloka?” I aked myself. “Indra must have been very old like our late great grand father. The beautiful ladies of his court like Rambha and Menaka must have also become too old, without having teeth on their mouths and they must be looking as vampires. No, I should not follow the Baba.” I took a decision to make my journey solo. There was no fear of losing the right track. I was flying and hopping from one place to another. Suddenly I could remember about some unfinished task left at home. I had promised Dr MS to scribble a short story so that he could edit it using his vast knowledge and skill. I had not started the story yet. Bijay Singh wanted my presence at Bhanjakalamandap with our Dear friends Aurobindo, Mrutyunjay and Bidhu. What to do?
Suddenly, there was a cranking door opening sound . A bunch of sun shine and a gush of morning winds invaded my bedroom like sunami. An usual coarse sound ordered me to wake up “Why are you snoring in a high pitch even at 8 am in the morning? Have you forgotten that today is Mahalaya and you have to go to the Bindusagar to offer Tarpan and Shradh to your forefathers? The priest had telephoned and you should hurry up. On the way back bring some fruits as Navaratra is the next day”, a thundering marshal order broke my comfort and I was ready for the day within no time.
My mobile which was not working as the battery had got discharged in the night, was recharged. The first phone I received was from Bijay, reminding me to attend the evening function at Bhanjakalamandap with friends.
At least I felt glad to find that Dassera would come at the end of Navaratra and I shall be at my village with family to observe it.
..........................................................................
(*Danda is a typical Gadjati festival followed by mostly non Brahmins with astute austerity and penance worshipping Shakti, either Lord Shiva or Goddess Durga. The followers of the practice stay away from family, take only one meal a day and refrain from all mundane pleasure for a period ranging 13 days to 27 days. They practise various penance like, pasting sand to their bodies(Dhuli Danda) , prostrating before Varun after taking bath in the evening (Pani danda) and play with fire (Nian Danda). In the evening entertainment programs are conducted by them in the form of Danda Nach, invoking Nature and Sub-origin Characters, Like “Chadeiya” who lives on collecting birds from the forest, “Patar saura “ a character of Sabars who were predominant forest settlers etc. etc.)
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
The time - 05:00 am! The cock’s crow ringtone of the mobile woke Seema up. Time for the grind once again. Where was the flute? She had been dreaming about the gift when the morning alarm disrupted her dream and sleep. The small flute lingered in the mind for a while, but she did not remember the dream further.
Hurriedly, she rushed out of bed, completed her personal chores and entered the kitchen to prepare ‘decoction’ for her mother in law’s filter coffee. Rain or shine, the lady had to have her coffee before sunrise, which meant Seema had to get up at least half an hour prior to that. Yes, this had been her routine for three decades and more.
While the milk was boiling on the stove, she lit the lamp at the altar, prostrated silently, got up to get stuff organized for the morning breakfast and meal.
Once the ritual of the filter coffee was over and the steaming ‘dabara-tumbler’ with aromatic coffee was passed on to the octogenarian to relish, Seema entered the kitchen once again to prepare a cup of tea for herself. On other days, she’d spend a few minutes watching the kaleidoscopic hues over the tall buildings, listening to the birds’ chatter, even while enjoying the gentle morning breeze. The serenity of dawn often stilled her mind, had a therapeutic effect owing to which, she could focus on the rigmarole with decent calmness and patience.
But today, she had to fetch extra milk; gulping down her cinnamon tea, she walked down to the milk booth that was across the road. The strains of a religious Tamil song of yesteryears came up to her ears –‘Tirupati malai vaazhum Venkatesa! She recalled the words-“I lit the lamp of love, in it, I poured the ghee of desire, sang as my mind melted, I ran up your seven hills.”
On several occasions, she had heard this immortal number, sung by the renowned Seerkazhi Govindarajan, who was often teased that he needed no mike, his voice was stentorian! As a child, when radio was the only means of entertainment at home, she had enjoyed these numbers endlessly each morning. At night, it would be Vividh Bharati. Both, she, and her mother enjoyed singing along as they listened to the Tamil songs. She had a reasonably good voice and could sing well. So did Mother. Music was their common passion among their other interests that included writing and cooking.
But that was ages ago. Marriage had taken away all her passions, and she was a full-time wife, cook, homemaker, daughter in law, caretaker and more. Most part of the day was ‘family time.’ The concept of ‘me-time’ was not in her dictionary. Each day, she had to win a pentathlon race!
The sudden sound of music brought in a flood of thoughts in her mind, not just that, it made her walk up the source of the musical piece rather unconsciously. It was from the transistor radio of a mobile tea vendor. Not only was he soaking in it, the music was also enticing the morning walkers to walk up to his bicycle for a cup of hot coffee.
Seema continued to stand there, totally mesmerized by the songs. The next one was “Vellai Thamarai Poovil Iruppaaal…,” (She is on the white lotus….) a song composed by the pioneer of modern Tamil Poetry Mahakavi Subramania Bharati praising Goddess Saraswathi, sung by another legend D.K. Pattammal with equal fervour.
Inadvertently, she began to sing along and at the end of the song, received thunderous applause from a few morning walkers who had halted for a cup of coffee. Realizing what happened, she let out a thank you and a shy smile, walked up to the milk booth, got a few packets of milk, paid for them and rushed home.
She was late and had to catch up to complete the chores, to be in time to help her mother-in-law with her daily bath.
The ubiquitous radio that adorned every home was indeed a veritable treasure. She knew what she had missed all these years – her passion!
After lunch, she scoured the loft and found it- her deceased father in law's transistor that was stashed away along with other odds and ends. She fixed the batteries and switched it on- Lo and Behold! “Jaga Janani Sukhapaani Kalyaani…..’ (Oh, Mother of the Universe, who holds a parrot in her hand…..) With untold joy, Seema sang along to her heart’s content.
The others had no choice but to listen to the ‘cuckoo's song.'
It was time to dance to her tunes!
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
There is a strange pull that the Unknown evokes in us. The Unknown in all its variants.The Inexplicable, the Unaccountable, the Unreasonable. You are awed by it. You are struck with wonder. You don’t want to believe your eyes, your ears. Yet you cannot take your eyes away from it. You cannot stop your ears from straining to hear it. The images, the sounds, the vibrations remain etched in your mind. Forever. As I discovered in my retired life.
After twenty eight long eventful years I had returned to my ancestral home – the big single storeyed house at one end of the vast property. The old tiled house had been replaced by a terraced building but the interiors were pretty much the same . A big house with innumerable doors and wide windows, where I spent my childhood, in the company of half a dozen kids mentored by an iconic Grandma. Everything was as before even after three decades. The deep well with crystal clear water and the big flat granite stone for washing clothes a little distance away – the landmark that separated the courtyard from the compound. The compound was overgrown with greenery...a natural man made forest in the making… and beyond that – where the thatched mud boundary wall - once stretched meandering down to the far side of the road- now boasted a brick uncemented wall. I gazed at the boundary.
A sudden flash – and I was a 5 year old child climbing on to a branch of the guava tree to have a good look at the view on the other side of the mud wall.The other side of the wall was a mystery. There were 2 old houses and in the inner courtyard, a small, tiled hut – a small shrine – whose doors always remained closed.
“ What’s inside that ?”I had quizzed Grandma and she said, “That's the temple where Thampuran’s dandu (long stick or staff) is kept”
“Which Thampuran? The King? “ ( “ Thampuran” was the term used to address royalty, I knew)
“No. it is the temple of Maadan Thampuran. He and Yakshiyamma are the family deities of the Thampuranveedu family.”
Madan Thampuran….where did I hear that name? Oh! Got it. The other day our old housekeeper cum Kitchen Queen Bayiamma was referring to him while dragging me inside unceremoniously. It was dusk and the night sky was dark with rain clouds. I was in the middle of an intricate game of stones with an imaginary opponent all the while talking to myself. “Kunje, Kunje, keri vaa” ( Come inside, little one). The game was at its climax and I was in no mood to leave it. “Vazhi mudakkikkondu ninnolum. Madan Thampurante pokku varavulla vazhiyanu. Adichittaal nerathodu neram avum kannu thurakaan”. ( You are blocking the path of Madan Thampuran. He traverses this way. If you get hit by him you will open your eyes only this time tomorrow ) Mumbling to herself, she had pulled me roughly inside . She explained that Madan Thampuran was a demonic God who does not forgive trespasses and blocking his path would tantamount to challenging him.
“ But how do you know he is coming? I can’t see him.” That sure was sheer logic.
“ Vallya theegolam pole varum. Allengil akasham muttunna iruttinte mala pole varum. Minnal pole povum. Kaattinte choolam vili kelppikkum”. ( He comes like a ball of fire. Or a mountain of darkness that touches the sky. He flits across like a lightning accompanied by the whistling of the wind”.)
So, THAT Thampuran was THIS Thampuran, the neighbouring God.
Thampuranveedu family were our neighbours. The denizens on the other side. The people in the twin old tiled houses. The two matriarchs Rajamma and Retnamma and their children. The elder Rajamma was a skinny lady whose voice was never heard. Grandma said ever since she lost her husband she was mostly silent. Her unmarried son Manikandan was a “drill maash” – a physical education teacher - in a Government school and his two younger sisters were just as silent as their mother.
The other sister Retnamma and her children were far from silent. There were 9 children, the eldest in his mid thirties and the youngest a girl of 12. The father, a short, slightly built man with a greying beard, was a government employee in one of the lower cadres. His wife Retnamma was the Queen Bee around whom the family swarmed. She must have been in her mid fifties – a buxom lady with an abundantly blessed figure. Her face was like the full moon, except that it was a robust red. Plump cheeks, sparkling big, black eyes, shining white teeth, long, thick, wavy hair, prominent side whiskers and the hint of a soft brown moustache above her sensuous full lips. Her "mundu" ( dhoti) and" ravukka"(blouse like garment) and chuttithorthu ( cotton shawl) were always spotlessly white. With five daughters and one daughter in law in the family, she was hardly left with any domestic chores. Most of the time she sat on a cane chair in the open portico making conversation with the vegetable vendors or fisherwomen. When she spotted my Grandma in our compound she would come hurriedly near the mud wall calling out in her deep husky voice "Akkaaaa” (elder sister). She loved to talk. Just innocent banter in her characteristic husky voice replete with theatrical facial expressions in a highly evocative voice. The topics ranged from the day’s menu to what is the breaking news in the neighbourhood. Her studs – big golden orbs with ornate,dangling beads danced and the big red nosering sparkled every time she moved her head. What struck me most was the big brown mole, almost like a raisin, on her right cheek, near the nose. My mother called her Retnammakkan and Retnammakkan she remained for me too.
A little distance away from the small temple, and almost bordering the muddy red kutcha ( road was the "sarpakkavu" (snake shrine,) the sanctum sanctorum of "nag devtaas. It had two huge banyan trees whose intertwining trunks and branches were usurped by the creepers and climbers of all kinds. It was a small green forest. At the foot of the trees, there was a small rocky platform where serpent idols were installed. At dusk a solitary lamp used to be lit by some lady in the family. It was a less frequented place. Whenever I screamed in my sleep Grandma used to wake me up and prod me,"What was the dream?” Sometimes I saw animals, among them snakes, centipedes and lizards. Grandma used to dab my forehead with holy ash and closing her eyes would chant some inscrutable mantra. Promptly, in the morning she would send a bottle full of gingelly oil to ThampuranVeedu, our neighbours, as offering to the serpent gods. With a message “Please tell them not to scare my kid”. By the word ‘them”she meant all the divine denizens of Thampuran Veedu, of whom the serpents were just one.
One day I heard voices on the other side. Orders were being given, men scurrying about, women sweeping and cleaning. The walls of the small shrine looked newly white washed. “What is happening there?”I asked Grandma. “Ulsavam" she said, meaning temple festival. It was a rare phenomenon. It happened once in seven years. The customary three days of pujas for all deities, serpent deities included, were cut short to suit the convenience of the family members and the festival was reduced to one day. Two priests with their dhoties tied intricately, with sandalwood paste and red sindoor smeared liberally on their skinny chests, could be seen hurrying about preparing for the pujas. The chenda melam ( percussion drums accompanying temple rituals) had been continuing since day break. An enticingly fast note. Grandma said it is the chempada taal. The racy notes are the favourite of gods, demonic and others. Smoke was emanating all round from sacred fires burning to please different gods and the not so sacred fires cooking chundal (channa daal) and katti payasam (a sweet dish made of rice and jaggery), offerings to the deities. In between there was the sound of bells ringing, loud chanting of mantras. Sure, it was a feast for the eye and ear.
It was 12.30 and the sun had reached its zenith when I heard a sudden soar in the musical rhythm. The beats of the chenda were accelerating and rising to a crescendo. Something was happening. Sure. I hurriedly scrambled up the ever accommodating guava tree to have a peek at the other side.
The tall, lean , drill maash was standing, a red cloth tied above his spotless white mundu, his long, straight hair wet from the bath, his eyes closed and hands clasped in a tight namaste. He was bare chested and his entire body was shivering. The elder of the two priests came from the sanctum sanctorum holding a garland of red flowers. Chanting a mantra loudly, he tossed the garland onto the maash’s neck where it landed neatly. Swiftly moving back, he returned, this time with a brass stick, something of a miniature pole of a pole vaulter. Holding it down in both hands he was chanting mantras loud and fast. The chenda was racing and the maash was now hopping up and down, eyes closed and head rhythmically vibrating. The priest raised the holy staff piously to his eyes, bowed and offered it to maash. Eyes still closed the maash received it and as if stung by an electric shock he jumped forward. Eyes closed he circled the temple once , hopping as though stepping on embers and set off on a trot, on to the road with the burnished copper staff clasped tightly in his shivering hands and the men following him in hot pursuit.
I was dumbstruck. What was all this ? Where did the man go, voluntarily blindfolded?
“Thampuran will come back, you wait. I will take you there when he returns,” Grandma softly mumbled enigmatically.
“But he is not Thampuran. He is the drill maash. Where is Thampuran?”
“Thampuran has come into the Manikandan’s body, my dear… that's why he couldn’t stand still. His strength has gone up, with that staff in hand. He has gone to bring something from Thycaud”
“Thycaud…where is it? Bring what?”
“Don’t be scared my dear. He is Maadan Thampuraan now. During festival time he comes into the body of the eldest male child of the family. Earlier it used to be Balan who got the blessing. He was at first unwilling and scared that he escaped to his father’s ancestral house at Kattakada – quite far off –thinking that Thampuran would enter another eligible male ‘s body. But on the crucial day at noon Balan came here running barefoot at noon all the way from Kattakada - a distance of 20 km. For Balan it was difficult but for Thampuraan it is nothing. He threw himself down on the steps here and got up and stretched out his hands for the dandu. Once he took it, he ran at top speed to the crematorium. Thampuran needs his own feast. He goes to Thycaud and brings it. You will see yourself.”
Sure enough, I saw it, an hour or two later. Drill mash Manikandan, nay, Maadan Thampuraan in all his glory on his return. He was different now, not the man who had scooted from here. He came like a tornado, eyes half closed and dazed but blazing red, hair flaying, face muscles tightly drawn, the blue veins on his arms taut . He appeared to have grown in stature, a symbol of bursting energy, though in fact nothing had changed physically. Except for that white object he held in his mouth. It looked like the dried twig of a tree sans its leaves. He was shaking his face , rolling his head, uttering a strange sound like a wild animal.
“Did you see? That's a bone he brought from the crematorium". My grandma’s loud whisper sent a shiver up my spine. Bone..from a dead body! Oh my God! I clutched her hand in fear. Sure enough, it was a bone...from the hand or leg of a corpse.
Thycaud crematorium was on the other side of the town . Grandma explained. Thampuran ran all the way . In the hot sun, along the main road . All traffic will halt, allowing him passage. Every time it is the same story. He comes back with a bone in mouth.
I watched in fright, mouth agape. Thampuran was circling the temple with the accompaniment of drums and clanging of bells. Finally the elder priest came out, the brass vessel of holy water in hand, while the younger priest held a banana leaf with holy ash and thulsi (basil) leaves. Thampuran headed straight for the priest, stopped in his track and continued his dance – in – a- trance. The priest swiftly poured the holy water on Thampuran's head , chanting some mantra , and helped himself to a handful of holy ash which he doused on Thampuran. By magic, Thampuran's dance slowed down, He offered the staff with both hands to the priest and the bone fell down from his mouth., to be taken by one of the men.His body movements came down and he prostrated himself on the steps of the temple in one last movement and lay numb.
The men quickly came round, lifted him, and carried him inside the house.
Relieved, I let go of Grandma’s hand. Thampuran had gone but…what happened to the drill maash? Was he dead?
“Aye, no , my dear. He will be all right”.Grandma assured.
Grandma said it is time for lunch. Let us go home. And we returned. The formless, faceless Thampuran, now had a face. That was my takeaway. Try as I did I could not stop thinking of the bizarre images of the day. The incident that defied logic. It set my mind whirling.. Little did I know, more was yet to come.
Come evening and uncharacteristically I found Grandma taking a bath early and urging me to follow suit. I was her appendage. Wherever she went she carried me along. We both enjoyed each other’s company. She was at once my teacher, guide, mentor, mother, dictionary and encyclopaedia – all rolled into one. And so, we both were ready for the evening‘s entertainment.
The venue was the same temple premises. Pujas were going on. There was no sign of Thampuran. The culmination would be at night in what was called a “gurusi”- symbolic offering of a life to please the god – and goddess. In ancient times it was a sacrificial goat. Now it is a vegetable, a big pumpkin smeared with red sindoor. The God was Thampuran. I had no idea about the Goddess.
Grandma headed for the house of Retnamma…the younger of the 2 sisters who was her friend. The house was full. Kith and kin, near and distant were present, among them the oldies in a group, younger ones flitting about here and there on errands, most of the boys clad in red dhoties ..the kids left to fend for themselves in the open courtyard A ladies group was sitting outside chatting , among them Retnamma, the Queen Bee. She was clad in typical ethnic wear,the 2 inch zari bordered dhoti and the matching off white zari bordered blouse lending a regal look. She had tied up her long hair on a knot with a string of jasmine to adorn it. She had a big red bindi on her forehead . A double string chain of gold beads adorned her neck and bosom. On each hand she wore a pair of thick gold bangles. She was undoubtedly a reigning princess.
“Oh, Akkaaaa…you have come early!” So saying, she got up from her seat and clasped both hands of Grandma.
“Come, we will go inside. These drums are giving me a headache’, she said. She beckoned to a boy to bring some cane chairs inside, on the verandah where she made Grandma and me sit . She sat next to us and to make a full circle a few of the ladies joined. The talk turned to the pujas and the rituals. So far, everything was going well, the gods must be pleased, Grandma was saying.
”Äkkaa, I am not too well, and I ve put on weight lately. ThIs time I have prayed to Amma that Kumari or Lalitha may be blessed instead of me or Rajammakka. That's why I chose to come inside, away from the din of chenda and bells.”
Kumari was her neice, eldest child of Rajamma and Lalitha was her own daughter. Both were in their late twenties, damsels waiting for their Prince Charmings. Soon tea was served – Grandma was a special guest after all – and the conversation continued in a healthy banter. It was getting dark and the electric bulbs also started glowing. Retnamma had become silent and Grandma noticed it.
“Shall I get Vicks for you? “she enquired.
“No. I am ok. Yesterday I didn't sleep well, that’s why I have this nasty headache. It will go once I get a good sleep” she said with a smile. I noticed that her customary exuberant tone was missing. The lady next to Grandma was speaking something confidential and she was whispering. Grandma was straining her ears , leaning to her left, eyes and ears intent on the lady's lips. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I heard a movement on my right. The Queen – Retnamma- was reclining on a chair, her face towards me, eyes closed due to headache. She resembled a cupcake in a paper cup, her heavy body filling the cane chair. I had an eerie feeling that the chair on which she was sitting was moving. It hit my chair and my chair moved. But the lady was sitting with eyes closed as though asleep. How could it be? I turned to look at Grandma. She was engrossed in gossip. No way to catch her attention. I returned to gaze at my neighbour.
This time I saw another movement. Her feet were slowly moving as though drawing a jigsaw on the ground. She must be sleepwalking in a dream, I thought. Then in an abrupt movement she took her hand away from her face and gripped the arm of the chair. The lower portion of her body started an oscillation. Her feet, her knees and calves were moving slowly. Swiftly it travelled up. Sitting on the cane chair she started swaying like an elephant. At the same moment her eyes flew open but I could make out she was not seeing anything – the eyes had a glazed look.
Fear gripped me and I cried out. “Ammummaaaaa” ( Grannie…..)
Grandma turned to look at me and wordlessly I pointed a finger at the swaying form. The chair had started moving. The ladies around quickly moved back, leaving her alone. Gripping the chair with both arms she rose up, her face taut with suppressed energy. In another swift movement she untied her neriyathu (upper garment like duppatta) and retied it the way princesses are traditionally attired in ancient times , all the time swaying, now very fast. “Hmmmm……hmmmmm…hmmmmmm” she made a sound like an animal panting. With her right hand, she unloosened the knot of hair and it cascaded down. With her left hand she smeared the red sindoor of her bindi across her forehead. Like an accomplished dancer she took her steps and slowly made a movement towards the steps. The drums started beating faster and she started to sway in tune with the drumbeats.
I crouched behind a chair, scared that she would spot me . She was not Grandma ‘s friend, Retnammakkan. She was an alien and I wasn’t sure what she would do if she caught me. My heart stopped and I broke into a cold sweat. There was a big crowd of onlookers now.
“Grandma, am scared. I want to go home” I said.
“No need to be frightened. She won't harm you. She is Yakshiamma . She came to visit us, that's all”
Yakshiamma was in a trance, but definitely she knew her way. She was encircling the temple thrice. And then, she was making her way to the serpent shrine. At the far end. Face to face with Nagaraja and his consort her expression changed from seriousness to irritation to anger and finally a smile. Someone there was communicating to her and her face was displaying her response. The sacred grove was dark except for the oil lamp burning and the huge banyan trees formed a canopy. There was a lone petromax to light up the scene. Her big round face was glowing with a fiery red hue, the kohl covered glazed eyes were piercing, the two golden orbs and the big nosering were glittering in the dark. The raisin like mole on the face was twitching eerily. Swaying gracefully she bent down to pick up the remnants of turmeric powder and milk offered to the nagadevtaas by one of the devotees. Still dancing she started smearing it liberally over her head all the while muttering hmmmm…hmmmm…hmmm.
“ Is she Kalliyangattu Neeli?”I asked Grandma.
Grandma had told me stories of the bloodsucking vampire Kalliyangattu Neeli who, dressed as a beautiful damsel, invited wayfarers to her abode and killed them at night leaving behind only their hair and bones
“Öh, not at all. This is our own Yakshi Amma. She has come to visit her people.''
But I was not convinced. I wanted to run away but my knees were trembling.
Yakshi Amma returned to the temple and, as in the earlier scene with Thampuran, the head priest made his appearance. He sprinkled holy water on her head but she shook it away uttering a piercing hmmmmmmmmmmmm... She went on shaking her head as though saying Noooooo!
“What is it? “ the head priest asked
In a husky voice she burst out “ aalayam venam” ( need a sanctum) and then in a loud scream “enikku aalayam venam ( I need a sanctum)…hmmmmm…hmmmmm”
( I want a shrine).
The priest gestured to her son to come forward and whispered something in his ears.
He promptly folded his hands and said “aalayam tharaam” ( shall give u a sanctum )
A half smile flitted through her lips. She gestured to the junior priest to bring her the thaali (plate) containing holy ash…. She dipped her fingers in it, took a pinch and held it before her son. He piously took it and prostrated. She turned her head and surveyed the crowd and gestured to them to come forward. One by one, all accepted the pinch of holy ash from Yakshi Amma. When it was done, she summoned the priest and said in that same husky, shrieky voice “enikku santhosham , santhosham, santhosham. ( I am happy)” The priest poured holy water on her head and sprinkled red arali flowers….in one last sway she leaped forward and would have fallen on the stone steps had not her son caught her. The men were just in time to catch her unconscious body. They took her inside. After some time Grandma pulled me and said “Come, we'll say Bye and leave” She was reclining on the bed drinking a tender coconut when we entered the room.
"Ah ! akkaa…. Oh.you have brought your grandchild too…” She smiled and extended a hand to clasp Grandma’s… she had no memory of the evening's events! I was nonplussed…it sent shock waves inside me..
And It remains in my heart- the shock, the awe, the fear. Yakshiamma, more than Thampuran, refused to leave me. I woke up in a hot flush, trying to peer into the closed glass window of my home cocking my ears . Do I get the smell of jasmine? Has Yakshi Amma come knocking, swaying with glazed open eyes, with the twitching mole, big, golden orbs and red nose ring dazzling in the dark. Distant cities, concrete jungles, high rise apartments. My life had gone full circle and Yakshiamma and Thampuran were safely laid to rest. Or so I believed.
Until I saw them the other day. The day I returned to my home. My feet had been irresistibly drawn to the boundary wall near the non existant guava tree. My gaze riveted on the small closed shrine. There they were - the duo,in all their glory, as awesome and colourful as ever,dancing in their trance. In the background, did I hear a distant chenda playing a chempada? Or was it just my heart thumping a resonant beat?
G K Maya took to writing after she retired as GM from Canara Bank in 2019. She had done her Masters in English Language & Literature from University College Trivandrum. She started her career as a Probationary Officer in Canara Bank in 1982. Her interest in writing was fanned by her passion for reading and interest in the people around her. With her passion for literature, she has tried her hand at translating a movie script from English to Malayalam.
Is having happiness success? And how can we measure our success? The mankind constantly tries to be happy and successful either by earning money or having a comfortable life. Man's unlimited desires lead him strive hard educationally, morally, spiritually and financially.
Throughout the growth and life, survival becomes vital and it all depends on the basic needs. From the time the child starts growing, he or she starts dreaming big and makes planning for future. The parents, siblings, friends, neighborhood, and places of livelihood impact him or her sufficiently. This impact or inspiration gives the child an identity.
School which is a big society of mixed race of multi-talented people equally plays a major role. The students are the future citizens of tomorrow. They are gifted with innate talents like, art, literature, music, dance and life skills. Teachers play an important role in encouraging and inspiring them for their all round development. But knowledge, intelligence, ability and strength differ from a person to another.
If students are in a good company of friends, they would definitely reach their goals as friends stand in their way of success. Some students strongly believe that friends are better than relatives and do anything for them. You can share everything with them and need someone to listen to you and console you.
Success depends on many factors and people who live around us. I strongly feel that every incident that we experience, and every word we hear leave an imprint on our minds which guide us to move forward. Inspiration alone doesn't make someone successful. One requires to be willing to work hard and an intelligent to do every task assigned. Self-realization, creativity, confidence and discipline would help anyone fruitful in life. "Opportunities don't happen, you create them."
A man who dreams big will look at his life in a great perspective so that he finds ways to attain his goal. He is the one who focusses at his successful path in order to reach his destination. An ambitious person turns into a successful person who can raise his financial status and tries to bring cheerful feeling in others' life. To him, success is health, wealth and gladness.
"Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it."
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com.
DOMESTIC HUMAN RESOURCE IN CHENNAI
My driver seems to take me for granted, complained my neighbour the other day. He often absents himself on some pretext or the other and I always end up commuting to my office by these wretched autos.
I could not agree with her more I said and what is worse is tackling the auto drivers. The metres make no difference with their presence because they are never turned on. Flat rates are demanded according to the distance , day and time of travel. The driver makes a rough calculation of the fare according to the metre and demands double the amount. If it is early in the morning, he says since you are his first “savari” he would not like to bargain with you and magnanimously offers to accept what ever you decide to give him. When you pay him whatever you think is reasonable , he still keeps his hand outstretched grinning sheepishly which means you are expected to give a little more . Since you don’t want to create unpleasantness and spoil your day, you tend to give in.
If you happen to travel on a Sunday, you had it, “I never could get any “savari’ ,today being Sunday ,pleads the driver and again you are the loser in the bargain. If you are a newcomer to the city and cannot speak Tamil, you are providing more chances for him to exploit you, in fact it begins with your arrival at the railway station. So much for the three wheelers and their drivers who are a law unto themselves.
There are drivers and drivers available if you happen to own a car and not drive yourself for what ever reason. One of the reasons I could think of for engaging a driver is because someone pays for it or you are one of those who has butterflies in your stomach whenever you are behind the wheel! I can assure you there is nothing to feel embarrassed about it and the tribe of self drivers is decreasing , especially if they are past middle age .Traffic on Chennai roads is unruly with the cyclists and the three wheelers contributing greatly to the mess ,to put it mildly. They are totally unpredictable and take delight in violating the rules at your expense! If you expect them to say sorry , you can’t be more naïve. The question the man at the wheel usually asks accusingly in such situations is “ arivu irka” ? which means “ dhimaak hai kya? “ Prompt comes the reply’ “ille,
Nee koncham kudu” ( dhimaak nahi hai, thum thoda dho)
Making a switch from self driving over the years to engaging a driver was not an easy decision for us. After a lot of deliberation we chose to employ a man who was middle aged than someone half his age thinking he would not grudge driving our old Ambassador unlike the youngsters who would prefer to be seen at the wheel of latest jazzy air conditioned cars . Another reason perhaps was that older people were more cautious and not given to over speeding. But let me tell you what a foolish decision it had been.
The problem arose sooner than we expected when we had to attend a wedding Reception in one of the hotels in the city.
As we were getting into the car, our driver whose name was Krishnamoorthy, wanted to know what time we would return.
I almost said it was none of his business , but thinking he might have had some reason for asking me , I said, we would return probably in a couple of hours time.
I noticed his pallor suddenly changing .He looked a bundle of nerves and after a long pause he stammered, “ Amma, my visibility is poor once darkness sets in . I need to have a cataract operation and I have been postponing to get it done for want of enough money”
“If only you could give me some advance , I will get it done soon” he said presenting a most pathetic picture.
Even the toughest hearts melt when you are faced with such a situation.
He profusely thanked me after collecting the advance amount saying he would be indebted to me for the rest of his life promising to resume duty as early as possible.
He came back the third day, and I started wondering whether he had come to inform me the date of his operation.
But no, I had realized he made his appearance for a different reason, that the doctor told him till his sugar level came down, he cannot undergo the operation and that he could continue driving during the day .
I felt like sacking him but chose to wait until I recovered the huge sum he owed me. So it was back to square one, I had to forgo all my evening engagements . Months passed and as there was no sign of his sugar level decreasing , I was left with the only option of withholding a part of his monthly salary if I had to recover my money. But even that did not work because he would invariably come out with a sob story of how difficult it was to maintain a family of six on a single salary . Worse was to follow whenever we went shopping . The initial requests for small advance amounts grew into larger ones depending on the nature of our purchases . If we did not comply with his request , he would pour out all his bitterness complaining about the strange ways of God ---How He was kind to some who are fortunate and not to others like him who had to slog all their lives.
I was left with no choice.
Why have you not been coming for our evening walks? Enquired my walking mates one day when I joined them after a long absence.
It’s the same problem, I can’t risk locking my house anymore especially after the recent theft of my pump set, I lamented.
That’s why we have all along been telling you to move into an apartment where you don’t have to bother about anything. Just look at us, We merely have to lock a single door and the watchman takes care of the security of the whole complex, said Saritha and Mano.
What’s more, we don’t have to worry if any of the common services go wrong because the office bearers of our building take care of that, piped in another walking mate.
See, I had to go for a kitty party this morning, and I remembered that my refill of gas would be delivered anytime of the day. I handed over the keys to my neighbor’s mother and requested her to do the needful, informed another.
I am away at work most of the day and when my children come home
from School , they play with their friends in the complex until I return. I don’t have to worry about them, observed yet another.
I could see that all these people were enjoying life to the full, able to
Indulge themselves in whatever they wished, even if it meant being away from home a greater part of the day.
Meanwhile, here I was living in an old independent house with a large compound to boot which was more a disadvantage. My garden which was once the envy of my neighbors , presented a pathetic sight for want of care , due to a perennial water shortage Chennai is noted for.
We had got used to all our seasonal fruits disappearing from time to time over the years but had never foreseen the prospect of our pump set vanishing one hot summer day and being faced with an empty overhead tank! That was the last straw which hastened our decision to move into an apartment until ours got ready.
Things appeared too good to be true during the first few months of our stay in the multi storied complex which had just six apartments. Though we needed to use all our ingenuity to improvise a great deal ,( for instance, our foot wear found a place under the sette in the drawing room, the clothes were dried on a roof hanger fixed in one of the bed rooms since we had no balcony , one of the shelves in the kitchen served as a puja , etc.) we had a feeling of security with the presence of the ever vigilant watchman firmly positioned at the gate of the complex.
Soon however, we were in for a rude shock when my niece who came from abroad visited us. Leaving her expensive hand bag with equally expensive contents in the drawing room she accompanied me to the kitchen
since I was in the midst of preparing breakfast. When we adjourned to the drawing room not before long , I noticed her face turn ashen .“Where is my hand bag? She cried alarmed. One look at the door which was left ajar , explained everything ( poor dear, she had lost quite a fortune her bag contained) .So much for our ever vigilant watchman !
My close friends who were in the habit of dropping by without a prior tinkle began complaining that they never found me home whenever they visited me. I said it was not true because I rarely went out during noon. I t didn’t take me long to guess who the culprits were. It was probably because the watchmen who worked in shifts could not connect us with the apartments we lived in nor keep track of our movements . But what amazed me was the fund of information they were able to gather about all of us and willingly passed it on to all and sundry.
Initially I was all admiration for our neighbors who were non interfering and believed in minding their business. Only as months passed by I realized it was not non interference but absolute indifference ,that even a calamity in the family went unnoticed without as much as a condolence visit being paid by them.
The less said about my cook the better because I was the one who insisted on engaging her to appease the varied tastes of my family . I wished to be relieved of the long hours spent in the kitchen and turn to my literary activities which I had been putting off. I regretted my decision of enjoying the luxury sooner than expected. The groceries which lasted a month got exhausted in half the time, so did my gas . She knew to prepare only the standard South Indian dishes, and just refused to learn anything else . My children started eating out more and entertaining totally disappeared because the lady was not used to preparing food in large quantities. Lunch and dinner was no more a noisy affair with our animated discussions on everything under the sun suddenly coming to a halt .
Perhaps , the only redeeming feature of our domestic resource was our maid, I marveled. She was reticent by nature and would mechanically go about her work . But now, of late , I noticed a change in her . Our cook who was given to gossiping managed to obtain a willing ear in the maid.
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.
Prof (Dr.) Viyatprajna Acharya
In the morning I wished my girls "Happy Mother's Day" first before they could do so....they were a bit perplexed.
I said, “it is because of 2 reasons:
1. You both are future mothers and a lot of responsibilities rest upon your shoulders.
2.You both have given me the status of a MOTHER for which I am indebted to both of you.”
Then I thanked their father too for transforming me a mother from an ordinary woman.
They have been very nice kids and have been helping me in all possible ways during this lockdown period for which I am able to attend duty in time after finishing all domestic chores.
As a doctor know not how many patients, how many apprehensive would-be parents I have come across...all want to become parents desperately. I've seen patients in the labour room breaking down in sorrow after a still-birth or a primigravida (becoming mother for the first time) losing a fetus in just few weeks conception due to a miscarriage.
Mother is not just someone who gives birth to a baby but nurtures them into their true being. I have been misconstrued many a times when I say if the girls are taken care of well with proper morale and education, then rest part can be taken care of easily. I am a strong feminist and that's why I say so.
Whenever I have seen mothers falling weak in their decisions, lack in vision, their families have suffered like hell. Whereas a learned mother (not University education per se) can make the family a true heaven.
By God's grace I've been born in such a womb that if I start describing about her it would take pages and still leave me misty-eyed and unsatiated. Yes, I owe many things to my mother (Bou) and still she's a guide and preceptor in my life.
All Moms are great...so are my Mother Nature and Mother Nation...I bow everyone with gratitude on this very special day...HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
A thud woke me up. A sudden gush of wind had opened the windows, I guess. It took some time for my eyes to get adjusted to the light in my usually pitch-dark room. The curtains were fluttering, giving me a call.
A picture-perfect full moon framed by my window. It was radiating its happiness like it had cajoled the windows to get a sneak peek at me. I kept gazing at this beautiful view, until my sleep forced a yawn.
As I stretched myself yawning, my hand accidentally moved my phone I always keep on my bed near my window... The screen displayed '00:00'. Was midnight the time when we started afresh! Or was it when everything that existed came to nothing!! “What a weird thought to get at such odd hours. I should better sleep”, I thought.
Turning away from the window, my eyes met my reflection in the cupboard mirror. Everything around me was shining in the moonlight except me! “Like I am the only darkness here! Oh my, I really need sleep!” As I went to sleep again, I halted midways...
I could see my own silhouette on the floor. Again, painted black on the moonlit floor! There was something very unique about it, but I couldn't fathom what!
Had I never observed my shadow? Maybe not, it's always behind one, and doesn't exist in darkness! But yes, I was someone who loved darkness. I needed darkness to get sleep. My profile photos are mostly black and white, to hide my flaws. As if pitch black was my favorite. "Uhhhh! Mind! stop drifting", I chided. But my eyes hadn't drifted! They were stuck. To my silhouette!
My silhouette was kind of formless, and yet I felt its piercing glance! Was it prying deep into my consciousness? Suddenly, I got flashes from my childhood. Playing in my neighbor’s house, I was asked by the kids there to undress myself as God wanted me to. And I was forced to! I felt humiliated, wanted to share it with my mom, but didn’t have the guts!
I got visuals of a college exam. I was the one who begged my friend for an answer but it was she who was caught cheating. I saw the pleading eyes of my friend when she was interrogated, but I chose to stay mum, as a coward I was!
And then I saw what happened that morning! A project I had spent sleepless nights on for two years, my dream, my life which finally saw success! My boss got credit for that, not me! I saw the kohl in my eyes blackening my cheeks, the hours of sobbing, cocooning myself wrapped in my own thighs, my own dark shell! Why didn’t I resist his unfairness! Scared of losing my job I let go of my dream!
My silhouette was still gazing at me, questioning all the wrongs in my life. It stood there as a reflection of my failures, my messing up.
Suddenly I felt it too had been helpless. It experienced the same plight as me and had no say in anything. My silhouette was stuck, always, behind me, like a mute spectator!
It was pleading to be freed or may be for a moment of comfort!
I felt my hands rise, the silhouette raised its hands as well. I felt I was to meet a side of me, a side I was not aware of till now, what I could have done more justice to, had I the courage! I only had to stop being a good girl!
Our hands met, mine and my shadow’s. Although I knew it was just a shadow, I could feel it. A strong grasp, then a powerful grip, pulling me towards it. The power of a thousand whirlwinds sucked me in. Teleported to a tunnel, I travelled my life through every moment re-enacted on either side like news flashing on huge LED screens on the street! When the commotion was over, my world was upside down. I could see a human body sitting on my bed, silhouetted in the moonlight streaming in. It was looking down at me.
I tried to move but glued to the floor, l couldn't. What had I become! Now I felt formless, helpless, stuck to the ground, a black blob on the white floor!
A wicked smile popped up on the lip of my human body. We stared at each other for an unknown time! And then, my human body went back to bed! And my world became dark!!!
"Run away from here. You made a fool of yourself" Chiding herself she almost stumbled over her own saree again. "Uhhhhhh... Would Reeta's grandma act this way. How modern and tech savvy she is. My granddaughter Kavya must be ashamed of me!"
Where was the exit! Why was the mall so confusing! She shouldn't have come here in the first place. She couldn't face anyone, she wanted to run away. But there seemed no exit!
She was approaching a supermarket, she ran into it. As if she could find a hide out in its narrow alleys. The burden of her purse and her conscious gait bogged her down. But she was an adamant mouse trying to find the dead end in the maze. She was lost, that contended her...
After a very long time, she actually looked around. Groceries. Her favourite. She got transported to her kitchen in her small hometown. The note and sharpened pencil on top of her refrigerator. How meticulously would she take note, going over each row in her cup board. She would always have an extra packet of dals and salt of course! "Oh, I miss my town. It was so comfortable, a known space".
She almost stumbled on an abandoned trolley. She looked ahead. Bright yellow pearls of every shape imaginable lined the aisle. She could make a garland of gold, emerald and ruby from this lentils section! Suddenly the enclosed space looked familiar, as if it was her outgrown kitchen! "Neatly stacked packets with labels, the way I liked it." This felt home in the alien world.
She wandered around, eyeing things she would love to stack in her home. "I never knew such spices existed...oh the marbles would glisten with this modular floor cleaner...Such lovely design, the cups at home have got stained, they need a replacement!" Her mind wavered from one commodity to another, she wanted to hoard everything available.
Her trail of thoughts screeched a stop, way before her legs could! "If it's related to home you cannot buy it!" Her son's words echoed in her heart.
"But these are the things that lures me. I have lived my life thinking about these!" She sighed. Her son's voice was now frustrating her. Wherever she looked, she realized she wasn't allowed to buy that! Was she so obsessed with 'home'? Couldn't she think of anything else. The weight of her purse sank her even more...
She reached the kid's section. "Such a sweet pink dress. And that barbie doll, Kavya will love it!" she felt delighted. "Mom, you cannot buy any gifts for us, Kavya particularly!" He was heartless!
"No! I must find something I can buy. I cannot be empty handed! But what?" She ravaged the whole space frantically! Every step she took increased her irritation. How could the supermarket not have a single thing she was allowed to buy! Ughhhh!
Just then her eyes fell on the ice cream cart. The whizzing chilled air lured her towards it. She got transported to the streets of Chennai. A school girl with two ponies stood in front of an ice cream displaying kwality ice cream. Something she was never allowed to buy, partly for her tonsillitis and partly for its high cost!
"But today I can rebel. I will scream for ice cream!" She sped to the cart, took out the costliest one from the lot and sped to the cash counter. "Yes. Today, ice cream fell into the 'can buy' list!"
On the cash counter, the beep from the bar code scanner brought her back to her senses. She felt an urge to snatch it back and undo the bill. Was she insane! ?250 for an ice cream. What had gotten into her! "Yes, it's normal for Kavya to buy such costly ice creams, but how can I" She had built her house saving every penny. Her husband gave her only ?500 as monthly expenses. And she was about to wipe off half of that! "Stop being a miser! You have to transform yourself today, you need to spend money!"
She took out a crisp note of ?2000. She had never carried this much money herself. She cradled it in her hand, careful not to lose grip just in case. The attendant just snatched it away, a usual denomination for him! She waited for the change and counted it twice. So used she was to giving list of expenses to her husband, she couldn't fathom she needn't keep a record today! She could just throw the money somewhere and no one would question her. "Rama, Rama! Even in my dreams, how can I think of throwing money! Aiyo!" She chided herself, her purse still burdening her.
Her priced ice-cream was in her hands now. She had entered the super market as a timid old lady. But she walked out as a confident school girl having her dream in her hands. She sat on a nearby bench and started relishing it.
The wrinkles on her forehead started to vanish. She lost her self-conscious impulse to check her sari. She was lost in the cold numbing touch of sweetness. She used to travel alone to Presidency college in her childhood. Living with her grandmother, miles away from her hometown, she never felt afraid. "What have I become! Where did I lose that bold girl? No, I still have her in me. I am her!"
She licked the last drop of ice-cream, packed her timidity around the ice-cream stick and shoved it into the trash can. Her gait was backed by confidence now. She held her head high and treaded on. She reached the escalator. What was a nightmare to board, just sometime back was a child play now. Her childlike overconfidence made her ramp it without a jerk. Inside her, her inner child was jumping with joy. This ascent pumped her confidence even more.
The same claustrophobic mall felt lovely now. She looked around, as a scout on exploration. She spotted the food court. Hunger bells set the destination clear. Once in, she was lost again. There were so many options! She started reading the menu boards one by one. As she read the name, her eyes checked the price and her mind listed the ingredients and recipe for the same. "I can make all of these at 1/4 the price listed!" "Uhhh! But I am hungry, I need to eat something. "
She was amused that half of the list was something she could cook better than these shops. The remaining were items she was totally unaware... What could she choose?
She stopped near a Chinese counter. Kavya was mad about it. "But this is junk food Kavya" " Grandma, this is a staple food for Chinese. Won't they all be fat if that was the case. It's a misconception! Don't be old school!"
"Today I shall try Chinese! Yes! " The zeal she marched towards the stall died the instant she read the board. "Chau mein, hakka, szechuan, dimsums, dragon ball, Buddha's delight! Couldn't they have simpler names! " She decided to play safe and ordered a veg clear soup. Soups were never part of her meal. Although she could guess the preparation, she had never made it herself.
She sniffed the soup well before it arrived. As soon as she put a spoon full of it in her mouth, she declared to herself, it lacked a pinch of salt and pepper! The face of her husband flashed in her mind. Sitting in the dining table he would declare, "Don't you taste what you cook! How am I supposed to eat this bland sambhar!" It was so difficult to please him. Such blunt statements will always burn all her painstaking efforts to ashes! "I sound exactly like him. Yes, I paid for this soup, but still it is someone's hard work I disregard!" But she felt an urge to give feedback to the cook. The court was rather empty. She went to the billing counter and hesitantly requested the attendant, "Can I meet the chef?" The attendant looked up quizzically and then nodded. In a few minutes the chef was standing next to her table.
A short fair boy, maybe from the north east, was standing quite timidly in front of her. She sensed he was afraid she was to scold him. She started with a warm smile, "Hi there. I have never had restaurant food in years now. I just had the soup you made, and it really filled my growling stomach. Thanks. I just had a small feedback, in case you can add little bit of corriander and cinnamon, the soup would taste even better"
" Ma'am, thank you for your feedback" He was smiling now. "No one has ever called me to give feedback in years of my job here. Yes, what you told is very correct. But here we have to strictly follow the recipe given to us" He looked around from the corner of his eyes. "Ma'am I believe you planned to order a main course as well? My boss isn't around now. Would you like to try my recipe? It isn't listed here, it something my mom always make. Can I prepare that for you ma'am?"
She stared blankly and gave a mild nod. This was totally unexpected. "I already feel the money for soup got wasted. And now, God knows what I will be forced to eat. I was better off my unconfident self!"
The chef arrived with a tray with two bowls. "Ma'am this is noodles and for sides I have made another soup. We usually dip noodles in the soup and eat it. Hope you like it." He didn't leave her side. She waited a bit expecting to be left alone, but leaving hopes she hesitantly took the first bite.
"Sooper o sooper" The soup had a mix of Indian herbs and the noodles had a tadka of garam masala. She felt she was eating some kind of vermicelli biryani. It was super tasty. Her hunger finished the whole of it in minutes. She gave a heartfelt thanks and lots of blessings to the chef, promised she will come back with her family again and left the food court.
Was she tapping her foot while walking? May be. Flinging her saari border with every stride, the plaits marched triumphantly with her at every step. She wasn't bothered about anyone, she took pride in her attire. She even felt a young girl looked back to check her saree pattern. Her hands swung happily, the purse gliding as wind now.
She reached the gaming arena. This was the circle of life! Memories from what happened a couple of hours ago flashed in her mind. "Wonder what had allured me into the gaming arena." It was quite deserted, she just entered inside innocently. A sudden tap on the shoulder from an attendant caught her off guard. She lost her balance, fell down on the attendant and even dislodged a cart of balls. The next instance, she was racing out of the arena trying to save her face.
She had to go inside again, only then could she liberate herself! She felt like approaching her head master, when she was hiding a mistake. No, she will put a bold face!
"Hi ma'am, sorry for the chaos last time. How may I help you?" The attender sounded very sweet. There was a rushing need she felt to explain her mistake, why she messed up last time but controlled herself. She didn't need to give any explanation. With some confidence she told, " I want to play that game over there. What should I do?"
She chose to ignore the doubtful eyes of the attendant. "Sure ma'am, just pay and get some tokens from the counter. Then you can keep inserting the token and play the game" "Thanks." She followed the instructions and next she was standing in front of the teddy vending machine!! That's how they used to call it in her childhood. Of course, they had never seen it in real life but in an English movie.
That steel jaw, which could open on your command. You had to guide it with a jaw stick. You could snatch whatever you wanted in its jaw and throw it down. It would be yours! This whole thing was so fascinating.
The token circled down the vent, butterflies roared in her stomach. She was actually playing this game. "I was an unnoticed toy at the edge earlier. Now I am that jaw. I have the control on what happens in my life! Yes, i have broken my shell!"
Her eyes were focused on the teddy! She could not buy anything for Kavya, but she was allowed to win it, wasn't she! Nothing but the teddy. She started! Although the jaw was very easy to maneuver, it will stop functioning just near the teddy. She had already wasted 5 tokens and still no success. This was frustrating. She won't accept defeat. She stormed to the counter and got some more tokens. Suddenly, while getting back to the game she started introspecting. Was she getting addicted to this game? This was something she would call utter waste of money, and in her frenzy, she was doing it without any qualms. "It's ok. Just one more time, I promise myself" She was giggling now, she was a kid refusing to stop her play...
The teddy was just a centimeter away. She sighed, "If it was a movie, I could slant the machine a little and get it. But I have already wasted enough money on this. I can accept defeat with grace!" She felt even better. It would be amazing if she walked out with the teddy, but she felt contended even in its absence.
She checked her watch. It was time for her to leave. The 'exit' came out of its hiding. She had entered the mall with a heavy purse, over conscious self and doubts. She stepped out with a light heart, confidence and self love.
After 40 years, today, she had ventured out of her home without a 'male' company, just like her school days. At noon, when everyone was away tending their business, she had mustered courage to set on this solo trip to the nearby mall. "Mom, here's ?5000. You shall spend it just for yourself. For your own enjoyment!" She smiled remembering his words now. "Thanks son!"
Today she was Sunita, more than an amma, grandma, akka or an aunt! She rediscovered herself and she was in love with it. She was proud to be Sunita!
Footnote for story 2: (This story is dedicated to my mother in law who is so much to me and more. To all the women: daughters, mothers, aunts, grandmas...... Let's all enjoy such amazing journey of self exploration in our lives)
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
The Covid-19 pandemic, in its second wave with the different Avatars of the virus—the strains called the Indian variant, and the A P variant with N440K mutation— is wreaking havoc in India and the pyers on cremation grounds across the country have been burning 24×7 for over a month now. India is now virtually a country on fire; a country of burning pyers; a country of floating dead bodies.
It has become so because, the rulers of India, both the State and Central governments, have miserably failed to learn the modus operandi of the viral outbreaks in wave after wave, and to equip themselves in advance. We humans can kill all animals indiscriminately forgetting the fact that biodiversity is the thing that enables the humans to exist on earth. But the humans with all their guns and bombs and violence are quite helpless when microscopic pathogens like the novel coronavirus start infecting and killing them. Exactly a century ago, the Spanish flu killed more than 50 million people in the world. It eliminated so much people in three or four waves from 1918 to 1920. The second wave of the Spanish flu was more lethal than the first wave and the third wave was more deadly than the first wave but not as deadly as the second wave. Instead of having insights from the history of the Spanish flu and making preparations to encounter the second wave of the Covid-19, the government(s) in India declared victory over the virus even before the virus has begun its real attack, and the result is what we see around us—a nation cremating its dead 24×7.
The pandemic really horrifies and whenever I have to go through horrifying situations, I re-read Shakespeare and the greatest creative genius the world has ever seen gives me new insights to the past and present too. Reading Shakespeare in the time of the current pandemic provided me a new understanding I could never have before the lockdown situations the novel coronavirus made us familiar with.
The recurring references to contagion, plague and pestilence in the plays of the Bard of the World never took me beyond the mere meaning of that words until the novel coronavirus shut the world down.
When I have gone through the Shakespearean plays and Peter Ackroyd's wonderful biography of the Bard, "Shakespeare: The Biography", again since March 2020, the real world of Shakespeare which has always been afflicted by the outbreaks of plague and was shut down intermittently came into my mind vividly.
Shakespeare was born in April 1564 and passed away in April 1616, at the age of fifty. Within the span of this fifty years, plague swept through England many times (1578-79, 1582, 1592-93, 1603, 1606) and killed thousands of people and it was the most dreaded disease in Shakespeare's time. And Shakepeare was born after a major outbreak killed many people in 1563. Ackroyd says: “The first test of Shakespeare's own vigour came only three months after his birth. In the parish register of 11 July 1564, beside the record of the burial of a weaver's young apprentice, was written: "Hic incipit pestis." Here begins the plague. In a period of six months some 237 residents of Stratford died, more than a tenth of its population; a family of four expired on the same side of Henley Street as the Shakespeares. But the Shakespeares survived.”
Hence, as Ackroyd rightly says, “All of Shakespeare’s plays allude to disease in one or other of its myriad forms, to agues and fevers, to palsy and sweating-sickness. In his drama, the notion of infection is associated with breathing itself.”
When I have read about the closing down of the playhouses ‘at times of plague’, in my first reading of Ackroyd’s book immediately after it was published in 2005, I paid no attention to it and virtually skipped such details as they made no sense because I could never imagine a closing down or lockdown situation even in my wildest dreams. And when I read the book again recently, the passages like the following were quite riveting: “Of disease, there was no end. The playhouses were closed down at times of plague, precisely because they were considered to be prime agents of infection. Waves of epidemic illness swept away the urban crowd in the most terrible ways. In 1593 more than 14 per cent of the population died of plague, and twice that number was infected...Mortality and anxiety were part of the air that the citizens breathed.”
It seems that we are now going through such a time as we see people dying in our country without having oxygen. The pandemic, with the different strains of the virus that are deadlier, is sweeping ‘away the urban crowd in the most terrible ways’ and we are again completely locking ourselves down to escape from the death-grip of the pathogen. Kerala is now under a complete lockdown and I took the Shakespearean play "Romeo and Juliet" again from my personal library, and reading it once more, I could see that the play, the most beautiful love story in the whole literature of the world, would not have been such a tragedy if there was not a ‘lockdown’ to prevent the spread of plague.
The character Friar Laurence who passionately tries to help Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet to surmount the impregnable enmity of their families finds a way out from the marriage Juliet's family have arranged for her with Paris. He gives her a vial of poison which will make her 'dead' forty two hours and she will be “borne to that same ancient vault/Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.” The Friar tells Juliet that Romeo shall by his letter know their plan “and hither shall come. And he and I/ Will watch thy waking, and that very night/Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.” (Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Scene II).
But the letter which Friar Laurence handed over to Friar John asking him to go to Mantua to deliver it to Romeo was not delivered because of the 'infectious pestilence' and the play ends in tragedy.
The 'infectious pestilence' has never struck my mind as vividly as it did now when I read the play again. The second scene of the Act V of the play is enacted in Friar Laurence's cell. Friar John enters and Friar Laurence tells him: "Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?"
Franciscan friars normally travel in pairs and so Friar John went to find out a companion of their order to accompany him to Mantua. The companion friar was one who visited the sick afflicted with plague. “And finding him, the searchers of the town,/ Suspecting that both were in a house/Where the infectious pestilence did reign,/ Sealed up the doors and would not let us forth,/ So that my speed to Mantua there was stayed.” (The searchers of the town are the health officials.)
And Friar Laurence asks: “Who bare my letter then to Romeo?”
Friar John: “I could not send it—here it is again—/ Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,/ So fearful were they of infection.”
We know how fearful we are of infection today!
And in the play "Timon of Athens", Timon tells Alcibiades to “be as a planetary plague”. He says that the sword of Alcibiades, like the plague, should not spare anyone. “Pity not honoured age for his white beard:/...Let not the virgin's cheek/ Make soft thy trenchant sword:../ Spare not the babe.../ Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes/ Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,/Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding/ Shall pierce a jot.” (Act IV, Scene III).
It is believed that Shakespeare wrote "Timon of Athens" immediately after the deadly 1606 outbreak of the plague. From those lines it is clear how devastating the epidemic was in the time of Shakespeare. No wonder Shakespeare made Hamlet say thus in the second scene of Act III of the play "Hamlet": “It’s now the very witching time.../When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out/ Contagion to this world....”
And the lines perfectly picturize the present bleak Indian scenario too. That is why Shakespeare always becomes our contemporary everywhere in the world. A C Bradley, one of the most famous Shakespeare critics, says in his wonderful book "Shakespearean Tragedy" that "Shakespeare almost alone among poets seems to create in somewhat the same manner as Nature." Each time after reading the plays of Shakespeare, I feel Bradley is absolutely correct. This time I not only felt so but also wondered what a creative genius Shakespeare must have been to create as if Nature creates even if he was living in an era when intermittent outbreaks of plague had been ravaging the nation in which he lived.
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.
THE TRANSIENT TEMPTRESS
Dilip Mohapatra
'Hey Rocky, when is the wedding?', asked Lalli.
'Next weekend, all arrangements are in place', replied Rakshit, who was fondly known as Rocky to his friends.
' How many days' leave have you managed from the old Scrooge?'
' The ship will be out of the dry dock by the end of the month. The old man has been really generous this time. Granted me all of two weeks, starting today.'
'Oh you lucky fellow, for my wedding last year I was about to send my photo to represent me at the altar, but finally I got just three days. I had to fly down to St Petersburg soon after the wedding for the ship's sea trials. Now we are back in India but the weapons trials are going on. Have no heart to go to the old man asking for leave. Our honeymoon plans are still in their blueprint stage! And as you know I still continue to live on board, the longest in living member of the wardroom!'
' Hey buddy, cheer up! All clouds have their silver lining. Your name will be permanently etched on the list of the commissioning crew of the first of our Russian missile cruisers, while poor guys like me are destined to be tied down to these indigenous minesweepers!'
' OK. Forget about me. Your bhabhi is made of sterner stuff. She will surely collect her capital with interest,' Lalli continued, 'Gupta, Joshi and I are planning a bachelor's party for you at Hotel Seaview this evening. Gupta's younger brother Nandi has taken over as the manager of this new hotel on the Kwality Beach. Great food and a cabaret show thrown in. Will carry some single malt. The corkage fee is minimal. Be ready by eight, I'll pick you up from your ship.'
' Oh, thanks bro. That's really a last minute surprise. See you later.'
The four friends on two motorcycles reached the hotel around 8:30. It was a Saturday and the weekend revellers were congregating at various hangout joints. Hotel Seaview was one of the latest in the city, a majestic mansion within a palm grove, overlooking the sea. Away from the bustling city centre it promised peace and privacy amidst a serene solitude periodically interrupted by the lapping sound of the waves breaking on the half submerged rocks along the beach. The hotel though new, has built a good reputation for itself in a short time for the gourmet sea food that it offered in its restaurant and for its courteous staff always ready to pamper the guests with utmost warmth and care. During the seventies, some classy five star hotels distinguished themselves with their cabaret shows as an added attraction for their guests. The cabaret shows of that era which involved scantily-clad women gyrating suggestively before predominantly male and largely drunk audiences to the tune of an enthusiastic if off-key band were quite the rage. But sex, like politics, attracts its fair share of controversy and the rapid spread of nude and semi-nude floor shows in liquor bars and five-star hotels had prompted a motley assemblage of feminists and religious fundamentalists to demand an end to what was seen as an insult to Indian womanhood. Finally the government took notice and banned such shows altogether. Apart from that the digital deluge that has swept the world in recent years has brought in ample opportunity for virtual online titillation, which perhaps had been the last nail on the cabaret show's coffin. But those were the days!
Those days, celebrations such as a bachelor's party before one's wedding was considered the 'last day of freedom', a no-holds-barred affair with close buddies, mostly a drink-dine-dance party organised by friends in honour of the prospective groom. Bubbling with expectations of great excitement ahead, the four friends entered the foyer, where Nandi was waiting to personally receive them. He told them that the cabaret show will begin only at about 9:30 and till then all are invited to a special corner table reserved for them in the restaurant. He escorted them to the table and joined them for drinks. The band was playing some smooth jazz, that created a magical atmosphere, complementing the subdued lighting. Each table had a glass encased candle light adding to the romantic ambience while giving adequate light to the table. A bottle of Glen Fiddich was opened and poured into five glasses. The waiters added ice, soda or water as desired.
All raised their glasses and Lalli said loud enough for everyone to hear,'To our Cherry-Boy, who very soon is going to be the real man!'
'Cherry-Boy? What the hell is that?, Gupta asked with raised brows.
' Oh Dada, what a naive Navy man you are! He means our Rocky baba is still a virgin,' offered Nandi.
' Don't tell me that. Really Rocky? Is that true? I don't believe it,' Gupta exclaimed.
' Hello friends, don't finger our simple Simon. Give him a few days more and he will teach you what is what!,' observed Joshi.
' Cheers', said Lalli and all followed him in a chorus to clink their glasses.
After the first gulp, Nandi decided to continue the conversation:
' Tell me honestly Rocky , are you still a virgin?'
' C’mn Rocky, he wants to know if you have 'broken the guymen'. But I must warn you that there is no such word in English as guymen. It's just a slang invented to rhyme with its female equivalent only for our friends like Rocky !’ In today's parlance this word would surely qualify to find a place in the Tharoorian lexicon.
Throughout such conversations Rocky was found blushing. But he knew that the friends were only pulling his leg. He put a fixed smile on his face and kept sipping his whisky quietly.
'So man, are you really going to wait for another week to break your guymen?,' teased Nandi.
' If you guys are so very sympathetic to our brahmachari , why don't someone come forward to help him, so that he has some experience before the D day comes!', challenged Gupta.
' Oh, no issue. I am willing to play Cupid. Only our friend here has to say yes,' offered Nandi.
' Hi Rocky, what do you say? Still there is time for redemption. You can't just spoil the reputation of the good old Navy and look lost when the time comes!', Lalli tried to pep him up.
' Look brother, in a little while two very desirable and attractive girls will perform here. One is Zuby and the other Sally. One is from Goa and the other is from Chinatown of Calcutta. You take your pick. The rest you leave to me. I will see what best can be done,' said Nandi in a conspiratorial tone. Rocky just sat there with no expression on his face.
Suddenly the band stopped playing and there was total silence in the dining room. The lights were switched off, except for the dimly lit candles on the tables. And then the spot light came on the stage focusing on the Emcee in a black tuxedo, announcing the entry of the first performer, Zuby, the delectable diva from Goa, the paradise of the South. The show had begun. With the psychedelic lights coming alive, a vivacious figure clad in a skimpy costume made her entry to the tune of the popular cabaret number of those times, Ya Mustafa. As the lead singer sang into the microphone ' Chérie je t'aime chérie je t'adore, Como la salsa de pomodoro',
she gyrated on the stage lasciviously teasing the audience with her peek-a-boo act for some time and then moved around the tables striking short mono-syllabic conversations with few chosen customers, winking at some, ruffling someone's balding pate, throwing few flying kisses here and there and proceeded to the stage for the final act. As the music picked up tempo, she matched her movements to every drum beat and discarded her garments layer by layer, till she was left with a skin coloured bikini. As the music rose into a crescendo with the roll of the drums and the cymbals clanged with a finality, she made the traditional curtsy by bending her knees and bowing her head? The audience went into a rapture and the hall was filled with cat calls and claps as she drew over her a wrap and quickly exited. Rocky somehow did not find the act exciting as he thought it would be. He couldn't make out whether it was the whiskey he had gulped quickly in his nervousness or it was the crassness of the show, he was feeling a bit nauseous. Meanwhile a wide spread of delicious dinner was served and his friends were digging into the dishes with utmost fervour, while breaking into boisterous laughter once a while. Lalli always had a large repertoire of adult jokes to keep the group in splits. Suddenly Rocky thought he had lost his appetite. Thankfully no one could notice his discomfort on his face due to the subdued lighting in the room.
After a while it was time for the second performer Sally, the Oriental beauty from Chinatown. The band had changed its rapid fire hard rock Western tunes to something more serene and lilting. The lighting was more etherial and sublime. She glided gracefully over the stage and the corridors between the tables like an apparition to the tune of the soft and silky strain of a celestial composition, almost floating on thin mist, while exuding a supple sensuality that was part erotic and part esoteric. Dressed in a golden gossamer ensemble and a matching crown, which changed colour to mauve, pink and green in succession, with the change of filters of the spot lights, she looked more like a Thai Khon dancer performing for the royalty. She performed her dances more as a divine offering rather than as a blatant display of vulgarism. The subtleties of her performance at times put her out of place but surprisingly the audience was mesmerised. She spoke with her slanted eyes, while her lips quivered as if they wanted to share her inner pains in the guise of pleasure. She completed her show with precise perfection and exited as smoothly as she appeared.
Rocky was sort of transfixed. The pupils of his eyes dilated, he appeared to have been hypnotised.
'Hey, wake up,' Nandi shook him a little to recover him from his reverie and continued, ' hello brother, seems she has done the magic on you.'
Rocky just gave a silent smile and took a sip of the red wine served with the dinner.
' OK, my shy boy, now I know your preference. Leave it to me. I will see what I can do,' Nandi offered. The party culminated with everyone clinking their glasses, raising a toast to the bachelor boy and showing him mock sympathy as his last night of freedom was coming to an end.
Later at night Rocky was tossing and turning on his bunk. Every time his eyes closed to let the sleep enter, along came Sally silently and surreptitiously with her inviting looks and open arms beckoning him to her warm embrace. In his half asleep, half awake state he found his lips locked with her luscious offering. He soon found himself exploring her contours like an adventurer reconnoitring an uninhabited island. He was wondering in his dream if she was a God sent gift for him, perhaps a last chance for him before his wedding to indulge in something which he had avoided so far. He got up in the morning with a cold sweat. It was a Sunday and the steward had left a small thermos flask of tea for him on his bunk-side teapoy. He poured himself a cup of hot cardamom flavoured tea and got thinking about his dream that he could recall with fair amount of clarity. On the one hand he found his libidinous fantasies quite thrilling, but on the other he wondered if such thoughts were impure and spelt out his so far hidden frivolous and amoral side. Without any knowledge of the real Sally, was it right for him to covet her amorously? Then someone tapped on his cabin door. It was the quarter master on duty at the gangway. He had come to inform him that he had a shore call from one Nandi 'saab'. Nandi had called him to say that he had fixed him to meet Sally at the hotel at about ten. Suddenly all his doubts and hesitations evaporated into thin air and Dickie felt like a college kid going on his first date, his heartbeats racing in anticipation. He could feel a rush of adrenaline within and his ears were flushed into a throbbing incarnadine shade.
As advised by Nandi, he went to the ship's canteen and bought a carton of Dunhills, to be gifted to Sally. As he rode his faithful Royal Enfield to the city he thought to himself , 'What the hell ! Seems my dream may come true. Tomorrow I will be off on leave and the next weekend I will be a married man. A little delightful indiscretion before marriage can't really be called cheating. At least I won't ever regret that I had no prior experience and I was a novice in such things! In any case, I am not forcing myself on her. If she has agreed to Nandi's proposal then she is a consenting adult. After today we have hardly any chance of meeting each other . No strings attached. So why should I worry or feel guilty?'
Rocky went to the hotel reception, asking for Sally's room number. The receptionist gave him an unfriendly look and told him to wait in the lounge and dialled the intercom. Rocky waited for a few minutes with bated breath and was watching the stairway expectantly. His gaze froze as Sally descended gracefully sliding her hand on the bannister as she took each step so very elegantly. She looked ethereal, as if floating down as an apparition.
Rocky had hoped to see her in some bold Western clothing perhaps a revealing miniskirt and low neck blouse, but there she was, demurely attired in a sky blue chiffon sari with borders of white lace and a high necked, long sleeved white blouse. She came down and sat opposite Rocky.
'Hi, I am Sally,' she introduced herself and extended her hand to greet him.
' Hello, I am Lieutenant Rakshit from Indian Navy. My friends call me Rocky,’ said Rocky as he took her hand and gave it a gentle shake, as formally as he could.
Sally sensed his nervousness and said with a reassuring smile , ' Nandi told me that you enjoyed our show yesterday evening and it was your pre-wedding Bachelor's party. I believe you liked my performance and wanted to spend some time with me. So, here I am.'
' Yes, I really liked your performance. You were so artistic. I never knew if a cabaret can be so aesthetic,' blurted out Rocky almost mechanically like a robot.
' OK, now that we met, let's plan for the day. In fact today is my last day here and tomorrow evening I am off to Madras. I am glad that I have some good company today before I leave. By the way shall I order some coffee or tea for you?'
' No. Not now. Maybe later. Tell me, what plans do you have in your mind?'
' Alright, first would you please take me to Ross Hill Church which I wanted to visit at Vizag since long but couldn't do it till now. You will find the panoramic view of the city and the harbour entrance really bewitching. I want also to enjoy the tranquility of silence that it offers.'
'Sure, let's move.'
Rocky skilfully rode the bike uphill with Sally on his pillion and parked it below the flight of stairs. Walking up the stairs to the church was a therapeutic experience in itself and finally the peace it brought by the end of it was really exhilarating. Sally lit few joss sticks at the altar and knelt down to offer her prayers. Then both came out to relax under a shady tree on the cemented circular seating place around it. Rocky did not know when in the last few minutes, the erotic thoughts in his mind were replaced with plain inquisition and intrigue to know more about Sally.
Rocky kept looking at her from close quarters silently as she appeared to be in meditation, her head slightly thrown back and her radiant face tilted a bit upwards, exposing her prominent cheek bones, her slanted eyes almost half closed. She had no make up and had a flawless skin with a yellowish glow. Her lips were naturally pink without any garish lipstick accentuating their iridescence. A real contrast to the heavily made up countenance of a cabaret dancer. After few minutes of silence Rocky asked as politely as he could, 'Excuse me, is anything bothering you?'
'Oh no! I am really happy to end this assignment and to go to Madras. I am going to meet my son there after about six months. I have been travelling around the country for the last six months on my cabaret assignments. Finally got one assignment in Hotel Arun at Madras. That would take me to my son who is studying there in a boarding school.'
' Your son? Are you married? You look so very young!'
' Oh, that's a long story. And as for my looking young, as they say looks can be really deceptive. I am in fact in my early thirties,' she said with a mischievous wink, ' but don't tell any one.'
' Long story? I am really curious to know about it. Though I don't want to intrude. You may like to tell me your story only if you don't mind.'
' Look my friend, I don't know why I agreed to meet you. I also do not know why I even requested you to take me out. In my experience the hotel guests who try to be friendly with us and approach us with their lecherous intent, want only to meet us secretly within four walls. None of them want to be seen with us in the public. But you were so different. You didn't even bat an eye lid to take me out and bring me here openly. So I will surely tell you my story. Without any inhibitions. But let me share with you one of the best kept secrets of the cabaret dancers. Not all of them are easily available. We may do our flirtation act in the public as part of our profession, not all of us warm the bed of an enthusiastic customer for money or otherwise. We know how to survive the wolves.'
A new born baby was rescued from a garbage bin at Chinatown, Calcutta, by Mr and Mrs Tong, a Chinese couple from Himayet Nagar, Hyderabad. They had come to Calcutta to visit their relatives. They were childless and considered the baby girl picked up from trash as a gift from God and brought her up with abundant love. They named her fondly Lai Shi Tong. Mr Tong ran a laundry service in Himayet Nagar and the family lived comfortably. But the first disaster struck when Lai was in class ten. She lost her foster mother to cancer and after a couple of months Mr Tong remarried a widow with no kids. The first few months after their marriage were uneventful and moved on smoothly. But the cruel destiny had other sinister plans for Lai. Mr Tong met with an unfortunate road accident that was fatal. Lai though was an orphan by birth, felt like a real orphan for the first time. Tough days were ahead for Lai since the stepmother wanted her to leave studies and take up some job to supplement the family income. Lai somehow managed to continue with her studies till class twelve amidst lot of unpleasantness at home. Meanwhile she became friendly with the elder brother of one of her school friends Asha and the fondness between them soon grew up to a serious relationship. The gentleman Anil Khandelwal was a pilot with Air India and Lai dreamt of a secure future for her with him. His love was like a counter to all abuses and ill treatment she had to endure at home. But her joys were short lived, when she realised that she had missed her periods and Anil wanted her to abort the child. She refused to do so and decided to bring the child into the world. Anil, thereafter started avoiding her and one fine day got married to a bride of his mother's choice. Lai was completely heartbroken. At home her stepmother made her life more difficult and one day she decided to run away to Bombay and stay with one of her friends Sharon, who was working as a junior artiste in Bollywood film industry. Sharon took care of Lai and in due course Sunil was born to her in a Bombay hospital. As the baby grew, Sharon managed to get few roles for Lai as a background dancer in films and that's when Sally was born. As the child grew the expenses went up and jobs for junior artistes were not forthcoming. Then both Sharon and Sally decided to enter the cabaret dancing circuit. That was surely more paying and such assignments were aplenty. They managed to get a boarding school admission for the boy in Madras and Sally continued to supplement the expenses through her dancing assignments. Sharon meanwhile got married to a junior artiste manager and had settled down in Bombay. Sally still has the key to her old single bedroom apartment in the suburbs of Bombay.
By the time Sally finished her story, it was about one O'clock. Rocky listened to her in rapt attention and in Sally he saw more of a daughter, a friend and a mother rather than a temptress.
' Now you know my story. And I know that your story is yet to begin in the real sense. Hope I shall meet you again and you would have a happier story to narrate.'
' Yeah, I have the usual run-of-the-mill story as of now. My birth in a middle class family, my basic education, my Academy days and few years in the Navy. That's all. Maybe things will be more exciting after my marriage.'
' Oh, yes, now I remember, the basic reason why Nandi asked me to meet you. He said that you may like to lose your virginity before your marriage and if I could help you in that. As I had mentioned, I have not compromised till now after I became a mother. But I don't know why, I don't mind making an exception for you, if you really so desire.'
' Um, I don't know what to say, but let me know if we are going to meet again? Any time in future?’, stammered Rocky avoiding to meet her eyes.
' See, I shall give you the choices. Let's go for it. Whether we meet again or not doesn’t matter. I promise, this will be a sweet memory that I will cherish for ever yet it would remain a closely guarded secret. But remember, you will live with the burden life long and perhaps won't be able to look into the eyes of your bride ever,’ she paused a while and continued, ‘Or you may feel proud that you have retained your virginity till the end of your bachelorhood and that's the best return gift you would give to your bride because that's what you expect from her. Don't you? But then the choice is entirely yours,’ Sally concluded with an enigmatic smile.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
The Manager looked at Shubham sternly,
"What nonsense! Who asks for leave for a mere headache? Just gulp a couple of aspirins, it will go away. Who will attend to the customers? You are in charge of deposits. You want the bank to lose deposits just because you have a headache?"
Shubham panicked. Was the old man going to be difficult? He didn't know, because he had never asked for leave earlier. But today was special. He had to be at home.
He tried his best to look sick and suffering,
"It's not a mere headache Sir, my head feels like splitting. Something is wrong. I will stop on the way at a clinic and consult a doctor. Believe me Sir, I like to sit in the bank rather than waste my time at my apartment, doing nothing."
The wily old man, a veteran of many such battles in his thirty six years' career, pounced on him,
"Sit in the bank? What do you mean, sit in the bank? You come here to sit? We pay you thousands every month to merely sit in the bank?"
Shubham cursed himself, what a bloody slip of tongue! He felt nervous,
"No no Sir, sorry sir. I like to chat with...."
He looked at the old man's face hardening and corrected himself,
"I want to interact with the customers and motivate them to put their deposits in the bank. I try to convince them their money is safe in our hands. Ah, the headache is becoming unbearable. Can I sit and have a glass of water Sir?"
His dramatics had some effect on the Manager. He ordered the peon outside to fetch a glass of water for Shubham, but continued to shake his head,
"Who can believe you have a headache, you are not even married!"
Suddenly he became nostalgic,
"When I was young and newly married I used to get these headaches. My shy, young wife would be waiting for me at home. I would go to the Branch Manager, a young Probationary Officer and ask for permission to leave early. A smart man with an understanding heart, he would smile and say, ok, only once a week. Don't make it a habit. He, he, he didn't know I used to slip away when he went home to apply balm for his headache!"
Shubham wondered whether his being a bachelor would rob him of a half day's leave. The manager continued,
"Just go and relax for an hour in the lunch room and then return to your seat."
Shubham panicked,
"No sir, please sir, it is beyond a mere relaxing. If something serious happens to me I will have to take a week off. That will be even more risky for the bank."
The old man finally relented with the finesse of someone whose tooth has just been extracted,
"Ok, ok, but you have to take a full day's leave, since you are going away in the forenoon itself."
Shubham winced within, but forced a smile on his face, thanked the boss and left.
He came out, got on to his motorbike and stopped for a moment. Ah, the outside world looks so different on a working day. There is a rare pleasure in running away from the office, a feeling he had not known earlier. The day looked brighter, people all around him happier. A few steps from where he was, an old man was holding a piece of paper and peering at the names of the shops in the street. Shubham felt like running to him and help in locating what he was looking for. Before he could decide, his attention was drawn to a group of girls giggling and hurrying towards the corner where a movie hall would soon commence the noon show. Shubham smiled to himself, must be college girls who had bunked classes.
He sat up with a jolt. Girls! He suddenly remembered his mission. And felt excited. Will he catch them today? Amaresh, his flat mate with his girl friend? Red handed? "In the act"? The rascal has been playing tricks with him for the last four weeks. Today Shubham will expose him. The fellow had no way of escaping.
Shubham started moving towards his apartment. It was a little away from the centre of the town. He was sharing it with Amaresh, a lecturer of Philosophy in the local college. There were four units in the building. The owner occupied the whole ground floor and two apartments in the first floor were rented out. Amaresh, true to his profession, was a philosopher by temperament. Reading fat books, speculating on life, religion and God all the time. Talked of Bertrand Russell, Kafka and Nietzsche like they were his personal friends. Reticent in nature, it was easy to provoke him. Just tell him God is partial to the rich, he will start a lecture on Advaitabad and the philosophy of Karma. He had no friends in the college or outside, but he had no regrets either. He was happy with his books, the newspaper and the many magazines which came from within the country and abroad.
And so Shubham was shocked to think that Amaresh was using the apartment to bring his girl friend there during the day. It all started four weeks back when Shubham returned to the apartment in the evening and found a faint smell of perfume hanging in the air. He was puzzled. Ladies' perfume? How did it enter the bachelors' apartment? During dinner he asked Amaresh tentatively,
"Amar, don't you think there is a new zing in the air today? Something like a mild intoxication?"
Amaresh lifted his head from the fish curry, and looked blankly at Shubham. He went back to eating. Shubham continued,
"Even the fish curry is tastier, isn't something different?"
Amaresh ignored him and opened a magazine while eating. Shubham got upset. He looked closely at his friend. Was Amaresh the cause for the lingering smell of the perfume? Did he come to the apartment during the day? And....and....did he bring a girl with him? Or was it a lady colleague from the college? Amaresh, the nonchalant philosopher! Bringing a girl to the apartment during the day?
Somehow Shubham was not convinced of such a possibility. The chap was so dry, once he had seen the framed photograph of Raj Kapoor and Nargis in Shubham's room and asked if it was the picture of his grand parents! Which girl would fall for this joker?
Yet Shubham knew he had made no mistake about the perfume. Nothing happened for a week. Next Wednesday when he returned from office the sweet, maddening fragrance seized him and shook him up. Ah, again Amaresh had brought his girl friend to the apartment during the day! The innocent philosopher turned out to be quite a Romeo! Probably it was a lady colleague who also had off hours on Wednesday and accompanied Amaresh to the Apartment.
Shubham confronted him the moment he returned from college,
"Amar, do you detect a faint smell of perfume in the air?"
Amaresh, the philosopher, sniffed the air slowly, in the most irritating way. Then, as if nothing registered in his mind, he shook his head and walked away to his room.
Shubham almost burst in anger. The hypocrite! He pretends as if there is no trace of perfume in air! He thought of going to Amaresh, catch him by the neck and shake him up till he confessed. But it was too early to force the issue.
Again the next Wednesday the lingering smell of perfume in the apartment hit him the moment Shubham entered the apartment. At dinner he asked Amaresh,
"Amar, today again the smell of the perfume hangs in the air. What's happening?"
"Perfume? What perfume?
"Ladies' perfume. It hangs lightly, but is unmistakable."
"Are you sure it is not the smell of the deodorant you use?"
Shubham felt like laughing. And giving a slap to Amaresh. What an idiot! Amaresh thinks he will not know the difference between the smell of a deodorant and a ladies perfume?
Does anyone know better than Shubham about ladies' perfume? Ah, the lingering memory of perfume! It still stirred his mind like a sweet stab in the heart. The girl, slim and trim like a playful deer running down the steps of the building and leaving behind the trail of intoxicating perfume!
Shubham's mind went back to when he was fifteen. He was at home in the apartment preparing for his high school exam. His parents used to leave for office by ten in the morning. And Shubham would run to the door, his eyes glued to the keyhole waiting for Madhavi Didi from upstairs rushing down to leave for her college. She was two years older to Shubham, but reigned in his heart like a queen of exquisite dreams. The day she would run down the stairs in her yellow dress, her dupatta flying in the air, or in a white skirt and a red blouse, his heart would burst into a flame. From the door he would run every day to the balcony to see her get onto her scooty, kick the gate shut and fly away like a gush of wind. Shubham would open the door and inhale the fragrance, his heart aching with a melancholic love.
The next few hours would be spent waiting for Madhavi Didi to return, Shubham would be turning pages of the book without knowing what he was reading. By four he would be in the balcony looking for Madhavi Didi's scooty and then the frantic run to the door, the throbbing of the heart and the deep feeling of the fragrance. Ah, Madhavi Didi climbing the steps slowly like a model on a ramp, a soft song on her dainty lips, the key ring swinging in her slim finger like a girl on a dance floor.
Shubham would sigh. Ah, he had to wait for another day to see her again! Madhavi Didi would not leave his mind, nagging him like a throbbing pain. The evenings and the nights would be spent wondering why God made some girls so beautiful, why he filled the hearts of boys with so much love and how he would fulfil his love for the sweet Madhavi Didi.
Shubham would have probably failed in his exam if it went on like this. But one evening his dream shattered when he had gone to the park. There, under the shadow of some tall bushes he saw Madhavi Didi in a tight embrace of a young man. Before Shubham could get over the shock, their faces got closer and the lips met. Shubham ran like a man possessed. When he reached home he was drenched in sweat, his heart beating violently as of he had seen a ghost.
But after a long time Shubham had a peaceful night of sleep. Next morning he did not rush to the door, nor to the balcony. Madhavi Didi remained a beautiful shadow in his mind like some model on the calendar in his wall. Only the faint fragrance of the perfume, seeping through the door reminded him when Madhavi Didi came down the stairs to leave for her college or returned in the evening. Shubham never visited the park again.
After ten years the memory of the perfume returned to haunt him. He had no doubt it was a ladies' perfume and Amaresh had brought someone to the apartment. He had no option now except catching Amaresh red handed in the apartment. He controlled his anger, went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette. He decided to return from the bank during the day next Wednesday and surprise Amaresh and his partner.
Shubham looked at his watch. It's going to be noon in a few minutes. Mousi would have already left after finishing the day's work. She was a middle aged lady of around fifty five years who came every day after the two bachelors left for office. She cleaned the house and the utensils, cooked dinner for them and left it in the fridge. On Sundays and holidays she prepared breakfast and lunch. A widow, she looked upon the two young men as her sons, although she never had one of her own. The salary of six thousand rupees was a bonanza for her.
Shubham climbed the stairs with an eager heart. Will they be there - the profesor and his sweetheart? Will he knock at their door or barge into the room, to catch them red handed?
Shubham opened the door with his key and stood spellbound for a moment. Ah, the sweet fragrance! So intoxicating, so captivating! They are already here! For the first time he tried to imagine how would be Amaresh's sweetheart? Slim, fair, shining eyes, curly hair and a small bindi on the forehead? An enchanting beauty? His heart strated beating fast.
The sound of the lock opening reverberated in the main hall. Suddenly a face appeared from behind the door of Shubham's room and with an Oh, withdrew into it. The next moment a girl bolted out of the room and rushed to the kitchen.
Shubham's heart stopped for a second. A girl? In his room? What was she doing there? Is Amaresh also inside? Does the scoundrel use Shubham's room for ..... He was shocked!
The girl came out of the kitchen, with the missing dupatta appearing on her lemon green salwar kameez. She looked stunning. Shubham kept staring at her. She smiled, the hall suddenly got flooded with a rare glow, the walls, the doors and the windows got splashed with it. She folded her hands,
"Namaskar! You are Shubham babu naa?"
Shubham found his voice,
"Yes, but who are you? What were you doing in my room?"
He was about to add, aren't you supposed to be in the other room, with your partner? But looking at her, he somehow felt this innocent, smiling girl was too pure to be sullied with a slur.
The girl smiled again,
"I am Sunila, I was cleaning your room."
Shubham was stunned,
"Cleaning my room? Why?"
"I have given a day off to Mousi."
"Mousi? The lady who comes to work here? Are you her daughter?"
Sunila shook her head,
"No. I am her niece, her younger sister's daughter. I have been living with her since I was a child. My parents died in an accident fifteen years back. Mousi brought me with her. She has no other child. My Mousa died two years back. After that she started working at your place."
"But why are you coming in her place?"
"After my B.A. exams were over, I started working in a call center and I have my weekly off every Wednesday. So I give Mousi rest for a day and work in her place. Yours is the only place she works. So it's not tough for me. She is quite fond of you. And also of Amaresh babu. But she likes you more because you talk with her on Sundays. Amaresh babu is the quiet type, isn't he?"
A cute, tantalizing smile hung from her dainty lips - she looked ravishing.
Shubham smiled back at her,
"I didn't know Mousi likes my talks. How about you? Do you like the quiet types or the talkative types?"
Sunila giggled,
"Oh, I like the talking types. I myself keep chattering all the time. Mousi often pulls me up, she thinks that I will be thrown out by my in-laws if I keep chattering non-stop."
Sunila suddenly got quiet, her face got red with embarassment, talking about the in-law's place. She got up and asked shyly,
"Should I make some coffee for you?"
Shubham was mesmerised by her shyness. He nodded,
"Yes, please make two cups. Both of us will have it".
Sunila hurried to the kitchen and started making coffee. She also cleaned up the kitchen. She had finished cooking. She went to Shubham's room to tidy up the bed and returned to the kitchen.
She brought the coffee and sat on the sofa opposite to Shubham.
Shubham had felt like walking over to the kitchen and keep talking to Sunila. But he was not sure if she would like it. He sat there, his eyes closed, humming a song softly. He felt as if the sweetest songs of the world were queuing up on his lips, eager to come out and fill the room with an enchanting music.
He asked her when they sipped their coffee,
"Don't you want to study further? How long have you been working in a call center?"
"Just a couple of months. I want to pursue an M.A. degree but I also have debts to repay".
"Debts? What debts?"
"I am heavily indebted to Mousi. She rescued me when I became an orphan at the age of five. She has brought me up with lots of love and affection. I don't want her to toil anymore. In fact I asked her to stop working here after I got the job in the call centre. But she has got attached to both of you. She has promised me she won't work anywhere else."
Shubham was happy to know Mousi liked him and Amaresh so much. He wished he could keep talking to Sunila. They had finished their coffee. She gathered the cups and went to the kitchen.
She came back.
"Ok, Shubham babu, let me leave."
Shubham's heart sank,
"So soon!"
She smiled again, one of those cute, dazzling smiles.
"I came two hours back. I have finished all the work. Mousi will be waiting for me to have lunch."
Shubham looked at her, his eyes glued to her lovely face. The faint fragrance of her perfume was making him euphoric.
"Since when are you using this perfume?"
Sunila's eyes danced with joy,
"You like it? It's my favorite. Actually I started using it after working in the call center. It's a confined space with ten to twelve people sitting for hours. So one needs to use perfume. Now I have got used to it. How do you know its name? It's a ladies' perfume!"
Shubham smiled in a mysterious way,
"I have some experience with ladies' perfume."
She giggled, like the murmur of a running stream, sending Shubham's heart into a rapture.
"O, quite a ladies' man, are you. Can I know the secret of your knowledge of perfume?"
Shubham sighed,
"It's a long story which goes back ten years. May be I will tell you some other time."
She started moving towards the door. Shubham felt a load of grief descending on his heart. He asked softly,
"Will you come next Wednesday?"
Sunila looked back. It seemed the giggle had not left her dazzling face.
"Only if you promise to tell me the story of the perfumed lady!"
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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