Literary Vibes - Edition CVI (25-Jun-2021) - ARTICLES
Title : Siblings (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
GURUJI
02) Geetha Nair G.
ATONEMENT
03) Dilip Mohapatra
HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE
04) Sreekumar K
IN, OUT AND IN BETWEEN
AN ENTOMOLOGIST RECALLS
05) Ishwar Pati
FAST FORWARD
06) Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
A POINT OF VIEW
07) Debasish Samantaray
THE GAME
08) P. K. Dash
INVISIBLE POET
09) Vinitha Venkatraman
WELCOME TO PROSE & POETRY CLASS - AN ALTERNATE REALITY!
10) Shruti Sarma
MAJULI,THE LARGEST RIVER ISLAND OF THE WORLD
11) Satish Pashine
WELCOME TO ODISHA!
12) Shivanand Acharya
JHINGRU
13) Sheila Chacko Kallivayalil
ANDA(WOMAN) TRAVELS
14) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
GIRL FRIEND
15) Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
I WILL TELL THE TRUTH
16) Lt Gen N P Padhi (Retd).
FIVE MIGRANTS
17) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS :: THE AZURE POT
18) Gourang Charan Roul
HARBINGER OF MULTICULTURALISM: DIWALI AND HALLOWEEN
19) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - THINGS OFFERED TO LORD SHIVA
20) Sundar Rajan
THE READER IN ME
21) Nikhil M Kurien
MOHINIYATTAM
22) Padmini Janardhanan
IN CONVERSATION :: BELIEVE – SHOULD WE?
IN CONVERSATION :: PRETENCES ARE NOT NEEDED.
23) Debjit Rath
THE PIED PIPER – NOT A FAIRY TALE
24) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE NIGHT OF DAGGERS
25) Setaluri Padmavathi
KINDS OF PEOPLE
26) Supriya Pattanayak
CLASSIC LITERATURE: TO READ OR NOT TO READ
27) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
SHACKLE OF DEATH
28) S Ritika
THE SECRET RECIPE
29) Meera Raghavendra Rao N
AN INDO-AMERICAN GIRL’S PERCEPTION OF LIFE IN CHENNAI
30) Sukumaran C.V.
THE DREAM VANISHED
31) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE TERRORIST
BOOK REVIEW
01) CORONA TIMES; SHORT STORIES AND POEMS; BY LT GENERAL N.P.PADHI.
a) Review by Shri Ritesh Mishra, Commissioner of Income Tax Appeals, Surat
b) REview by Dr Surendra Nath Pathi
Vipul received an STD call from an unknown Bombay telephone number. The caller-ID instrument kept by his telephone showed a name he could not place. Being a journalist for The Times of India at Pune city, he felt dutybound to take the unknown person’s call. The moment he heard the ‘hello’ from the other end, he knew it was Amar, his friend.
He was overwhelmed with happiness, “Hello Amar, how is it, you are speaking from a Bombay number? Is it by call-diversion?” But Amar replied, “No Vipul, I am in my parent’s house in Bombay. I am here on my company’s work.” Vipul felt he was having the tingling of unseasonal raindrops on his skin. Now he could place the unknown name in his caller-ID instrument. Radhika Apte was Amar’s mother, the MTNL number must have been registered in her name with the Bombay Telephone Nigam.
He asked Amar, “When are we meeting? Would I come there, or you have plans to visit us at Pune?” Amar laughed, “I am free until the day after tomorrow. If you all agree, I will come to your place, say by five in the afternoon today, have a cup of excellent home-brewed tea from the hands of Rukmini, chitchat with all of you, especially your two smart kids, take you all out for dinner to some nice joint in Pune city, and return here by midnight. I will come in my father’s car driven by his driver.”
Telephone instrument in hand, Vipul discussed about Amar’s proposal with his wife Rukmini, and spoke into the receiver, “You may just rush, my dear Amar. Rukmini is very happy over your offer for an outside dinner. Tea would wait for your arrival around five in the evening with Rukmini’s hot, crispy, spicy pokoras that you relish.”
Amar had studied with Vipul at Pune, before going to USA for his Engineering degree in aeronautics. He was working presently for an aviation company as a flight engineer. Vipul and Amar had maintained their closeness, and had spoken to each other almost every weekend. Amar had landed at his parent’s present residence in Bombay, as Vipul knew Amar’s parents had shifted there from Pune a few years ago.
Amar arrived around five-thirty in the evening in his father’s car driven by his father’s driver. A tea session started at Vipul's flat with strong masala chai for an unending tea sipping; and a large platter of fries of onion rings, cauliflower, pieces of paneer, slices of eggplant and long deseeded green chilly all dipped in a spicy batter and fried in oil. The chilly pokodas were Amar’s favourite, though Vipul’s Bengali palate was scared of their burning sting.
Amar held Vipul’s school going son and daughter spellbound with stories of his aviation experiences wrapped in adventures. A few of them that had really happened during his flights sounded like fairytales, risky, courageous; some of them directly involving him.
Before proceeding for dinner at a restaurant by ten, Vipul took Amar to his studies for a private tete-e-tete. Amar was still a bachelor and over-romantic. He always kept Vipul abreast with his new sexual escapades in America including his blind dates and steady but not very steady affairs.
Amar’s narratives with sexual overtones that evening, brought one Guruji into their discussion. Guruji, presently residing in his Pune ashram, was in the news recently, but for all the wrong reasons. It was rumoured that he was a tantric, carrying out sensual yoga in his ashram. The dubious yoga program was called ‘Sambhog Se Samadhi*’meaning, ‘attain your freedom from an allurement for an act en route overindulgence in the same act until it feels boring’.
The idea in a nutshell was interpreted by the public that Guruji indirectly had been encouraging his followers to practice free sex, so that more and more people would flock around him. That, sex was his trap. But what Guruji had advised his devotees once in the past, Vipul would know later, was, “Do a thing, you are obsessed with, so frequently that it becomes boring to indulge in it, may it be food, liquor or sex.” To Vipul it would appear as a practical piece of advice, though not prudent unless followed with a salutary intent.
It was further rumoured that he held sessions of sex-orgies for his select followers to achieve the benefits of his theory ‘Sambhog se Samadhi’. Also, that he practiced black magic and with its help would perform miracles. He hypnotized people to convert them into his followers. But on the positive side, they didn’t deny that apparently, he had miraculous healing powers. There were a few reported cases of healing of incurable diseases during his prayer meetings. Also, he financed schools, colleges, hospitals, orphanages.
Guruji was of Indian origin, had been an ordinary monk in Madhya Pradesh’s Bhopal town in his younger days. He earned fame after moving his base to USA. He was recognized as an enlightened philosopher and master and his first followers were Americans including Indians residing in America.
Vipul informed Amar during their private talk in his studies about his plans to visit Guruji’s Pune ashram with other journalists of the town to have a look but in fact with a hidden agenda to investigate the inner happenings in that latest seat of the monk. Their program had been scheduled for the next day. He was surprised to know that Amar and his parents were Guruji’s ardent followers, and Guruji had helped them in their spiritual pursuit.
After the dinner and many more aviation related adventurous stories from Amar that had held Vipul and his family in a thrall during the dinner, Amar dropped them at their house. He got into his father’s car to return to Bombay. It was past midnight, and Vipul asked the driver to drive carefully along the road, especially in the treacherous ghat zone. The driver reported that they would reach Amar's parent’s house in Dadar by around three-thirty past midnight. Amar promised to give a call and inform them about his safe arrival.
When Vipul left his bed next morning, it was quite late and he had a splitting headache. It felt like a sledge hammer hitting inside his brain. Though he and Amar had not taken any liquor during the dinner the previous night, yet his headache was worse than a bad hangover. He knew it was one of his frequent migraine attacks.
His wife however handed him a steaming cup of tea and a Saridon tablet for his headache like a mind reader. He accepted both gratefully, swallowed the tablet, and sipped the tea while dialing his bedside telephone to ask his fellow journalists if they were ready to visit Guruji’s ashram.
Hammer strokes in his head continued. His cringed face reflected his pain. His doting wife Rukmini commented, “Your migraine is harassing you for a year by now. No medicine helps. Do a thorough check up, Vipul dear.” Then, knowing Vipul’s stance as a rationalist, she continued with a tongue-in-cheek voice, “You are visiting Guruji today. Ask him to heal you. Let him prove his credentials to a hardcore non-believer that he is a miracle man!”
From his pool of pain, suddenly surfaced an alarm bell – “Why hasn’t Amar called him after reaching Mumbai?” He immediately dialed the number of his parents’ house. It kept ringing, but no one appeared to be there to take the call. Everyone must be away from the telephone instrument, busy in their morning regimen, he assumed. Vipul decided to call later, when he was free. He requested Rukmini to give a call to the number after two hours and check Amar’s wellbeing. He had to hurry now to visit Guruji’s ashram with his journalist colleagues.
That morning, he was leading a group of select journalists from English and local languages like Hindi, Marathi, Urdu etc. of the print-media, and one from the Doordarshan (DD National) TV channel, the only available channel, for a visit to Guruji’s ashram, the same Guruji who had been the spiritual guide to Amar and his parents. The selection of the journalists depended on only one qualifying criteria, he should not be a blind believer in things, but accept things only after due investigation.
Vipul would recall later how difficult it was to convince the ashram authorities that the media had no malice behind the request for looking at the insides of the establishment. That they were purely motivated by a sense of enriching their information bank. But surprisingly Guruji over telephone had set aside the doubts of his office management staff and allowed the visit. Then it was easy to schedule the date and time.
Guruji had invited the media people to have a look at his ashram premises between ten and eleven in the morning, and then attend an in-campus spiritual discourse for an hour immediately following that. They however had to report to the gate at quarter to ten to be checked and cleared before taken around the ashram in a guided tour.
The visit had many riders. They could visit only public areas, not yoga centres or living quarters. They would not stray about but stay with the ashram guide. No, ‘ifs and buts’ in abiding ashram rules, such as – no loose talk with the inmates, no wearing of perfumes or makeups, no smoking, no wearing of informal or indecent attires but only formals, and following any other rule that would be imposed by the campus management on the spot during the tour of the campus. The designated guide from the ashram management would have the last word in any matter.
Vipul had been digging information as a homework before the ashram visit. Guruji had a world repute that was dyed in different hues. Some held him as a messiah, but others considered him as an usurper, gatecrasher, a wannabe for greatness. He had monasteries in countries world over, many of them in USA and Canada. He had the largest following in those two countries.
He lived a simple and frugal life. He wore only white cotton Dhoti-kurta with a thin woolen shawl thrown over his frail shoulders. He was bearded, white wispy tufts of hair flowing freely down his chin. He never wore any make up or perfume. He used no head gear or wig though he was bald. He wore no rings on his fingers, beads or metallic chains around his neck or wrists, no ornaments at all. In brief he had no pretentious fads as a Guru or Godman, except using wooden footwear called khadau slippers, his only fad.
Every minute of his interactions with public was videotaped. Because, any utterance by him could be a gem of philosophy, according to his followers. Vipul had heard a few of his tapes. His words were rich with allusions, symbols, and metaphors. His words would spin various religious beliefs including cults and tribal practices into one thread of balanced human-philosophy. He preached a strange admixture, an organized mish-mash of the best from all the philosophies, folk beliefs, adages, shibboleths, etc. that caught his listeners in an inescapable web. Vipul after careful listening couldn’t find the chink he was looking for, not a beat missing in his lore of good words.
He had only one weakness, it was said, a love for cars, might it be a new expensive model or a rare vintage one with a collector, but none escaped his collector’s zeal. He had just to express his wish, and some disciple would drive it to his garage complex and leave it there for Guruji as a loving gift. His private collection of classy cars was one of the largest in the world, Vipul had heard. The disciples maintained his cars, garages in a spic and span state and fit condition, twenty-four hours of three-sixty-five days. Their zeal was like a puja, worship.
Guruji had shifted from his American ashram to live in Pune only two years ago. Here also he had a sizeable garage complex with a large fleet of expensive cars, the only symbol of opulence in his life. The rest of his living style was down to earth. Vipul had heard, he loved his lunch and dinner to consist of Dal, Roti, Rice, Sabji and Khir and other ordinary Indian fare, and he ate his food with his fingers like any rural Indian. He didn’t like eating with fork, spoon, and knife like Americans.
He was, Vipul had learnt, a proclaimed existentialist. He believed in ‘what you sow, so you reap, here and now on this earth’. He preached no karma, fate, destiny or other supernatural cause-effect theory that might shape one’s life. His philosophy was ‘life is an event of joy, a gift. Live it and love it fully, as if it may be your last and only chance to be born as a human being.’ Such philosophies, Vipul thought, clashed with certain prudish and close-mind-theories of Hindus, Christians, Muslims, and that of almost all religious faiths, and caused him ill-repute and opposition.
His detractors thought he was a spoiler, a bad influence on society. He was scandalized as a trickster who was too clever to be caught off guard. But his defenders said that being prim and proper was his hall mark, and it was no fault of his if his critics found no fuel for their scandalous fire. Even the paparazzi tried to film his slips with his guards down, but they had never succeeded.
Guruji had lovely kind eyes, that benignly penetrated into one who met his gaze, either in person or looking at his photographs. His detractors called his eyes as having hypnotic powers. Vipul had never met him in person. But his blown-up photographs wore that hypnotic gaze. No one was sure if he knew the art of hypnotism. Vipul to be impartial to the man assumed that because his eyes charmed his followers, he was blamed to have hypnotized them to follow his sinful ways.
The contradictory reports about Guruji in various media - good, bad, not so good and not so bad - had made Vipul curious as a journalist to know what was this item called ‘Guruji’? The same curiosity had haunted the minds of many in media industry.
On the morning of the visit, in spite of Vipul’s migraine, he joined the journalists gathered outside the ashram’s main gate and were allowed inside at nine thirty. They were taken around the ashram by a guide and a few caretakers of ashram. The tour continued until a few minutes to eleven and ended in a garden, where the ordinary visitors who were allowed and regular followers of the day had already taken their seats in a lawn before a big throne like chair for Guruji.
The front chairs were kept vacant for the journalists. They were requested to deposit their cameras and recording devices on a side table. They were informed that every moment of Guruji as he would arrive would be video-taped and all would be given an unedited copy before they leave. No personal recording or photography was therefore necessary.
It was approaching eleven, the appointed time of discourse, and the journalists were getting restive, and especially Mr. Mandal, representing Doordarshan (DD), the elite one from TV media, and more so, the senior most among the visiting journalists. He now became loudly vocal, “This man is reputed for punctuality, they say, but where is he? It is just a few seconds to eleven, the appointed time, and where is our punctual Guruji?”
As if to belie his uncouth sarcasm, staccato sounds of Guruji’s khadau wooden slipper sounded from the back side of the congregation. Then the man in pristine cotton white dhoti-kurta-combine with flowing long wispy white beard, appeared in flesh and blood. He went to his opulent chair, turned and greeted all with folded hands, gestured at the gathered people, who were on their feet, to take their seats. He also sat down. Vipul felt the power of his hypnotic eyes when Guruji was taking a sweeping look at the gathering.
With no time lost, he started his discourse on that day’s topic, ‘The Gender Equality’. He announced, “All humans with male, female, mixed, or no-genital organs are equal in the creator’s eyes.” He quoted from the scriptures and myths of almost all the religions and faiths, from the different periods of history, and took references to reputed philosophers to inform that all the sexual variations existed in all the times, had been always outside the control of human beings, just an accidental factor of the creative process. No parents had a choice or control over the sexual orientation of their children. He advised his followers to judge a human being for his, her, or its values and substance, but never by the look or sexual orientation of the person.
After his ten-minute-long spiritual discourse, he started the healing session. He requested all to keep sitting and be quiet. He stood up and started walking among people, all along talking into a microphone clipped to his kurta-front. His voice came to us, clear and calm, from the flawless speakers fixed to the seats.
While moving he touched the sitting followers and journalists in a casual way. He said, “I will start with a special invitee of the day, Vipul Banerjee, a journalist.” He uncannily walked to Vipul, though they never had met each other before, and with a cool hand ruffled his hair affectionately like a father. He disconnected the microphone, and asked him with a quiet voice, “How are you feeling now, my son?”
Vipul replied, “Fine, Guruji.” Guruji’s eyes narrowed, “No Vipul, no formality, I mean, how is your migraine?” Suddenly Vipul realized silence ruling inside his head, no more hammer blows, and no throbbing pain that had harassed him a second earlier and had been harassing him for an entire year. Everything was peaceful. He felt humble. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He touched the saint’s feet. At that instant, Vipul felt like being converted into a follower.
All heard, the loud grumbler Mandal, “What whispering and hypnotism are going on there?” He stood up to move towards Vipul. Guruji commanded, now his microphone on, all hearing him, “Don’t. Don’t move Mr. Mandal, and disrupt the flow of God’s sublime compassion. Wait, I am coming to you.” He moved to Mandal, placed his hands on his shoulders, and all heard Guruji saying, “You are an old grumbler Mandal, it is not your fault, your hardship and dogged problems have made you so. I have to intercede with the supreme power to readjust your circumstances to help you to be peaceful and a pacifist, not a man to shout ‘I object’ to everything and everybody.”
He again disconnected his microphone and spoke to the old man quietly, Vipul could hear him being only a few seats apart. Other journalists felt scandalized to see the all-time fighter old bustard Mandal collecting the dust of Guruji’s feet, smearing it on his bald pate, and openly crying in Guruji’s arms. Vipul assumed, “Perhaps, for the first time anyone talked to Mandal with love and kind words. This was his medicine, and the healing has started. His tears are the proof.”
The healing session continued with Guruji moving among his visitors and journalists for about half an hour. But quarter to eleven, the session was disrupted. A big commotion in the direction of the gate, alerted all.
People of the ashram were running after and trying to control a howling couple who had gatecrashed, having entered without a gate-pass. The couple was howling and came before Guruji. It transpired, Guruji knew them by name, two of his followers, personally known to him. He made them sit, offered them water. After calmed by Guruji, when their faces were visible, Vipul recognized them, they were Amar’s parents. He became apprehensive, “What could have gone wrong? Why hasn’t Amar contacted us about his reaching Bombay safely? He left Pune in an ungodly hour last night in his father’s car. O God!”
What Amar’s father was telling Guruji made Vipul to goose-pimple all over, “Amar met with an accident yesterday, Guruji, in the afternoon at around four-thirty. He, in my car with my driver at the steering wheel, was heading to the house of a schoolmate living in Pune. The car crashed into a massive road roller coming from the other direction just before entering the city. Amar died on the spot, and the driver is lying serious and unconscious in a hospital here in Pune.” Vipul was wondering, “If Amar died in a car-crash at four-thirty, then who was that Amar who was with my family from five-thirty till the midnight?”
Amar’s parents had come to Guruji with an out of the world request, to bring back Amar to life. Amar’s body was lying in a morgue not very far from Guruji’s ashram. The old couple had come with great hopes that Guruji would bring Amar, their only child, back to life.
Guruji, made a wry face, and cried a few tears holding Amar’s parent’s hands, and spoke with a tearful voice to Amar’s father, “I am no God, Somnath Apte ji. Life and death are in hands of the Supreme Power. I revive them who are not in their senses, or just sleeping in deep slumber, but not yet dead. Even the great Buddha didn’t have that sort of powers. Once for a similar request, he famously asked, ‘Bring me a fistful of mustard seeds from a house that has never been visited by death; I will revive your dead son with those seeds’. It was obvious, such mustard seeds were never found and the dead boy’s parents realized the supremacy of death. So, who am I compared Buddha, the enlightened one, Somnath ji? I really have no powers over death.”
The angry mother retorted, “I always trusted in you, believed that you were God’s messenger, Guruji. And today you can’t desert me, quoting Buddha. If you say, you can revive a sleeping person, then I claim that our son is sleeping. Please wake him up. I beg you, a poor mother at your feet.” Guruji gave a sad smile, “Let’s try, mother. Your love for your son, and your faith in me and in my God may be a greater mover than lord Buddha’s mustards.”
Guruji reached the mortuary, went to Amar’s casket. The journalists had followed him and were now standing around. There was pin drop silence. The gathering consisted of Amar’s silently crying parents, a few disciples of Guruji, and Vipul and his journalist colleagues. The casket was opened before Guruji. Vipul saw the frozen body of Amar, looking dead every inch, pale, shrunken, covered with powdery ice.
Guruji rubbed the legs of Amar with vigor, and his parents imitated Guruji for the upper parts and arms of their son. Guruji was looking up towards the sky intermittently all along, and was muttering, might be prayers, inaudibly under his breath.
Finally, he shook Amar and commanded, “Get up my son from your deep sleep. We all are crying because we take you for dead. But you know the truth that you are not dead. If you will not stir now, all these people, who trusted me as the God’s messenger, will not pardon me. If I fail to revive you, people will lose faith in God also. Get up my son. I bring you the lord’s blessings.”
At that point, Vipul noticed the tip of a finger on Amar’s right hand move a little. His mother shouted, “Praise Be to Lord! My son’s finger moved.” Vipul shouted, “I saw that too, auntie.” All the necks from the gathered people were craning to have a glimpse of a miracle. Guruji was back to his rubbing of Amar’s body and praying with more concentration. Life seemed entering into various parts of Amar’s corpse. Limb after limb, muscle after muscle started fluttering, moving, coming alive.
Amar finally opened bleary eyes and squinted at the gathering around his casket. He exclaimed feebly, “Guruji, what is all this?” Guruji now made him sit, stand, walk a few unstable steps out of the morgue’s casket. Guruji herded Amar and his parents into his spacious luxury car and left without a minute’s delay or uttering a word. The air resonated with shouts hailing Guruji as the great saint of Kali Yug, the messiah, the savior of mankind.
When Guruji’s disciples were organizing the paper work of the morgue, Vipul and his flock of journalists boarded their minibus in brooding silence, collected their cameras etc. from the ashram’s gate, and left for home.
Reaching home, Vipul spoke to Rukmini, as she opened the door, “Guruji cured me dear.” Rukmini replied, “I know.” Vipul added, “Amar met with an accident on his way to Pune while coming to meet us yesterday and was pronounced dead on the spot around four-thirty in the afternoon, his body shifted to a morgue in our Pune city. In fact, he had his tea and dinner with us posthumously. All sorts of unbelievable things are happening.” Rukmini said, “I know that already, a bit uncanny, isn’t it?”
Rukmini stole a glance of her husband’s face to check if he was being sarcastic, as he had used the word ‘posthumously’. But she found Vipul only looking perplexed. Vipul continued, “And Guruji went to the morgue and brought Amar back to life from the dead.” Rukmini again confirmed, “I know that already.”
“Do you know sweetheart, Amar’s driver in a serious state was admitted to the hospital here.” From there Rukmini took over, “Guruji, after reviving Amar, went to see the driver in the hospital with Amar and his parents. The driver regained his senses with Guruji’s touch, and has taken a glass of juice from Guruji’s hands.” Vipul was surprised, “How do you know so much Rukmini? I even didn’t know about the driver drinking juice from Guruji’s hands.” Rukmini smiled, “Everything was beamed live and I saw them on TV.”
Vipul asked, “What do you say Rukmini? Every rational sense crashed today, or I should say yesterday, when Amar died in a car-crash and then posthumously had tea and dinner with us? What do you say honey?” Rukmini agreed fully. For no reason, they took each other in arms and were crying into each other’s shoulders. They really didn’t know if they were crying happy tears for Amar surviving the car-crash, or sad tears for their rationality crashing with that car-crash to its death.
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.
22 July, 1969.
The rain had been pouring down from early morning but the boys and girls were chattering like the little birds that nested beneath the thatched eaves of the classroom. When Shankar Mash (master) emerged from his room behind the building and entered on the dot of 9, they stood up and fell into a respectful silence. They caterwauled the daily prayer and the national anthem. Then, Mash unfurled the rolled up newspaper in his hand and displayed to the children the front page. In letters like black jelabis, was written : Man Lands on the Moon! Their excited voices resounded above the drumming of the rain. “A giant leap for mankind!” exclaimed Mash. His young eyes were even brighter than usual. He carried the children on the wings of his eloquence as he explained to them what the great feat meant. But his eyes, sweeping the class, noticed that one face alone looked unhappy. Balu, the chirpiest, bright boy of the school. It would be wrong to say “darling of all the teachers “because there were only two teachers. Old Ravindran Mash and himself. Ravindran Mash taught the little ones while he managed the bigger boys and girls. First to fourth standard was all the school offered in the two dingy rooms in front of the rubber roller shed. Even this was an act of grace. The owner of the estate, Achuthan Pillai, who lived a mile away, had gifted these rooms to the Karayogam of the village so that little children could be taught there. The nearest proper school, St Peter’s, was 6 kms away; too far for little undernourished forms to trudge to and fro daily. So the village school was born and continued to survive. Just about.
The stink from the rubber-making shed was a daily presence in the classrooms except in the long rainy season when rubber-tapping was suspended.
This was towards the middle of one such monsoon when the earth was soggy but the trees were a brillaint green to offset the grey skies and the air was fresh and clean.
Shankar had completed his degree from the city college and planned to go to the capital city for higher studies. This was when fate pressed down hard on the brakes. His father died suddenly one night, leaving the family almost bankrupt. There was very little that his ailing mother and young sister could do to help. Shankar was biding his time until half the land they owned could be sold to get his sister married and to pay towards the expenses of his higher education. The job at the little school near his hometown had come as a godsend. Lodging was free; a little room next to the classrooms. He went home only during weekends, to save on bus fare.
He continued to nurture his dream of higher studies and of a future like K R Narayanan’s, the man from nearby Uzhavoor, who had triumphed over greater obstacles to become an IFS officer.
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Balu had woken early that morning with a belly ache. That crumbly bit of fish he had eaten the previous night was the villain, he was sure. His grandfather had staggered in with the piece of fish wrapped in a banana leaf and lovingly forced him to eat it.
Balu had rushed out into the chill dawn. The tapioca plants swayed in the wind as he squatted in their midst. Relief! He had scooted back to the hut just as the rain started falling.
But the relief had turned out to be temporary. The pain gnawed at his belly like a dog gnawing at a bone. He could barely keep his mind on what Mash was saying… .
He stood up and rushed to Shankar Mash who was folding the newspaper. "I have a terrible bellyache!" he cried out, clutching his middle.
Shankar Mash laid down the newspaper, put his hand on the back of Balu's neck and pushed him gently out of the class to the shed behind. The shed was partitioned into two- a little front room and the big one behind that held all the paraphernalia of rubber-sheet making. There was a big roller, aluminum trays, ropes stretched across. Over all hung the chronic stink of crumb-rubber.
This was where the nightmare began.
Mash went up to the cupboard still holding the boy. He yanked it open. The boy doubled over when Shankar let go his hold to grab the big bottle of bitter mixture that the school stocked for such ailments. In the same cupboard were a bottle of mercurocrome and a roll of cotton.
“Open your mouth, your pain will vanish double quick," Mash said. He pulled the boy to his feet with his free hand, and then let him go to uncork the thick, opaque bottle. The boy doubled up again, looking up with open mouth. Quickly; anything to end this pain! Then his eyes widened and he screamed, trying to resist. But Mash was holding him firmly. Mash bent and poured a generous dose. Fumes emanated from the bottle.
As Balu screamed in agony. Mash looked again at the bottle in his hand. His stunned eyes read the label. FORMIC ACID.
Often the nightmare continued.
Someone hanging from a rope tied to the beam of the room… .Swaying. Himself!
He woke up then. Always. Sweating and trembling. Then the person sleeping in the same room would rise, make him drink a glass of water and soothe him with words.
….………………………………………………………………………………………
Balu was carried in Avarachan Muthallai’s Ambassador to the hospital in the town.The boy’s grandfater had reached the school just before that. Strong hands held him back as he tried to attack the young man. “Mash! Teacher!” he screamed, and the scorn and spittle flew in an arc to trickle down Shankar’s face.
Shankar was still seated on the step in front of the hut hours later, when the Karayogam president and members, the Priest and a few others walked up to him. Afterwards, Shankar could never recollect what they had said to him. No words penetrated the dark cloud that wrapped itself around him.They left him after a while. The Priest was the last to go. “Pray, my son,” he said, “pray for that unfortunate child and for yourself too.”
The terrible news went climbing swiftly along the grapevines till, by noon, the whole village was tasting its bitter fruit. How had the bottle of acid used for curing rubber found its way into that cupboard? Perhaps one of the iliterate rubber tappers on the vast property had put it in the wrong cupboard, two months ago, when tapping and curing had ceased. A pardonable mistake. But how could an educated man, a teacher at that, have been so careless? How could anyone have been so careless?
Shankar lay on his string cot, wide awake, the whole night.
When dawn broke he was still lying there. After an hour or so, he got up. Two children came to the school by 8 o’clock, driven by equal measures of curiosity and concern. They lingered awhile outside Mash’s room and then peeped in through the window. What they saw sent them screaming.
****************************************************
Balu never could forget that day. The terror of that moment as the acid came pouring down. The searing pain in his hand as well as it tried to wipe the stuff away from his face. Then he had fainted, mercifully. When he came to, he was in the back seat of Avarachan Muthalali’s Ambassador, his head on old Ravindran Mash’s lap. The pain hit him again and he fainted.
****************************************************
It had taken a year for his cheek to heal. Everyone said it was a blessed escape . At the last moment, Balu’s eyes had fallen on the label and he had swung his head to one side. The acid had corroded his cheek and shirt instead of burning its way down his foodpipe. His hand too had been partly affected when he tried to wipe away the acid.
21 July, 1979.
It is the tenth anniversary of man’s landing on the moon. Dr Shankaran Krishnan, the brilliant young scientist, is the chief guest at the function held by the Science for Life Club to commemorate the event and to present awards to outstanding young science students. His speech to the assembled guests sends waves of surprise, admiration and compassion surging through them. He tells them of the terrible act of carelessness on his part ten years ago. He narrates how he was saved from suicide in the nick of time by a stranger who had come running hearing the loud cries of children. He continues to talk of the death of the boy’s grandfather and how he took the lone child to his own home. He relates how Balu became his ward and their long struggles in life together. Always together.
Then, he calls on stage a very young man with a badly-scarred left cheek whom he introduces as Balu, the boy about whom he had been speaking . He is now a college student. Balu waves to them.
The applause of the audience resounds through the auditorium.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
'Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.'
Neetu was singing loudly in front of the mirror, and gesticulating as she sang with deliberate swinging of her waist and fluttering her eyelashes dramatically. She was the five year old sister of Jeetu who was four years older than her. As she continued her practice for her school show that was round the corner, Jeetu watched her silently with bemused affection while playing with his jigsaw puzzle. Neetu took a break and asked her brother how she was doing. Jeetu teased her that she had a long way to go. He advised her that if she has to make an impact she has to imagine herself to be each character of the rhyme.
'Think, you are the cow who is jumping over the moon. Think you are the cat fiddling on a tin roof. Think that you are the dog who is laughing and think you are the dish and your boyfriend is the spoon,' advised Jeetu, with a smirk.
'But I don't have any boyfriend,' objected Neetu.
' What about that fatso? That baby elephant of your class, Montu, the mountain?', needled Jeetu.
Neetu started bawling. Jeetu got up and ran to his little sister and hugged her and told her that he was only pulling her legs. Her boyfriend should be no less than a prince. Neetu sobbed for a while and when Jeetu tickled her, she burst out laughing.
'Do you remember Neetu, tomorrow is my birthday. Come I will show you what I got for you as a return gift,'Jeetu continued to pacify her.
He opened his cupboard and showed her a picture book of children's riddles, which he had bought for her with his pocket money. Riddles always intrigued Jeetu. He always found great fun in trying to solve the riddles which appeared in children's' magazines and newspapers.
'Let me see if you can solve the first riddle,' said Jeetu and read aloud,' you can touch me, but I can't touch you back, you can see me but also yourself inside me, what am I?'
' I know, I know,' answered Neetu excitedly, ' It's the Mirror.'
' That's fantastic. I will now pack the book nicely and give it to you tomorrow. OK?'
' What birthday gift do you want from me? OK, let me think. I know you want a puppy. Right?', asked Neetu.
'Yes, I have been asking for a puppy since long. But mommy says it's expensive.'
' Don't worry. I have plenty of coins in my kitty. I will break it and give it to you. You go to a pet shop and pick up a puppy of your choice.'
Neetu took out her terracotta kitty from her drawer and smashed it on the floor. As it exploded softly, a handful of coins poured out of it. She picked them up with her tiny hands and offered them to her brother. Jeetu accepted the coins and started counting them. It turned out to be a handsome saving of eighty four rupees. He put the coins in his pocket and while feeling himself rich, walked out of their modest home to find a pet shop or a kennel.
He asked the shop owner of the corner provisions store in case he knew where he may find a puppy to buy. He didn't have to walk much because there was a kennel across his shop on the street parallel to theirs. He carefully crossed the road and reached the kennel which was fenced all around by sheets of chain linked meshes. On the gate was a display sign, 'Puppies for Sale.' Jeetu pressed the calling bell and an old man with a tattered hat came out and looked at him quizzically.
"Excuse me sir,' Jeetu said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."
Well," said the kennel owner, as he removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead, "these puppies are of pedigree Labrador breed and come from fine parents. But they cost a good deal of money. Do you have enough to afford one?"
Jeetu hesitated for a while and then reached deep into his pockets. Then he pulled out two handfuls of coins and held it up to the man.
"I've got eighty four rupees. My sister has given it to me to buy myself a birthday gift. Will that be enough for a puppy?"
" Look son, I don't want to disappoint you, but normally I sell each puppy for a couple of thousands. I am sorry, with your money I am afraid you can't buy one.'
" Oh. I didn't know that they cost so much. Anyway will you please let me at least have a look at them?"
"Sure," said the man. And with that he let out a whistle.
"Here, Diana!" he called loudly.
Out from the doghouse and down the ramp came running Diana wagging her tail, followed by four little fur-balls.
Jeetu pressed his face against the chain link fence intently. His eyes shined with delight and excitement. As the dogs made their way to the fence, Jeetu suddenly noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse. He then saw another little ball slowly emerging from the doghouse, this one noticeably of a smaller size. It came tumbling down the ramp and then in a rather awkward manner, the little pup began hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up...
"Sir, if I had a choice I would have wanted that one," Jeetu said, pointing to the runt of the litter.
The man looked at Jeetu with kind eyes and said benevolently, "Son, you surely don't want that puppy. One of his legs is defective. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."
Jeetu asked," Sir, since the puppy is not normal will you give him to me at a discounted rate?"
The man smiled and said," Oh no. If you are so keen I will charge you nothing. Consider it as a birthday gift from me. But first make up your mind. Will you really be happy with a lame dog?"
With that Jeetu stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down his rather narrow and poorly formed leg, attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking back up at the man, he said,
"You see sir, like the puppy I don't run too well myself, and I know that he will need someone who understands."
With moist eyes, the man bent down and picked up the little pup. Holding it carefully he handed it to Jeetu. Jeetu picked up the puppy, cradled it close to his chest, thanked the man and left for home gleefully, the coins jingling in his pockets. He bought a milk bottle, a packet of milk and a brush for the pup and a lollipop for Neetu from the corner store.
Neetu was waiting for Jeetu to come home. When she saw him with the pup in his arms, she started jumping around with joy. Jeetu put the pup slowly down on the lawn and as Neetu called him with soft whistles, the pup came to her gingerly wagging its tiny tail. Neetu extended her hand and the pup gave it an affectionate lick. Then she picked him up and both the siblings went inside. Mrs Mishra, their mother was uncomfortable with the new member to start with but soon accepted him to their household. Then all sat down to decide on a name for him. They considered a lot of common dog names like Tommy, Rusty, Duke, and the like. But Jeetu wanted a unique name for his special pet. Meanwhile Neetu got bored and got up to practice the recitation of the rhyme for the school show in front of the mirror and suddenly Jeetu got the cue from the wordings. He proposed to call him Diddle and that was unanimously accepted. In few days Diddle responded to his name. He was very responsive and playful. He tried to run after the rubber ball thrown around and retrieve it. But his movements continued to be slow.
Jeetu took it on himself to explore all possibilities to correct the deformity in Diddle. One of his friend's father was a renowned veterinary surgeon. He took Diddle to him for his advice. After examining the pup, he said that the defect was congenital and the chances for it to be corrected are rather bleak. However when he grows up suitable braces may be given for support but that may only improve his walk. He may not be able to run and sprint ever. Jeetu was sad but he never gave up the dream of seeing Diddle run.
One day Jeetu read in the newspapers about a mendicant who possessed miraculous powers to heal and who was visiting his city. It was reported that he had a unique method of finding remedies for all kinds of ailments and whoever visits him with faith and belief in his powers always comes back satisfied. He doesn't charge anything from anybody. He has taken it as his life's mission to help the needy. He consults some ancient scriptures and gets the prescriptions which are mostly based on medicinal plants.
On a Sunday morning both Jeetu and Neetu picked up Diddle and walked to the suburbs of the city, where the mendicant had erected a makeshift ashram under a banyan tree. There were few people who had gathered for his blessings. When Jeetu's turn came, he paid his respects to the wise man and showed him the pup, asking him if he may cure his ailment.
The mendicant picked up a palm leaf bundle and consulted it for sometime. He then wrote something on three pieces of paper and gave them to Jeetu.
" I know you are very fond of riddles. These three chits have three riddles. Open them when you reach home. You find the answers and you will get the prescriptions that are necessary. Go home and decode the riddles and treat your pup accordingly. I guarantee, he would run and fetch," the holy man ordained.
Jeetu and Neetu bowed down to the saint and returned home with the chits. Jeetu opened the chits one by one. The first chit read, " Blood and Snow starburst, Bloom and Blossom it must."
The second chit read," If you find His Biscuit, Don't delay, just eat It", and the third went thus:"Crush me with the Whitewash, Apply on whether swelling or rash."
Jeetu racked his brain but couldn't make anything out of these texts. Finally he asked his mother to come to rescue.
"OK, let's try the first one. Blood is red and snow is white. Right?, asked Mrs Mishra.
" Yes mom, bloom and blossom should be about flowers. But can't figure out what is this starburst," offered Jeetu.
"Starburst should be radiating from centre. It maybe about a red and white flower, with one colour radiating from the centre on another colour, say red on white."
"The next clue is funny. It's about eating a biscuit!"
" Just hold on, it could be an anagram. Let's write His Biscuit together. Next clue says 'eat It'. If we remove 'it' from His Biscuit , we get the name of the flower Hibiscus. Got it."
" Now the third clue: what would Whitewash mean here?"
" White washing is done with Quicklime, which is burnt limestone. We get it easily in any paint store. The clue suggests that we crush the special two-toned hibiscus flower with quicklime and apply it on the affected leg."
Jeetu was getting impatient to start the therapy. He was getting worried about getting a red & white hibiscus. The normal hibiscus flowers on their hedge were simply red. Suddenly Mrs Mishra remembered that few days back Mr Mishra had brought few other varieties of hibiscus from the nursery. She rushed to the balcony where these potted plants were kept. And lo and behold, what does she see ! On one plant there was one red and white hibiscus in full bloom and on the lower branches there were few buds waiting to open up.
Neetu was seen chasing Diddle on the lawn, shouting "Hey Diddle, come here Diddle."
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 song reached us over the roar of the sea in front of us and the screeching of the traffic behind us, sliding on the soft wet sand we were standing on.The waves seemed to be dancing to a new rhythm now.
Ghar se nikalte hi. Kuchh door chalte hi. Raste mein hai uska ghar.
The song reminded me of my long forgotten past. It would be telling my young daughter of her future.
I looked back. A blind beggar standing close to a van fitted with two large speakers was singing as part of some fund collection. Does this money go to the right people, I wondered.
The background music was too loud. But it was enjoyable. I started tapping on the sand with my foot. My daughter standing close to me started nodding her head. A five-foot wide generation gap.
Even though the singing was not bad, in fact it was good, I felt like cracking an old joke.
"Hey, just because he can't see, he thinks others can't hear!"
I got slapped. Typical of my daughter. Miss. Intolerance.
"How can you crack jokes like this? Uncultured fellow. Pity you!"
She fancies she was the General Secretary of the UN Political Correctness Wing. A sickness which only time would cure. When you are young, you try to change the world, when you are old, you try to change the young, an old saying.
She had turned her face away from me as if I were a rapist or something. There is only one thing to do to bring her round. I have to atone for what I have said. I have to give something to that singer.
OK
"Come!" I turned around and pulled her by the sleeve.
"No, I don't want ice-cream." She screamed at me.
Then it is serious. I am taken for paedophile or even worse.
"Come on, something even sweeter."
I said so for a reason. The beach-side Rafi had started a new song.
Abhi na jao chodkar ke dil abhi bhara nahi
My father used to sing this song, more often after my mother's death. Unlike him, none of his children knew any Hindi. But we all knew what this song meant.
Now
Eckhart Tolle's book The Power of Now was my Bible for some time. And that song by Moloko, The Time is now. Shakespeare said "Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow." He was talking about what is not. This song by Sahir Ludhianvi is about what is there for sure. Now.
Don't go yet.
But my father left us when I was in college.
He used to sing pretty well, especially when Suraj uncle, his bestie was there. Suraj uncle could not sing but he was the reason why my father pursued that passion till his last breath.
"Singing is not an ordinary gift, man. I would exchange it for my sight, hearing or even my life. Oh, if I could ever sing like you, just once. And here you are, gifted with such a golden voice, wasting your time, your entire life, among files and litigation." I have heard Suraj uncle say something to this effect to my father, not just once, many times.
Suraj uncle also died an early death. It was an accident. He didn't even have a family to leave behind.
The singer started a new song. I knew that one too. My friend Amitabha Chatterjee had included this song recently in his beautiful movie Manohar and I. The movie got him a well deserved award at the IFFK.
"Tum pukar lo, tumhara intazaar he"
Yes, we are all waiting for that call, those calls.
We were now standing close to the van. On its side a flex board showed him singing on a stage. Chandramohan's Charity Fund for the Blind, it was written on it.
I was standing close to my daughter and was drumming on her shoulder with my right hand.
A soulful song. My eyes went moist. I removed my specs to wipe my eyes. My daughter noticed it.
When I dropped a hundred rupee note on the plate on a chair near the van, the singer turned his face towards me and smiled. He said thanks. From the sound he knew it was a currency note that I had dropped on his plate. Such sensitive ears!
That was the last song. Neither my daughter nor I felt like going back to the beach. We caught the next bus to the city.
The singer's smile, like moonlight in the dark, didn't leave my mind for long.
On the bus, my daughter kept humming the songs she could recall.
She started humming a song we didn't hear him sing
Chaudhvin ka chaand ho ya aafatab ho?Jo bhi ho tum khuda ki kasam lajawab ho
What does it matter whether you are the full moon or the sun
Upon God, I swear, you are the one
My mom, a kindergarten teacher, was good at those things, DIYs. When I heard "DYFI" for the first time, I thought it was an organization of hobbyists like my mom.
She could practically make anything out of anything. I wondered whether she bought anything from shops. From light-weight play-bricks, which she made out of empty cereal cartons by packing them with crumpled newspaper, to all those multi coloured twirling things that hung from the walls and behaved like they had elves in them - all were evidence of her creativity and dexterity. She was good at origami too and the kids in the neighbourhood came flocking to learn it from her.
She sang pretty well. I can't think of the word sleep without recalling her lullabies which she would sing at any time of the day. Thanks to her, I used to win prizes at poetry recitations even at the district level competitions when I was in high school.
Of all the things she made for me, including the huge blue whale she made from a very large sheet of blue paper, and a well-cushioned chair (made from a broken radio stand) in which I sat and finished almost all the books in the primary school library, I liked a board game the best.
This board game was based on the life cycle of butterflies. The board was made from old cartons split, flattened and stuck together, then covered fully with white chart paper; the die was a small lump of beeswax, chiselled to perfection, the dots marked with colourful glass pieces from her discarded earrings.
Apart from giving me many happy evenings with my mom, dad and elder brother, the board game instilled in me a deep interest in entomology. Through chats during the game, I learned a lot about the magical and symbiotic relationship between flowers and insects, how the flowers reward some insects with honey for carrying their pollen to other flowers, how moths and butterflies leave their eggs on leaves and how the plants play the role of surrogate mothers. Wonderful! The orphaned caterpillars find all they need. Sheltered by the plants, fed on their leaves, wrapped tight in chrysalises they themselves wove! And one day, they too fly away looking for honey, probably looking for their mother too.
Most of this scientific information came from my dad. My mom also enriched my mind with mythical stories and melodious poems about butterflies. I envied those winged beauties as they shuttled between lives and worlds, crossing frontiers we never confront.
I particularly remember one evening when, after finishing the board game, my dad went to his study and the rest of us went out to the garden to water the plants. From somewhere a butterfly fluttered in and started going around my mom. All of us were excited and stood still to watch it. It finally perched below her neck, closer to her left breast, still flapping its wings slowly, deliberately. It was tickling her with its legs and feelers. It made her smile, but she managed to stand still till it flew up and away.
My mom is not with us now. She died three years back. Two years back, after he retired, my dad changed part of our garden into a small butterfly park. So far it has not been frequented much by butterflies, only one or two stray ones. Around August, we see one or two groups of them fluttering around in the garden, not exactly in the corner set aside for them. My brother told me that a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He and I are now too grown up to believe in myths and generally we don't.
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.
I worked in a bank for 37 years. Yet, when I go to the bank now, I find myself out of depth. “Sir, at your age you should not trouble yourself to come to the bank in this age of the Internet,” I am told. “Lie back at home and let us worry about payment of your bills. Our Apps is a dedicated genie, always at your command. Just manoeuvre the mouse and click on its head to roam the world like Ganesh. Visit to the Pentagon excluded.”
I need to send a remittance. I am directed to go ‘online’ and scan the Internet to reach my destination. I feel like a cad when I sheepishly ask, ‘What is this online, apart from being the opposite of ‘offline’”? For that matter, what is offline? You may scan the Internet all you want, but you will find no guru who has the time and patience to enlighten you on online.
I am starting to feel like a Neanderthal fool. In fact, I am entertaining serious reservations about my very existence in the cyberspace. For all I know, I am an endangered species, perhaps extinct. The twenty-first century marches on, leaving me with the distinct feeling that I am the twelfth man in a cricket match. The hapless fellow is included in the team, yet he plays no part in the proceedings except for carrying water bottles. Just imagine the situation of Sunil Valson, the twelfth man in the famous 1983 World Cup final match in England. There are pictures, stories, legends and souvenirs galore on the match that continue to enthral cricket lovers till today. But Valson has been long forgotten, except in a few dusty group photographs.
Should I bow before the know-all manager? I give it back to him. “What is a bearer cheque and when does the cheque become an ‘order’?” I question him. Suddenly he fumbles for an answer, “What? What’s that?” He is all at sixes and sevens. He looks to the right and to the left. But there’s no help forthcoming. I let go a googly too, “What is a draft and how is it different from a cheque?” But I am a product of the twentieth century and not adept at being nasty. He is trying to restore order in his brain when I gently tap him, “Do you know the recipe of the coronavirus?” He is flummoxed. Apparently lab generated virus that may destroy our civilisation is beyond him. Suddenly we see eye to eye. For obvious reasons we cannot shake hands. But both of us wave the proverbial olive branch to save the world.
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.
“Zahid sharab peene do masjid mein baith kar, ya woh jagah bata de Jahan khuda nahin” (Allow the devout to enjoy a drink in the precinct of prayer. Or else, give them whereabouts of the place, where God does not exist), Akshay recited the Urdu couplet in gusto, lifting his wine glass.
He was savouring the drinking session with Shankar, his college friend; they were meeting after a gap of some years. It was always a treat to go down the memory lane, reliving the fun and frolic of their college days. But this was a special occasion; they were celebrating the hundred-fiftieth anniversary of their alma mater, Gajapati College.
Despite his fervent wish and best efforts, Akshay could never make it to their College Reunion, until now. “This is the price, one pays for success,” he would say. He was the chief scientist, heading the Neuroscience Research Division of an international Conglomerate. From his early student days, he excelled academically and after graduating from the premier College in his native state, proceeded to Delhi for post graduation in Physics, followed by a Doctorate in Neuroscience. He pursued a research career and steadily rose through the ranks in the Company, ending up as its chief scientist. His research work took him out of India, early in his working life and he eventually settled in Osaka, making Japan his home.
In addition to running his own laboratory, he supervised research in several satellite sites across the globe, which kept him on the toes, literally. His jet-set life style made it virtually impossible to take out the time for attending their College Reunion; its dates invariably clashed with something important on his busy calendar.
He had been eagerly waiting to see many of his friends, whom he never met after leaving Gajapati Col-lege, thirty odd years ago. They had pursued diverse careers, dispersed across the globe. Many had risen to the top of their profession, which was hardly surprising as their college was the premier educa-tional institute, in the state. Given its impressive track record, admission into their college was highly prized; all her students were virtually guaranteed a comfortable living, no matter what they chose to do.
During the college days, Akshay remembers, they were ranked and grouped into types: studious, ath-letic, artistic, etc. He had little idea of what had happened to many, as he had lost contact with them. In the first place, he wondered if he would even recognise them, as passage of time must have left its mark on their looks, going by his own personal experience.
Shankar was one of his close friends from his College days. Over the years, they had remained in con-tact and met frequently. After graduation, Shankar got into Medicine and made a name for himself, as a renowned surgeon. Unlike many of his doctor friends, who chose to emigrate, he stayed in India and made his way through the hierarchy, becoming the professor and Head of Surgery in the local Medical College.
His dexterity at wielding the scalpel was complemented by his gift of oratory and leadership skills. He also wrote extensively on medical ethics. He became the spokesperson for his fellow surgeons and en-joyed his role as an opinion-maker. Following his initial success at state level, his influence steadily grew on the national stage. He reached his pinnacle, when he became the President of National Socie-ty of Surgeons.
As they were chatting, a vaguely familiar face appeared, walking towards their table. Shankar waved at him, across the hall, shouting out his name. He was Niranjan, an average student, who did not excel in sports, dramatics or anything in particular, to make an impression. Nonetheless, Akshay recognised him easily; just didn’t know, why.
As they sat down and got talking, from their conversations, Akshay gathered that Niranjan had settled locally in the family business, retail shopping; his life’s trajectory could not be more different from that of Akshay. After their graduation, while Akshay was slogging away, studying, Niranjan was busy honing his business skills. Unlike Akshay, who chose an alien land, thousands of miles away, to call home, Niranjan hardly budged from his birth place.
Niranjan started with his family business of running several grocery stores, and gradually expanded his business to managing supply depots and became a wholesaler. Lately, he had acquired the retail shop-ping license for liquor.
The thought of Niranjan’s liquor license made Akshay’s body to react visibly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Niranjan catching his body language. As if to hide his discomfiture, Akshay picked up his glass, saying, “Although alcohol is much maligned, most of us do enjoy a drink.”
“Problems from excesses of alcohol are well known. It destroys lives, marriages and families. But, it is unfair to single alcohol out in this regard. There are many other things, as harmful as, if not more than alcohol Let’s pick automobile; it kills as many people, if not more, as liquor. It damages the planet far more than alcohol. But, nobody thinks it is wrong to manufacture or trade in cars or say, running a car show room.” Niranjan said.
“Can you really put alcohol and automobile in the same category? Alcohol is not essential for life whereas automobile is clearly a useful tool…” Akshay said, sipping his wine.
“How useful something is depends on what we value. That, in turn, is decided by what enhances our enjoyment of life. Practical utility is one of them but it is not the only value. There are many things of little utility, which add meaning to life, say Arts and literature, which are valuable, no less,” Niranjan replied.
“But, alcohol is a toxin,” Akshay said
“Of course, who can argue with that? Alcohol is not the only toxin, though, we have a love affair with. There are other examples: salt and sugar. Both of them, in excess, kill us, albeit slowly. As a scientist, you will agree, toxins in small doses act like tonics. Who can deny that alcohol has really livened up our gathering here,” Niranjan countered.
While Niranjan and Akshay were discussing the morality of alcohol business, Shankar’s mind drifted. Who knew the perils of alcohol, better than him? His own son developed liver failure in his thirties, from heavy drinking.
The only way to save his life was a liver transplant.
The prevalent view in medical circles was to deny liver transplant to hard core alcoholics. “How can you waste something so precious, as the new liver is bound to be damaged, in no time, from drinking?” But Shankar argued against this, on moral grounds. Social drinking is a matter of choice, a life style decision. But alcoholics have lost all control on their drinking. “How can you discriminate against alco-holics, who are suffering from a disease?”
His influence on medical circles was powerful enough for his wish to prevail; he managed to get his son a new liver. To everyone’s relief, the operation was a success. Shankar was hopeful, he could per-suade his son to mend his ways. But his heavy drinking continued even after the transplant. He used to drive after drinks and one day his car met an accident, which killed him.
Akshay said,“I see your point; problems with alcohol stem from excessive drinking , which is due to the drinker’s lack of restraint. So, the fault lies with the drinker, not the alcohol. However, unlike salt and sugar, alcohol is not essential for life, it is an intoxicant”.
“Alcohol is not the only intoxicant in nature; there are also drugs. We class them as dangerous; their use and supply becomes a crime. Why do you think, alcohol is treated differently?”, Niranjan ques-tioned.
“This is where money comes in. Heavy duty on alcohol makes alcohol a useful revenue stream for governments. Understandably, it is too lucrative to give up this source of income,” Shankar replied.
“I am glad you mentioned money,” Niranjan said, while he was getting up to refill their wine glasses. He turned towards Akshay and Shankar in a dramatic gesture, showing his open palms, and said, “Look, I keep my business practices scrupulously clean: no adulteration. My guiding moral principle in business is: The bottom-line of any business is profit, but not at any cost.”
“Would you start respecting my liquor business, if I say that I declare all my income diligently and pay my taxes religiously. In fact, I am, on record, the second highest tax payer in the whole state. I know so many people, who have bigger business empires, but pay far less tax than me; my business is puny in comparison.”
“So, you see nothing morally wrong to promote alcohol to people, who would die from its effect?” Shankar said.
“The alternative to regulating supply of alcohol is to ban it altogether. But, we all know the paradoxi-cal results of prohibition. Banning alcohol is like throwing the baby with the bath water. Making alco-hol illegal, only benefits bootleggers and smugglers. Prohibition effectively gives criminals permission to print money.”
Niranjan continued, “Supplying liquor in regulated market is certainly a service, as good as running a car dealership.”
“Really? So, you think, running liquor shops is a service to the society.”
An awkward silence followed. With this lull in their discussion, their attention turned to the music, softly playing in the background. It was Jagjit Singh’s ghazal, “thukraao, ab ke pyaar karo, mein nashe mein hoon. Jo chaho mere year karo, mein nashe mein hoon….. (whether you embrace me with love or I resign to your rejection, I remain intoxicated…..)”
“Without drinking, where would you find inspiration for such soulful ghazals?” Niranjan said.
Shankar never stopped blaming easy availability of alcohol for his son’s death. But he hadn’t had a chance to talk about his feelings. This conversation today brought his pent up emotions to the fore. He asked Niranjan, “How can you sleep at night, knowing that you supply this stuff, which drives de-cent people to the gutters. Don’t the scenes of drunks lying in the gutter give you nightmares?” Shan-kar asked.
“Should I be troubled by such images? They really don’t, in the same way, they do not spoil your mer-riment here, enjoying this lively atmosphere, and sipping the stuff, which you know, wrecks lives.”
“But, is it morally right to boost personal profit through its trading or supply, at the expense of others’ misery?” Akshay asked.
“Profit is an inherent evil of capitalism, which promotes excessive consumption. I believe, this rising consumerism deserves our condemnation, but in its entirety. Is it is fair to single out liquor business? How can you defend car dealers who advertise cars through slick images, while berating wine makers for promoting sale of their ware?”
Shankar wanted to move away from this discussion on alcohol, and said, “I often wondered, how wonderful it would be, if we can come up with a substitute for alcohol , with all its euphoric effects but none of its toxicity.”
Now, it was Akshay’s turn to talk about his research, “This is one of my areas of research. We have been searching for this, for years, which would be a boon to mankind.”
Niranjan turned towards Akshay, before saying, “This is your dharma*, Akshay. For a scientist, your pursuit is knowledge. My dharma, as a trader, is to maintain an effective supply chain.”
Akshay’s attention level edged up a notch by Niranjan bringing in dharma into their conversation. Cit-ing dharma as the bridge, which linked liquor business with brain research, stirred up something deep inside Akshay. Perhaps, it pricked his pride. Equating his scientific research with running liquor shops, in his mind, dimmed his profession’s prestige.
While Akshay was preparing for an appropriate rejoinder, Shankar piped in, “ Ah, I always wondered what dharma actually meant. The word, dharma, has been bandied about a lot; but do we really un-derstand it?”
“Dharma, to my simple mind, means duty. It can also mean virtue, which I equate with sincerely per-forming my duty. I run my business with scruples and I pay my full taxes on the profits, and in the pro-cess, I provide a service to the society.” Niranjan replied.
“Does it not trouble you that the service you provide can potentially harm the society?” Shankar asked.
“In my book, virtue lies in preforming ones duty with sincerity. No action is inherently wrong. The mo-rality of any action hinges on Its motive. It’s the motive, which is right or wrong. The motives behind my business are manyfold, but they do not include any harm to anybody.”
Akshay was unsure how to rebut Niranjan’s arguments, justifying the morality of his liquor business. He was still smarting from his audacious comparison. All he could come up with was, “But you personally profit from others’ misery, whatever you motives might be. How can you dress up your business as a service to the society?
Niranjan turned to Akshay, “ Your interest in your research, I am certain, is primarily intellectual. But it is your corporate paymasters, who would rake in profit from the products, borne out of your painstak-ing work. You are a pawn on the this chess board, dominated by Badshahs and wazirs; they are the industrialists, patent lawyers and financiers. Your research is a small cog in the giant wheel, which moves the juggernaut of pharmaceutical industry.”
He continued, “We already have a happy pill and perhaps another pill to treat boredom is on its way. What you are working on will be the next, named the euphoria capsule.”
Then, he put the question, “Your employer invests billions in your research, supporting your scientific endeavours. For them, it is a business. The primary motive of all business is profit. But does it diminish the scientific merit of what you do?”
Akshay was unprepared for this frontal assault on his research. By way of deflecting the discussion away from him, he asked, “So, Niranjan, do you consider the years, spent in Gajapati College, was a waste of time?”
“Far from it, those were the golden years of my life," he continued, “I was lucky to somehow get into this hallowed institute. Where else could I meet talents like you all; I learnt more from you than the teachers and textbooks, put together. I was the topper in my village school, but here I mingled with gifted orators, eloquent debaters and mathematical wizards, who I never knew, existed. These few years in the College opened my eyes to the wider world.”
“What was the most important lesson?” Shankar asked.
“The intellectual prowess of friends like you made me realise my academic imitations. But, this appre-ciation was truly liberating. Not discouraged by this relative weakness, I was made to search for my strength. In fact, I found my dharma, my goal of life, on the grounds of this College”.
“How do you describe your dharma?”
“To serve the society with sincerity of purpose,” Niranjan said.
Shankar was still mulling over Niranjan’s emphasis on sincerity of purpose. He remembers his hard battle for getting his son a new liver. He was euphoric when the liver transplant operation was a suc-cess. Since his death in the car crash, doubts had crept up, in his mind, over his true motives, in cham-pioning liver transplant for alcoholics. How sincere was he, in championing liver transplant for alcohol-ics?
He was just fighting for his own son’s life, who was dying from liver failure, knowing well that he had no intention of giving up drinking.
Was he being disingenuous in arguing, “They are suffering from a disease, like diabetes or cancer; how can you deny them a life saving treatment? It’s morally indefensible to write them off.”
Shankar’s cherished victory in the liver transplant debate for alcoholics, was no longer, tasting as sweet. All his clever rhetoric, was also starting to ring hollow.
Akshay was beginning to grasp, why Niranjan was instantly recognisable, after so many years. As events of their College days were unfolding in his mind, his memory of Niranjan was coming alive. In their last year of College, the East Coast was devastated by a cyclone, and Niranjan joined a group of volunteers for the cyclone relief operations. Niranjan spent months away from studies and had to re-peat the year.
Although, they all were full of sympathy for the victims, wishing they could do something for them, their forthcoming examination remained their primary focus. Niranjan was an exception: truly, the living example of the adage: An ounce of action is preferable to a ton of intention. At that time, they thought, Niranjan was being foolish in frittering away his precious future for, what seemed like a lost cause. What difference could he really make in face of the mammoth problem?
Looking back, Akshay’s appreciation of Niranjan’s efforts kept growing. He turned to Niranjan, “Now, I understand your mission, when you volunteered for the flood relief operations. While we were busy burning midnight oil to boost our test scores, your nights were also sleepless, worrying about the safe-ty of the marooned.”
“Yes, repeating a year was an inconvenience for me. For those, affected by the cyclone and flood, it was a matter of life and death. I know, the effect of my meagre contribution was modest, but if it saved only a few lives and helped some families, it made all my efforts worthwhile.”
“I did not mind spending the extra year, to catch up with all that I missed during the cyclone. The de-gree or my scores, for that matter, meant little to me. Examinations were important, nonetheless, be-cause all the studying, done in preparation, made me a more discerning person. Passing examinations or scoring in tests was incidental.”
“Now that you have monopolised the market in supply of liquor, Niranjan, how do you see your busi-ness growing?” Akshay asked.
“You mean, what would be my next business?”, Niranjan asked.
Both Akshay and Shankar looked at him in anticipation.
“Remember, I am a Bania**, a trader by birth. Business is in my blood and trading is in my DNA. There is bound to be some business opportunity round the corner,” he said.
“So, what is your next venture?” Shankar asked.
“Whether we like it or not, the reality is that our drinking habit is here to stay. There is a crying need for rehabilitation of alcoholics and I don’t see many good Rehabilitation facilities around.”
**Bania: Indian term for traders
*Dharma: duty, virtue, religion, depending on the context
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
He is in the focus of four eyes and two camera lenses!
When will he die?
He will surely die.
A farmer ought to die ; die he must.
Even the farmer himself doesn’t know that he will have to die an untimely death, that too without any disease.
His death has been a game , not in between two but amongst many. His death is anxiously being awaited, not by one or two but by many. It’s not a game of a hundred, thousand or lakh. It’s a game of one crore. How can the farmer escape death? He will die, not willingly but as wished by thousands he will have to die!
He eats stale rice, belches and exchanges loving words with his wife. He dreams that his children will lead better life than him, will be better placed.
He is unable to guess his limitations and existence. It is not necessary also. He has no knowledge that the way he is living his life is far simpler and more priceless than the so called life full of luxuries and prosperity.
He is ignorant of many things because he is a farmer. He is ignorant of the destination towards which the world is progressing. He is ignorant, so he is happy!
He knows one thing, with which he is closely associated- his arable land.
He knows well how to mingle with the soil. With the loving touch and treatment how soil is transformed to a loving mother who pours out crops from her bosom.
At night his wife massages oil on his strained body, limbs and tries to persuade him, “ Why do you become soil with the soil?”
‘What shall I do?”
“ Like others open a shop. You will not have to work in mud and water daily.”
“ If all will do business, who will cultivate the land?”
“ You’ll never understand. Continue to work in the field”
He smiles. The smile doesn’t reflect his self confidence. He has never neglected his paternal property. Rather he is happy being linked to it with a string of hopes.
From the crack ofdawn the farmer gets ready with his plough, goes to his field. He is emotionally attached to his land. His heart is filled with endless joy when the seeds sprout and the brown soil turns to green. He gains confidence on his ability.
Many people plan and conspire the death of the farmer who has a lot of confidence on his own self. But the farmer does not understand all this.
His wife informs him, “ Do you know, a farmer from Atabira of Sambalpur committed suicide?”
The farmer enquires, “How can you know the news of such a far off place?”
“From the T.V.” replies his wife.
“What are the other things you know?”
His wife consolingly says, “I think, this time the government will not be silent any more. The farmers will surely be exempted from repaying loan.”
“Really? Is it annunced in the T.V.?” The farmer has unshakable faith in the government. He is sure that this time government will take some solid steps.
For the last two years he has been totally exhausted. He takes loan with the hope that he will earn a good harvest and after clearing the loan he will save some amount for future which is uncertain.
His wife advises him not to take loan, to cut his coat according to his cloth.
“ What is the benefit of expanding business? If there is loss again.....!”
Really for the last two years he has not earned anything. The year before crop was damaged by heavy rain and last year due to lack of rain.
What can a farmer do?
He is burdened with misfortunes one after another. Last year he borrowed some amount from the landlord with high interest with an assurance to return the principal as well as interest together immediately after the harvest.
If a person has been continuously at a loss, whatever savings he might have, it will surely shake his existence.
He is shaken. Both his faith and his existence have also been shattered.
How can he pay the loan of the landlord?
The loan he had borrowed the year before, he could not return. Last year with a lot of pitiful pleading he said, “My Lord! please have faith . This year the crop is damaged. Next year I will repay the interest along with the principal at a time. I live in my hovel near your building. Where shall I flee?”
Still he failed to win the confidence of the landlord. The wife of the farmer also pleaded. The farmer said, ‘If the government exempts from the bank loan we’ll pay the entire profit to you.”
The landlord yelled, “ No, repay now! It’s none of my business to know from where you get money.’
The farmer’s wife removed two bangles from her wrists which she had been wearing since the time of her marriage when she left her parents’ house and requested the landlord to accept.
For the first time she had to remove the bangles in this difficult time. “ Please accept the gold bangles and give time till the next year’s harvest.”
“ When pressed they are bending. How much do these weigh?”
Immediately the landlord’s tone changed, “Leave it. Sparing this time because we are like brothers, living in the same village. Next year never take any plea.”
The farmer is loaded with these burdens –from loss of crops to loan from the landlord, expenses of the festivals to the burden of gifts to relatives/friends on special occasions.
And the only source of his income is his land!
The farmer believes that his field will never betray him. He dreams of becoming free from loans, to get back the gold bangles of his wife, the children to be more skilled than him in farming and earn more than him or get government job to earn their living.
Many proposals are offered to the farmer.
“ You see, you are a very good farmer in this area. Your land will be projected as a model field in this district.”
“But how will I be benefitted?”
“You will get incentive from the govt; some financial benefit also.”
The farmer denies.
He is very well aware of the government systems; its rules and regulations.
For the last two years he has been facing loss. To get a square meal for the empty stomach he has to adopt so many ways. What can the government do? In spite of having the ability take some positive steps, the govt is more helpless than a human being.
An officer comes to him.
“Sir, how can I help you?” asked the farmer.
“Insure your crop. Your crop will be secured. If flood washes it away, we will compensate. If the soil cracks without rain, we will compensate.”
The farmer failed to comprehend.
“Why are they so sympathetic to him?”
“When does the government start worrying for the common man?”
For farmers so many plans are announced.
But conspiracies are also hatched for the death of the farmer.
The date for his demise has already been fixed.
All the details related to him and the conditions of his surroundings have been intimated to the people in power who sit in the A.C. rooms and decide everything- “This farmer is going to die very soon.”
Many are overjoyed to get information regarding this. “Surely die !This time ! The days of our happiness is quite nearer.”
Count down starts, another seven days. Six, five, four, ....three...two... one!
Today is the auspicious moment!
How can the farmer know that his death can be beneficial to some?
All his activities are under surveillance to ensure that he cannot be distracted from the track. There should not be any discrepancy in the plan. Everything is meticulously observed: when he is going to his field and returning, what is his facial expression while returning; if it is pale or not. It is also judged if his face is full of hope while he is going to his field and if his hope is transformed to doubt or not when he returns; how he is mixing with the villagers; whether he is looking cheerful as before, if he is sharing others sorrows and happiness or sitting alone in the veranda engrossed in deep thought and is depressed for his inability to find out any solution from the dry sky.
Yes, for him so many plans are plotted. For the successful execution of these plans some other plans are also made.
The farmer is in focus. Not because of his dreams for living but because of the anticipation that he is approaching nearer to death.
Four eyes are circling round him to study how his mental depression is intensified daily; whether the downfall of his depression matches the plans prepared for his death in the capital city, otherwise there is need of amendments in these programmes and schemes.
A close bond is associated with the farmer’s family to collect flawless information about the farmer. His capacity to judge has also been measured. The cause which can break him down is also identified. All the details have been sent to the office of the Head Quarters which now solely controls the future of the farmer.
But the poor peasant is ignorant that he has already become the part of a dangerous scheme . He knows only this – He will plough his land. He trusts his two hands. He believes , not in his fate but in the strength of his labour. He knows his work. He lives on hard earned money. He is a farmer.
Perhaps for this some people are waiting for his death. Conspiracy can be hatched against the simple and the innocent .
News are flashed on the death of farmers on T.V and newspapers.Fact combined with imagination get projected beautifully for theTRP of the T.V channels to increase. There is a cut throat competition among the media : Which channel can telecast the death news of the farmer first? Whose observation as well as empathy is sharper? Whose reach in more extensive? Who can shake the govt? Who can present more effectively? Who can influence the public with a promise that they are trying to solve their problem?
So many plans, so much hustle and bustle and unending debates mushrooming in the race of TRP.
This worries many competitive channels that how one particular channel cat get all the information related to the farmer just within a few hours of his death, even from the remotest corner. The story behind the suicide with facts and photographs is served before the viewers of the whole state within no time.
What is to be done? No one was able to find a formulae .The senior officials have already given strict warning to their respective reporters: If you cannot collect the report regarding the farmer suicide first, if it cannot be telecast in our channel first to enhance our TRP, you will be sacked.
What can the poor subordinates do?
To survive in the game of job, TRP and plan of the farmer’s death there is no other way except adopting new war tactics.
The drought affected areas have been identified.
Also which farmers are in debt?
Where the hope of life is zero and the farmer is utterly hopeless with his devastated land,the family of which farmer is starving .
The farmer who knows how to grow gold from soil is defeated. Because of his hard labour all the people get food, he is deprived of a handful of rice. Along with that he has to bear the lashes of the landlord, the blast of soaring market price. The poor farmer has been churned.
The four eyes are continuously in contact with the channel .
The pact has already been signed: You identify the farmer. Give daily report regarding him. Within a few minute of his death our channel will telecast the news with photographs. You will be suitably rewarded. You may not have dreamed of earning that much of amount in your life time. You will be paid much more than that.
The farmer has already been identified. All calculations have been made. Only a few days are left. Only the auspicious moment is awaited.
A lot of hue and cry is audible from the farmer's house .The farmer’s wife is crying helplessly beating her head on the floor . In the evening someone approaches towards the farmer’s house. The four eyes guess- the landlord has came.
They try to listen what the landlord is telling: Are they not able to digest the scolding of the landlord? If it’s true then the situation is favourable for us. The landlord is threatening, “If the principal of two years along with compound interest is not returned within one month, I will seize your home.”
The four eyes are overjoyed. The most awaited time is coming closer. Steps are to be taken more carefully. News have been sent to the channel. In the early morning the farmer goes out on his bicycle. But where? The four eyes follow him. The farmer reaches the nearby town and enquires something in the shop selling pesticides and fertilisers. He purchases some packets. Immediately news have been sent to the channel, “ Sir, tomorrow is the auspicious moment. Are you ready? The four eyes have never got such opportunity before. The farmer has already been trapped."
The evening sky is overcast with cloud. It forecasts rain. The four eyes get terrified. All their plans will mingle in the dust.
Sky is like an impotent woman, though covered with cloud will not rain.
The farmer is also terrified. All his plans will be flopped.
Everyone is busy in calculations consistently - the farmer, the four eyes, the opposite party, and the channels.
In the early morning the farmer goes to his field like every day. What does the farmer expect from the dry cracked soil of his field? He is holding a bag. Where is he going with his bag? There must be pesticide inside. Two cameras have been hidden at a distance beyond the notice of the farmer to capture each scene of his suicide scene. Four eyes are strictly vigilant on the farmer.
The farmer puts down the bag, holds a handful of dry soil in his hand. He looks at his devastated field, takes down the packet from his bag. The auspicious moment arrives in this way.
But surprisingly the farmer does not consume the pesticide. Along with the pesticide he has some saplings in his bag. With a lot of care he plants the saplings. The misfortune he is facing now should not be faced by his future generation. He has an unshakable faith that if saplings are planted it rains automatically.
Such is his faith because he is a farmer!
?
Debasish Samantaray (b.1975) is a fictionist of the young genre easily recognizable in the crowd. He writes both in English and Odia. His distinction comes from his writings which carry much of intellectual value. He has six short story collections 'Satamunha','Bhirnnaswara', 'Parba', 'Raha' , 'Chhakisuna', 'Pratibimba' and four novels 'Epate Sepate', 'Binduru Bruta', 'Bhida Bhitaru Jane' ,' Barnnalipi' so also one compilation of fifteen english translated stories from odia titled as "An Odia Palette" to his credit.
Debasish got accolades from different organisations across the state for his literary feat including State Youth Award from Government of Odisha.He heads two publication units as Aditya Bharat, and Jagat Books .He edits one literary journal 'LitDay'.Besides , Debasish is a great organiser of literary events.He organises the literary rendezvous Kalinga Literary Festival. He can be contacted at debasishsamantaray2@gmail.com
The poet was fully immersed in Krishna Bhakti. He had drunk deep from the ancient masters, studying the Bhagavata Purana, Hari Vamsa, Mahabharat, and all the scriptures that sang the glory of Krishna, the Dark Blue God.
But his thirst was still not quenched. He wished to create a poem, a prayer that would drive the reader or listener to such ecstasy and devotion as the poet had himself experienced.
He worked hard on his Ashtapadis, meditating over each word, phrase, and pada. Singing the glory of Krishna was all so easy, yet so very difficult. Everyone offered prayers, but how many became one with the Effulgent Being? How many could ever taste the elixir of advaita, rising above the limitations of flesh to catch a handful of that elusive and unattainable bliss?
A mere poem won’t work. It must be a vehicle to transport the devotee to a higher plane. Something to transform and transmute the devotee forever. One who read it, or heard it, or saw it performed by a dancer, would never be the same person again. She’d be reborn in this very life.
He worked more, not satisfied with his several drafts. After several months of contemplation, he finally got it. The poem was now nearly complete. Just one pada eluded him.
Radha had been terribly hurt. How can her Krishna, for whom she had given all she had: her body and soul, name, honour, and even her pride, could accept the favours of another gopi, however attractive, artful, and voluptuous? A contrite Krishna was eager to make amends by offering a heartfelt apology. But a mere ‘sorry’ just won’t do, he knew.
The poet pondered long and deep. What must Krishna say or do to appease Radha? He just couldn’t get the pada. Stuck at this point, he left his writing desk, with the manuscript open at the unfinished ashtapadi, and went for a bath. Upon his return, he found that someone had completed his poem. Dehi pada pallava mudaram, says Krishna to Radha. I bow before the tender petals of your feet to seek forgiveness.
Jayadev was thrilled. His voice quivered when he spoke to Padmavati, his beautiful wife, his own Radha, and a highly talented dancer, ‘Can you believe it? When I was away at my bath, Krishna himself came and wrote the missing pada. Who else but Krishna would know how best to soothe Radha?’
Padmavati complimented Jayadev for completing Gita Govinda, at long last. But when she turned back to go to the kitchen, a faint smile played on her luscious lips.
***
Glossary
Advaita-the philosophy of non-duality, and the essential one-ness of atma (individual soul) and Paramatma (the Great Soul), popularized by Adi Shankara
Ashtapadi-a verse with eight pada or feet. Jayadev composed his masterpiece, Gita Govinda in ashtapadis.
Bhakti-devotional fervour
Gopi-cow-girls of Vrindaban and female consorts of Krishna
***
Note: ‘Invisible Poet and Other Stories’ published by the author in 2020, takes its title from this story. The print copy of the book is available on Amazon.in and the eBook on Kindle.
P. K. Dash was born in Khuntpali, a village near Bargarh, Odisha and spent his childhood in the village.
He studied English Literature and Linguistics from G.M. College, and Sambalpur University. He taught in G. M. College, Sambalpur, and worked in the State Bank of India before joining the Indian Administrative Service. During his career in civil service, he worked in Madhya Pradesh and New Delhi.
After superannuation as Additional Chief Secretary to the Government of MP, he lives in Bhopal with Sanjukta, his spouse. He is now a full-time author pursuing his passion for writing.
He has published ten books including a bestseller on "How To Be An Author in 7 Days: A Beginner's Guide to Self-Publishing" (Available at https://www.amazon.in/dp/1637811837). He can be contacted at pkdash81@gmail.com.
WELCOME TO PROSE & POETRY CLASS - AN ALTERNATE REALITY!
"What do you sell O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade"
A verse from 'In the Bazaars of Hyderabad'
- Sarojini Naidu
When I first read this poem is class 6, I felt like I was lifted and left in the midst of the market commotion, moving in slow motion, while everything around me was a hustle. It was dream-like. I was awed by how beautifully she went on to describe sounds, fragrances and colors; the images danced vividly before my eyes.
Her writing was so ‘visual’ that my soul had travelled to the ‘Bazaars of Hyderabad’.
To a 12-year-old, who wasn’t very fond of academics, this poem came as a blessing in disguise. Something that transported me to a world of creativity, showed me the good side of academics, exposed me to the possibilities beyond the mundane classes in school.
I did not realize it back then, but in hindsight, I think I did feel an urge to write and wondered subconsciously if I would ever be able to capture even half as beautifully as Ms. Naidu.
Memorize and Recite seemed to be the order of our education system. And so, like a herd of sheep we all MEMORISED, RECITED and got graded for the ‘power of our memory’.
The fleeting thought of wanting to write did not make it to the conscious mind.
I really wonder what makes academicians associate learning with memory. I somehow feel it is so restricted. The myriad layers of learning and what it can do for us cannot be restricted to just memory, no!?
Steve Jobs said, 'When you grow up, you tend to get told that the world is the way it is and your life is just to live your life inside that world. Try not to bash into the walls too much. Try to have a nice family life, have fun, save money is what you will be told. That's a very limited life. Life can be much broader once you discover one simple fact. That is - everything around you that you call life was made up by people no smarter than you. And you can change it. You can influence it.... Once you learn that, you'll never be the same again'
This for me is an encounter with the myriad layers within learning! I feel so much gratitude to Steve Jobs and so many others like him who dared to bash against the walls, even tear them down. It is because of people like them that some of us are able to even think of breaking the rules.
I am going to create an alternate reality here. Take us all to a place where learning is beyond just memory. To a place where the very many layers of learning, exposure and creativity can be unleashed for us to be the versions of ourselves that we may not have even recognized as yet.
Welcome to the ‘Prose and Poetry’ class
Our facilitator entered the classroom, full of nurture, her eyes shone with love for prose & poetry, and such an openness that I hadn’t seen in teachers before. She said ‘Be boundless with your imagination, gain exposure and express yourself through the beauty of 'words'… this is the order of our education system.
We were first asked to read the poem to ourselves - she told us to observe and reflect on the thoughts or feelings the poem brought forth in us, we were encouraged to write it down if we wanted to.
She then read out the poem for us all. Her voice rung out in a melodious tone. Once the reading was done, we just stayed with it, all of us in complete silence.
We were then posed with numerous questions as to why Naidu wrote the way she did (or why William Wordsworth wrote Daffodils the way he did), what was in their mind, what motivated them to express the way they did; we read up to find answers going into the depths of how creativity is born, exchanged our notes and engaged in a discussion. We were also encouraged to understand the relationship between the poet and the poem. So profound!
Given the theme of the ‘Bazaars of Hyderabad’, we engaged in a special group activity to fire our creativity. Formed into groups of four to five students, we were taken to different parts of the city.
Some of us visited market places that was the hotbed for trade and economy in the city, some went to places of architectural value that screamed history and culture, some were left in the midst of nature where the sound of waves bashing against the rocks filled the air.
We were left to observe, imagine and free to pour out our feelings into 'words'. It evoked in us something that we hadn’t ever experienced before. I found myself asking ‘Is this creativity? Is this exploring the other side of the brain – that we studied in science class the previous week?’
Back then I did not know the meaning of 'creativity'.
Now I understand that true learning from a 'prose and poetry' class is when we are encouraged to observe, reflect and comprehend. To experience, inspired to create words that can form a meaningful excerpt or a verse; that tells a story or shares an experience or something unexplainable that comes from deep within us.
Just like how imagination can create prose or poetry, it is the same imagination that can create this alternate reality.
In Nicholas Sparks words "It is the possibility and not the guarantee that keeps me going"
Vinitha Venkatraman, Social Entrepreneur & Writer
MAJULI,THE LARGEST RIVER ISLAND OF THE WORLD
When it comes to tourism, culture and heritage, India has always occupied a special place in the world with its diverse geography, culture and heritage. Majuli, the largest river island of the world is also a part of North-East India.
Majuli is a river-island of the Brahmaputra River, situated in the upper Brahmaputra Valley of the state of Assam. It has got its distinction as a place of importance by virtue of a number of natural as well as cultural attributes. Firstly, there is the unique topography of Majuli as a river-island, surrounded from almost all sides by the mighty Brahmaputra. This has contributed to an ecological setup wherein a distinctive integration of man and nature has developed which is manifested in the form of a living panorama of man-made expressions and natural phenomena. Secondly, and more importantly, the presence of several numbers of Satras, - which are the monasteries of the Vaishnava abbots and are the centres of various religious and artistic activities, has made Majuli the hub of the Vaishnava culture and tradition of Assam. The satras, apart from being authoritative centres of the Vaishnava faith, are the living workshops of different kinds of visual and performing arts acquired and displayed by the monks by virtue of traditionally transferred knowledge. In addition to this age-old 'Satriya' culture, ( derived from satras) Majuli is also the homeland of three distinctive tribal communities, namely, Mising, Deuri and Sonowal Kachari, having their own traditional repertoires of living. Moreover, Majuli's soil is also shared by the artisan groups like the 'Kumar Kalitas'who are the traditional craftsmen of terracotta arts and crafts.
Srimanta Sankardeva, a visionary figurine plotter of the Assamese socio-religious culture initiated the Neo-Vaisnavite movement and extended the Bhaktimovement in Assam, The personality of Srimanta Sankardeva is highly important in the history of Assam. He was an enlightened genius. He was a prophet, a spiritualist, a preacher, a philosopher, a linguist, a litterateur, an artist and a reformer and all these divine qualities made him a saint. He gave a whole new dimension to Assamese life and culture. The spiritual renaissance of Assam occurred apparently alongside the most brilliant period of the Ahom dynasty. In his Bhakti movement he included the people of all the social and economic levels, casts, creeds and other ethnic groups of Assam like Khasi, Miris, etc. To propagate his ideology Sankardeva introduced Satras, Namghar, or Kirtan Ghar as prayer hall which was a democratic institution for social changes and developments. Lord Krishna or Vishnu was considered the supreme power and the absolute saviour, “Single God and human kind” was the prime objective behind the whole ideology. He visited all the major pilgrims, shrines and the sacred places of Hindu beliefs, met the famous saint Kabir and Chaitanya Mahaprabhu in Northern India and dedicated his entire life for socio-religious improvements of society.Sankardeva devoted himself to organize his religious order and spread the simpler and purified form of Vaisnavism as a prime fanatical preacher. Under these experiments and practices of the socio-cultural reformation, some quite unique practices like congregational prayers, theatre, music, dance, painting and others has been incorporated and developed by Srimanta Sankardeva to reach up to the maximum people belongs to the every class of the society. Afterfifteenth century these practices became more significant and achieved the grades of art forms, which prevalently established as the regular practices of the satras and artisans of the island of Majuli and played a vital role to satisfy the creative and artistic urge of people. Moreover these art forms developed parallel to the time with various techniques and mediums of visual representations, to gratify and spread the
spiritual ideology among the society and succeeded to adjoin the people under cultural and religious harmony.
Satra, Thaan or Namghar are the institutions, basically conceptualized and established categorically for the religious purpose. These institutions sprouted and flourished under the sacred ideology of Vaisnavism of Srimanta Sankardeva.
Considering the wider canvas of Satras all over the Assam, the institutions played a significant and vital role to paint the religious and cultural panorama of the Assam and North East Since sixteenth century. It has been an assiduous zeal, to mould and alleviate the Assamese society for the last five hundred years which rigorously administering the spiritual and cultural urge of the people.Gradually over the centuries, Satras has become the integral essence of the Assamese life and culture and unified the society from west (Koch Behar) to East (Majuli) of the land.Derivation of the term ‘Satra’, as per the majority of opinions expectantly perceived from the Vedic scriptures Satapatha Brahmana and Naimisa-Ksetra in the sense of a revered sacrifice; it can be traced abundantly in the Bhagawata-purana also. Some other authorities used the word in the sense of gathering or assembly where the gathering observes religious induction in presence of guru and the devotees, at a glance it looks similar to the Vaisnavite institutions of Puri (Orissa), but it would not be wise to delineate the exactly similar and confined meanings for the Vaisnavite Satras of Assam as they have been cloistered religious, social, cultural, educational and moral progression and effected the every aspect of Assamese life and society therefore the term acquired a significant meanings in Assam.The Satras in Assam are a unique type of multidimensional socio-religious and cultural institutions, a place, where Guru stays with devotees and preaches through congregational prayer, religious discourses, sacred cultural manners, art and literature. Indeed it’s an institutionalization of socio-religious amity with a sacred ideology of Vaishnavism.
Some important festivals of Majuli are Janmashtami,Raaslila, Phalgutsav ( Holi),Bhaona ( dance- drama glorifying, Lord Krishna) and Bihu.
Moreover , theatrical performances are integral to the religious activities of Assamese Vaishnavism . Srimanta Sankaradeva was a versatile genius , and he was famed to be adept in various skills like making of drum , mask , and other articles necessary and also maintenance of day to day life . It is believed that the great saint had innovated the technique of making mask from bamboo splits with varied type of expressions like fear , joy ,sorrow , vigour , pride , happiness , etc . These masks acted as the medium to present the events described in the Vaishnavite scriptures to the people with a great precision , and thus they became instruments of recreation and religious teaching . Soon it developed as an important craft of the area and travels across the barriers of time and space . In old days , it is known that , in many of the satras of Majuli mask making became an important craft. To make a mask the craftsman uses a local variety of bamboo known as jatibanh (Bambusa tulda Roxb) , which is neither immature nor very mature . First with the help of a machete (da)the bamboo is cut into pieces of about 2 to 2.5 meter in length .These bamboo pieces are kept under water of pond or pool for aperiod of 5 to 7 days . The soaking of bamboo pieces in waterprevent insect attack and provide more flexibility to the bamboo tubes . Then with the machete tubes are longitudinally cut into a few pieces from which splits are made with the help of a sharp knife ( katari ) .These bamboo splits are woven in open hexagonal pattern to make the base of the mask . In hexagonal work thewefts instead of being horizontal and vertical are worked in threedirections , forming in open work hexagonal spaces in close work ,six pointed star The woven base of a mask is covered with one or morepieces of old cotton fabrics , which are wiped with a paste of a
special type of clay ( Kumarmati ) and water before covering the mask . Then a mixture is made with the ingredients like the cowdung of calves , clay , and water , is applied over the mask for a few times according to the requirement . In this step , features of the mask become prominent . This step is known as chehera dia , meaning "giving the appearance" . Then it is dried in sunshine . Before completely drying , the mask is scrapped with a bamboo scraper( karani ) , which is followed by drying and colouring of the mask .Embellishments like hair , moustache , crown , and required ornaments are finally added to a mask .
Sattriya Nritya, is a major Indian classical dance. It is a dance drama performance art with origins in the Krishna centered Vaishnavism monasteries ( Sattras) of Assam and attributed to Srimanta Shankardeva. One-act plays of Sattriya are called Ankiya naat, which combine the aesthetic and the religious through a ballad, dance and drama. The plays are usually performed in the dance community halls ( namghars) of sattras.The themes played are related to Lord Krishna, sometimes other avatars of Lord Vishnu such as Rama and Sita and stories from epics like Mahabharata and Ramayana are also referred to. It is to be mentioned that the philosophic religion of Mahapurush Srimanta Shankaradeva was on the basis of the Vedanta, Bhagavad Gita and the Bhagavad Puran, so there is no presence of Radha in Sattriya dance presentations.Sattriya nritya was recognized in 2000 as a classical dance by Sangeet Natak Academy of India.
So Majuli definitely plays an important role in the incredibility of India's diverse culture and traditions with its own form of art and culture which shines as a jewel as a part of India
Shruti Sarma is currently an MBBS student of IMS and SUM hospital, Bhubaneswar. She is from Guwahati, Assam and is also an artist, a Sattriya dancer and a writer. She completed her schooling from Delhi Public School, Guwahati and her higher secondary studies from Sai Vikash Junior college, Guwahati. She has also been awarded the Mofizuddin Ahmed Hazarika Literary Award in 2016 for the best junior Assamese author.
Jhula Jhul
Kadamb ke phool
Mama gaye Sambalpur…..
Sambalpur se aayi chitthi
Bua, beta barmbar pyar!
Childhood memories of the song we sang without understanding its meaning spoke about Sambalpur in Odisha. Never in our wildest thoughts we imagined coming to Odisha, leave aside settling in this rather lush green state of simple people. As fate would have it, we arrived in Therubali in 1988, in the wee hours on the Rath-yatra day. We did not have the slightest idea as to what Therubali or for that matter Odisha had in store for us. Odisha was really not the destination in our scheme of things. But Lord Jagannath wished otherwise and we were already here albeit as a “stopgap” arrangement which turned out not to be so.
Therubali is located 21 km towards north of the district headquarters town of Rayagada and 319 km from the state capital Bhubaneswar. It is a small hamlet which then had a population of about 1000, mostly staff of the ferro-alloy plant set up there by the great visionary Dr B D Panda. Having lived in New Delhi we were rather sceptical about this change. The language and the culture were totally different.
Getting up little late that morning in the guest house we walked behind our connected adjacent rooms to the common balcony. It was a rather cloudy day, but the view that unfolded before our eyes was simply mesmerizing. It was beautiful and the very scenic view of a shallow gurgling brook (or was it a very narrow rivulet?) took away our breath. There was a narrow bridge over the stream which connected the village to the railway station. Some tribal men and women were walking leisurely, perhaps to the factory where I had accepted a job.
The guest house was on a raised ground. There was a beautiful garden at the front. Looking down the balcony we witnessed our first ever Rathayatra procession that auspicious morning, while sipping our late morning tea. A small chariot with wooden painted idols of three deities with no hands or legs was being pulled by some tribal men to the beat of musical instruments that looked ancient. Guest house manager Shri Singdeo in the meantime had joined us. He seemed very knowledgeable. Hearing that it was our first ever darshan of Ratha-yatra he took upon himself to educate us a little. He told us that Lord Jagannath is considered to be an aboriginal deity. Hence the tribal instruments i.e. Bira Kahali, Telingi Baja and so on constituted an essential part of the worship of the deity. We were told that the lord did not need any hands to help his devotees neither did he need any legs to be just anywhere he is needed. He also narrated the legend behind Shri Jagannath temple of Puri which captured our imagination and we decided to visit Puri as early as possible after settling down. Odisha had already impressed us and our affair with the state thus started on a good note.
We had to live in the guest house for about a month as the truck carrying our luggage had met with an accident, fortunately sparing most of our luggage. The staff at the guest house was all tribal, in immaculate white uniform, always neat and tidy and seemed as if in perpetual readiness to serve. It was a simple guest house kept extraordinarily clean, headed by a man who had royal lineage as we were to learn later. After that I always called him “Raja Saab”, which expression he seemed to like. In the guest house we were served mostly Odia cuisines unless we asked for something else a day before. The food was simple, nutritious, yet tasty and didn’t have much oil with the only exception of Mutton Kasa which was fatty, hot, yet sinfully tasty.
The life at the factory had a rather slow pace. The exposure of managerial staff to the outside world seemed limited though some of them had visited abroad for technical training. Owner was like their sovereign. Several employees genuinely revered him and touched his and his wife’s feet. Even otherwise, common workers were embarrassingly polite. For example if I was walking to the factory someone on the cycle would actually get down, pay respects and then get up on the cycle again. This was a cultural shock to me. Factory head was the local supremo, much loved and respected.
Life in the small township was wonderful for the women and children with almost no hierarchical feelings amongst them. You got up in the morning to the soothing sounds of MS Subbalakshmi’s renditions of Vishnu-sahastra-namam from the Laxmi-Narayan Temple played on the PA system. Every ‘Sankranti’ someone hosted Prasad Sevan in the temple precincts where all key managers were invited. Cable TV controlled by the company aired just 4 channels changing the selection from time to time to which nobody seemed to object. Vegetables, chicken, meat and fish used to be home delivered by the vendors to key managers. A dhobi in immaculate white dhoti and shirt used to take away and deliver our laundry two times in a week. There was no rent to be paid and electricity was free. With no avenues to spend money the salary felt abundant. Factory timings made room for a siesta after lunch. Later, when I travelled to Bhubaneswar, I found that mid afternoon siesta was the norm with all the shops here. Bhubaneswar looked like a big village to us. If you wanted to buy any gifts for a kid’s birthday or a wedding receptions there seemed to be just one shop- “T Krishna Patra” in Bapujee Nagar.
Factory Accounts Manager was a very helpful man. In fact everybody was so helpful that it often seemed surreal. We were quickly helped to get our cooking gas connection and second cylinder as well. An introduction night was arranged and the ever present always smiling pan chewing photographer son of Dr Panda’s elder brother swiftly documented the event. They lived there near the guest house in two joined adjacent worker quarters with tin roofs mercifully provided with asbestos false ceilings. There was an ocean of difference between the two brothers and their off-springs. The owner had apparently come a long way from his rather humble roots. We later learned that he gave up a high paying job abroad to serve his state at Nehru’s appeal to NRIs. I had the good fortune of first meeting Dr Panda in New Delhi in 1986 when he had visited there to meet Planning Commission member Shri Abid Hussain. I had helped in setting-up that meeting.
Personnel Manager being about the same age as mine quickly became a friend. We would go for the morning walks together never discussing official business. His wife taught in the local Chinmaya Mission Vidyalaya where all our kids went. Education was almost free as the company met all expenses of the school. The lady principal and all other teachers became good acquaintances and talked to us nicely. An Odia master was quickly engaged to teach the language to our two daughters. He always had strongly scented jarda pan in his mouth which, the kids told us much later, gave them a big headache. Like the factory managers teachers also had very limited exposure and had poor English with heavily accented pronunciations. For example all of them pronounced the word ‘violet’ as ‘vovlet’. Much later, back in Bhubaneswar I found the same pronunciation used by several people who had vernacular school background. Despite these shortcomings quite a few students from that school and a lot of Odia boys and girls we knew achieved big stations in life indicating the community’s love for higher education.
The Accounts Manager’s wife found for us ‘Eramma’ - a tribal woman for house hold chores. She looked weak with a very pale skin. We gave her iron tablets, regular breakfast and lunch and some old sarees. In a few days colour came back to her face and she happily put in lot of voluntary efforts into our house hold job. Later, I learned that her husband ‘Hembram’ a well-built tribal man had no work except in paddy seasons. We always needed contract labour at the factory and it was easy to recruit him. We had some front space and a little vegetable garden at the backyard. Hembram would put in an hour or two helping us with the gardening after his work at the factory. On such days we would give him a few rupees and lunch which consisted of a pot-full of cooked coarse-rice, some thin dal and curry which he happily and quickly gorged with extra salt and green chillies. ‘Eramma’ was more than happy seeing her husband eating and we all too felt happy for a simple tribal pair working for us. For them a meal and few rupees meant nothing more to be desired. To us all It was a simple life at Therubali which felt like heaven.
After 2 years at Therubali, I was sent to Chaudwar, near Cuttack, on a promotion apparently to bring about all the changes that the owners thought I was instrumental in bringing about in Therubali factory. Left to me I would have loved to continue living a simple life amidst nature and simple people. My family was unhappy to leave Therubali. For children it meant leaving some good friends behind. Chaudwar turned out to be a different place altogether, completely opposite to Therubali vis-à-vis people and culture. City bred executives had their own ego and political games. Old timers resisted new ideas and their proximity to the family complicated things further. The place and the people never synched with us and after a painful existence of six months we were in Bhubaneswar as the management thought that my talents could be better utilised in corporate staff functions. The year was 1991. It was also a bad year for the Indian economy. Our personal finances too were under dire-straits as now we had to pay for the rent, electricity and increased city expenses. Schools were changed again which meant more drainage on funds and readjustment issues for our daughters from CBSE to ICSE syllabus in midterm which was quite tough on them. We were now seeing another face of Odisha - it's complicated urban façade.
Back then salaries in Odisha were miserable. Two room accommodation available within the admissible rent seemed quite small for our needs and we quickly changed to a small bungalow with coconut palms in the backyard in the posh Nayapalli locality paying extra from our pocket. We also thought that we could do with a ‘live-in maid‘ and so I travelled to Theruballi where Hembram and Eramma found us a teen-age girl who we pledged to educate also and keep as a family member. We had a spare room to the right of the staircase and a modern small bathroom with WC under the staircase. We thought Munni (the village girl) would be happy. She was given soaps and shampoo, comb and oil and some old and new apparels. But, Munni didn’t like the change. She started looking better but was always lost and unhappy. We did not want her to be sad and so I left her back at Therubali. In one of my later official trips to the place I sighted a carefree happy girl with dishevelled hair and soiled skirt chasing a herd of goats. She was ‘Munni’- born free and rendered free again. “Bahati hawa si thi vo, udati patang si thi vo” (She was like a flowing breeze, she was like a flying kite). I was both happy and sad for her. ‘Happy’ because she was free and in good spirits, ‘sad’, because she missed a chance to be civilized and get some education.
My work in Bhubaneswar was very challenging and in a totally different area. The company gave me complete freedom and authority. It was unbelievable from a home bred closely held Odiya concern. I took myself on intensive training including to the IIM to study HR and on a study tour of best companies to know Quality Assurance practices. I was also allowed to hire a consultant which I did not because he wouldn’t give me a guarantee of results. Fortunately this decision helped me prepare for the challenge exhaustively and I could make the task look easy. Looking at the results NALCO requisitioned my services as a consultant having failed with the consultant provided by CII.
I started consulting for NALCO Damanjodi, port facilities at Vizag and HO at Bhubaneswar in addition to meeting my own job responsibilities. My company owner wide-heartedly shared 30% of the fees with me besides my full salary. Additionally, I was also permitted to conduct public courses which brought in extra income which was shared with me likewise. I even earned cash award and standing ovation for my unique contributions to the company. That year I became the highest income tax payer amongst all employees which probably ultimately proved to be my nemesis. My status as the highest tax payer might not have gone well with certain people close to the family, as despite the accolades, I had to leave the organisation after more than 7 years of hard and honest work. It was insisted shortly after another upgradation as the GM that either I take a transfer to Kolkata or feel free to quit. Even in this parting the company offered very kind terms. They kept me on the rolls for six months paying my full salary and allowances without having to attend the office. They also offered their PAN India guest houses free and even to pay for my travels if I needed. I bet this beats explanation and you cannot hope to find a more benevolent yet weird company anywhere in India or was it the Lord Jagannath's dictate?
Much later Dr APJ Abdul Kalam (or was it N Narayan Murthy?) said somewhere, “Love your job but NEVER fall in love with your company." True, you might love your job, but your job doesn’t love you. I had not only fallen in love with my job and my company but also with Odisha. It therefore hurt me a lot initially. My losing the job as it unfolded later was Lord’s greater design for my family’s betterment and actually proved a blessing in disguise. Professionally, I was received with open arms which I believe was not only on account of my expertise, hard work and good luck but also because I came across some very kind hearted and open minded talent loving Odia people including some CEOs and bureaucrats which appeared God-sent.
Today, the community at Z-1 with all its small rumblings is a very congenial place to live. People do not intrude into your life and they are generally helpful. Seniors' society is doing a wonderful job. The promoter of this property too is perhaps one of the most benevolent builders anywhere in the country. He actually offered me his own flat rent free in 1995 when I was out of the job and he thought that I might need premises to work from. He hardly knew me then.
Where can you find such kind hearted company owners, builders and such other people who help you selflessly and accommodate you? It happened to us only in Odisha! So, dear people let me join you all with gratitude and chant from the bottom of my heart, “ VANDE UTKALA JANANI”. We weren’t born here, but, Odisha is like our foster mother.
JAY BHARATI - JAY ODISHA!
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
I was born and brought up at Dongargarh - a small town in the erstwhile Madhya Pradesh, now in Chhattisgarh. “Dongargarh” is derived from the words: Dongar meaning 'mountains' and garh meaning 'fort'. The Maa Bamleshwari Devi Temple, situated on a 1,600 feet high hilltop, is a popular landmark. It is of great spiritual importance and several legends are associated with this shrine. In the following paragraphs, I am trying to recollect childhood time spent in Dongargarh starting from my earliest memories when I was perhaps three or four.
My father worked in the erstwhile Bengal Nagpur railways (BNR) now known as South Central Railway. The types of bungalow that we lived in were built for the use of English and Anglo- Indian Sahibs during the pre-independence days (the RAJ period) and hence the facilities including three outhouses and large ground.
The master’s bungalow had a big swinging fan fixed to the high ceiling and pulled by punkah wallah by means of a system of ropes and pulleys (like the ones we see in the period films of the Raj days). During hot weathers, the male servant on duty would pull the rope from the veranda to swing the fan left to right in side-ways motion while the inmates rested in the hall room and enjoyed the comfort of cool air.
The three out houses were located outside the main compound at about 30-40 feet from the master’s bungalow. The access to the outhouses was through a gate. This gate demarcated the master and servant areas. There were water taps in the compound which looked rusted , out of service and ran dry when we arrived there. Earlier, during the RAJ days the water was being pumped in from the pump house situated at the foot of the Dongri Pahari and the taps used to be in service. The country was in transition and the facilities were gradually being taken away.
In one of the outhouses nearer to the access gate there used to be a fire place for use during the winter. Those days due to cold breeze coming from the mountains at Dongargarh the winters used to be quite chilly, especially at night. This particular outhouse was also used for food preparation by the cooks for their masters living in the bungalow. Behind this kitchen two more rooms were provided as residential quarters for the house servants. While we lived in the bungalow these outhouses were given to class four railway workers who also worked in the bungalow part time as orderlies. We used one of the outhouses for keeping our cow and the goat and their fodder.
Close to the outhouses and on the opposite side there were two Karanja trees. These trees had shining green leaves .The Karanja fruit is used for extraction of oil which has medicinal values. This oil was bitter in taste. There was news about biodiesel being tried from Karanja oil by transesterification process.
On the other side of outhouse, the protagonist of this story and our favourite male help "Jhingru" lived with his wife and three kid daughters. The oldest daughter “Rai” was six - seven years. Next was “Manglee” about three years and the youngest one was hardly one year old and still in her mother's lap. Mangalee must have been born on a Mangalwar (Tuesday)
“Jhingru” at that time must have been about 40-45 years old. He was well built and had a fair complexion. Jhingru was a Chhattisgarhi with an unusual eyes colour which intrigued me. However, he was a simple man and totally devoted to our family. He was officially a registered coolie with the railways with a brass badge and worked in the railway station carrying passengers’ luggage. He wore regulation red colour shirt for easy recognition while working in the railway platform and carried a red shoulder cloth for wiping his perspiration.
We could hear the ringing of trains’ “line clear” bell, and final bells from our home. On hearing the final ring Jhingru would rush to the concerned platform at the station to attend to his work as coolie - his main occupation . At that time only five or six passengers train used to pass through the station. Much later Bombay Mail and then Express and other trains started stopping, making the place busier gradually.
In his spare time Jhingru used to draw water from the big well near the outhouse at the corner of the big ground where we kids used to play. He used do this for our family three times a day carrying the water drums by means of a Kanwar (kawad) to save labour and time. Kanwar consisted of a flat lever 5-6 foot long wide at the centre, fashioned out of bamboo with two tin drums hanging at either ends for carrying water. The middle of the bamboo lever is usually padded with cloth to absorb the impact caused by hanging water filled drums.
Since we didn’t have running water, the well water thus fetched used to be stored for drinking purposes and the balance was stored in the chobachha (cement tank) for washing and other household purposes. Besides fetching water he and his clan helped the family by looking after my kid brothers and sisters while our mother was busy cooking or in other household chores . Jhingru and his clan were like family to us. His daughters played with us and his wife sat doing small talks with our mother. They also took care of our cow named Shivani (consort of lard Shiva) and our goat called Sonamukhi (one with golden mouth).
Shivani-our brown colour, kohl eyed cow was very lovely, having soft and shinning skin. Her horns were straight and sharp which added to her beauty. Shivani was given as “Gau-dan” to our father by some person from Mudra village about 15-20 miles from Dongargarh. I remember when she was brought home by her owner, my mother welcomed her by worshiping and feeding her with reverence and affection. She was kept in one of our outhouses. Jhingru tied her there for the night. We did not find her the next morning as she had broken the rope and run away. We searched for her at the local Kanji house and at various places and sent men for searching in the nearby jungle. According to the law, the stray cattle are caught and kept at 'Kanji houses' - shelter homes where the animals are detained till they are claimed and taken away by their owners. We expected to find her there but in vain.
After four or five days the past owner of Shivani came to our bungalow with Shivani in tow. Apparently, Shivani had run away to her native village. How the dumb animal could find the way back to her home amazed us no end. However, in course of time she became one of our family members and very affectionate at that. Gave no trouble while milking and let us kids caress her head. She mothered few lovely calves in course of time. She gave milk, about a litre in the morning and also in the evening. We didn’t milk her second time when her calves used to be young. She was taken out grazing daily by the cowherd boy to the nearby forest.
Sonamukhi, our female goat (nanny or doe) was very pretty like her name. Very silent, kohl eyed, with shining white and brownish fur, she used to give milk about half a litre. She produced 4 lovely kids in time. We children used to play with her kids.
We had a black doggy “Lucky” brought by my father in his upper pocket when he was a tiny puppy. Lucky remained with us till we were transferred from Dongargarh. Lucky and I grew quite friendly with each other. At meal times, I would call out Lucky - Lucky, and he would come running to me immediately wagging his tail as if very eager to display his unflinching love, and loyalty.
"Darku bai" was our another maid servant living in one of the rooms in our outhouse. She was a well built, Chhattisgarhi woman living alone by herself. She wore very heavy silver ornaments round her neck, wrists, heavy Kamamrpatta above her saree, payal and toe rings. Darku bai was tough and hard working. She took care of our cow Shivani, our goat Swarnmukhi and us kids. She was very fond of my kid sister Durga who was probably 1 year old at that time and always wanted to be in somebody’s lap. She also used to help mother with household chores as well.
Our father was transferred to Tumsar Road from Dongargarh, when I was in class five, after my annual primary board exam. I stood first in the class fifth in the board exam and got Oxford dictionary as prize along with class sixth Bal Bharati text book, Tulsidas Ramayana and a story book. On hearing about transfer my heart was broken at the thought of leaving Dongargarh - the place I had come to love and worship like my own mother.
I remember seeing Jhingru for the last time at the Dongargarh station platform while going to Calcutta from Tumsar Road after two - three years for summer vacation. My father and I got down at Dongargarh station looking for Jhingru and found him quickly. He came to our bogie and met us all. Father gave him some money and asked about his family. Mother also asked about him and his family with tears in her eyes. The train started and we bid adieu to him with wet eyes and pain in our hearts. Jhingru standing on the platform in the crowd also waved us goodbye. I can still see his face and lovely childlike innocence in his smile. I never saw him again.
Shri Shivananda Acharya, a retired officer from Bank of Baroda, comes from a family of literary geniuses. He lives in Nagpur and devotes his time to reading and writing. He can be contacted at +91 90282 25640
ANDA(WOMAN) TRAVELS
Sheila Chacko Kallivayalil
Strangely, for a group of islands that so predominantly displays the ‘Man’ part of our species in its name, I met some remarkable women in this paradise.
Havelock Island was our base, and a diving school where my son worked as a diver our home for those four days.
The owners believed in giving free rein to the flora and fauna , so there were calf length tall grasses growing along the paths leading to the very rustic accommodation, with signs like, “ Don’t step on the snakes, they are friendly.”
That had me raking my eyes with the minuteness and precision of a Hubble telescope every time I entered the bathroom.
The huts were set back some way from the water. On waking, we would follow a hibiscus lined meandering path to the restaurant , where the food was divine and the prices close to the stratosphere. In line with the general outer space ambience, the restaurant was called Full Moon Cafe.
Breakfast would be on the patio of the restaurant, if you could get the resident cat to move off the chair and after you gave the dive school’s three Labs their expected pat.
Between a bite of toast browned just right, and a sip of strong tea, you could look out at the sea, an incredible shade of aquamarine that I thought only existed in artfully designed
brochures for the Maldives, assisted by touch up techniques. You could not see the full stretch of the beach for the gnarl of low reaching branches of cashew trees. Just glimpses of that wonderful blue.
That would be our destination immediately after breakfast, though sometimes we would be sidetracked by the hammocks strung up on the way.
In the evening, the beach would be a different place.
The tide would have run out.
That is how we met the first of the lovely women of whom I was speaking.
C was a young girl, a marine biologist who was writing her thesis. She was small, slight and tanned a beautiful shade of brown by the combination of saltwater and sunlight.
We accompanied her on a walk on the beach, on sand which had been temporarily abandoned by the great sea waves. The tide had run out. It was now a stretch of bare land, so it seemed to us- but how wrong we were.
This private tour of marine homes was undertaken with us bending over all the time. Like drones spying on us, we were now taking a bird’s eye view of life in minute grains of sand.
Hermit crabs scuttled back into the safety of their holes.
Shells dotted the moonscape. From our eyes just inches away from the ground, it could very well be described thus.
C explained why it was preferable to leave shells where they were on the beach. The discarded carapace of one creature could become the safe haven of another.
But what really intrigued and delighted us were the sand bubbler crabs and their antics.
Sand bubbler crabs draw intricate and finely proportioned pieces of art , using balls they create with sand. They are actually ingesting sand and processing it in their custom designed mouths, absorbing the nutrients from the sand. But being nature’s artists, they just cannot discard the leftovers- hence the little balls which are further arranged in eye pleasing patterns for the world to enjoy till the next tide rushes in and obliterates these artworks- now we know where Banksy gets his inspiration from. ????
We inspected and heard tales about the homes of many tiny sea creatures, some of whom , to our great disappointment, were out getting dinner.
What a Wise Woman of the Sea, C was! How compelling her stories in this microcosm of a world we had never imagined!
We met T late one evening outside a boat shed. Small, brisk and bubbling with life, she shepherded my son, me and eight other adventure seekers to the edge of the parapet which adjoined the water.
A single light bulb illuminated the scene. Our small gathering stood around T, while she introduced herself, then asked each of us our names. With each name , she distributed a fluorescent band coloured pink, orange, green, blue or yellow, which we had to wear like a bracelet on our wrists.
T was a national level kayaking champion, and tonight’s adventure would take us out into the sea under her skillful guidance.
In the gloom, she helped us board the kayaks, two persons to each. As the Grand Old Lady of the group- all the others looked like they were techies in their twenties- and as the only woman adventurer in the group, I was given pride of place and shared the kayak with T.
Basic instructions followed. Kayaking involves the use of a single oar with blades on either ends. So T instructed us in how to move forward, how to move back, how to stop. And the most important rule- stay in the centre of the kayak- moving your body to one side or another could mean capsizing.
Of course we were all equipped with life jackets, but a shiver of nervous excitement ran through me.
Once we were in the kayaks,we had to get past the tangle of low hanging mangroves that separated us from the sea. We ducked, and were through.
There we were, in a sheltered cove of the island, but out in the sea!
We moved along as we gradually got the hang of the kayaking technique. At least, T gave me the impression that I was oaring it like a pro, while actually she was doing all the work. Still, I revelled in the feeling that I was doing my part, even though my oar blades missed the water by several inches most of the time.
(That was all part of Favouring the Old Lady ploy.)
Finally when we seemed to be miles out at sea, the magic happened. T told us to dip our
oars into the water in reverse and wham! phosphorescence!
For someone who has never seen phosphorescence, this is truly an astounding experience. The oar dips into the sleepy looking water, and when it comes out of the surface there is this stream of brilliant diamonds that lights up everything- mostly your heart. It drips off your oar and then falls back into the water.
We were like junkies after that- we could not stop wielding our oars this way and that, to recreate this explosion of exquisite white light.
It disappears as dramatically, so that I was wondering if I was in a dream. So of course I had to recreate that dream again- and again- and again…..
Phosphorescence occurs only on moonless nights, so this kayak ride had to be timed . It was just my enormous good fortune that I was there at the right place at the right time.
T amazed me, for two reasons.
Apart from the stars it was pitch black snd there was no light. How did she manage to keep track of coloured fluorescent wrist bands and names? She would callout, “Mohit, you are drifting away from us. Join up.”
Or “Ashis, you are wobbling. Don’t move around too much.”
I still cannot fathom how within the space of a few short minutes of introduction, and handing out our wrist bands in dim light, she could correlate who was wearing what….in the inky blackness of night.
The second reason for my awe… after we had played around with our phosphorescence addiction, T drew us into a kayak huddle, we leaned back on our oars, and as directed, gazed up at the stars.
In this near equator location, the stars seemed within reach- big and bright and you felt you could just grab a few, clutch them in your hand, and then release them so that they drifted like slow fireflies back to their celestial homes…
T knew each star and constellation personally, I think. She had the gift of knowledge, combined with a ready wit , which could not but bring a smile. She introduced us to the Great Bear, Orion’s Belt , the Little Bear- simply by pinpointing the little quirky edges of a constellation and helping to draw an outline of it in our minds. Stars which were just names to me before her lesson became friends.
At the end of the adventure , we negotiated our way back to the shore, dodging the mangroves again.
On terra firma once more, we gathered around T for the last time. She chatted with us in her fluent way while she collected the wrist bands from us. Then , still talking, she connected them all to form a necklace- and surprise, surprise! She wound it around my neck.
So if any late night owl had been watching, it would have seen a young man riding a dilapidated scooter, on the pillion a woman answering to the description of Grand Old Lady, wearing her hubby’s shorts and t shirt, flip flops, and a glowing multi hued necklace.
To this day my son’s great regret is that he did not take a pic.
Ms. Sheila Chacko Kallivayalil is a travel enthusiast who lives in Mundakayam, Kerala. She is a homemaker who also runs a business selling traditionally made jams and pickles.
GIRL FRIEND
Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
The 28th March, 2011 was a memorable day for me. In the early morning at 6.00 A.M my granddaughter (Natuni in Odia Language) Trishna was born. At that moment a grandfather was also born in me. I was gifted with a baby girl, fair in complexion, healthy (3.5 kg), moon face, chubby cheeks, dimple chin and a special cap made of deep black, thick and abundant curly hair. She looked like a doll. At that time it was a mini ceremony in the Gupta Nursing home and a double celebration - one for the new born and the other for “Sahoo Sir” becoming a grandfather. Everybody in my family was so happy. I missed my father who would have been the happiest man in the campus for becoming a great-grandfather. That was not destined to be. But he must have be celebrating in a different way in his heavenly abode showering abundant blessings on the new born.
As her mother (our daughter in law) was a faculty in ITER Engineering college, Bhubaneswar, the granddaughter (Natuni Trishna) stayed with us. Her mother came every weekend and on holidays. Trishna became very close to me and her grandmother. She slept with us. God had given so many people to work for her and play with her. Besides me and my wife, there were my mother, her father, my niece (Sishu), nephew (Ramesh) and his son (Jitu), our maid Chaha and Landu, Trishna's cousin brother at her disposal. She remained busy throughout the day. She used to forget her mother 5 days a week. But on Saturday and Sunday, when she saw her mother, she stayed with her mother all the time. Isn't it a wonder how children develop this biological affinity, the filial sense?
I was working that time as Prof. Obst.&Gyn in VSS Medical College, Burla. My wife was the Chief District Medical Officer, Sambalpur. Her office was 14 km from my quarters. Daily she started for her office at 8 am and returned at around 6 pm. From the evening till Natuni went to bed she played with us. I carried her on my shoulder and moved around in the garden. She observed nature in various forms like birds, wind, in the garden; the lawn, the bushes, flowers and fruit laden trees, blue sky, the setting sun, in the evening the stars and the moon, the cows, calves, dogs, puppies, cats and different coloured insects. The sounds of birds and animals and the songs of local Folks could never escape her attention. She enjoyed the nature, being carried by a natural carrier so much that she never wanted to go inside. If forced to go in, she would start her tricks like crying and wetting my clothes .
Out of all members of my family gradually I got very close to her. I had to play different roles as per her need or as per her wishes. I became her playmate, doctor, caretaker, supervisor, teacher and also many a time just the reverse. She didn't like playing with dolls, but with me. I was her GrandPa doll! She was very happy when she played HIDE AND SEEK, she was always the winner and I was the loser. In HORSE AND RIDER, she would always be the rider and I was the horse. She enjoyed my company the most. She gradually learnt to speak alphabets and then small words. To my surprise and satisfaction she first started pronouncing the letter ‘J’ and the word “JEJE”, unlike many others who started with “Maa”, “Mama” or “Mummy”.
I was really overwhelmed. I want to cite two other incidents which happened in her first year, at such a tender age; which showed how close she was to me.
After a few months of her birth her mother had come on her weekend holidays. Her parents planned to visit Sundargarh, her maternal uncle's place for a few days, just for a change. Sundargarh was about 200 kms from Burla. Her maternal grandparents came on Friday morning. They were very happy that their granddaughter will be visiting Sundargarh for the first time. It was not a matter of joy but also a pride. A gorgeous reception was planned at her uncle's residence. Her grandparents were so excited that their mind was flying with a speed greater than a rocket. They could not wait for lunch at our place. As soon as they finished breakfast they started for Sundargarh. On the way NATUNI had a deep slumber on the loving laps of her grandmother and opened her eyes when she reached Sundargarh to see some unknown faces competing with each other to touch her, lift her and hug her. Being sandwiched between so many persons she felt suffocated and started crying. Then her grandmother came to her rescue. Actually I was a bit skeptical about my NATUNI when she left for Sundergarh because she was too tender a child to adjust and accommodate. Since she was with us since long, I apprehended that she might create problem at night while sleeping. She might feel our absence and disturb everyone there. At around 11pm I got a phone call from her grandmother, I became anxious & disturbed receiving the phone at an odd time . Her grandmother told “Natuni” wasn't sleeping. She was crying and chanting "JEJE, JEJE". She was also having fever. They were really confused, what to do. Consulting a local doctor and waiting for one hour didn't bring any relief to her. So out of nervousness and panic they decided to return to Burla. At around 3 am the same team started back and reached my quarters at 5 am.The moment NATUNI saw me she started laughing and calling me aloud. As soon as the door of the car was opened she jumped on to me. She was so happy, as if she had been released from a cage. Now she was calm on my shoulders with naughty smiles telling me all her bad experiences in her language, which only I could understand. Surprisingly her fever vanished like a magic. There was a sigh of relief on everybody's face, more so on her maternal grandparents because they were feeling guilty for all the drama that happened.
"A child has emotions and feelings", probably we all had forgotten. Natuni taught us a great lesson on that day.
When she was around one year old, she had accompanied us to attend an inaugural function followed by a reception committee dinner, on the occasion of a state level conference hosted by the Burla chapter of Obstetrics and Gynecology at the MCL (Mahanadi Coal Field) auditorium. It was a family dinner. So my son, daughter in law and granddaughter (Natuni) had come.
It was the only auditorium at that time in 2011-12 with all modern gadgets, beautiful audio visual system, a spacious stage and a capacity of more than 500 seats. It was 7pm. The campus and the auditorium was wonderfully decorated. Slow, sweet and soothing traditional Odia music was being played. The auditorium was full to its capacity. The inaugural function was held dot on time with much pomp and ceremony. A symposium was arranged after the inauguration. Many faculties from Odisha and outside were invited to deliver their talk. I was one of them. When my turn came I went to the dias. I was about to start my talk, I heard a loud voice of a child "JEJE, JEJE ". It was a very familiar voice. I could locate my NATUNI with her parents sitting in the right corner of the last row. I observed as if my NATUNI was fighting her way out to the dias. I waved my hand in reciprocation of her jubilation and started my talk.
Next moment when I tried to search for her, she was not found. Later l came to know that they all had left the hall, lest my NATUNI disturbed everyone in the auditorium.
The three incidents
1. Pronouncing JEJE as her first word
2. Searching for JEJE in her subconscious state which forced her maternal grandparents to return to Burla and
3. Calling JEJE at a loud voice and struggling to reach me at the stage in a packed hall, which happened at such a tender age proved that my best friend so close to my heart was born on the 28th March 2011 in the form of my NATUNI. At the time of her birth Dr. Lalmohan, my colleague and neighbor commented, "Sahoo Sir's girl friend is born. Sir will be too busy with her and will find no time for us. Sir will forget us. She will remove all the stress of Sir and rejuvenate him . Congratulations Sir for the divine gift."
Yes, she is not only my girlfriend but my best girl friend. She is not only my anti stress factor but also my life line. Today what I am in terms of physical and mental health is due to her.
May God bless her.
"GOOD FRIENDS ARE MADE, TRUE FRIENDS ARE BORN,"
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
I WILL TELL THE TRUTH………..
Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
From the very outset let me pledge that I will tell the Truth, the Whole Truth and nothing but the Truth.
It was my desire always to pen down the day today happenings in my life, some joyful and some sorrowful, that may be beneficial and an eye opener for somebody else. Being a Pediatrician and busy in both active proficient office practice and Government job I did not have the luxury of enough time to give practical shape, in pen and paper, to all these memorable incidences. All through my career I never dreamt of or dared to do injustice to any wing of my job. After retirement from Government job, though I was busy to further my Pediatric practice, in the off hours I tried to build up my literary career.
The persons in my stories are not imaginary characters; they are real, living human beings whom I have encountered in day today life during my interaction either with the patients or their relatives. I could enrich much positive vibes which helped me in understanding the human nature to remodel and restructure my future course of action and it paid rich dividend on many occasions. I tried to make others understand and rectify as far as possible the ones which were harmful as per the guidelines. Sometimes they agreed, on many occasions they refused, many a time their attitude and behavior irritated me but always I accepted these pros and cons in a positive way as part of life and learnt many things.
In my view, we doctors are not only doctors but also social activists and besides treating and curing diseases we must prevent them to occur. That is possible only when we endeavor to transform the age old harmful myths and inculcate the real beneficial customs. In some circumstances we are to tell unpleasant truth which may not be palatable to people because they never desire to depict their deeds and never want to be exposed before anybody. Hence we are to be tactical in approach and without hurting their ego and self respect, coolly and calmly make them understand the real facts.
I always recall the conversation between the Don and his younger son Mickel, the future to be Don, in the famous fiction “The God Father” by Mario Puzo. The father was teaching the son all the skills he was supposed to acquire and practice to become a successful Don. But he was disappointed and at his convocation speech he told his son “My dear son. You obtained all the skills and tactics but you could not master the art of telling NO to anybody. Many persons would approach you for favor. But remember one thing that the things which is not possible on your part to carry out, should be expressed in such a tactful way that the person would think in spite of your intense efforts things could not be materialized, would never be accomplished by any other person on the earth and he would depart with a smiling face without any grudge and malice against you and should not even dream to approach any adversary of yours to get his work done.”
And I feel that should be the approach of a true reformer and the motto should be “Toil hard to make a friend, but never create a foe.” I recall some funny happenings in my initial career of Government service in Kalahandi, the most backward district of the state. Being a member of Lions Club and the Deputy District Governor I was looking after the service activities of Lions Clubs International in the undivided districts of Phulbani, Balangir, Kalahandi, Koraput and Ganjam in 1985-86. In those days the rural health service was meager and was beyond the reach of common people. The incidence of cataract in elderly people was very high and it was the major cause of preventable blindness. We were arranging Cataract Operation Camps in Kesinga, a small town where all the basic amenities like infrastructure, manpower, transport service and health care providers were available. The operating surgeons from Bhawanipatna, the district head quarter hospital, were visiting the camps to perform surgery. The patients had to stay for seven days in the camp. The persons used to come to the camp on their own arrangement. Once they reached everything like food, operation cost, medicines, black goggles and return journey to their residences were provided free of cost as a part of the charitable service of the Lions Club.
Prior to the camp the members of the Club used to visit the surrounding villages in a vehicle armed with loud speaker services and campaigned for the camp schedule. In one such campaign I accompanied the team. A middle aged person named Ainthu in a remote village approached and greeted me.
The conversation between us went like this.
- Juhar ajna (Good afternoon, Sir)!
- Good afternoon. Is there any problem? Hope you are all fine.
- By the grace of Goddess Maa Manikeswari everything is fine.
- Then, what is the problem?
Ainthu remained silent. I persisted,
- Why are you scared? What prevents you to spill out your problems frankly to me? Unless you tell your problem, how can I be able to mitigate your suffering? Your beloved doctor is in front of you to take care of your misery. Without any hesitation speak out your issues.
- Sir…My father would be operated for cataract.
- Don’t worry. Take him to the camp. The camp is scheduled to be held on next Saturday at Jain Bhawan, Kesinga. We will operate and take care of him. You know the place?
- Yes Sir. I know the place. I had attended the Dental Camp arranged by you at that place last year. My father has cataract in both the eyes.
- Oh. Is it the issue? We can’t operate in both the eyes in one sitting. In this camp we will operate the most affected eye. Another camp is scheduled in that place in six months' time and we will do surgery in the other eye in that camp. It will be suitable to both of you.
The person did not utter anything.
- What is bothering you? Why are you in dilemma? Are you apprehending something bad? We will provide the best services to your father. In addition we will also provide food to you. Probably you are unable to arrange transport to shift him to the camp site. In that case I will request your Sarapanch to take care of it. He will arrange the transport. Is it alright?
With much hesitation he asked me, “How much money you will give us for one eye to be operated?”
I was completely taken aback and dumb founded.
I told him “We will provide all the services free of cost. Why give money to you and for what purpose?”
Can you imagine what his answer was?
He stubbornly replied, “We are innocent and ignorant people. Government Officials are cheating us and diverting our money to their own pocket. Of course you are different Sir. On many occasions in the past you have helped me and my family members. That is why I am expressing my feelings before you with the hope of getting help through you this time also. Last month my wife had undergone family planning operation and she was paid money for the operation. This time also, when we give our consent for this eye operation, why Government will not pay us money? We are poor people. God will not forgive them if they pocket our money. In the name of God you assure us to mobilize the organizers to handover us our hard earned money, otherwise we will not attend this camp. Whoever provides us money for the operation, my father will get operated in that camp only and that is my final answer."
I could not know whether to laugh or cry. Are these people simple and upright or shrewd and cunning? To me, an experienced physician and astute mind reader, he did not look like a deceitful fraudulent person. For these simple and innocent people, whom the evils of the modern civilization have not yet devoured, all operations are equal: be it a sterilization procedure or a cataract surgery. When money is being paid for family planning operation, the beneficiaries in other operations must be compensated too.
I could understand his dilemma and patiently tried to convince him the difference between the two operations in a two way communication procedure.
I asked him “How many days your wife stayed in the family planning operation camp?”
To a patient listener like me and a well wisher to him in his view, he joyfully narrated the happenings of that day in detail. Why days, Sir? It took only 3 to 4 hours. The vehicle of the hospital led us there. My wife put her thumb impression on some papers. After half an hour she was taken to the operation room and everything was over in few minutes. She was brought to another room where she took rest for two hours, money was paid and the vehicle brought us to our house.
Then I put before him a battery of tricky questions. “Wonderful. So you were paid money for the operation. But did anybody offer food to you and your wife at the operation site? How did you feed your wife in the seven days after operation because she might be feeling weak after the operation and requiring nutritious food like fish, meat, etc to regain health.”
“No Sir. We were not provided any food or drink in the camp. How can I be able to purchase high energy food for her? Even we cannot arrange enough food for us on many occasions. I used the money, we received at the camp, to purchase energetic food for her.”
“Now look Ainthu. You did not stay in the hospital and the money was paid to arrange energetic food for your wife because the hospital staff can’t come to your house daily to provide food for her. This camp is organized not by the Government people but by the Lions Club who arranged the dental camp where you got your tooth extracted. Both you and your father will remain in the camp for seven days and all your expenses including food will be taken care of by the club. So why money will be given when you are provided everything free of cost and you will not spend a single pie from your pocket? Even the club will provide your return transport, black goggles at the time of return and the permanent spectacles after one month. In addition, being a member of the Club, I will be present throughout the camp and will look after you people. All operations are not equal. This operation is required to cure your father. Without operation most probably he will lose his vision. Now you think how you will manage your blind father in future. You don’t have money. You are unable to spend from your own pocket to treat him. Now it is up to you to decide whether you want to avail this unique opportunity or not.”
Ainthu thought for a moment. Suddenly he bowed down at my feet and said, “I am extremely sorry. I misunderstood you. You are my God. When you are there I will certainly not face any problem. Kindly include my father’s name in the list”.
I lifted him from the ground and with an assuring smile patted his back and left the place. My mission was accomplished. Not only his father attended the camp but also our Ainthu mobilized five other cataract cases for the camp from his village. Needless to say they were all looked after well in the camp and their village was adopted by the Lions Club for overall development.
This incident I encountered way back in 1985. But at present it is still relevant, even in the 21st century and similar incidences are occurring in some areas every now and then. As per the media reports, few days back some persons in Bihar refused to take Covid-19 vaccine unless they were paid huge amounts. So who would solve such problems which are politically engineered and viewed from the vote bank angle? Let us wait and watch and pray for good times to come.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo,MD (Pediatrics) is a retired Joint Director Grade 1 of Health and Family Welfare Department of Government of Odisha and now a practicing Pediatrician at Vyasnagar, the Steel City of Odisha. Besides being an eminent Pediatrician of Odisha he is also a prolific writer in Odia. He pens down the real happenings around him and his characters are his patients, the parents and his colleagues. He has contributed a book in Odia " BABU SAHOO KALAMARU " which is an unique characterisation of human values and nature and is adored by one and all. He is also a Columnist in Health Problems and writing on different aspects of current health issues since last several years in a local monthly Newspaper " The Kalinga Nagara Bulletin". He has represented the state in several National Platforms. He has a record number of 24 Awards, Local, State and National, noteworthy being PURBANCHAL SISHU BISESANGYA SHIROMANI AWARD 2017 and MAHATMA GANDHI AWARD 1997 by Government of Odisha. He is Life member of many Organisations including Indian Medical Association, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and National Neonatology Forum. At present he is State President of both, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and Pediatrics Allergy and Applied Immunology Chapter.
Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
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There was nothing in common amongst the five of them except that they hailed from Ganjam District in Southern Odisha and worked in the same cloth mill in Surat. They lived in the first-floor house of their foreman, Babulal. Their rented house comprised a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen and a store. The washroom with a separate Water Closet (WC) and a bath was at the other end of the terrace. On the outer wall of the bath, a porcelain sink and a mirror were provided for brushing teeth and grooming.
Three of them slept in the bedroom, and the other two slept in the living room. They were used to sleeping on the floor on a thin rug and kept the only boxes they had on shelves in their respective rooms. Both the rooms were provided with a ceiling fan and a tube light each. A small 2' x 2' table with a chair was placed in one corner of the living room and served as a writing desk. The landlord had provided a small LCD TV in the living room. The kitchen was small, with a raised platform to place the gas stove. Open shelves were provided on the kitchen walls for storing provisions and condiments. At one end was a sink with a tap to wash the vegetables and dishes. The storeroom was attached to the kitchen and had some shelves to store vegetables and grains. Each of them paid rent of rupees one thousand, which included charges for water and electricity.
Banka was the eldest of the lot. He was employed at Surat for the last seven years and was very familiar with the city. He had made friends with many natives working in the mill where he was employed. The other four had followed him the next year. A smooth talker, he made friends easily and had developed many local contacts. He was the leader of the pack and enjoyed veto power in any decision concerning the running of the household.
Montu had completed his graduation and was the most knowledgeable of the five. He was always up to date on current affairs and used all modes of information gathering - workplace gossip, TV news channels and social media. He was quite generous in imparting news with detailed commentary on each issue.
Nakul and Sahdev were brothers. Nakul being elder to Sahdev took all decisions on their behalf. He also controlled the finances of both. The brothers were part of a large joint family.
Bhola was the fifth member of the team. They called him Chhota (the lame one, in Odia language) as he was differently-abled. Having suffered from polio in his early years, he walked with a limp and that’s how he had gained himself the name. He was the younger of two brothers and had come to Surat as a replacement for his brother on attaining eighteen years of age. He had been working in the mill for six years while his brother worked in the family fields. They had a younger sister of marriageable age, back in the village. Chhota was a dedicated worker and performed as well as the other workers, despite the limp. Because of his honest nature, they had assigned him the post of their Mess Manager. He kept track of what each individual ate, calculated the expenditure of running the kitchen, and collected the dues for the following month. No one ever questioned his calculations, because they knew that there would be no errors.
The mill ran three shifts of eight hours each, breaks included. Employees reported for duty in their respective shifts. It was rare for all of them to be together in the house, and hence; the house did not seem crowded. Those who were not working their shifts cooked lunch and dinner. Chhota decided on the menu and purchased grocery and vegetables from the neighbourhood shops. They distributed all other chores amongst themselves, and the household ran smoothly and peacefully.
Of the five, all were married except Chhota, who had planned to marry only after his younger sister got married. They were granted paid leave twice a year; fifteen days for Diwali and ten for Holi, excluding the journey period. Every month, they would transfer the bulk of their wages to their families, keeping one fourth for their expenses on rent and food. The bonus they received before their leave would be used to buy gifts for their family members.
It was Montu who first broke the news of the breakout of the COVID Virus, in the Wuhan wet market. Montu also showed them a video post of a certain Army enforcing isolation and shooting down infected people to stop the spread of the virus. A few days later, Montu showed them a video of the COVID situation in Italy, where the pandemic had spread so badly that people were dying with no medical care. He showed them dead bodies piled up on streets and hospitals. The videos later turned out to be fake. By showing many such fake videos, Montu had caused apprehension and concern in the group.
These kinds of videos were in circulation in the country for many days and were mainly responsible for scaring the migrant workers when the pandemic hit India. When the lockdown was enforced at the end of March 2020, another video surfaced, warning people that those who got infected with COVID would be forcibly moved to hospitals and if the patient died, the body would be cremated without the presence of relatives.
“Even the closest of relatives won’t be allowed to see the deceased,” Montu emphasised. Needless to say, that this was the major fear of the migrant workers that if they continued to stay in their places of work and got infected with COVID, they would be cremated by unknown people, away from their wives, children and near and dear ones.
As days passed under lockdown, Chhota noticed that the ration stock was running out. When he asked the others for money to run the mess, there was concern in the group. The mill owner had refused to pay them their wages, citing business losses because of the lockdown. The administration did not provide them with any help because they were not holding ration cards. Babulal, the neighbours and some NGOs helped them with rice and pulses. But they were short of vegetables, milk, condiments and other items of daily use.
The prevailing situation provided the right opportunity for political parties across the country to raise the issue of mismanagement of the pandemic, and they saw a perfect tool in the migrant workers. Rather than giving a helping hand to the migrants, vested interests helped to organize protests. Lack of basic amenity, loss of a job, fear of death away from home, the apathy of the local administration and elected leaders, egged them to head home. Based on the demand from the state governments, the central government permitted a regulated movement of migrant workers back to their native place. The five friends sat together to work out a common approach to get back to their villages. No single solution could be reached. They decided that each one should find a way most suitable to him.
-2-
Banka was the first to plan his move to his native land. He was sceptical about the speed and volume of the government's efforts to organize the repatriation of migrant workers. Who knew what would be the spread of the pandemic by the time his turn came to go back home? He contacted a tour operator to hire a taxi for Berhampur town in Odisha. The tour operator, a shrewd Gujarati businessman, calculated the return fare, detention charges, and unforeseen expenditure and quoted Rupees sixty thousand for the trip. He also mentioned that, as per the guidelines, he could carry only two passengers. Banka realised that this was way beyond their capacity to pay, especially now that they were unemployed.
Not one to give up, he decided that the alternate course of action was to make the trip on a bike. When he discussed the idea with his friends, there was a lack of enthusiasm from all quarters. They tried to dissuade him from taking such a risky journey. Riding nearly two thousand kilometres on a bike did not seem a good idea to them. Banka was not discouraged, though.
"Would Columbus have discovered the Americas, if he had listened to his mother?" He remarked. There was only one minor problem in executing his plan. He didn't possess a bike. But certainly, his friend Rattan Bhai would help, he thought. True to his expectation, Rattan Bhai who had been a close friend since his arrival in the city seven years back did not hesitate to lend him his bike. It was two years old but in excellent condition. The tyres were as good as new, having covered very less mileage. Banka promised Rattan Bhai that he would return with his two-wheeler as soon as the pandemic subsided.
Banka started studying the route to prepare for his journey. The total distance as per Google Maps was about 1800 kilometres to his native village, the best route being Surat-Nagpur-Raipur-Sambalpur-Boudh-Bhanjanagar and finally Berhampur. He could cover 500 to 600 kilometres a day if he started early and drove till dusk. En route, he would top up the fuel tank, his water bottle, and pack some food. For directions, he could take the help of Google Maps. He decided to travel light, carrying only a pair of clothes, toiletries, his debit card, mobile, a two-litre water bottle, six packets of biscuits as emergency food and a small flashlight. He calculated that five thousand rupees would meet his expenses on petrol and food.
When they had dinner that night, he discussed his plan with his friends, who again advised him against his rash decision. Banka told them not to worry. He asked Chhota, if he could have some leftover rotis and cooked vegetables packed for his journey. He put his mobile to charge, placed all items in the luggage box of his bike and went to sleep. He woke up early morning, freshened up, and bid goodbye to his friends. Chhota, as promised, handed him a parcel of food for the journey. It was six O'clock when he hit the road.
There was hardly any movement on the road and within half an hour, he hit NH (National Highway) 53 and continued for another 70 kilometres till he reached SH (State Highway) 80. This distance he had covered in just over an hour and a half. He passed Sonegadh to reach Navapur in Maharashtra by 8:30 AM. Making excellent progress at an average speed of 50 kilometres an hour; he continued past the Dondachia by-pass, hit the NH 52, and passed Amode at 11:30 AM. He felt the urge for a cup of tea but, to his dismay, did not find an open roadside shop. En route, finding a petrol pump, he topped up his tank. From Amode to Khargone was another 120 kilometres, which took him another two and a half hours. By this time, he was too tired and rested to have lunch under a shady tree along the highway. After an hour's rest, he was on his way again.
It was getting dark when he reached Aulia at 6 PM. Consulting Google Maps he then headed for the Forest Rest house, which was closed. Luckily, he found a man, who he presumed to be the caretaker of the rest house. Ramanna, the caretaker permitted him to sleep on the veranda and have a bath at the water point in the garden. After hearing out his plight, he also served him roti, daal and a curry for dinner. When Banka offered one hundred rupees to this benevolent man, the latter refused to accept it. Banka then called up his family to inform his wife of his progress. As he was ending the call, he realized that he had forgotten to carry his mobile charger. He then laid his thin towel on the floor and slept, unmindful of the mosquitoes and the flies.
When he woke up the next morning, it was past 6 AM and his body was sore all over. He quickly freshened up, thanked his host and set off on his journey. Having travelled about 80 km after topping his tank, he had just adequate fuel for the drive to Nagpur. At many check posts along the way, he was halted, but allowed to continue with his journey when he revealed that he was only transiting through. Good riddance was a general opinion.
The distance to Nagpur was 285 kilometres. He planned to reach there around 1 PM. He turned in to State Highway 26 on the Betul-Khandwa road and after two hours, covering a distance of about 100 kilometres came on to NH 47. At Betul Bazaar, he found an eatery that was open and served takeaways of puri and choley. He got his breakfast packed and was on his way. Once out of habitation, he stopped to eat his breakfast by the roadside while also resting for a few minutes. The road ahead was good, and he made it to Nagpur by 1:30 PM. On the bypass road, he stopped to fill petrol and get his lunch from a roadside hotel which was fortunately open. Again, he had to eat his lunch by the roadside under a tree.
Having eaten and rested properly, he was on the road at 3 PM. By evening, after riding for three hours, he reached the small town of Deori. He stayed the night there. He found a petrol station and topped up his tank for the journey ahead. That night, he slept in a temple’s premises with the permission of the priest. He took a cool bath with the water drawn from the well, had dinner offered by the priest and slept on the tiled floor of the courtyard. Before hitting the bed, he spoke to his wife to inform her of his progress. He noticed that his mobile needed a charge and could be used only in an emergency.
The next morning, he freshened up and was on his way by 7 AM. He passed Rajnandgaon after one and a half hours, continuing on NH 53, till he reached Durg bypass. There he found a tea shop, which had closed, but the owner was prepared to sell him tea and some samosas. He had planned to reach Raipur by 11 AM and from there, head on to Sambalpur, 270 kilometres away. He passed the town of Bhilai, without stopping and headed towards Kumhari, a distance of thirty kilometres.
About ten kilometres short of Kumhari, he felt the front tyre wobble, forcing him to get down. On examination, he found that he had a flat tyre. Unlike scooters, where you carry a spare tyre for such an eventuality, this facility is lacking in bikes. Helpless, he waited for a vehicle to stop and give him a lift to the nearest town. But many trucks passed by without stopping to help. After thumbing up for a couple of hours, a truck stopped and offered to help him. With the help of the driver and his co-passenger, the bike was lifted onto the truck and fastened with a rope to the truck's body. The driver dropped him off at the BP petrol pump, where he could get the tyre repaired. Unfortunately, the owner of the repair shop was not readily available and turned up an hour later. He removed the tyre and checked the tube for leakage. The culprit, a nail, was found and removed. The entire exercise of removal of tyre, repairing it and fitting it back took another half an hour. Banka topped up his petrol tank, ate some biscuits and was on his way. By the time he passed Raipur, it was already 3 PM.
The next part of his journey to Sambalpur was 270 kilometres, which he could cover in six to seven hours. He continued his journey without stopping at Raipur bypass for lunch. He covered the distance of about 100 kilometres in the next two-and-a-half hours. Along the journey, he saw groups of men, women and children, walking on the shoulders of the highway with their baggage. He surmised that they too were migrant workers like him, returning from Raipur to their native places. As the sun began to set in, he slowed down his speed and by the time he reached Basna, it was nearing 7 PM. He found a willing teashop owner who served him tea. There, he munched some biscuits along with tea and after half an hour, rode on again. There was hardly any traffic on the road and very few habitations alongside. He hoped to cross Chhattisgarh and enter Odisha in the next two hours.
He passed the town of Singhora at about 8 PM. After riding for another ten kilometres, he saw a bamboo barrier across the road. He slowed down and waited for the barrier to lift and let him pass. But, suddenly, five men emerged from the jungle and surrounded his bike. They were armed with sticks while one of them held a knife too. Before he could react, the knife-wielding man asked him to get down from the bike and hand over all his possessions. He obeyed, removing his wallet, ring and watch. Banka knew he could neither fight nor flee from the robbers. One robber took off his helmet and snatched his bike key. With folded hand, he begged them to spare the bike, explaining to them that he was on his journey home. Losing his patience, one robber hit him on the head with his stick so hard that Banka fell on to the ground and passed out.
After two hours, when he gained consciousness, his head was swollen and there was blood all over his shirt from the fall and the hit. He was alone on the highway, in the night, hungry and tired. The robbers took away his mobile; wallet containing his driving license, Aadhar card, and about five hundred rupees. His debit card and balance cash of three thousand rupees were in the secret pocket of his trousers and were safe. In despair, he started walking on the road, toward the nearest town. It took him three hours to cover a distance of ten kilometres. Short of the town, he saw an abandoned roadside eatery where he went to sleep on the veranda.
Early the next morning, he reached the police station to complain of assault and robbery. The constable on duty was sleeping on the premises but woke up as Banka walked in. After listening to his ordeal, the constable asked him to wait till the arrival of the officer-in-charge. Banka used the washroom to freshen up and used the constable's mobile phone to inform his wife of his whereabouts. The constable was kind enough to offer him some snacks for breakfast. The Officer-in-charge arrived at 10 AM, spoke to Banka, and accompanied him to the crime scene. He could find no clues, except the bamboo barrier which had been taken off and dumped by the roadside. There was no trace of the motorcycle either. Back in the police station, an FIR was lodged, and they put him on a truck, heading towards Sambalpur. They also advised him to lodge a claim with the insurance company for the stolen bike. At the border check post, he passed off as a crew of the truck and was allowed entry to Odisha.
At Sambalpur, Banka was lucky to hitch a ride on a truck going to Visakhapatnam. Informing his wife that he would reach in the morrow at the early hours, he boarded the truck and lay on the cargo. Hungry and tired, he went off to sleep. Early morning, when the truck reached his village on the NH 16, he was woken up by the driver. Banka thanked him profusely and walked toward his house, which was a walk of about half a kilometre. When he knocked on the door, his wife asked him to report to the Isolation Centre near the village post office.
They kept Banka in isolation for fourteen days before releasing him. It was worse than a jail sentence; he told his family, though he had never been inside one. When he finally met his family, he heaved a sigh of relief.
-3-
As soon as Banka left Surat on his bike, Montu started regretting that he did not leave along with him. Waiting for the government machinery to grind its wheels and provide transport seemed futile as well. So, when one of his acquaintances called him to ask if he was ready to board a bus back home, he did not think twice before giving his consent. The bus was a forty-seater luxury one with twin seats separated by an aisle. The seats had the provision to push back. To maintain social distance, only eighteen passengers were to be allowed to board; two seats being reserved for the spare crew. The tour operator had fixed the price per passenger at ten thousand rupees, considering the return fare, salary of the extra crew and the cost of obtaining the permits. The entire journey of 1800 kilometres was to be nonstop, except for breaks for meals only.
Montu paid for the fare and was present the next day at the designated boarding area, half an hour before the scheduled departure. He had with him, a suitcase and a carry bag. Chhota had packed dinner and breakfast separately, comprising puris and dry vegetables. He had also packed two kilograms of beaten rice, a dozen bananas, some sugar and two plastic bottles, filled with tap water. All Montu had to do for a meal was to soak some beaten rice for half an hour in the water, drain the excess water and mix some sugar and mashed bananas. The bus was ready and in the yard. From the appearance, it looked decent. The interior was classy too and as promised; the seats looked comfortable. Gradually, the other passengers arrived and boarded the bus. The spare crew checked each passenger with an infrared thermometer for fever, asked if they had any symptoms of cough or cold, and after satisfying that the passenger appeared to be free from infection, let them board their designated seats.
The luggage was kept in the hold below the chassis. Most of the passengers were about his age, workers from other mills or the diamond cutting shops. There was one woman with a baby, three or four months old. Her husband carried a bag containing nappies, baby dresses and towels. Montu had his seat in the last but one row, the last row being reserved for the spare driver and conductor. The couple was seated two rows ahead on either side of the aisle. The bus departed at 9 PM. Before driving away, the conductor asked everyone to keep their mouth and nose covered at all times and maintain social distance with each other.
“Early tomorrow morning, we will halt for two hours to freshen up and eat breakfast. This will help you to stretch your limbs as well. Afterwards, we will halt at Nagpur for lunch.” The driver announced before the commencement of the journey.
Montu pulled back the lever on the side of the seat and pushed it back to its limit. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. He was asleep for about an hour when the baby on the bus tested the powers of his vocal cord. He had a shrill cry as most babies do and woke up half the passengers. When his stamina ran out or perhaps when he was nursed by his mother, he went into a peaceful sleep. But it took great effort for Montu to get back to sleep after that. No sooner than he had got two winks, the little fellow started with another howl. He had wet his nappy and would not sleep till he was dry again. The mother investigated and carried out the nappy change. Soon, both the baby and his mother fell asleep. The next feed time was perhaps around four O’clock when the baby called for attention again, this time waking up all the passengers and the extra crew.
At about six in the morning, the bus came to a stop on the highway. The conductor woke up all passengers and asked them to freshen up, have their breakfast and be ready to move by eight. Montu got down from the bus. The morning sun had risen. He saw that they were parked short of a bridge, an ideal place to halt. He guessed that they must have travelled about five hundred kilometres and was not far off the mark. All gents got down to the left of the pier, leaving the right flank for the lady and her husband. Everyone got hold of their toiletries to freshen up. Montu had a bath in the rivulet. After his bath, he took out his packed meal and finished his breakfast. Then he lay down by the side of the bus and took a brief nap.
At about 8 AM, they continued on their journey towards Nagpur, with the extra crew now in the driving seat. The baby, having been cleaned and fed, was at peace and did not cause any further disturbance. An hour past noon, the driver pulled along a roadside eatery on the Nagpur bypass. ‘Take away meals ready,’ was scribbled in chalk on a blackboard placed by the roadside. The passengers got down, paid for their meals and collected the items packed neatly in small packages. There were several tables and chairs placed outside the eatery where they sat down and ate their lunch. The eatery had a washroom, sold mineral water and packaged snacks. After a break of two hours, the driver honked, calling everyone to take their seats, and the bus headed for Raipur.
As they by-passed Raipur at around 7 PM, the driver pulled up on the outskirts of the city, near a hotel for dinner. Here too, the passengers were provided packed food packets on payment, with a wide choice of items on the menu. The hotel did not have a front yard for diners to sit at. So, the passengers had to eat their meals, seated in the bus. The night crew, having rested, took charge of the bus now. At 8 PM, the driver blew the horn, checked that all passengers were seated and drove on for the last part of their journey to Berhampur.
At 1 AM when they passed Sambalpur, the baby had become active as per his schedule, disturbing the silent atmosphere inside the bus. The parents by this time had given up pretending to be embarrassed. Sambalpur to Berhampur was 320 Kilometres and would take about seven hours of driving. At 2:30 AM, the driver stopped at Boudh to have a cup of tea at a tea stall, which catered to the night traffic. Soon afterwards, they passed Charchhak, Madhapur, and Tikripada while heading for Bhanjanagar.
Early morning at about 6 AM, just short of Bhanjanagar, the driver dozed off for a few seconds, only to be fortunately woken by the sudden wail of the baby. He saw the curve ahead, immediately swerved to the right, but still hit a gigantic tree. The bus came to a stop with a loud bang, reducing the engine compartment and front portion of the vehicle to mangled pieces of steel. The driver sadly breathed his last, with the steering wheel still in his hands. Montu, sleeping on his seat, was thrown off into the air, his head hitting the roof. When he woke up, he found himself on a bed in the Government Hospital, Bhanjanagar.
Montu had sustained minor head injuries and bruises at many places on the body. He had severely strained his neck and back as well. After three days, he was discharged and moved to a quarantine facility set up in his village. Later on, from newspaper accounts, he came to know that six passengers along with the driver had lost their lives in the accident. Two more passengers were critically injured and were undergoing treatment. The baby was miraculously left unscathed, though its parents suffered minor injuries. But for his wailing, the vehicle would have gone off the road into a deep ravine, killing many more. After fourteen days of quarantine, Montu was united with his family.
-4-
Nakul & Sahdev were amongst the first lot to register with the Government of Odisha, for repatriation to their native place. Nakul was keeping himself up to date with the communication between the state and centre, especially with the railway ministry. Ten days later, there was a message from the state administration to contact their liaison officer at Surat to book tickets for their journey. They needed to get tested for COVID and produce the certificate before boarding the train. This having been taken care of, Nakul could get the booking done for both of them on a special train which would take them from Surat to Berhampur.
After initial confusion about the departure time, they were informed that the train would depart Surat Railway station at 6 PM on 15th April 20. They had to present themselves at least three hours before the scheduled time of departure for scanning and documentation. When they reached the station, there was a long serpentine queue of passengers. They too joined the queue and were only let on to the platform after body scanning and verification of their certificates. There was an immense crowd even at the station, with everyone inquiring about the status of their journey. It was a melee of thousands of people, pushing each other, hungry and angry at their apathetic condition. Everyone wanted to move out at the earliest viable opportunity.
The train was fully sanitized and smelt of chlorine. The brothers entered their compartment to head to their designated seats. Half the seats on the train were assigned while the other half was empty, to ensure social distancing during the journey. Everyone was wearing a mask, covering their faces and nose.
The train was to run nonstop, except for refuelling and scheduled to reach the destination within thirty-six hours. During the journey, meals were to be provided, the cost of which had been included in the train fare. Nakul had ensured that they carried two bottles of water each, a dozen bananas and some snack packets. As the train was about to depart, the local administration handed over a package of food containing rice, daal, rotis, a subzi, pickles, a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of soft drink. One passenger, upon seeing the contents, refused to eat the food, throwing it out on the platform. This prompted many others to do likewise and express their disappointment. Somehow, it had escaped their mind that many poor people would have been overjoyed to have some food in their belly during these testing times. When the train crawled out of the station, the platform was strewn with wasted food, polythene bags and cardboard boxes.
As the train sped away, the passengers, having settled down, started forming their groups. Many of them were seen moving through the coaches to fraternize with their friends and relatives who were in the other compartments. The guards and the train staff ultimately gave up disciplining the passengers. By the time dinner trays were cleared by the pantry staff, all COVID norms had been forgotten. Masks had come down now, covering only the chin, while groups of three or four passengers were in heated discussions over various issues. One enterprising fellow in the compartment, carrying a pack of playing card had even started a foursome.
The journey was otherwise uneventful and by early morning the day after, the train had reached Berhampur station. To avoid quarantine at the destination, a few of the passengers had jumped off the train at the outer signal point, while the train had slowed down. These people were later identified, tracked back to their villages and shifted to quarantine homes, but not before some of them had infected their families and acquaintances.
A reception party was waiting for the rest of the passengers. The officials got them segregated into groups based on the location of their villages and transported them to their respective quarantine homes.
Nakul & Sahdev were quarantined in a vacant school building close to their village. The desks and chairs had been removed while steel cots with mattresses were laid out in the classrooms. Each room had eight beds, four each on either side of the aisle. There were two fans and a tube light fitted to the ceiling. The washrooms were at one end of the compound with four WCs. The only point for bathing was a tap at the centre of the garden. One dormitory was kept reserved for the ladies, and they had the luxury of using the washroom next to the Head Master's office.
Some makeshift dormitories were already occupied by earlier arrivals. Nakul and Sahdev were housed in a room with five more inmates. An officer from the local administration was in charge, supported by the school staff, who had never managed a quarantine centre. A set routine was explained to them starting from morning reveille to evening retreat, the same as in a Prisoner of War camp. The regimen was also written on the blackboard in each classroom.
They served breakfast in a corner shed. It comprised six puris and dry daal. This caused strong resentment amongst the earliest inmates, who complained that they had been served the same menu since their arrival two days back. The officer-in-charge pacified them by assuring them that their grievances would be conveyed to the concerned authorities. After their breakfast, the new inmates had to show up for a talk on COVID-19 delivered to them by the officer-in-charge, at the end of which they were left alone to rest. Strict instructions were given to them to stay in their respective dormitories.
The school building was made to very basic specifications, like most government vernacular schools. The tin roofs kept the room too warm for comfort while the fans only helped to circulate the hot dry air. The inmates were naturally very uncomfortable. By lunchtime, the only point of discussion was the poor facilities provided to them. Taking initiative, Nakul tried to pacify them by highlighting the paucity of resources to hold numerous migrant workers at various quarantine facilities in the state. But none except Sahdev was prepared to pay heed to him.
Lunch was delayed by an hour because of some administrative problems and finally, when it was served, the inmates refused to eat the same menu of rice, daal and curry. Some of them left their food plate around the service table, while one inmate went to the extent of throwing away his food onto the floor. Some others were calling for a hunger strike. When Nakul tried to reason with them, they chided him for being a government stooge. The inmates surrounded the officer-in-charge, threatening him of an indefinite hunger strike till the tahsildar came to the facility and heard their grievances. Upon his arrival, he too tried to reason with the crowd, but mob mentality had set in and he was shooed away. Only two more inmates apart from Nakul and Sahdev ate their lunch that day.
By late evening, a revolt was brewing up, with the inmates demanding that they be immediately sent home. Unfortunately for them, there was no one to listen to their bickering. When dinner was served, only Nakul, Sahdev and six other inmates reached the serving table. That night, all the other inmates scaled the compound wall and deserted the facility. Later, some of them were traced back to their villages, taking the help of their Aadhar card and mobile numbers.
Over the next couple of days, more migrant workers were admitted to the facility. After the initial hiccups, though, the food had considerably improved. Nakul and Sahdev after completing their fourteen days of isolation returned to their home. But their happiness was short-lived since Sahdev had started displaying symptoms of COVID and had to be admitted to a hospital at Berhampur where he convalesced.
-5-
Chhota watched his friends leave one by one. He was sad to see them go but was determined to stay put and handle the crisis, being optimistic that the mill would open up soon. Babulal, the landlord offered to loan him money for the ticket, but Chhota explained to him that it wasn’t because of financial constraints that he wasn’t going home.
“What will I do back home? The situation there is equally bad, and I have every chance of getting infected on the way. Besides, I promised my family that I would pay for my younger sister’s marriage. You will see, all my friends will get bored at home and be back soon.”
Babulal understood his plight and assured him that he could continue to stay in the house without paying any rent. His bare necessities of groceries and items of daily use were provided by a local NGO.
Babulal, a true blood Gujarati had found an opportunity in the pandemic and had started stitching face masks at his house. The cloth he bought as rags from his mill, free of cost. The mill had shut down, so the owner was happy to get rid of the huge dump of rags of different sizes lying inside the plant. Two days later, Babulal turned up to check if Chhota was comfortable. He also asked him if he would help in stitching face masks, which were in great demand.
Babulal had made a makeshift workshop where his youngest daughter and her friend from the neighbourhood sat behind their sewing machines to stitch the masks. They would work for ten hours after breakfast and be done by dinnertime. In between, they had breaks for tea and lunch. Their output was between 60 -70 masks each per day, far short of the target. The NGOs purchased the mask at ten Rupees apiece, for which Babulal paid his team two rupees each. Chhota readily agreed to the proposal. After all, it would provide him with extra income while keeping his mind occupied.
Chhota wasn’t good with a sewing machine, making only 42 masks on the first day. He suggested that together they could stitch more masks if they revised the workflow. He would do the cutting of the rags; one girl would then stitch the edges and the other would stitch the straps. Finally, Chhota would iron the masks and place them in polythene packets, ten masks to a pack. Babulal agreed to the suggested work allocation, which doubled the output. During the day, Babulal's wife provided them with tea and snacks and a sumptuous Gujarati lunch.
Babulal had three daughters, all fair and beautiful. The elder daughters after finishing graduation had been married into well-to-do business families. His youngest daughter Abha unfortunately, was physically challenged. God had bestowed her with fair skin, long dark hair, a beautiful face with doe eyes, but she could neither speak nor hear. She was twenty-one years old and Babulal and his wife doted on her. Apart from her looks, she was also a gifted child. She painted well and had excellent tailoring skills. The family understood her gestures while she could lip-read their responses.
Chhota and the other tenants had very little interaction with Babulal's family, though Babulal dropped in once in a while to collect the rent and ask after them. During festivals, he would be accompanied by his wife, who brought them, homemade sweets. Though Chhota had seen Abha many times from far, he was unaware that she was both deaf and dumb. He focused on his work while the only interaction he had with Abha was when he handed her a few cuttings every fifteen minutes for her part of the job.
When news of Banka, Montu, Nakul and Sahdev reached Chhota, he felt sorry for them and thanked God for giving him the wisdom to stay back. The daily production rate of masks had gone up to 400, which fetched him a daily earning of nearly a thousand rupees. Besides, the family had been providing dinner every night so that he didn’t have to go back after a day’s work and cook for himself. He enjoyed Gujarati cuisine prepared by the lady of the house. During the pandemic, when unemployment was high, he reckoned it was a good deal.
Exactly when Chhota and Abha felt attracted to each other is difficult to surmise, but cupid had struck both of them. Babulal’s wife noticed a positive change in Abha, a glow in her countenance which had not been there before. As a mother, she understood that her darling daughter was feeling elated of late. It couldn’t have been the work she was doing, for Abha could make much more with a piece of fabric than a mask. She mentioned this to her husband, who too was wondering as to what could have affected the girl.
Chhota on the other hand was very thoughtful. Off and on, whenever he secretly glanced at her, he found her, looking back at him from the corner of her eyes. He understood that one-sided love was futile and even if Abha had similar feelings, it would lead nowhere. He suppressed his emotions and concentrated on his work. Abha's love for Chhota was not at first sight, though. She had watched him as he talked to her father in mixed Gujarati and Hindi, finding it hilarious. But, when he settled down to work, she found him to be very patient, quiet, efficient and happy with his life. Overall, a man who was at peace with himself and with God, she thought.
It didn't take long for her mother to unlock Abha's heart. She had liked the man and eventually confided in her mother. Babulal and his wife had known Chhota for over six years and both had found him to be a good, God-fearing and honest man. He had an excellent reputation amongst his co-workers at the mill and Babulal knew this, being the foreman.
Babulal had desired a husband for Abha, who would stay with them while looking after her. He wanted to start a business venture with Abha’s craft, which her future husband could manage. As time passed, he realized that his desire would remain only a dream and that he wouldn’t be able to find a suitable match for her. God had now given him a choice in the form of Chhota. The only issue was whether the latter would take the offer, considering that they belonged to different states, different backgrounds, divided by different traditions and culture. He decided to probe Chhota tactfully.
One evening, after dinner, there was a knock on the door. Chhota opened the door to find Babulal standing outside. After he ushered him in, Babulal sat down. He asked Chhota about his family and left after chatting for about an hour. When he visited again after a couple of days, Chhota had armed himself with several queries regarding Babulal and his family. His questions were mostly about Abha and what the family planned about her future. Babulal was honest in his answers, mentioning the difficulty in finding a suitable groom who would take care of her and be willing to live with the family.
Chhota could not hold himself back any longer. “Do you think I will make a suitable match for Abha? I know I am physically challenged, but I assure you that I will keep her happy,” he promised Babulal.
“But what about your family? Will they agree?” Babulal asked, trying to suppress his joy.
“I am sure they will approve. They too are having difficulty finding a match for me and Abha is beyond our dreams,” Chhota answered earnestly. “What about Abha? Will she consent?”
“Perhaps you should ask her,” Babulal replied.
The next day, before the commencement of dinner, the family was seated in the living room. That's when Chhota proposed to Abha.
The marriage date is not set yet. But the engagement ceremony will be held soon.
PS: This story is one out of 15 stories and 6 poems from the book ‘Corona Times,’ written by Lt Gen N P Padhi (Retd). The book is available for Rs 250 at Notionpress.com and at Amazon.in, in both paperback and kindle format.
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.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS :: THE AZURE POT
Ten years had passed, and Kanaka was surprised to note that she had not changed much. Still slim and fair but her eyes had a tinge of sadness, belying her vivacity. The old lady who clung to her hand, Kanaka surmised, must be her mother. From her conversation Kanaka gathered that she was leading a comfortable life with her mother and had become an advocate with a good reputation. Kanaka felt proud and happy to see one of her ugly ducklings turned into a graceful swan.
The niggling pain whenever she thought of Denna was now appeased. That night she could not sleep as thoughts about Denna pervaded her mind.
"Pappa …"
"Me", his eyes blazing.
"Yes, my mamma taught me to call you like that, showing a photograph, from the day I started lisping."
"No, I am not your pappa." He hissed, thinking of his family, his career and his political future.
'I don't know who you are, I won't allow you to bungle my life.
Get out of my office," he snarled.
………………….
In the ugly shack beside the canal, in the no man's land, they lived. Her mother's round of work, in four houses, took care of their livelihood. Her only sister was married off to a labourer at the age of eighteen.
But Denna...
Her mother dreamt for her. She visualized her as an advocate like her father. Being an intelligent child, she absorbed everything she saw and heard, so studying came naturally. Her teachers, including Kanaka, noticing her brilliance, came to her aid. Sponsorships, scholarships and other aids covered her expenses of education. Balika-Mandiram sponsored her stay during school days and later in the college, her hostel expenses were meted out by her sponsors. Her five teacher sponsors, embodiments of generosity, saw to it she never lacked anything.
Slim and fair like her paternal family she was like a lotus that bloomed in a slushy pond. Fastidious about dressing, she stood out everywhere, rivalling even those who came from better homes. From girlhood she used only things that appealed to her. Her mother never hesitated to buy her whatever she demanded within her capacity. Her mother's roughened hands and tired face constantly reminded her of her struggle. She dreamt of fulfilling her mother's wishes and treating her like a queen. When other girls hankered after trivials Denna wished only for quality papers, notebooks and other stationery for study purposes, which her mother assiduously got for her. It was her only expense, as the rest was taken care of by her teachers.
Once in a while, while draping her best sari, her mother would visit her and take her for an outing. The pride and joy that shone in her mother's eyes would be inspiration for the rest of the term, to never deviate from her studies. Thus, on one such outing, while loitering in the mall corridor, window shopping
her eyes fell on an azure teapot. The desire to possess it was so intense, her mother bought it for her so she could keep it on her shelf as a memento of love. It became home for all her precious knick knacks. One day a careless move on her part pushed it down, the broken pieces splintered her heart. Tearfully picking them up she stored them in a plastic cover, too reluctant to part with it.
One twilight having finished her studies she took the cover and started examining the pieces. She tried joining them one by one like a jigsaw puzzle. She then stuck the pieces with woodfill gum. The next day, a coat of fevicryl paint took care of the hair thin cracks. On the third day using the art of decoupage she stuck a few leaves and flowers brightening it up. The pot, almost complete, sat for another day for drying. The final day it was given a coat of varnish. It glittered like a new beauty. Her happiness knew no bounds, she decided to tell her mother.
The breaking of the pot had shaken her faith too, and dark clouds formed in the horizon of her mind, which thickened after her stormy meeting with her father. The visit had come up after much planning in the last year of LLB. Like a spy she had shadowed him. His career as an upcoming politician and a brilliant lawyer made it easy for her. And the well planned meeting, ending like that, had sliced her heart into two. She never mentioned it to her mother. It would be her own personal sorrow.
Strangely enough, her mother's reticence to speak about him as she grew up told her many things. She had him etched finely in her heart and it easily helped her to identify him. The way his arrogance and self confidence crumbled down when she introduced herself, told her the truth. For her sharp intelligence, it was clear evidence. The fire of hatred that flashed alternately with fear on his otherwise calm eyes portended danger for her. She remembered seeing an ad for button cameras and decided to buy one as it was affordable. It was her lawyer's intelligence.
**********************
It all happened suddenly. She, a disembodied spirit, could see her tattered body lying in a pool of blood. Blood oozed out through all the orifices. Her mother screaming, neighbours filing in, the siren of the ambulance. Only a faint throb of life. The doctors slogged. The state Government level support was strong. Painfully she came back to life. A shattered pot, the shards patched up skillfully, the loving strokes of teachers and friends made her intact in course of time.
That horrible day could not be deleted from her system. It might take time. The little satisfaction she had was that he was nabbed by the police from the hospital where he had got himself admitted. A greater peace too descended on her - he would never molest another female. The button camera had led to his identification. She still remembered his strange visage and form and the unwitting remarks he had made with his singsong accent revealing who had sent him. But she never mentioned it to the police.
Such attacks would be prevalent, she knew. She would not give in. She would fight through and make him acknowledge to the world that she is his daughter out of wedlock. He had opened the war and she would not back out now.
At the moment, she had to concentrate on healing herself, rejuvenating herself and recreating herself like the pot she had restored. Like the teapot she would emerge scar free, a woman brave enough to conquer her world.
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
HARBINGER OF MULTICULTURALISM: DIWALI AND HALLOWEEN
Festivals are celebrated in all religious and ethnic groups around the world since time immemorial when people started to lead a community life; mostly connected with nature and culture. Festivals are an expressive way to celebrate glorious heritage, culture, and traditions. They are meant to rejoice special moments and emotions in our lives with our loved ones. They add spice to our lives by connecting us to our backgrounds and roots .The world is full of strife and prejudices among the people as they try to compete for wealth and fame. During festivals, they can meet and forge bonds of companionship and love. Mankind has been taught by their practicing religions to love and not to indulge in blind hatred, and therefore it is vital for them to assimilate the teachings and implement them in real life during the festivals. The goodwill and brotherhood generated during the festivals would go a long way in removing animosities from the prejudiced minds and make the world a better place. With the age of enlightenment, the divorce of religion from science, led to the remains of spiritual threads that people hung on to. A worldview, which came to be judged in terms of their sustainability under existential beliefs and spiritual progress, has created the venue and scope for cross cultural exchange. Hence the expat Indian Diaspora started celebrating Halloween and the White House began to celebrating Diwali in its traditional fashion with pump and show. This paradigm, of shift of cultural and festivals, is to draw the parallels between Diwali and Halloween, essentially those good and evil.
Halloween is a celebration in remembrance of the dead that occurs annually on evening of October 31.The people of America and Canada to mark the end of harvest and to remember the dead, celebrate from sun set on 31st October to sun set on November 1st. Generally, Christians celebrate ‘All Saints Day’ on November-1, honoring people who had gone to Heaven. All saints day is otherwise known as –All Hallows Day. Hallow means holy, so the day before all saints day is called –All Hallows Eve. In much of Europe and most of North America, observance of Halloween is largely nonreligious. Halloween had its origin in the festival of samhains among the Celts of ancient Britain and Ireland. Halloween was considered the beginning of winter when the herds were returned from pasture and land tenures were renewed. During the samhain festival, the souls of those who had died were believed to return to visit their homes, and those who had died during the year were believed to go to the other world. They used to attire in funny ghostly fashionable costumes like proverbial vampires, witches and celebrate throwing dinners amongst family and friends. People remain thoroughly engaged in Costume parties, making Jack-O-Lanterns using pumpkin and lighting bonfire. People set bonfires on hill tops for relighting their hearth fires for the winter and frighten away evil spirits, and they sometimes wore masks and other disguises to avoid being recognized by the ghosts thought to be present. It was in those ways that begins such as witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and demons came to be assembled with the day. The period was also thought to be favorable for divination on matters such as marriage, health, and death. In many parts of the world, the Christians abstain from meat on Hallows’ eve, a tradition reflected in the eating of certain vegetarian foods on this vigil day, including apple, potato, pancakes, and soul cakes. In many parts also Christians observe All Hallows ’eve, visiting churches and lighting candles on the grave of the dead. The children usually dress in funny costumes inspired by fantasy characters and visit neighbors to ‘Trick or Treat’ and receive treats from neighbors. Pumpkins are abundantly used to make lanterns and masks of vampires and ghosts. Pumpkin lanterns are put near the window and alleyways to lead the ghosts away.
Diwali is the festival of lights and one of the major festivals celebrated by Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, and Buddhists. The festivities last for five days and celebrated during Lunisolar month of Kartika (between mid-October to mid-November). Diwali is considered one of the most popular festivals of Hinduism, which symbolizes the spiritual victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance .People usually in the celebration mood, lead up to Diwali, will renovate, clean up their houses and work places decorating adequately with diyas (oil lamps), electrical decorative fancy sparkler lights and rangolies. People wear their finest clothes, illuminate the interior or exterior of their homes with diyas, and perform worship ceremonies of Goddess Lakshmi. The Hindus in eastern India and Bangladesh generally celebrate Diwali , by worshipping Goddess Kali in a grand way. In eastern part of India, particularly in Odisha, Diwali is celebrated in remembrance of their forefathers by offering ritualistic shraddha to propitiate their souls and show them lights by burning Kaunria kathi (jute stick) smeared with ghee. They usually offer prayers to forefathers for their blessings with a request to return to their heavenly abode via- Sri Purushottam-Puri, Ganga, and Gaya. Sri Purushottam -Puri, since time immemorial, avows as a sacred place- a tritha and a place of pilgrimage. The glory of Puri has been described:-
GANGAYAM CA JALA MUKTIH, VARANYAAM JALE STHALE;
JALE STHALE CA ANTARIKSYE, MUKTIH SRI PURUSHOTTAME.
(One can attain spiritual liberation-moksha, in the water of River Ganga; in the water and soil of Varanasi. But one can achieve nirvana in the water, soil and space of Sri Purushottam-Puri).
Gaya situated on the bank of puranic River Phalgu in Bihar is the holy place where Rama, with Sita and Lakshmana offered pinda-daan for their father Dasarath. Since the time of Ramayana, Gaya is considered a major Hindu pilgrimage site for pinda-daan rituals. In the north-western region of India Diwali festival is widely associated with Lakshmi, Goddess of prosperity, with other regional traditions connecting the holiday to Rama and Sita, Kali , Dhanvantari, or Viswakarma. In some regions a commemorative celebration of Diwali is usually held to mark the day, Sri Rama returned to his kingdom Ayodhya with his consort Sita and brother Lakshman after defeating Ravana in Lanka and serving 14 years of exile in forest. On this auspicious day Goddess of wealth and prosperity Lakshmi is worshipped in the north-western part of India.
It is worth mentioning that, besides India, Diwali is an official holiday in Singapore ,Myanmar, Nepal, Pakistan, SriLanka, Fiji, Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, Malaysia(except Sarawak) , and Surinam. Festivals like Diwali and Halloween act like cultural bridges for ushering peaceful coexistences. The Indian Diaspora celebrates Halloween in the traditional fashion as their neighbors celebrate in America and Canada. Halloween is another addition to the palette of festivals for the festivalholic Indians settled in the western hemisphere. Likewise, Diwali , the traditional Hindu festival, has found large acceptance in foreign countries. Diwali was for the first time celebrated in the white House in 2003 when George Walker Bush was the president of USA. In 2009, Barak Obama became the first president to personally attend Diwali celebration in the white house. Since 2009, Diwali has been celebrated every year at 10 Downing Street, the official residence of British Prime Minister. Incidentally Diwali joins hands with Halloween in being the only Hindu festival to be finding its roots as an ancient harvest festival of the Celtics. Coincidentally, Halloween and Diwali are observed after the harvesting time and before the onset of winter season. These festivals are having agrarian background and being observed from primordial time. Diwali and Halloween have simple parallels like the good, evil, and the balance between the two forces. Beyond that, Diwali joins hands with Halloween in being the only Hindu festival to be celebrated across the world, bridging the cultural divide as well as spreading the message of peace and goodwill. In a way, observance of these festivals is seen as growth of multiculturalism, a step nearer to our indigenous concept of Vasudeva Kutumbakam-international brotherhood.
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.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - THINGS OFFERED TO LORD SHIVA
India is a multi-religion country with diverse culture and tradition. Each religious customs and traditions has its meaning, significance and importance. However, Hindu religion with its spiritually enriched, divinely aromatic culture and traditions has its distinct meaning and significance. But central theme, objective, and significance is same in all the religions – devotees praying for the boon and divine intervention in life and blessings and graces with healthy and happy life, prosperity, wealth, peace and contentment. The devotees offer some things they consider are liked by the deities they worship. Most of the things offered are based on the characteristic features of the respective deities.
In the above background it is apt to briefly discuss about characteristic features of Lord Shiva. There are many but some important features are given below. As a sacrificing father to the entire Universe, Lord Shiva caters to the needs of all living beings and provides them all luxuries. Shiva can't be selfish even towards His own family, so He punishes when they do things out of ignorance, since He feels what is required is only dharma, so everyone has to abide to it. That is why God Shiva beheaded His own son, Lord Ganesh. Shiva doesn't punish any living being, instead He makes them realise their mistakes through realization and takes away their arrogance, greed and lust.To ameliorate the pain and sufferings of His devotees, He rushes to their rescue at mere calling His name “ Shiva”. Shiva can't stay away from His devotees, since He has the utmost love towards them and treats them as family, so He is always concerned about their well being. Shiva doesn't like to wear expensive jewellery and clothes, since He knows that they are all perishable. It is impossible to convince Shiva and keep Him in the material world. Shiva can never say no to any Devotee's wish and grants them all the desired boons, irrespective of whether they are devas or demons. Shiva can never stay calm when the Universe and all the living beings are at risk, so as the saviour He drank the Halahal (poison) that oozed out of the Samudra Manthan, churning of the milk ocean for celestial nectar. Shiva can't ignore anyone who is commenting or abusing His beloved Vishnu or any of His avatars. That is why when King Ravana turned against Shri Rama, Lord Shiva stopped supporting him, even though he was His greatest devotee. Shiva can't be away from His Samadhi or His deep meditation. It's impossible to keep God Shiva busy in worldly affairs.
Some of favourites of Lord Shiva
Worshiping Gods and Goddesses with flowers and fruits offerings is considered auspicious. Many devotees of Lord Shiva believe Him as one of the supreme Gods who may grant benefits if worshipped. It is said that Lord Shiva 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 easily be 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. It is believed that even if a devotee prays to him with a simple thing like a Bel patra (Bilva leaf) with a pure mind, Lord Shiva blesses him/her with whatever he/she wants. But there are certain items of which Lord Shiva is fond of. These items are generally offered when the ritual of Abhishekha is performed. Let us take a look at the things needed to worship Lord Shiva.
Lord Shiva is worshipped mainly in two forms. The first form of worshipping is that of a Shiva linga and the other form is Murti (statue) form. The Linga worship of the Lord is most common and believed to be extremely sacred amongst the Hindus. In Skanda Purana, Lingam is said to be the abode of Shiva. The Shiva Lingam symbolizes creation and cosmic energy. The worship of Shiva Lingam represents the union of Shiva and Shakti-Parvati resulting in the creation of the universe. Hence, he is worshipped in Shiva Lingam form.
The devotees offer different items in materialistic form such as milk, fruits, ghee, flowers, incenses, grains, nuts, tender coconut, curd, sandalwood, honey to please. Lord Shiva is symbolic of auspiciousness and well known as the omnipotent and omnipresent. Shiva is known for His benevolence at the same time. Even the slightest of devotion from the devotees make Lord Shiva extremely happy. There are no special prescriptions nor any set of spiritual protocol for Lord Shiva as in His worship whatever devotees offer Him with love, trust and belief are acceptable. His worship is very simple Shiva Purana mentions the list of the things which make Shiva happy. These are, chanting of Mula mantra and Mahamrutyunjaya mantra; performing Abhishek (spiritual baths to him) by offering Bilva patra leaves (bel leaves), Rudraksha and its leaves, Dhotara flower and fruits.
Abhisheka
Shiva Abhishek is a way of offering respect to Shiva; by pouring water or milk over the lingam or the shivling. You can also use items like ghee, curd, honey, sandalwood, etc to perform Shiva Abhishek; each of them have their own benefits. Mainly water, milk, Panchamruta (combination of five nectars, jaggery curd, honey, milk and ghee) are used regularly for Abhisheka or spiritual bath or holy bath (Snan). Apart from these, some of the other common items used for Shiva Abhisheka are curd, cow milk, honey, Vibhuti (holey ash), panchamruta, bananas, sandalwood paste, and ghee haldi (turmeric powder). In many temples, one finds a vessel hung over Shiva Linga, called dhaara paathra, continuously dripping water or water and milk onto the Linga in deference to Shiva’s desire for Abhisheka. Among all these ‘Bilva Patra’is the one we offer to Lord Shiva, has its own importance, significance and meaning attached to it and has been proved scientifically as well.
Bhasma or Vibhuti (Holy Ash)
Ash is an important part of Lord Shiva's worship. Interestingly, if the ashes are taken from the burning ground it is considered more auspicious in the case of Lord Shiva. Shiva always covers his unclad body with ‘Ash or Bhasma’ which symbolizes the primary source of everything and showcases the end of human life. Nevertheless, the ash denotes the universe- the cosmic creation. He is infamous as the God of destruction and is implicitly associated with Ashes. He applies this sacred Ash onto his uncovered body to give himself a white appearance which portrays a sign of “Shaivism and Peace”. Bhasma is applied on body of Lord Shiva. It is necessary to know what the symbol of putting bhasma on His body is. According to a story related to the life of Lord Shiva, it has been narrated that Shiva was married to Sati. But Sati's father, who was a king, did not like Shiva and he did not want to give his daughter in marriage to Shiva. But the parents had to bow before Sati's stubbornness to her daughter and she got married to Sati with Shiva. After some time of getting married, Daksh organized a yajna in his own right. But in this yagna he did not invite Lord Shiva. Sati thought that he might have forgotten to send an invitation but the father did not send the invitation. Sati told Shiva that she will go to her father's sacrificial yagya here. Shivji advised Sati not to go to Yagya. But she did not accept and she went to her father's sacrificial yagya here. But when Sati arrived there, he found that his father was insulting Shiva very much. Shiva ji's disrespect to her father was not tolerated with Sati and she went in the fire of sacrifice At the same time when Shivaji came to know about all this, he immediately went there and punished Daksha and brought the burnt body of Sati with him. Shivaji became angry and wandered in the universe about Sati's body.
Seeing this anger of Lord Shiva, Goddess Devadar became disturbed and the creatures were in danger. Then Lord Vishnu touched the body of Goddess Sati and turned it into a bhasma. This led to the destruction of Shiva ji only. After this, Shiva ji took this cure on his body. Apart from being consumed by Sati's body in the Puranas, there is also a description of the fact that Vishnu dissolved the body of Sati and his body parts fell in many parts of the earth where Shaktistals were established. According to the belief Lord Shiva stayed on Mount Kailash and he used to consume his body to save him from the cold. While it is also said that through Lord Shiva, they tell humans that all ashes are made in the end of life and there is no remaining particle of life left.
Panchamrit
Worshipping Gods and their idols with Panchamrit is considered highly auspicious. More so Panchamrit is offered to Lord Shiva. Panchamrit or Panchamrutham, offered to Gods and Goddesses, is a combination of five ingredients, namely, Milk, Curd, Honey, Jaggery, and Ghee. The word Panchamrit is derived from two words – ‘Pancha’ means five, and ‘Amrita’ is a mythical beverage of immortality. Panchamrit is a very essential ingredient in most of the Hindu Poojas and considered as holy and sacred. Once it is offered to God during a Pooja, it is then distributed amongst the devotees as a prasad. According to Yogapedia, the Panchamrit is a Sanskrit word also known as panchamrutham or panchamrut. It means panch or five and Amrit or nectar of immortality. Moreover, it’s a divine potion that nourishes the Sapta Dhatu – the seven bodily tissues which govern your fitness.
Ayurvedic significance: According to Ayurveda, the five ingredients of Panchamrit offer a lot of health benefits. Here are some of the important health benefits due to Panchamrit. Those are following (i) Panchamrit nourishes the skin by which skin remains healthy and glowing; (ii) Panchamrit keeps hair healthy; (iii) Panchamrit improves physical strength; (iv) Panchamrit balances pitta dosha; (v) In males Panchamrit improves sexual potency and in women it is good to have Panchamrit during pregnancy; (vi) Panchamrit improves immunity and (vii) Panchamrit acts as vital input for functioning of brain.
There is Ayurveda significance of the five ingredients used in Panchamrit. (1)Milk is a symbol of holiness and purity. According to Ayurveda, the cow’s milk used to make Panchamrit provide a cooling effect on the body and the mind. It improves immunity. (2)Curd / Yogurt is a symbol of better living. As per Ayurveda, yogurt is the only ‘fermented’ food recognized as Sattvic It is said that curd offers soothing effect on the body, which improves the digestive health and balances Vata Dosha. (3)Honey is prepared by bees together and therefore, is a symbol of sweet speech and unity. According to Ayurveda, honey is beneficial for those having a weak digestive system. It also enhances skin tone and its softness. It is an easily digestible food and gets dissolved directly into the bloodstream when consumed. This is why many Ayurveda medicines are advised to be taken with honey. (4)Jaggery is a symbol of bliss. Jaggery has a cooling effect on the body. It is a good chemical free substitute for the regular refined sugar we generally use at home. (5)Ghee is a symbol of victory and knowledge. According to Ayurveda, consumption of ghee provides a wide range of benefits nutrition, and good digestion including clarity of mind, Thus, significance of the ingredients of Panchamrut/Panchamrit are milk is for the blessing of purity and piousness, curd/yogurt is for prosperity and progeny, honey is for sweet speech, Ghee is for victory, jaggery is for happiness and water is for purity.
Ingredients for Panchamrut
* Fresh Curd - One table spoonful
* Cold cow Milk – 100 gram(1/2 cup).
*Jaggery - 50 gram ( 1/4 cup)
* Honey – 1 table spoon
* Ghee – Half tablespoonful
Method to make Panchamrit: The preparation has initially two processes namely (i) boil the cow’s milk and cool the same to room temperature and (ii) beat the curd to make the same smooth. Take a clean bowl and pour the milk into it, add jaggery to the milk, then add smooth curd and thereafter add ghee and honey. Stir the concoction till the mix gets fully blended and jagerry get fully dissolved. Now that all five ingredients have been mixed well, Panchamrit is ready for offering to Lord.
The Destroyer of the Universe and the ultimate power – Lord Shiva is never offered lovely flowers as he loves Datura, Dry and blue lotus, Nerium Oleander flower (Kaner flower), Kusum, Aak, Kush, etc. One would always find plantation of Bel tree (Aegle marmelos) outside Shiva temple.
Dhatura flower
Dhatura, which is generally considered to be a poisonous fruit, is an extremely favourite item of Lord Shiva. Dhatura flowers and fruits are offered to Lord Shiva after Abhishekham.
Dhatura is a genus of nine species of poisonous, vesper tine -flowering plants belonging to the family Solanaceae. Datura species are herbaceous, leafy annuals and short- lived perennials, which can reach up to 2 mtr in height. The leaves are alternate, 10–20 cm long, and 5–18 cm broad, with a lobed or toothed margin. The flowers are erect or spreading, trumpet-shaped, 5–20 cm long, and 4–12 cm broad at the mouth; colours vary from white to yellow, pink, and pale purple. The fruit is a spiny capsule, They are commonly known as thorn apples or jimson weeds, but are also known as devil's trumpets (not to be confused with angel's trumpets, which are placed in the closely related genus Brugmansia). It is a popular belief that, Datura leaves are burnt and the smoke inhaled cures all respiratory issues and the fruits are offered to Shiva especially to cool his Rudra form and bless us in his merciful form. The main reason of offering mostly poisonous plants and flowers to Shiva is that, Shiva takes away all the negative or poisonous things from us and leads us to the path of positivity or realisation.
Bilva leaf
Many know that Lord Shiva’s favorite plant is Bael. Bilva tree is considered as the form of Shiva. It is believed that Goddess Parvati resides in various forms on a Bel tree. Hence Bel leaves are a favourite of Lord Shiva. It is also said that the worship of Shiva which is done without offering Bilva leaf is fruitless. The Bilva leaves used in pooja should be of 3 leaflets even if one of the leaves gets detached of three leaves then it is of no use. There is a separate article on importance of Bilva leaves for worshipping Lord Shiva.
Sandalwood Paste
Sandalwood is considered a very holy item in Hinduism. It is used to smear the Linga to keep it cool. Red Sandalwood or “Rakta Chandan” is prohibited in worshipping Lord Shiva. You can always worship the Shivling with three horizontal lines or simply one vertical line “Shrikhand Chandan” . But “Laal Chandan” is used only for worshipping Maa Durga and Maa Kalika.
Turmeric
There are divergent views on turmeric for the worship of Lord Shiva. One view is that while turmeric is considered pious and is vividly used on many auspicious occasions and is offered to most of the Hindu Gods and Goddess, turmeric is not offered to the Shiva lingam, the symbol of Lord Shiva. . Reason being this item is used for enhancing the beauty and the deity being a saint, worldly pleasures have been given up a long time back by Lord Shiva. So turmeric is feminine in nature and is considered a cosmetic product for females while Shivlinga represents masculinity, hence it is not offered to Lord Shiva.
The other view is that Turmeric on Shivling is offered to achieve financial progress. It is performed when there is money related problems in life or family. It is believed in some regions that offering turmeric on Shivling will help in solving all wealth related issues and there will be peace and prosperity in life.
Turmeric is offered in two forms one in powdered and one in whole form. Turmeric powder – this is offered in two ways, namely (i) to put the dry powder on Shivling and (ii0 Some people mix turmeric in water and pour it on Shivling at the time of abhisekham. In some regions freshly harvested turmeric is offered to Shiva. In some regions, the dried form is offered. Seven pieces of turmeric are offered in Shiva temples to find solution to all finance related issues. Process suggested to offer Turmeric on Shivling is as follows: (i) Take bath and visit a Shiva temple to perform the ritual on Shiv ling.(ii) First pray to Ganesha in the mind and then offer water on Shivling. (iii) Then put the turmeric and say your prayers after which bilva leaves are offered.(iv) Next bhasma is applied to Shiva linga. (v) Next sit in a quiet place and chant 'Om Namah Shivaya' on a Rudraksha Mala.
Question arises - If Kumkum or Sindoor is prohibited to be offered to Lord Shiva, then why is it written in Lingashtkam that “Kumkum Chandan lepit Lingam”?
Kumkuma Chandana Lepitha Lingam ,
Parama Padam ParaMaatmaka Lingam ,
Tat Pranamami Sada Shiva Lingam
Yes we do not offer Kumkum / Sindur to Lord Shiva because these two things represent the material world and for him everything is the same and when burnt away everything becomes Ashes.
Akanda Flowers or Crown flower, (Calotropis Gigantea)
This is one of the most favourite flowers of Lord Shiva. Akanda plant is a perennial shrub. The plant grows 2.5 meters high with branches and sub branches. The plant has oval, light green leaves and milky stem. Flowers are white or lavender in colour. These flowers are also blue in colour which signify Lord Shiva's blue throat too. Flowers consist of pointed five petals and a small beautiful crown, which holds the stamen. This plant is common in the compounds of temples. The plant is reported as effective in treating skin, digestive, respiratory, circulatory and neurological disorders and was used to treat fevers, elephantiasis, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhoea etc. Akanda flowers are offered to Lord Shiva during puja. Hence, these flowers are essential in Lord Shiva's worship.
Aparajita flower (Clitoria Ternatea)
Aparajita is a beautiful flower and famous as Lord Shiva’s favourite - Aparajita means- “the one who is never defeated and overwhelmed”. It is defined preferably as- “Devi” The Shakti – who is Lord Shiva’s second half. It is ideally expounded as Virgin Kanya- “Kanyakumari”. litoria ternatea, commonly known as Asian pigeon wings, blue bellvine, blue pea, butterfly pea, cordofan pea and Darwin pea, is a plant species belonging to the family Fabaceae. In Hindu religion, the flower is used in the worship of Goddess Durga and Lord Shiva. In fact, Hindu mythology has it that butterfly pea is a heavenly plant brought to earth by Guru Shukracharya. Some studies offer a plausible explanation why the plant is revered.
Blue lotus
Blue lotus is called Neelothpalamba ( Neela – uthpala – amba) Goddess of blue sprouted [ sprout means to burst open ] Uthpala means sprouts from earth . Neelothpala in Sanskrit means Blue Lotus Lotus is an aquatic plant whose botanical name is “Nelumba Nucifera”. These plants gtow in water or in soil that is permanently saturatated with water. In Hindu. Buddist. And Egyptian religions the Lotus flower is considered very sacred. The significance of lotus is that it is the symbol of “ spontaneous generation.. It also represents the divine birth, spiritual development and creation itself. The bud of the lotus symbolizes the potentiality of spiritual nature. Lotus flower emerges from dirty mud-water and blossoms into pure and clean flower. Hindus call Lotus flower as Padma. It has some different names such as kamalam, pankajam. All the forms of the God like Vishnu , Brahma , Saraswati are revered with these flowers, which is the example of divine beauty and purity . Blossoming of Lotus is explained as “ the individual consciousness does on same path to enlightenment ” Mahayana sect of Buddism says that all the souls emerge from Lotus. Egyptians associate Lotus flower [scientifically called water lily in Egypt] with sun; which disappears in the sun to re-emerge in the morning; which symbolizes the sun and creation.
There are varieties of Lotus flowers . Some of those are as follows:
1 . Blue Lotus : It is associated with victory of the spirit over that of the knowledge , intelligence , wisdom .
2 . White Lotus : It is known to symbolizes Bodhi [ being awakened ] , it represents the state of mental purity , and spiritual perfection .
3 . Purple Lotus : It is known to be mystic , and associated with esoteric sects
4 . Pink Lotus: It is the supreme Lotus and it is considered as the Lotus of Lord Buddha .
5 . Red Lotus : It is related to the heart , and is associated with love and compassion .
Neelotpalamba : Goddess of blue lotus : is one of the two consorts of Lord
In nutshell it is stated that good values and qualities of devotees are the real flowers which can be offered to Lord Shiva. Those are
1. Ahimsa prathamam pushpam - Non-violence is the First Flower
2. Pushpam Indriya Nigraham - Control of the senses is the Second Flower
3. Sarva Bhootha Daya Pushpam - Being Kind towards all the living beings is the third flower
4. Kshama Pushpam Visheshataha - Forgiving is the real special flower – the fourth offering
5. Shanthi Pushpam - Peace is the fifth flower
6. Tapah Pushpam - Penance is the sixth flower
7. Dhyanah Pushpam - Meditation is the seventh flower
8. Sathyam Ashta Vidha Pushpam- Truth is the eighth flower
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.
A strict Lockdown was imposed by the Government to tackle the second wave of the dreaded Corona virus sweeping the country. I was forced to adopt the "work from home" culture, which may soon become the norm for many in the near future as organisations seek avenues to adapt to the changing times.
I surmised that I would be saving precious hours everyday, on my commuting time to office. I resolved to use this time productively and innovatively too. I found that in the calendar, each day has been dedicated to mark an occasion or an event. I decided to enhance my knowledge over the speciality of each day. As each day passed, I became more interested in this field.
The 19th of June is regarded as the National Reading Day in India, an annual event that falls on the death anniversary of the eminent PN Panicker, the man behind the "Library Movement in India". He revolutionised the practice of reading in India, by initiating and developing the library culture for the reading habit to flourish.
Being a voracious reader, my mind took off on a rewind mode to recall vividly my childhood days.
I guess the reading habit was ingrained in me, right from my school days, where each section had a mini library apart from the main school library.
Whenever we had a free period, we referred to the books in the class library and soon it became a regular habit for me right from my lower class.
I enrolled myself in the popular British Council Library and a local book lending library as well. Since my family members were also avid readers, at any point of time, I had atleast half a dozen books borrowed from various libraries.
It was one Monday morning and I was in VIII Std. I checked my timetable and accordingly took out the necessary books from my shelf. I segregated the text books and notebooks and placed them in two compartments in my school bag (or my military bag as we called it). It had a card board placed inside to balance the books I had placed. I then took the geometry box, opened it to check the contents and placed it delicately between the text books and notebooks as a divider. I closed the top cover of the bag. I then picked up the novel "Biggles Defies the Swastika" and placed it over my bag. The gripping story revolved around a secret agent during World War II. Sworn into the German Air Force as a Gestapo Agent, Biggles is deep undercover on a reconnansis mission in Norway.
I hurriedly took my breakfast of my delicious curd rice with mango pickles and was ready for school after dressing up with my school uniform.
I had a tiffin carrier in a bag, over which I had a water bottle and a clean hand towel.
I used to commute to school by train and alight at Egmore. I boarded the train with my school bag on my shoulder, my lunch bag in my left hand and the popular Biggles novel in my right hand. I found a seat near the window, placed the lunch bag on the seat and was busy reading the novel. I got down at Egmore and took the flight of stairs, totally absorbed in the story. Only when I reached the main road I realised I had left my lunch bag in the train.
I rushed back to the station,met the Station Master and in breathless tone with tears explained to him my loss of the lunch box.
The Station Master was very sympathetic, gave me a seat in his cabin and he called up the Station Master at the Beach station, the last stop. He shared the details with him, mentioning the carriage in which I had travelled.
I waited for some time. The Station Master from Beach station called up in a few minutes to say he had recovered my lunch bag and that he will send it through the train guard by the next train leaving at specified time.
When the train reached Egmore station, the Station Master accompanied me to meet the train guard in the last compartment and retrieved the bag and handed it over to me.
I felt so relieved and I profusely thanked him for his help. It was a wonderful experience and the railway employees were very understanding and supportive.
I came home and narrated the incident to everyone in my family. My grand mother as usual. took me to the pooja room, lit the lamp and placed a one rupee coin in the pooja room as an offering for the safe return of the lunch bag.
Habits die hard. I continued with reading books during the train transit even after this incident.
Difficult to give up reading I guess.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
It was the monsoon period. There was news in the morning newspaper about impending thunder and lightning accompanying the more than usual downpour. Some TV news channels had also reported on disturbances that could happen in the broadcast sector following a warning from the meteorology department.
Many people in the town had gathered in the town hall inspite of the weather forecast. The one day dance festival held by the Natyakala dance school was held every year. It showcased a repertoire of Indian classical dances performed by the students in the school. This year’s dance festival was going to be more special and memorable. The well admired Mohiniyattam dancer Leela who ran the dance school was going to perform too and this would be her swansong.
The school began from a small room in her house and now it had nearly hundred students with a small building of its own. Her passion was Mohiniyattam, one of the classical Indian dances originating from the ancient times. Her goal in life was to introduce this classic form of dance to every youth in and around the town which she did. She then tried her best to make this dance popular around the country. She mentored up many students who won many laurels and awards. The dance was well recognised but Leela always felt that the dance did not get its deserved recognition or popularity. Even the acclaimed fame of Leela as a great dancer remained among the small circle of dancers only. This was a great concern to Leela. She had spent her entire life for this ancient art. It seemed something extraordinary had to happen to make this dance more popular as a performing art. She wanted the dance to be recognised even beyond the oceans. But now age had caught up with her and breathlessness was distressing her. Her dream about popularising the dance was also coming to a halt.
There was a TV channel which had come to do the live telecasting of Leela’s dance which will be preceded by an interview with her. This entertainment channel which began recently was running a programme where they would introduce an art form and its artists. They had given fifteen minutes of air time for Leela’s programme. It was the first time a telecasting team was coming to the town to do a programme and somebody from the town was getting interviewed. It became a talk among the people.
By evening all the artists had finished their dance performances and now it was time for the last event. A quick interview with Leela was to happen which would be followed by her last dance performance. The interviewer had a small interactive session with Leela. Leela ascribed the origin of the dance to Mohini the enchantress, a female avatar of God Vishnu. She described the amorous filled emotions of the dance which narrated a story silently through graceful seductive gestures along with the swaying movements of the body.
At the end of five minutes the interviewer had a final question on any unfulfilled wish of Leela. The answer of the dancer was that, “I wish I could perform once before this whole world to popularise this dance even more for which am ready to sacrifice my life itself on the stage.”
The interviewer smiled and commented that it was great note to end the interview with and wished that even if Leela retires, Mohiniyattam will find a way to get the attention of the world one day. Little did she know that day was going to be today. The television anchor thanked the audience for watching the channel and reminded them that the telecast will be back shortly back after a commercial break to show them the farewell dance of Leela.
The telecast began again and Leela was ready on the stage for her last performance before the goddess of dance who gave her this blessing. Leela was dressed in an ivory coloured pleated saree which was wrapped decoratively around her. The edges had a golden brocade a golden belt tucked her waist. With eyes highlighted with black eyeliner, she stood with knees little bent, feet parted and upper torso erect. Then as the Carnatic music started, her body started swaying to synchronise with the music. The telecasting also started. The cameraman captured the dance performance and it was being aired as live telecast programme to the households by the TV station
The images of the dance performance were sent as signals to the TV station from the town hall. From the earth station the images were converted into electromagnetic waves and uplinked to the Indian satellite which was parked in the geostationary orbit in space. The distance was approximately thirty five thousand kilometres. But today was an extraordinary day in the cosmos. The atmospheric turbulence generated by a solar wind was disturbing the frequency in which the images of Leela were travelling. The technicians began their work on modulating the amplitude and frequency. Meanwhile by quirk the electromagnetic waves bypassed the Indian satellite and reached a Russian one which was considered as space debris.
The Russian satellite had lost its orbital position and was considered non –functional. But still it took up the transmission and began to do multipoint down linking to multiple earth stations. The transmitted images reached the earth stations in Russia and most of the Europe. As the electromagnetic waves travelled down through the vacuum, the images of Leela met the image of the Russia premier in the spatial sphere. He was making his speech on their national day. Her image also went through the images of the European Union summit where the leaders stood by to let the images of Leela which came with a lot of momentum. The Russian station saw that their president’s image was getting blurred and before they could assess what was happening, the images of Leela the enchantress travelling at the speed of light made way into the Russian households. In Europe the live telecast of the European Union summit was replaced by Leela’s dance.
The westerners who saw the new cultural event were initially confused and then later they were mesmerised by the art form. For almost five minutes the programme was displayed in their television sets before the Moscow earth station rectified the dispersion from their abandoned satellite.
Meanwhile a hideous Chinese satellite in a particular orbit had interference from the adjacent Russian one and it too downlinked the Indian programme into the South East Asian nations and a part of North America. Mayhem broke loose as the communist news channel beamed an Indian programme. The NASA worked on the undulated waves and blocked the intelligence satellite.
In North America the soap operas became insignificant in front of a traditional dance from somewhere. They were seeing a refreshing dance form to their repetitive ones. It was a variety. A female was narrating a story silently with the graceful movements of her body. While the different governments went mad on how such a thing could happen, the people were absorbing it.
The bureaucrats of various nationalities pointed accusing fingers at each other in breeching the telecommunication protocols and the sovereignty of one’s country. The telecasted dance was seen by the world for at least a few minutes of the ten minute dance programme. The Indian earth station which was working on the signals that were not coming inward was alerted on how it was annoying the full world. They immediately did the station tracking system by telemetry control and did the rectification. Very soon the Indians too were seeing the dance of a legend.
People across the continents were enquiring their respective channels to what kind of dance form was that. They were demanding a re-telecast of that particular dance. Everyone wanted to know more details on it. People began to search in the world wide web and discussions began in the social media about the ecstatic dance. The search engines were kept busy to answer the questions on Indian dance forms. The word Mohiniyattam become the most searched word in the net.
Leela didn’t know that she had performed her last dance in front of the whole world. She ended her performance taking a bow. The applause of the audience along with the deafening claps of the thunder took a little while to settle. An overwhelmed Leela sat on the floor. She then fell towards her right side. The enchantress had seduced the whole world to her dance. Her divine performance was over but the dance will continue to vibrate the vacuum.
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
IN CONVERSATION :: BELIEVE – SHOULD WE?
As the three them walked out of their research lab, Sheila was singing softly to herself:
“All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small;
All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.”
Vasuda: All the science we claim and work with is wasted on you. You are going back to the primitive idea of a creator, who has prepared a planet for you to live on. Is God some kind of a godfather who gives you kinds of good things in return for your faith in Him? (laughs teasingly)
Suresh: You seem to be critical of Sheila’s faith. I think it is an achievement. Not many people can believe so totally in a higher being who is interested in all that mortals do.
Vasuda: But how can you believe something like that? Who is this Being? What name do we give … Him? Her? It?
How could any one being care about all the teeming millions all over the world? Surely it is foolish to think that anyone could be bothered with all of mankind – the sick, the ugly, the riffraff.
Sheila sang a snatch from another of her favorite songs:
“Dare to be right, dare to be true;
God who created you cares for you too;
Treasures the tears that His striving ones shed;
Counts and protects every hair on your head.”
Vasuda: Now that is really funny. You worship someone who wants you to be a crybaby! Doesn’t your god care for bad people? (laughs again.) No, seriously, Sheila. You know that the “creatures” you sing about come from the parenting process. They are not “made” in a factory or by the wave of a wand. Vasuda: Even the plants come from seeds. Nobody makes them. You have to think practically, Sheila, not hide behind a lot of mumbo-jumbo you have picked up from fables and legends.
Suresh: It is all very well for you to say that we ought to be practical and scientific, but we still haven’t solved the riddle of creation or of evolution. Many theories are there and each is as convincing as the other. May be there is more than one explanation.
Vasuda: So, which do I believe in? Nature! There you have the answer. The earth and all the life on it are the gift of Nature and evolution, which means that all beings change and improve over a long period; which again, is the work of Nature.
Suresh: That is certainly one way of looking at the earth. People have worshipped the elements of nature for a very long time.
They worship the sun and the wind and even the clouds and rain. They are filled with wonder at a phenomenon that they cannot understand or control. From their wonder comes a feeling of awe and reverence.
Sheila: I would say that is exactly how we approach God. When we look all around us and find the wonders and bounty of the earth, we are filled with awe and reverence for the cause or the origin of it all. Because it is all so glorious, and much grander than anything we can create, we believe that the creator must be just as great. The wonder of creation leads to worship of the creator.
Vasuda: If you put it like that, it is not very different from what I believe in. What I call Nature, you call God.
Suresh: So only the name is different, the function is the same.
Vasuda: But how can you call nature God? Nature is the way of life. It teaches a bird to fly and caterpillar to crawl. It makes the lion roar and the nightingale sing.
Sheila: That is the work of God.
“’Tis God our heavenly father good, who made and cares for all;
For birds and bees and shining stars, He knows if one should fall.”
You say the laws of Nature control the universe, that gravity holds the planets in their orbits and instinct guides all living beings. I would like to say, in the words of the wise poet,
“God is in His heaven and all is well with the world.”
Vasuda: To believe or not to believe – that is the question now.
Arun: I think there is a point. We are all saying the same thing. We believe – believe in something – God, nature, Science, People, Ourselves. Whichever, we need to believe in something.
Vasudha: True. I agree. After all we believe what science says. We believe that the scientists who have done experiments and observations have done it right and what they say is true. We don’t – even if can – check everything.
Sheila: And, there are people who have worked extensively with the idea of God – and we believe that they too have done experiments and observations and have done it right and what they say is true.
And, what if evolution is God's tool? Many scientists—and theologians—maintain that it would be perfectly logical to think that a divine being used evolution as a method to create the world.
Arun: I think where we seem to have got caught is – many people have blind and silly faith like saying that if the lizard falls on your head something will happen and if does on your hand then something else will happen and so on. That’s where the so-called nonbelievers stand and claim that all religious beliefs are wrong.
Sheila: Well, there I too agree. There is a lot of difference between blind and silly beliefs based on fear and true soulful belief based on awe and wonder. I belong to the second category. I believe in an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and benevolent God Almighty who is the creator and benefactor of all things.
Vasudha: Yes. We should differentiate between blind faith based on some vague fear and real faith. My grandfather said that some of history's greatest scientific minds, including Albert Einstein, were convinced there is intelligent life behind the universe. Today many scientists say there is no conflict between their faith and their work.
Arun: Yes. Albert Einstein said “Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind."
Note: (This is the fifth of the series ‘in conversation’. The first four were published in the 101, 102, 103 1nd 104 editions LV.)
IN CONVERSATION :: PRETENCES ARE NOT NEEDED.
Sheela: Dad, mom, you must help me to and come up with something for our drama competition. It has to be something very common made unique she says.
Rama: How can that be?
Shyam: I suppose that is the challenge. I am sure the teacher expects something or she won’t be giving such as assignment. And you won’t be disappointed, I’m sure.
Rama: How are you so sure? We have not thought of anything as yet.
Shyam: true. But, we will now.
Rama: Why do we have to do school work. It is between the teacher and the students
Shyam: Not really, parents are partners in educating the child. We must get involved.
Sheela: The best idea will be taken up for the annual day and there is a prize for it too. I so much want to be the best.
Rama: Prize or no prize, you must always do your best. And if somebody is better than your best, you must gracefully accept it.
Sheela: Amma, this is not for value education, this is for drams, so please let’s think of something unique
Rama: which is common place too….
Shyam: I have an idea. Why not choose a theme, instead of a story or play and act out popular stories around it?
Sheela: would that be anything unique?
Shyam: We’ll make it so?
Ram: Any idea about the theme? How about not showing off what you are not?
Shyam: It’s okay. I think that is a nice idea. We can begin with the sheep in the wolf’s skin where the sheep wears the wolf’s skin, but gets to betray himself when he irresistibly eats the nice juicy grass.
Rama: What would the narrative be for this? ‘What you are is stronger than what you want to be’?
Shyam: No. That sounds pessimistic; as if we can never become what we want to be. The moral of the story is not that, but to say that one can’t put on an artificial act for too long. Now, say that nicely.
Rama: How about “True character betrays false appearances?”
Shyam: That sounds too flat and insipid -- something better?
Sheela: How about ‘Pretences are useless; instincts betray pretences?
Ram: That sounds good. And, after this piece, we can have the wolf that painted itself as a tiger and how it got washed off in the rain.
Sheela (giggling): That sure is nice. The sheep pretends to be a wolf and the wolf a tiger. I think the theme will be more than just pretences being blown off!!
Shyam: How true it is! All of us want to project ourselves as something bigger than what we are instead of becoming bigger than we are.
Rama: That may be true of human beings where growth is more than just instinct directed.
Shyam: Well, I think, actually, all these stories about animals are all lessons for us only. Poor things; they do not even know they are being used like this.
Sheela: True: Only a human mind will think of a wolf painting itself as a tiger or lion. I am sure no wolf ever thought of, much less did, something like that!
Ram: Okay. Let’s get along with our work. First it was ‘Instincts betray pretences’; and what will this be?
Rama: ‘Cheating gets washed off’.
Shyam: ‘Or, ‘cheating gets a washing’.
Rama: That sounds great. Let’s keep it.
Sheela: Pretences don’t last; cheating gets a washing
Shyam: And then?
Rama: Let’s get to something positive. Both these stories tell us what one should not do. But how do we say that we can grow and change and become better than what we are – not pretend but become. Let’s finish with a swan dance.
Shyam: You mean, the ugly duckling becoming a beautiful swan. we saw that ballet, right. It was really beautiful. But how will the kids do it? And do it in its shortest form?
Rama: Well, that’s the idea, isn’t it? To become better than what we are, to do excellently and surpass ourselves?
Sheela: How nicely you have put it. I think if we ask our dance teacher, she will teach us some shortened version of this ballet that we can learn and perform.
shyam: And, we’ll have the narration as “Pretences not needed; each of us is bigger and better than what we seem to be. Growth is beautiful.”
Sheela: Oh! I am getting excited about this. I hope I will be the sweet, beautiful swan!
Note: (This is the sixth of the series ‘in conversation’. The first four were published in the 101, 102, 103 1nd 104 editions LV. The fifth and sixth are published here in LV 106)
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
THE PIED PIPER – NOT A FAIRY TALE
For centuries the ‘Pied Piper of Hamelin’ has been a popular children’s story. It provides great amusement and horror to children listening to the story teller with rapt attention as the Pied Piper walks into the mountain with all the children of Hamelin following him to their mysterious grave. The story was inspired a Goethe verse, Der Rattenfänger; a Grimm Brothers’ legend ‘The Children of Hamelin’. It was enlivened further by the famous Victorian poet Robert Browning. The incident is said to have happened in 1284 AD. Hamelin is a small town in Brunswick by the side of Hanover in Germany. It was then infested with rats which brought untold misery for the people of the town. One day a strange looking man – slim and tall with multi coloured dress, a funny hat and a pipe appeared and offered to clear the town of the vermin in exchange for a 1000 gold coins. The mayor agreed and the Pied Piper played his pipe as all the rats followed him. He led them to the river Weser and they all jumped into the river to be swept away. But the Mayor did not keep his promise. Next morning in order to take revenge the Pied Piper played his magic pipe and all the children of the town came out from their houses and followed him. He then walked into the mountain which just opened up to swallow all and the Pied Piper was never seen again. Thus ended the story, which was kept alive in folklores but how many of us really can imagine that the story could be real. Well one has to visit this small dreamy town – Hamelin to believe this.
It was, for me, a business trip to Hannover that gave an opportunity to take a day’s break and visit this fabled town of Hamelin. I, along with few friends,, took the train of Hanover–Altenbeken railways to arrive at Hamelin railway station after a forty minute of zipping through the picturesque German countryside.
Hamelin Railway Station
The sunny day gave us hopes of a good viewing of the town and of the few interesting destination. But the weather soon changed as chilly wind along with periodic drizzle ushered us into the town. The streets were humming with tourists and soon we were in the midst of a welcome surrounding. The narrow roads were flanked by colourful markets and the road was soon too wide as we approached the City Centre.
The Main Street
A View of the Market
It was then we realised that the story of Pied Piper has been kept alive in this magical town. It is everywhere as you walk across the street or even when you step into a pub. A black bronze statue stands tall in Osterstrasse, Hamelin, as a stark reminder of the event that dates back to the 13th century.
The Bronze Statue at Osterstrasse.
The entire town narrates the event in some way or the other. It was on 26th June 1284 the tragedy took place in Hamelin when all the children of the town vanished. The streets bear the painted marks of rats guiding the visitor on the route followed by the Pied Piper leading the rats to their watery grave.
A child enjoys the sight of a giant rat statuette.
We then visited the city museum which has numerous paintings describing the story. The legend of the Pied Piper is described in a mechanical theatre. 130 pair of shoes that belong to the missing children, thousands of noisy whistling rats and 130 little shirts brings the century old story to life. Then you really wonder whether it was just a story or a real incident involving a mysterious character.
The Museum of Hamelin
Back on the street we encountered the look alike of the Pied Piper walking through the street with his magical pipe and the children kept looking at him in awe. Slim, tall and with blue eyes and multi coloured dress (as described by the word pied) he matched the description of the mythical character.
The Pied Piper
We had already been a bit tired and needed a break to recharge our batteries. By then we were right in front of the the Pied Piper House or Rattenfängerhaus ("Rat Catcher's House"). It is a half timbered building and is believed to be the place where the Mayor struck a deal with the Pied Piper. The building is now a Hamelin city owned restaurant. The wooden beam supporting the roof, we were told, is there since 1284. An inscription on the wall narrates the tragedy.
A plaque reads ‘The Inscription on the upper facade of the house recalls the disappearance of the children in 1284. Translated the text means: A.D.1284 – on the 26th of June- the day of St.John and St.Paul – 130 children – born in Hamelin- were led out of the town by a piper wearing multicoloured clothes. After passing the Calvary near Koppenberg they disappeared for ever.
We were told to be sitting right on the location where the Mayor had entered into a deal with the Pied Piper. It was really interesting and some experience to narrate to my children and grand children, who may in some day plan to visit this fabled town in lower Saxony.
A sign Board on the Pied Pipers House
The bartender at the pub was extremely courteous and she volunteered to offer us typical local hooch and to our surprise it is named ‘Ratten Killer’. For an instance we were alarmed lest it should be too deadly. She smiled and said,’ Don’t worry. You will like it,’ and she put the drink on fire with a lighter. The blue flame added an aroma to the drink. It was really strong but worked magic relieving us of our exhaustion.
The Bar serving ‘Ratten Killer’
After a light snacks to go with the drink we were back on the street to follow the rat trail. As we stepped outside we came across a souvenir shop and it sold all kinds of items preserving the memory of the rat infestation and the Pied Piper. The souvenir shops hawk their own rat-inspired memorabilia.
The Souvenir Shop
Time was passing fast and we had to hurry up to make it to the railway Station in time. Besides its identity built through the legend of the Pied Piper, Hamelin has a distinct character of its own. One can take a decent view of the half timbered houses along the street. The 16th Century manor houses re encrusted with gothic gables and scrollwork. The multi tiered buildings offer a pleasant view of the Weser-Renaissance architecture. Besides, there are those all leering gargoyles and brightly coloured polychrome wood carvings. Before calling it a day we moved along our trail and reached the banks of the river Weser. The fable followed us as well.
The Canilever Iron Bridge on River Weser.
The weather worsened further lowering visibility accompanied by continuous drizzle and we could then sight a cantilever iron bridge. On top of the bridge there is a figurine of a rat symbolising the location where the rats jumped to their watery grave.
By then we realised that it was getting late to catch the return train and we rushed back to the railway station. We carried with us the memory of Hamelin and there was a lot to narrate to the children back home about our tryst with the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
______________________________
Debjit Rath retired as Executive Director of Steel Authority of India Limited. Specialised in the skills of communication his motto is to serve the community, live and let live. To him the essence of life is to spread the message of love and kindness. To him every day spent on earth is memorable and has a meaning ordained by destiny.
Trivikram Rao was noticeably disturbed. Ayesha Bi, a long time maid in his house and an attender in Revenue Department in Chennai Collectorate was not doing too well. She was admitted to Venkateswara Hospital and was on the ventilator. Ventilator meant it was a serious case. She was in the ICU of the hospital for the last 3 days. But the problem on hand was very different. Arif Khan, Ayesha Bi’s son was advised by her before getting to ICU to contact Trivikram for any problem. The poor boy was forking out a lakh of rupees everyday and the doctor on duty was telling him that on a ventilator, a patient can go up to a month, may be two and that was worrisome. A two months stay would wipe out whatever little asset Ayesha had built as a single mother including a house on the land given by Veerabhadraiah, a former Collector of Chennai next to his house. His request was whether she could be shifted to Government facility at Madras Covid Centre(mcc) at Kodambakkam which had been declared by the Government as a Covid hospital during the pandemic time.
From Delhi, there were limitations on what Trivikram could do. But there are service juniors, people he had mentored and admirers who could to tapped into. After all Ayesha Bi was not anyone. She worked in his household for fourteen years. Both the daughters grew up with her. It is true that Trivikram played his helpful role in her regularization and promotion as an attender in Revenue Department. But that was fifteen year back. With the steady salary and security, she could educate her two sons and marry out three daughters. She could be having some money deposited in her account. But Arif had no access to that. Mohd. The elder son was in Dubai and could be depended upon. But forking out a lakh of rupees every day required organizing which was an euphemism for borrowing money from friends, relatives and aquaintances. It was not without IOUs of differing degrees including usurious interest.
Trivikram’s wife was getting regular updates and he had also called the Collector to ensure a substantial discount was obtained for her . His call to the Health Secretary produced an option to send her to Egmore Government Hospital. But when he sent the message whether ventilator would be available and safe transportation could be organized, there was complete silence. This was a time trying to run a rickety system and everyone was overwhelmed. At least the Collector had assured that discount would be organized. But with the hospital’s insistence on daily deposit of 1 lakh, finally discount would be function of whatever was outstanding. When he sought advice, the Collector had very sensibly advised that first she should stabilize before any thoughts of shifting to MCC hospital was entertained.
This was the time of Covid’s second surge. Because of the laxity of the Government and profligate behavior of the public the surge was disconnecting. The new mutated strain which had come was affecting the lungs straightaway without giving time. The doctor had said Ayesha Bi’s lungs are badly affected and the heart was functioning at ten percent. Her co-worker in the Collectorate infected Covid-19 and died in 3 days time flat in the hospital. Then it was Ayesha’s turn. She got admitted in a private hospital. She was lucky to get a ventilator though there were shortage of oxygen ventilators and beds. Clearly the system was overwhelmed by the case loads and the proportion of severe cases which required medical attention was higher this time around. In a belated flourish, the Government had converted a five hundred room hotel into a hospital. This was a unusual time. Facilities falling short of need, anxiety of relatives led to several calls to people in authority to do something. Sometimes it worked but sometimes it did not.
Ayesha was almost like a family member. Trivikram’s daughters in Chicago and Paris were disturbed and wanted to send money. Trivikram told them that he himself would take care and they need not bother on that front. Finally, they were students and how much could they have sent. Trivikram had made up his mind after discussion with his wife to send 1 lakh rupees to Arif. The point was when and how.
Now he talked to the Madras Covid Centre in charge Ehsan Khan. Arif was very keen that his mother was shifted to MCC. The duty doctor had told him that the treatment would be the same whether in MCC or in the private hospital. On a ventilator, one could keep the patient alive for indefinite period which would be ruinous if Ayesha Bi does not bounce back. Ehsan had rooms but no free ventilator and he was not sure by what time frame it would be available. Already thirty persons were in the queue and even if Ayesha jumps the queue it would be available only when a person dies or recovers. That was indefinite. Trivikram had already rung up to Dr. Muthuvel the Chairman of Venkateswara hospital whom he knew twnty years earlier. He was polite and said he would tell the billing person not to insist on daily payment. He had also assured that he would ring back to give what is the actual situation.
The anticipated call did not come. Only that day Trivikram had rung up and he responded when he was in the puja. He promised to ring back, but the call did not come.
Trivikram rang up to Arif and told him that Dr. Muthuvel was yet to ring up. In any case, this was not the time to shift her to MCC when ventilator is not guaranteed. In any case she was much better off because she had a ventilator and an ICU bed. Arif went by the advice of wait and watch for some time. He was aware of what Saheb was doing from New Delhi as the ripple effect could be felt both in hospital and official circle, more calls and enquiries, the doctors of the hospital being more attentive to him.
Arif was on mobile call with elder brother Mohammad. Mohd. Had done his software engineering and was working in Dubai in a software firm. His salary was good and savings decent. Overall, he was doing well.
“How is Ammi”?
“Not very well even though she is apparently stable now. The doctor says there is only 10% chance. I had requested Rao sahib. He checked up from Delhi, in MCC there is no ventilator available now. He has suggested we wait out for 2/3 days” Arif said.
“If that’s what he says after checking up, we should wait.”
“But Bhai, they are charging Rs. 1 lakh a day. It is taking quite an effort to organize everyday, particularly when on quarantine. You please send 2/3 lakhs rupees. Ammi has money in her account but we can’t draw it. Rao sahib has told to the Chairman, Venkateswara Hospital to keep their billing on hold. But billing section is yet to confirm.”
“Stay in touch with Rao Saheb. Should I come down?”
“Why now? Ammi is in ICU. You can’t do much. Wait for sometime. Once she comes out of ICU, you can come. But Bhai, I am worried. The doctor says she can be on ventilator for a month or even 3 months. That will mean we will have to sell the property.
“Why? There will be reimbursement from the Government. Rao sahib will make sure that in 2/3 days she will shift to MCC. Don’t panic. Everything will be alright. I want Ammi to be fine. Don’t forget what she has done for 5 of us as a single women.”
“I Know. But with 10% chance it looks hopeless. Only Allah the merciful will help. I hope this calamity does not destroy our household. Every morning organizing a lac of rupees is exacting.”
“Don’t worry. Things will sort out. I will send some money tomorrow.” Mohd. Assured.
********
Dr. Muthuvel had taken stock of issues that day. He had offloaded 50% of shares to the Malaysian group and the group was insistent on Return on investment.
In addition, there was a long queue of patients to get into Venkateswara Hospital. Keeping the VIPs at bay would be troublesome later. He particularly wanted to help someone who was related to him. That gentleman had helped him in his career progression and his business. But so many people are on ventilators. There was a film star in queue. Payment was not problem with him. But how to organize a ventilator bed was
Rao saheb’s call was there for his old attender. The duty doctor said she had 10% chance only. The patient being a Government servant will face problem in payment as she went along. The Collector’s office will surely ask for the discount on the bill and that had to be conceded. In this seller’s market that is a loss to Venkateswara Hospital. Rao saheb had requested for intermittent billing instead of daily billing. That will be problem once agreed to. He had managed to stay clear of clear cut reply to him. But it could not be staved off for long. Along with his case, duty doctor was telling there are two more cases where the patients will breathe their last anytime. One of them has only paid 50% today and next day it was likely to be less. From experience he knew cases where the first signs of the flow drying up appear.
Dr. Muthuvel thought to himself why prolong these cases when the probability of their survival is only 10%. It will only impoverish the families. Other cases who have better chances they won’t be taken in Hippocratic oath was not a bother for him as he had compromised it long time back. He picked up the telephone to tell the RMO.
“Dr. Senthil, please have three beds with ventilators ready by tomorrow morning.”
The RMO said “Ok, Sir.”
The standard operating procedure was known to both. The code was deciphered without much explanation. Dr. Muthuvel put the receiver down.
******
Early morning, there was a call from Arif that Ayesha Bi had breathed her last. It was a sad news for Rao and his wife. They silently prayed for Auyesha Bi’s soul to rest in peace. Rao promptly rang up to the Collector to effect reduction in the bill and to help the family in the medical reimbursement. A prompt reply came from her that she would get cracking. The system moved to facilitate the discharge of the dead body. Arif who was in isolation came over to take the body. The bill was settled. It was for Rs. 4,99,645/- of which Rs. 3,79,000/- was already paid. Of the remaining Rs. 1,29,649/- the hospital waived off Rs. 75,000/- in a show of generosity and pleasing the district administration with one stroke. The bill showed blood bank bill of Rs. 30,000/-, drugs of Rs. 1,60,000/-, nursing charges of Rs. 40,000/-, Lab investigation Rs. 45,000/-, Bedside procedures of Rs. 60,000/-. The dagger had been driven in hard and turned too. Only thing there was no blood visible.
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 world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”
Culture, traditions and lifestyle decide the eminence of a man. There are three types of people in the world: Poor, middle class and the rich. The poor remains the poor as he can acquire his minimum basic needs like food, shelter and water as the ownership remains in the hands of rich or landlords. Most of the hard workers chose to be as farmers, fishermen, masons, heavy equipment operators, carpenter, iron workers, and labourers in a firm or industry. They cannot afford good education to their children, medical facilities to the sick and comforts to live happily in their life.
‘There is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think of nothing else.’
‘’Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor.’’
The second group of people are known as the middle-class people who do not want their children to suffer in their future, as they suffered in their life. They start teaching them about life in our nation, by giving life experiences as examples. Comparison often takes place in a student’s life and parents’ prestigious issues. Students from this class are taught constantly about hard work, growth and sufferings of the common man.
The number of schools, colleges and universities has been increasing in every nook and corner, but we cannot change our education system. With the growing competition, we compel our children to study hard. If a child does well at his studies, parents advise him to opt for engineering, medicine or IIT, thinking that he may earn well or go abroad in order to get name and fame. The students who have an aspiration would work extremely hard in a systematic manner to achieve success. They always move in dreamland, not on the real land!
‘’I have to live for others and not for myself: that’s middle-class morality.’’
I often surprise to see the progress of middle-class students! They worry for marks, rank and percentage continually, till they complete their education or reach certain goal! They get stressed due to this and spend hours together on studies!
The educational institutions increase fee structure every year! The student who gets excellent mark is not at all peaceful today! A middle-class student has to spend a large amount for his education, which is very difficult for his parents! Education has become a big business and all the educational institutions follow their own fee structure either in thousands or lakhs! The parents are compelled to join their children because of their good performance and ranks!
Once the students finish pre-university studies, they are forced to prepare methodically to get the better score in all the competitive exams! Though they plan well, they cannot even find the proper path to reach their goal at this stage!
What about those who do not do well at studies? They are lost, confused and frustrated in their student life! They get depressed, thinking about their responsibilities that they must hold and golden future!
The lifestyle has been changing everywhere and people started looking for better opportunities, education, and comforts in life.
Everyone wants to have wealth, but a few people know how to become rich. Becoming rich is a combination of luck, skill and patience. Getting rich is not quite easy: but with little bit of perseverance and information, it is possible. Based on our luck, we can put our efforts and have skilful decisions to flourish in the way we want!
“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.”
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.
CLASSIC LITERATURE: TO READ OR NOT TO READ
It’s spring! The weather is balmy and conducive for long walks. As I hike along the walking trails around the countryside, I often listen to a multitude of interesting podcasts to keep me company. Recently, I started listening to a narration of Dracula by Bram Stoker for a change, instead of my usual fare. It was an impulsive and unexpected decision, given that I am generally a purist with a penchant for reading a book rather than listening to a narration. However, when I stumbled across Dracula, I realised I had last read the original in my late teens. While the various adaptations of movies and TV series I have watched since do keep the story fresh they are from the director’s viewpoint, not mine. I decided to relook at it with a different and hopefully more mature perspective, given the passage of time.
It is generally ascribed to as vampire literature or a gothic fiction classic, so I was mentally primed for the blatant fantasy, the archaic language of the late 19th century or even the historical and culture references set in a different era. Afterall, an average person has to have an open mind if they are reading a story about an undead person living off sucking blood from the ones alive and subsequently converting them into the undead too. I also do not have to hail the mastery of the Irish author in being able to weave this fantastic tale that has endured through centuries or inspired so many spinoffs, both written and visual.
My mental preparation still did not prevent me from trying to shake my head when I read about things like Lucy Westenra being given blood transfusion from four different people without testing for blood group, when she lost blood. I thought she probably died from the aftereffects of incompatible blood, rather than the vampire drinking it. I laughed it off as lack of scientific progress.
However, the most difficult part to digest was neither the fantasy nor the science but it was the barefaced sexism almost woven throughout the story that riled me up. A trivial comment like the character Mina, a very intelligent and capable lady, being told she has a man’s brain made me pause the narration and take a fortifying breadth.
I am fully aware that it is set in a different era but it made me stop and contemplate whether I wanted to read this classic again or even any other for that matter. It also reminded me of the ongoing debate around if we should study classics at all. Should we expose the young generation to these old times with their outdated views or rather teach them contemporary stories that reflect current social norms? Should we include the plays of Shakespeare as part of the curriculum, currently taught not just in schools and colleges but even in life coaching lessons?
My much-loved English teacher, a sage woman indeed, used to often remind me to never take anything at face value, be it a poem or prose, to always dig deeper and try to understand the emotions that were being conveyed by the author. We most likely will neither agree nor even relate to what is happening in the pages of a Dickensian novel, when we read the book at face value but beyond the story lies the human emotions that are universal and never fade with time. We have to accept that it is a different world to ours, sometimes as removed as a fantasy. So, we just go with the flow, be it the racial comments with 200 repetitions of the N word in Adventures of Tom Sawyer or the casual racism in a play like Othello, the anti-Semitism in Merchant of Venice or sexism in my current read Dracula among others and try to decipher the underlying threads of emotions that are triggering the actions of the characters. Even an amateur detective will tell you the why is always more worthwhile than the how after all.
When we manage to look past the language, classic literature provides us with a front row seat to the past, a historical perspective of not only the events that happened but also a reflection of the socio-economic culture of the time. Afterall has anything changed in terms of the fundamental construct of our society over the centuries? The labels in the social hierarchy may have altered but a hierarchy still remains.
The classics remain ageless due their universal themes around human emotions which have existed since we evolved. We still love fear and hope. We admire courage, trust people, abhor violence, punish sins like theft and act irrationally when angry or jealous. Yes, the accepted language and decorum may have evolved over time but the fundamental morals of the society have mostly remained unchanged, along with the horrors.
Let’s take Othello for example, if we can accept the racism as a lesson on how not to behave, it still teaches us about the consequences of harbouring hatred, jealousy, betrayal and revenge. There is a reason Shakespeare’s plays are used as tools to study ethics, emotional intelligence and leadership in some of the leading business schools. The lessons in those plays are as relevant today, as they were four centuries ago.
This perceived flaw is not just limited to classic novels but other works including children’s literature too. Take the recent controversy surrounding the latest Disney movie Snow White where Prince Charming kissed her while she was sleeping to wake her up, a “true love's kiss” apparently. It forms an integral part of both the book and the subsequent movie. However, it is raising serious questions around consent. How can she give her consent while asleep and are we teaching it as acceptable behaviour to young kids? Is it better to let kids read the book and educate them about the issue, omit the scene from modern day books/movies or stop reading Snow White and remove all available copies? What is the best approach? With the world and our sensibilities continuously evolving, what is acceptable today may not be so after a decade or even a year, so where do we draw the proverbial line?
On the question of whether we should expose the younger generation to the sins of the past, well why shouldn’t we, if they can learn a valuable lesson from it. They are a well read and socially conscious generation with information at their fingertips. We should educate them and give them enough credit that they can discern the right from the wrong and learn the appropriate lessons.
In fact, why deprive us or someone of enjoying a great story just because of our current sensitivity? Literature can act as a window, a looking glass to the past with all its sins and virtues laid bare for everyone to assess and act if required. Shouldn’t we always attempt to learn from our past mistakes?
While some of the old literature is tough to read given our more evolved sensibilities, I believe it also helps us appreciate what we have managed to transform, what we have eradicated and how far we have come. Dare I say it offers us a glimpse into what was wrong and helps us find a more balanced approach in our present.
Given all my contemplation I am now ready to listen to the next chapter of Dracula. I just need to adjust my mind to be more open and tolerant of the follies of the past generations before I press play to resume my immersion into the story of a fantasy and the corresponding emotional threads running through it.
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
Once a sage didn't allow a Yamaduta to take lives by an epidemic. Finally, the Yamaduta had to plead that he'll take only 3 lives and leave and the sage agreed.
But the epidemic continued and again the sage summoned the Yamaduta for breaching the contract. Yamaduta said, "I took only 3 lives, rest are dying due to panic".
Don't we understand that panic can affect immune system? At this hour we need a strong immunity system for the good. Medicines may help but immune system will cure you.
Concern and taking precaution are one thing, rumour spreading and undue panic is another thing. We have to be strong from within and then can evade any kind of agent.
Salute to the healthcare givers, Police, airport officials service providers, even small grocers, vegetable vendors.... who are coming into direct contact of many unknown people every day...please do take care of your physical, mental and spiritual being.
It is a fight between a bad force and your consciousness. The bad force that was created to conquer the world is now dragging the entire mankind into the shackle of fear of death.
What I wrote last year in March, this year it is really showing its true colours. Last year people bragged about testing facilities, this year they are demanding oxygen and increasing hospital beds, more preparedness....but how many beds, how many litres of oxygen, how many shots of vaccine can cater to your fear??
None...no amount of facilities can really help you. The world was waiting for this panic and you are falling prey to it.
Few may get angry, few may criticise, few may agree, few others may strongly disagree....for past 6 months I have not watched TV, had exited from majority WhatsApp groups. But still I get news in bits and pieces through screenshots of Tweets, news links and I feel I am abreast with most of the developments in drugs, vaccines, about the charities, about the real face of Big Brother playing Western countries, help from other countries and so on.....
In the bargain what did I gain? Mental peace.....People may say I live in fool's paradise but let it be. I have been calmly doing all my duties that are expected from me. Doing regular teaching, delivering talks, keeping academics running, doing lab duties where just in my adjacent room beyond the wall the COVID patient samples are centrifuged with a whir, looking after family, neighbours and reassuring patients....nothing has been affected so far.
Certain questions arise in my mind that I lay open for my readers to help me in answering.
1. US says no raw materials will be provided for vaccine-- can I help here? What are Bureaucrats and Ministry is for? Can I intervene anyway?
2. Oxygen plants are not enough- by repeatedly seeing the news, one of my non-COVID acquaintances became hypoxic (feeling lack of oxygen)
3. A doctor dies in Rajasthan- I never would have bothered in other times, should I bother now?
4. Am I immortal?
5. Is my consciousness so evolved that I can overcome the fear of death which is described as "Mahat Bhaya" (the greatest fear)?
6. Shouldn't I grieve on so many deaths taking place in US, UK or any other countries, which I hardly cared for earlier?
7. India is hiding statistics of disease and death...who has checked the facts and who is going to vouch for other countries' stats?
8. Am I the only one who sees "forwarded many times" videos of Indian healthcare system collapsing, cadavers burnt in masses, dearth of cremation facilities, dearth of vaccine and not seeing any videos made on China, Russia, US, UK or are they having a very smooth time?
When you are seeing a news clipping of wheeling a stretcher for 100 times repeatedly in TV/ web news portals, scrolls of panic ...actually you are developing an area in your brain for panic and the rest is story to you.
For example, if you practice mathematics for a longer time, you develop an area for the same in your brain and then you see numbers everywhere, correlation with numbers everywhere. This is what exactly happening now....You are seeing death everywhere.
So, should we ignore the situation?? No--
We can at the best do whatever is expected from us.
1. Stay indoors, make maximum use of online purchases
2. Maintain hygiene
3. Spend judiciously so as to help the needy
4. Wear masks, maintain social distancing
5. parties, gatherings can wait
6. Find out our hobbies and work upon that
7. Maintain helping and serving attitude towards all.
8. Try to find out innovative ideas for helping the patients during and after getting infected, in terms of designing masks to treatment protocols or whatever we are best at.
Bow down and the storm shall pass over you...This too shall pass.
Have a little more patience...as a man thinketh so he becomes or rather so he receives
Let peace prevail over the Universe---Aum Shantih, shantih, shantih
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.
Naina stormed into her room and threw the book in her hand, venting all her irritation. The book landed top down at the corner of her study table, as if pleading Naina to see the world in a different angle. That book, titled ‘The Secret’ was a gift from her friend for her birthday. “The philosophy of this book doesn’t work in reality! If you want something ardently in your life, the whole universe conspires for you to get it? If only!” thought an irked Naina. It wasn’t an overreaction. She had given wings to her dream and fallen terribly. Maybe all dreams were not destined to come true.
The doorbell rang. “Uhhh! Why can't people just stay in their own house. Saying namaste with a smile to some random person is the last thing I want to do now!”
“Naina… Beta come here” Her mom called her. Naina dragged herself to the hall.
“Beta meet Samantha aunty. She is a good friend of mine. You both talk while I get some snacks.” Her mom left her alone with this stranger. “Why does she try me like this? She knows very well that I don’t like strangers and still she hopes this will makes me an extrovert! Huh!” Naina thought to herself.
“Hi there, Naina. How are you?”
“I am fine. Thanks!” Naina don’t care attitude was well masked by her good manners.
“So what do you like to do? Your hobbies?” Samantha asked a customary question.
Naina had always loved cooking. All her childhood memories revolved around food. She used to spend all her time watching cookery channels, noting down all the recipes. Often, the spelling mistakes in her recipe would be left uncorrected, because her mom would get busy and never open them. Although she was an assistant chef right from her kindergarten, she got the whole kitchen to herself by the young age of 8!
“I like writing.” Naina retorted to Samantha's question on hobby, hiding her innermost passion. Cooking was the last thing she wanted to discuss.
“Oh interesting. I like reading too. You know I found this book! Very interesting! It’s a recipe book, amazing recipes. Mind looking?”
Samantha was holding an old notebook in her hands. It was Naina’s recipe book. She grunted, “Not again mom, what all do you try to get me back to cooking. But making some stranger praise my own notebook? Far too cliché!” she thought.
“Nice” Naina replied robotically.
“You know, when I read this book I thought it must be written by a matured chef. But it's amazing you could write such a brilliant thing at such a small age. This should be shared with the world. Why don’t you try sharing it on social media, maybe make a youtube channel?”
YouTube…. This word transported Naina back into her past.
2 years back she started her own cookery channel with all zeal! Overcoming her shy nature, she took the pain to personally message everyone to publicize it. Yet, most of her videos couldn’t cross 300 views! And majority of those came from her parents who were trying to boost her confidence. The reason? Mostly because of the way social media worked. You need to have a lot of likes, then your channel automatically reaches a lot of people. But if you have less likes, its reach is limited, hence the likes don’t increase. It’s a vicious circle. Also, her cuisine was ingenious and beyond the likings of her conventional audience. Naina tasted failure too early in her life and she didn’t take it well. She felt a strong aversion to what she loved the most. She was so deeply hurt, that she hadn’t cooked a single dish in the last two years.
"Naina, you are ok? I was saying why not start a cookery channel?" Samantha brought Naina back from her reverie.
This was like tasting an over salted dish! This lady had some guts, pricking her wounds. She put on a poker face. “Thanks, but I am not interested!”
“Oh why! You should give it a shot! I am a youtube celebrity you know. It’s normal to get a million like for me.”
Naina gave a meek smile.
“Do you care to check my videos?” Even before Naina could deny, Samantha had opened her phone and a phone screen was directed right in front of her face.
Even without glancing at it Naina commented “great” and turned away. She halted mid ways. She turned back in slow motion, the video had something familiar! Wait, it was her recipe! Her gaze went down, Samantha’s video had 5 million likes!
Naina was perplexed. Before the question mark started dripping down her face, Samantha explained.
“You know Naina, I just moved to a new apartment a month back. I found a recipe book stashed at the end of a closet. I recreated the recipes and they were a hit. Sadly, there was no name on the book, I assumed the last resident, who died just before I moved must have written it. I opened a cookery channel dedicated to that late aunty. Overnight, the channel was a hit. One day, when I searched for my recipe and simply scrolled down, I found a video which had a dish which looked exactly like mine. As if someone copied my video. It had 303 views and was posted 2 years back. Intrigued, I found all the recipes in the book listed in that channel. I realized my assumption about the author of the book was completely wrong.”
Naina was just staring at Samantha, not knowing how to react.
“I am not your mom’s friend Naina. I searched my way to your house because your recipes drew me towards you. You know I strongly feel that if we really want something in our life, the universe conspires for that.”
Naina’s eyes turned towards her study table. At the dusty corner, as if the book, The Secret, was smilingly crookedly at her. Her vision started blurring, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Naina, you are a YouTube celebrity, there are millions of followers who are dying to get a new recipe in my channel! So little chef, would you like to make your fans happy?”
Naina’s beaming smile was an answer to it all. She hugged Samantha tightly. This was the best birthday gift ever.
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
AN INDO-AMERICAN GIRL’S PERCEPTION OF LIFE IN CHENNAI
Grandma, come soon, called Anisha excitedly from the balcony of our apartment. Leaving my work in the kitchen half done, I rushed out to see what was the reason for the girl’s sudden excitement. I noticed her watching with wonder-struck eyes what was happening in the newly constructed, multi-storied complex opposite. To me it appeared a daily ritual but to someone who was born and brought up in the U.S. the act of the construction workers bathing in the open was an unusual sight. The man clad in a small towel was pouring water on himself from a bucket with a small mug which he later passed around for two others to do the same. Meanwhile he scrubbed his body with soap , took back the mug and poured some more water from the bucket washing the soap away. The others followed. Bath over, they wiped themselves dry, got into fresh clothes and went about their work. Then it was the turn of the women and children to bathe. There was a lot of chatter and laughter among them, with the children splashing water on the older women and the latter admonishing them for wasting precious water.
Grandma, have you noticed something? The men folk were having a relay race while bathing, observed my 12 year old grand daughter. It was fun watching those children enjoying their bath, by the way, don’t these people have wash rooms in their houses? She asked with an astonished look.
Before I could answer, I found the girl engrossed in the next spectacle. One of the women lit a kerosene stove in an improvised kitchen, in a corner under the covered park, (logs of wood were still lying here waiting to be cleared) another woman cut some vegetables and together they prepared “uppuma” in a large aluminium vessel. Soon the dozen odd men and their families sat in a circle and consumed their breakfast piping hot which was washed down with glasses of tea.
Grandma, they all seem to be so happy, enjoying their picnic, enthused Anisha who was watching them so intently.
Just then, a resident living in the complex come down and started his two wheeler which was parked just below one of the balconies. Suddenly he ducked in fright as he noticed something landing on him from nowhere. Anisha was giggling away and I too could not contain my laughter when I saw the wet sari, crumpled and lying in a heap next to the man. The culprit was the maid who was drying clothes in the balcony and the sari slipped from her hands!
From then on Anisha spent less time indoors and more time in the balcony as she found it more amusing watching the activity in the multi storied complex opposite.
Every day she would discover something new and come running to me to tell me proudly what she had noticed with her keen sense of observation. I came to know more about the residents and their lifestyle which I wouldn’t have known otherwise.
One day, she said, grandma, I am sure there are two small children in the apartment opposite. Can I go and make friends with them? She asked innocently.
How do you know? I asked, wondering how she had come to the conclusion.
Yea, I am sure, go and see for yourself if you don’t believe what I say, she said. I can even invite them for my birthday party, she suggested.
I wanted to tell her, here in Chennai you normally made friends either with your classmates or through other common friends but did not volunteer to visit strangers’ homes. I told her she would find it difficult to converse with them as she did not know their mother tongue and they would find it difficult to understand her English as she speaks with an American accent .
O.k., tell me how you found out, I said out of curiosity.
You know, last night when the lights were switched on, I saw two Harry Potter blowups pasted on the wall of the childrens’ bedroom, the girl explained.
What else would the girl notice next, I wondered.
I think the boy in the apartment next to that is learning to play on the keyboard, was another piece of information she gave me.
Now, how did you find that out? I asked puzzled.
I saw the boy dusting his keyboard this morning, she replied.
Days passed and Anisha’s news bulletins of the complex also increased which were a mix of the mundane (to me) and the unusual.
One day Anisha appeared very serious and rather moody. However much I tried to humour the girl, she remained absorbed in thought. I thought the girl probably felt homesick since it was more than a month she was away from her parents. She must be missing her friends too back home, I presumed.
Quite concerned about what was bothering Anisha, I asked her whether she wished to return to the U.S. and her parents .
She vehemently nodded. Then I wanted to know whether she was upset over something that she noticed in the building opposite.
After endless probing, She asked hesitantly, grandma, will the parents of those two small children in the opposite apartment divorce?
Her question came like a bolt from the blue. I could not imagine even in my wildest dreams why the girl suspected or feared that such a thing would happen, that too when she neither knew them nor had met them.
Why do you think so dear? I said drawing the girl nearer.
You know, yesterday, I saw the parents shouting at each other at the top of their voices and almost coming to blows. Their two small children were hugging the mother and crying, saying something in their language. Anisha’s words came amidst sobs.
I explained to her that probably the couple were having a heated argument over something which was quite common and divorces don’t happen just like that in Chennai, because most people were still traditional and conservative in outlook.
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.
In the 1990s, when I was in my twenties and was in revolt against our system of education that creates corrupt government officials, unethical businessmen and unscrupulous politicians, I have been in search of a ‘pedagogy of the oppressed’ and I happened to visit an unconventional centre of education named Kanav. The Malayalam word kanav means dream. Kanav was started by K J Baby, a noted Malayalam writer, in Wayanad to educate the tribal children, who couldn’t cope up with the schooling of the mainstream, and hence used to be dropouts. The Adivasi children of Wayanad and Attappadi (in Kerala) who enroll in the tribal schools used to face a terrible identity crisis. Their names were like Chapplia, Chipra, Eera, Cheeli, etc. The teachers in the Tribal Schools would replace their indigenous names with the mainstream ones. Chappila would be renamed Suresh, Chipra as Raju, Eera would be Bindu, Cheeli would be Lakshmi; and Chappila won’t know what to do when he is called Suresh. Eera can’t answer when she is called Bindu. Identity crisis together with many other reasons compelled the hapless children to be drop outs. And Kanav was started to protect the very identity and culture of the tribal children from the onslaught of the ‘civilizing mission’ of the mainstream settler society and their system of education.
When I read about Kanav, I decided to visit it to learn more about it. The time was pre-mobile, pre-Facebook and pre-WhatsApp era. I only knew the name of the place where Kanav was located. Travelling more than six hours, I reached the place in the high ranges after dusk. It was for the first time the Kanav man and I were meeting each other. I had stayed there for a week and was really unwilling to leave the place.
Kanav stood in the middle of a vast tract of agricultural land in the lap of the Western Ghats. At the centre of the spacious land, there was a long hall and kitchen. A little distance away there was a library building. The children, nearly fifty tribal kids, were taught to cultivate vegetables, to play musical instruments, to read and write etc. Baby’s two daughters were also learning with the tribal children without having conventional schooling. There were volunteers to do cooking and paddy cultivation. The children and the elders took the food together sitting on the floor of the spacious kitchen and they used to sleep in the hall. I stayed in the library. It was from Kanav, I saw the potter’s wheel. The children were trained in almost all traditional skills.
Beyond the vast paddy fields of Kanav, there was the forest. One of the tributaries of the Kabani River was running between the forest and Kanav. The river and the forest and the musical parties of Baby and the kids before having the food at night were the most attractive things for me. I used to sit on the banks of the river for hours together immersed in the beauty of the river and the music of the forest winds and birds. And the gurgling waters used to take my mind to the Kavery River and even to the Srirangam Temple and to the legend of Thiruppanar. The water I was looking at, I used to think, would run into the Kabani, a tributary of Kavery, then it would flow past the Srirangam temple which stands on the banks of Kavery where Thiruppanar used to stand and sing his immortal hymns on Lord Ranganathan, his beloved deity, as he was not allowed into the temple premises, being an untouchable. My travelling with the river Kabani and Kavery would be interrupted by the sweet music of the forest birds and I would cross the river and enter into the enchanting world of the sylvan bower. I would return from my forest sojourns only by the time of the musical party of Baby and the kids in the dusk.
Every day, after 7pm, Baby would play his harmonium and the children would sing songs—folk songs of the tribal people, songs that tell of the stories of betrayal, songs that tell of tribal chieftains like Karinthandan. The only road to Wayanad is the ghat pass road that goes through the Thamarassery Churam. And a Ficus tree with an iron chain hanging from the middle of it welcomes us before we reach Wayanad. The chain is sunken deep into the tree and the tree is called Changalamaram (Chain Tree). The legend says that Wayanad, covered with pristine old growth forests of the Western Ghats, was not accessible to the ‘civilised’ people who destroy everything that is natural. The entire region belonged to the different tribal people (Adiya, Paniya, Kuruchya, Kaattunaayaka, etc.) who lived there without inflicting any damage to the Environment. In the early 1700s, Karinthandan a tribal chieftain of Paniya tribe, disclosed the forest path that connects Thamarassery to Wayanad to a British engineer and the chieftain was shot dead by the engineer who built the road. Then many people travelling through this road were mysteriously killed. It was believed that the soul of Karinthandan was behind the accidents and a sorcerer chained the soul to the tree. I don’t believe in this ghost story, but Wayanad doesn't belong to the tribal people today; the tribals, to whom the entire region once belonged, live in the periphery as destitute. The road Karinthandan disclosed to the outer world brought hordes of settlers and the tribals were robbed of their lands and eliminated; the dense forests were denuded and the wildlife hunted out.
How beautiful it was to hear that songs that reveal the untold and unwritten history of Wayanad accompanied by the harmonium music! The life in Kanav was egalitarian, casteless and beyond religions. Therefore, I have always kept deep inside my mind a desire to go back to the dream, even when my antagonism against the system was ebbed away and I became a government employee compromising my revolt against everything that is conventional.
And recently, having felt to visit Kanav and be a part of it, I inquired about its present status and was informed that Kanav doesn’t exist today. Kanav was not a dream, but now it is, and I am dejected. The world in which we live today is bereft of dreams.
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 TERRORIST
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
On a hot summer evening in 2012 I had returned from the office and sat down with a tall glass of chilled lime soda when my eyes were drawn to the face that popped up on the TV screen. I howled like I had been touched by a live wire,
"Kalyani, come, come, see who is on TV. Come before the news item ends."
My wife came running from the kitchen. The news anchor was announcing that a terrorist had been caught in the morning by the Delhi police when he was hiding under some bushes on the Prime Minister's route. Some explosive liquid, a deadly weapon and subversive documents were found in the bag he was carrying.
The thin, bearded face looked scared and at a loss.
Kalyani started laughing,
"This man? A terrorist? He looks like someone rescued from a hunger camp! How can he be a terrorist? Do you know him, why did you holler for me?"
I was getting my voice back,
"Arey, this is Shambhunath Singh; remember I was telling you about him in the morning?"
She remembered,
"O, the old Masterji? How did he fall into the hands of the Delhi Police?"
I also wondered how the Delhi Police had invented a terrorist out of a simple old man I had met that very morning. The memory was fresh in my mind.
The summer of 2012 in Delhi was a killer. No one in living memory could recollect a season more scorching and severe. Even by seven in the morning, sun rays pricked the skin like sharp needles and made walking outside a torture.
I was returning home after my morning walk when an old man stopped me at the intersection of Shahjahan Road and Mansingh Road. I looked at him - a frail, aged man in a white kurta-pyjama - he looked a rustic from the hinterland of Bihar or Uttar Pradesh. His weather- beaten face broke into an embarrassed smile,
"Babuji, can you tell me the way to the Prime Minister's house? I seem to have lost my way."
I gave him a curious look. He wanted to go to the Prime Minster's house! Who was this man - did he think of himself as a foreign correspondent out to interview the Prime Minister of this great country?
I felt pity for him. After all, this was the embodiment of Aam Aadmi that the government beats its drum about. I smiled at him,
"Do you want to go there, to the PM's house?
He nodded, clearly and unambiguously.
I asked him, incredulity making my voice tremble,
"Are you going to meet the PM?"
He nodded again,
"Yes, I have to hand over a letter to him and tell him about my woes."
"Where are you from? What's your name?"
"I am Shambhunath Singh, a retired primary school teacher from Bihar Sherif district."
"O, Bihar Sherif? Nalanda?"
His face broke into a huge smile,
"You know Nalanda? My village is just six kilometres from there."
"Masterji, who has not heard of Nalanda, the seat of ancient learning?"
He swelled with pride for a moment,
"Yes, in ancient days people knew the worth of education and teachers. Nalanda was famous all over the world. Today no one cares about them. Look at me. In my hands so many brilliant minds were moulded, their initial learning was from me. So many Depties, Professors, Magistrates, Doctors...Today no one has time for this old teacher. Nobody cares if I am alive or dead. That is life!"
His sadness touched me. I looked at my watch. There was enough time for me to spend a few minutes with him. He looked famished. I asked him to join me for a cup of tea at the nearby stall. We sat on a bench under a huge neem tree and had tea with bread pakoda. It was a big respite from the hot sun. My curiosity got the better of me,
"Masterji, what is in your letter to the PM? Have you got it typed?"
He took out the letter from the cloth bag which also carried some clothes and tidbits. He showed the letter to me. He had written it in Hindi in very nice hand writing, but my heart sank. Did he think the PM or the officers in PMO would read something which was not typed on a computer, in spotless foolscap paper, double spaced, in a good font? In which age was this old man living? This letter was for the Prime Minister of India! Not some God forsaken country like Sierra Leone or Eritrea! I asked him gently,
"What have you written here, Masterji?"
His eyes lit up as if he were teaching one of his bright students,
"I have asked him a few questions. I hope he has the answers to them."
I couldn't contain myself,
"Questions? What questions?"
"Oh, so many of them. See Babuji, I have lived my life on Gandhian principles, never told a lie, never harmed anyone, and lived a pious life. Today, why do I have to live a life of penury, unable to provide two decent meals to my family? Those who are goondas, looters, cheats, rapists, they roam around freely in motorcycles and big cars, they can come and beat up the innocent people in the villages, they can molest women at their will, lift young girls and take them away and we all hide, scared to death. They are fearless because they break law, and we are scared because we are bound by the chains of law? Tell me Babuji, why we should live in fear, why we should be scared, scared of the police, the chapraasi at the office, the darwan at the hospital, the village munsif, the Depty, everyone. We teach our students - be humble, law-abiding, respectful of elders, lead a virtuous life, then only you will rise in life. Do they rise in life? It's only our goondas, netas, dishonest officials who rise in life. People like us live in dust and die in dust. Innocent, helpless weaklings like my son, my son in law - they would only lie on the ground to be the layers on which the sinners will step and climb the ladder of success."
Shambhunath stopped after this long lecture. His face broke into a thousand sorrows, tears appeared in his eyes. I ordered another glass of tea for him. My heart melted for him,
"What happened to your son, your son in law? Are they not doing a job?"
Two drops of tear rolled down the cheeks of Shambhunath,
"Jobs? Babuji, which world are you living in? Can a retired school master arrange a job for his son? Do you know what is the going rate for the job of a primary school teacher? Ten lakhs! You have to pay fifteen lakhs for a chapraasi's job. Where do I get such kind of money? From my pension of twelve thousand a month? I have asked the Prime Minister in my letter why he has handed over the country to corrupt money suckers, looters and inhuman demons who take the money from poor people to give jobs."
Masterji's eyes were burning with a sad anger.
"And your son in law? What is he doing?"
The old man let out a long sigh,
"He is also jobless. I had given my only piece of one acre land as dowry to him. He had pledged it with the Gramin bank for a loan; two years back the monsoon failed, he could not repay the loan. Now the land has been seized by the bank. Babuji, what is the justice system in our country? I read in the newspaper that big people don't pay back their loan and nothing happens to them, only the poor have to suffer when their crops fail? My son in law is without any income now. I have to send money from my pension to my daughter."
"Your son doesn't work?"
Masterji shook his head,
"He wants to work as an agricultural laborer, but because he has studied upto B.A. the land owners don't give him a job. So my son is at home doing all the household work, and like a Shravan Kumar carries the burden of his old father and invalid mother on his shoulders."
I got a shock;
"Invalid? Why, what happened to your wife?"
"Two years back she had pain in the knees, doctor said her knees had to be operated. We got her admitted in the district hospital. We came for a week, had to stay in the hospital for three months. Her knees got infected, and shrivelled. They became like sticks, she could not stand up. She had entered the hospital walking, returned home on the shoulders of my son."
"How did the knees get infected?"
"Babuji, don't you know, there are not enough beds in the hospital. If the patients are made to sleep on the floor in the midst of flies, mosquitoes and rats, won't they get infected? And you won't believe the number of cats and dogs who freely roam around in the hospital, licking the plates of food, attacking the small bags of biscuits and fruits we leave for the patients. I have asked the PM in my letter why he is not opening many more government hospitals and why dozens of big private hospitals are coming up in every town or tehsil but no addition is made to the number of government beds or hospitals."
"What else have you asked the PM in your letter? When you meet him, are you going to tell him all these things?"
"Yes, I hope he gives me a few minutes; after all I am also an honest, law abiding citizen, I have voted for his party in the last elections. I want to ask him why his government is playing jokes on the people. You go to our post office, our hospital, you will find big posters advising people to eat balanced diet, big quantity of rice, atta, daal, vegetables, fruits, eggs, fish, chicken! Ah, they look so good in those posters Babuji, my heart pines for them! I want to ask the PM when we don't have enough to have a few rotis, and a couple of onions every day to go with the rotis, why does the government show us these pictures. Isn't it cruel, like flogging dying horses?"
I thought he had a point there. Most of us also thought the same way. But he was a few steps ahead of us,
"Babuji, our PM, Ministers, Offsars, they all fly abroad when they fall sick. The poor Janta is left at the mercy of dark, dingy, unclean hospitals. When my Budhiya was in the hospital I knew what stench comes from the bathrooms, how heaps of cotton, blood soaked gauzes, needles, blades are thrown in the garbage bins which overflow in no time. Dogs, cats, big bandicoots come to lick the blood, the pus and then they enter the wards searching for food. I want to ask the PM, why doesn't he send his Minsters and Offsars to go and inspect the hospitals? To set things right?"
I wished, as a senior official of the government, I could give him some explanation, but honestly, I didn't have any answer to these questions. I asked him,
"What else have you written in the letter?"
"Lots, Babuji, all my sorrow, my tears have flowed to the tip of my pen. Six months back my niece's husband had terrible pain in the chest. They used to live in Patna, he was a painter with a contractor. They hired an autorickshaw and rushed to the main hospital. On the way they got stuck. The police had stopped all traffic. The Mahamahim Governonr's convoy was to pass through the route. My niece fell at the feet of the policemen, but they refused to budge. The poor man had to wait for twenty minutes, he started gasping. The hospital was only half a kilo meter away. He got down from the auto and started running, my niece following him. He could not go beyond thirty forty steps. Exactly at the moment the Mahamahim's convoy passed the spot, raising a swirl of dust and the siren from the police vans drowning all noise, my niece's husband breathed his last, a poor, helpless citizen collapsed on the roadside".
Shambhunath looked down, two drops of tears fell from his eyes,
"The governor came to know of this from the newspaper. He wrote a letter expressing his regrets and wishing the dead man's soul to rest in peace. When I heard this I felt like going to him and giving him a few slaps. Rest in peace? Rest in peace? What a cruel, heartless joke! A young man dying in the prime of his life, will his soul rest in peace when he sees from above his wife and two kids going from door to door begging for their livelihood? Tell me Babuji, why do our netas need protection from the janta, why should police stop all vehicles, close all roads when they rush in their convoy? Who are the netas scared of? The janta which voted them to power? And why are so many police men busy protecting just one individual sitting in a big car? If they do this, who will catch the thieves, the pick pockets and stop looters, rapists and hooligans?"
Shambhunath Singh let out a long sigh and murmured,
"The Mahamahim and big netas must be floating in money, wealth is their God. But for my niece, her husband was the only God she knew. When she lost him she lost her everything. When will our netas understand this delicate truth, when will their heart see this thin thread holding lives together?"
My heart was getting heavier listening to the Masterji from rural Bihar. I was not sure if I could bear the weight of more questions from him. I looked at the watch. We had been talking for almost an hour. Time for me to go home and get ready for the office. I knew poor Masterji would not be allowed to go anywhere close to the PM's residence but I didn't want to break his heart. Out of curiosity I asked him,
"Masterji, what if the PM has no time to meet you? How will you deliver the letter to him?"
Masterji's eyes blazed like the hot sun above,
"Why shouldn't he meet me? I am a dutiful citizen of the country he is heading, he must find time for me. If he doesn't meet me I will commit self-immolation near his gate. See I have brought a litre of petrol with me and a match box too."
Masterji took out a bottle of petrol from his bag and showed to me. I wanted to tell him not to be foolish. If he kills himself by self immolation, nothing will happen to the world. The PM may not even know someone immolated himself because the poor fellow was denied a chance to meet him. Only his family would suffer in the village. The more I looked at him, the more my heart moved with pity and sympathy for the old man. I wondered where he had spent the night before embarking on his journey to the PM's house in the morning. I asked him,
"O, I slept in the Railway station, on a bench in the platform" he replied nonchalantly.
"Were you not afraid? Somebody could have robbed you, or harmed you?"
He laughed,
"Arey Babuji, who can harm me when I have this?"
My eyes came out of their sockets when he suddenly pulled a fierce 12 inches long knife from his bag.
"My son had given this to me when I was leaving for the railway station. With this in my hand I am not scared of thieves in the railway platform. I had a sound sleep last night."
A tremor ran through my body. This man wanted to go to the PM's house with a bottle of petrol and a 12 inches long knife in his cloth bag! Was he out of his mind? I wanted to dissuade him, but his face had that typically determined look which showed he had crossed all boundaries of logic and reasoning.
I told him the way to the PM's house. The heat from the morning sun was beating mercilessly on the road. I was not sure if the old man could withstand the two kilometres walk. I took out all the money I had in my pocket. I counted, it was five hundred seventy rupees. I gave it to the old man, he kept shaking his head, but I thrust in his pocket. He blessed me and I crossed the road to enter the government colony where I lived.
Kalyani had got worried. I told her about Shambhunath Singh, the Masterji, and hurried to get ready for the office.
I saw Masterji again briefly from a distance on my way to office. Near the Shahjahan Road and Prithviraj Avenue the Delhi Police had started erecting barricades on the feeder roads. Probably the PM's convoy was to pass this way. I saw a bit of a movement at the corner of one of the traffic islands. It was Masterji bent at the water tap washing his face and drinking water. I had no doubt it was him, from his loosely hanging dress and the familiar cloth bag which contained the precious letter to the PM. I wondered why he was still there, why he didn't go to the PM's house after I left him in the morning. But there was no time to stop and ask him. I asked my driver to hurry so that we could beat the barricading and get into the India Gate circle. Ours was the last car to cross the barrier, something like a photo finish.
And now Masterji's face was all over the TV screen, the anchor introducing him to the nation as a dreaded terrorist planning to attack the PM of the country. The police claimed they had recovered an incriminating letter, some explosive liquid and a deadly weapon from his bag. He was found crouching behind a bush in a traffic island waiting for the PM's convoy so that he could throw the explosive liquid at his car and then attack him. The Delhi police was interrogating him and would soon find out which local or international gang had sent him to attack the PM.
My face was clouded. Kalyani was aghast, and terribly angry,
"Is the Delhi police crazy or sick? Does this man look like a terrorist? Are they out of their mind? Please do something, otherwise the police will thrash him and make chutney out of him. Ah, the poor man, how will he stand the brutalities of police interrogation?"
Kalyani almost burst into tears. I was nonplussed. What could I do? Will the Delhi police listen to a nondescript Joint Secretary from the lightweight Ministry of Rural Development?
Suddenly Kalyani exclaimed,
"Idea! Call Nambiar Sahab immediately. Only he can save the poor Masterji, call him now, please, now itself"
I sat up. What an idea! Mr. Nambiar was the Principal Secretary to the PM, a trusted lieutenant of the big boss. I used to work under him ten years back in the Ministry of Power. He had a great liking for me and was a big fan of Kalyani's cooking, particularly the Chinese chicken dish which he called "Kungfu Chicken, fit for the Gods and God's own people, the Malayalis!"
Nambiar Sahab answered on the first ring and in his gruff voice hissed,
"How dare you? Before you say anything in your defence let me impose a fine of four bottles of chilled beer and unlimited helpings of Kalayani's Kungfu chicken. Next Sunday, lunch. Now tell me in two words, why you called. Quick, quick. I am still in a meeting with my officers at PMO."
"Sir, there is a bit of trouble."
He became alert,
"Trouble? Are you in trouble?"
"Not me Sir, a friend of mine."
"Ok, come tomorrow to my office, ten minutes to nine. Don't be late".
Before I could tell him it was urgent, he disconnected.
I spent a restless night, tossing on the bed, thinking of Shambhunath Singh's plight. Having spent twenty three years in government, some of them in field postings, I had a fair idea of police interrogation. I only hoped that poor Masterji would survive the night in one piece and tomorrow morning Mr. Nambiar would save him.
Next morning I met him at ten minutes to nine and told him the whole story. He had seen the news the previous evening and had dismissed it as the usual gimmick of the Delhi police to announce to the world that they were active and kicking!. Before rushing off to a meeting at nine he assured me he would take care of the matter and asked me to leave.
I went to my office but the mind was listless, unable to concentrate on work. I kept on wondering about Masterji's fate. Around one thirty Nambiar Sahab called, it was obvious he was speaking while having his lunch.
"Arey Anupam, you didn't tell me your friend is a piece of red chilly, hotter then the bloody Bhoot Jolka of Assam! And a master of the most colourful expletives. My God, what a vocabulary! After a long time I heard some choicest abuses, the likes of which we used to throw at each other at Jubilee Hall of Delhi University way back in the sixties."
I cringed,
"Yes Sir, he seems to be a nut case. And a rustic man Sir, the wild open Nature in his village must have added colour to his language."
Nambiar Sahab exploded in a solid, big laughter,
"Nature my ass! His knowledge of the delicate parts of human anatomy is astounding! And he has this uncanny ability to connect them to his expletives with the deftness of a Sachin Tendulkar connecting the bat to the ball. My God, you should have seen the way my two Section Officers blushed when they were recounting his words! I had to coax the words out of them."
"Where did your men find him, Sir?"
"At Tughlak Road police station. You know, after you left me this morning, I thought you had given us a great opportunity to extract a lot of juice from a good lemon. Elections are only six months away, the slogan of Aam Aadmi is getting a fresh lease of life. I planned to rescue Shambhunath Singh and take him to a Guest House. He would have rested there and in the evening we would have taken him to the PM's press conference. There the PM would have castigated the Delhi Police, and announced a compensation of five lakh rupees to him. And make a promise to bring his wife to the AIMS for treatment, the son would have been given a job in the Railways. The followers of the PM would have clapped and thunderous slogans of "Sarkar Ka Haath, Aam Admi ke Saath" would have filled the hall. But your friend is an idiot, a real spoilsport..."
"Why Sir? What did he do?"
"When my fellows went to the Tughlak Road police saltation Shambhunath Singh was sitting in the lockup, sulking and fuming. When he was told that the two gentlemen had been sent by the Prime Minister's Sachib to rescue him, he went berserk. Rising to his full height of five feet five inches, he started hissing like a livid cobra. He told the police officer to return his wallet and his old watch. The officer told him, yes, yes, everything will be returned to him, the cobra in Shambhunath bared its fang and started spewing venom,
- 'Return to me? You want to return everything to me? You @&?@&, you $£$€#, what all will you return to me? Can you return my dignity which you @&@?& last night by beating me mercilessly? Can you return my honour as a teacher? Can you return my unhurt body after wiping out the
@?&?& marks left by your ?&@?@ lathis and shoes? Can you return me to my family as the same old, innocent, retired teacher who came to meet the PM of the country with hope in his heart?'
Anupam, the poor blighter started emitting fire from his eyes, fixing them on the two Section Officers,
- 'Who has sent you here? The Prime Minster's Sachib? Go and tell him I spit on him, on his
@€#&$ face. Tell him that the fire that is raging within me will burn him to ashes, will destroy this police station and the ?&@?& Delhi Police. What kind of world are you living in, how dark and muddy is it? You think a Masterji's ijjat is like a handkerchief which you can soil and throw into the dustbin? Shame on you, shame on this soil. I don't want to be here even for a minute, you go and tell your Sachib to @&??& his @?&. I am leaving for my village.'
With that he grabbed his wallet and watch and ran out of the police station. He got into an auto and went to the Railway Station."
I was a bit worried for the old Masterji,
"Sir, I hope in his present state of mind he doesn't do something rash, like jumping before a train or something"
Nambiar Sahab chuckled,
"Arey nehin, he has got into the Patna bound train which left New Delhi station at 12.30. On my instruction two plain clothes police men are escorting him. They will make sure Shambhunath Singh reaches his village. Thanks to you, your terrorist friend is getting a treatment reserved for VVIPs."
Mr Nambiar let out a loud guffaw. He had obviously enjoyed the colourful expletives thrown at him by Masterji. Before disconnecting, he said gleefully,
"See you on Sunday at lunch over chilled beer and Kungfu chicken."
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
BOOK REVIEW
CORONA TIMES; SHORT STORIES AND POEMS; BY LT GENERAL N.P.PADHI.
Shri Ritesh Mishra, Commissioner of Income Tax Appeals, Surat
Lt. General NP Padhi is a highly decorated soldier. Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Basu Chatterji are celebrated film-makers. What is common between them?
Hrishi Da and Basu Da used to make movies about the common man. One feels that one knows the characters. They are the girl next door, her husband and children. The hero is Amol Palekar, and one feels that one meets him 5 times a day. The heroine is someone like Vidya Sinha in Basu Da’s Rajanigandha or Jaya Bhaduri in Hrishi Da’s Guddi and one feels as if one meets them regularly
Lt. General Padhi has written his debut book, Corona Times. He has penned some short stories and poems where the protagonists are the common man and woman. Just as Hrishi Da and Basu Da (and RK Laxman) make the common man (and woman) come to life, so does General Padhi through his stories which are very true to life. One feels as if one knows each character. One also identifies with their feeling and emotions as one has gone through the same as well.
Let us see what one of the earliest readers of the book has to say. Subrat Padhi, a trained management expert and an author himself says, “What a delightful read. Simple and touching stories, calmly and serenely written with a touch of irony and humor. Each story is dramatically different and has an inbuilt lesson, without being preachy or lecturing. A really refreshing read”.
A few words about the author. General Padhi is a highly decorated soldier who has trained at NDA, IIT Delhi and Osmania University. He has received various awards including two Presidential Awards, which are the Vishisht Seva Medal in 2014 for distinguished service of a High Order and the Param Vishisht Seva Medal in 2015 for Distinguished Service of the most exceptional Order. Earlier too in his career he has received various other awards such as the Harkirat Singh Gold medal for excellence in Engineering and Commendation by CISC. He also received Commendation from none other than Chief of Army Staff in both 2008 and 2010 and also by the Chief of Air Staff in 2011. His has been a career with lot of variety and range. The experience is rich and varied, from training Commandos to procuring Arms for our Country.
What inspired him to write “Corona Times”?
For the last 16 months, the entire world is going through troubled times as the COVID-19 Pandemic has ravaged the world. There have been various challenges to humanity. There have been stories of despair, there have been stories of hope and love as well. Moved by events which unfolded during the pandemic, General Padhi began writing short stories and poems and the fruits of his literary endeavor is this fascinating book. I am sure that just as I liked the book, so will you. Just as I identified with the characters, so will you.
The foreword of the book is by none other than the Hon’ble Governor of Odisha, Professor Ganeshi Lal, who is a thinker, motivator, a celebrated author and a highly respected personality. A very detailed foreword has been written by the Hon’ble Governor Sir, and I will quote just one sentence from it.
“The writer, a well decorated soldier, having served our Army has creditably penned his assertions that are powerful, inspirational and amazing. His short stories and poems surely script the victory of human spirit, that is not to be seen in a select few, but it is in each one of us”.
Thank you respected Sir, for your words of inspiration, not just for the author but for all of us.
There are 21 short stories and poems which comprise the book and each are dramatically different. Each has Covid as the backdrop. As Lt Gen CA Krishnan , PVSM, UYSM, AVSM (Retd), Former Deputy Chief of Army Staff says “Every story is unique and leaves a lasting impression in the reader’s mind.”. He too says that the characters are easily identifiable in our daily life and conveys his “Compliments to the author for this fine compilation”
The stories are extremely well written, in a simple, easy to read manner. My personal view is that the best English is the one which communicates the best and General Padhi has taken care to use simple words, rather than bombastic, pompous and flowery language. That would have been incongruous in any case and would not have been in harmony with the overall theme, and certainly not with the stark and somber reality which the pandemic has exposed us to. As Shri DN Padhi, IAS (Retd), Former CIC says, “Each story and poem depicts a facet of unimaginable sorrow and unpredictable calamity but with a human face“. Yet, at the same time, the author has kept in mind that being cheerful and “positive” will help us and hence he has kept a sense of humor intact which can be seen throughout the book.
I will not go into the stories in detail as that will be revealing too much and being a spoiler is the last thing I or any reviewer aims at. I will only say that both the short stories and the poems are quite different and unique and and I will leave it to you to enjoy reading them, just as I did. The book is available on all leading platforms such as Amazon and Notionpress and Kindle version is also available.
Keeping in view the stressful times we are in currently amidst the terrible second wave which is sweeping across the entire country, the book was released virtually on zoom platform in a simple web-event attended by friends and family members of General Padhi. The book was released by the chief guest, Shri DN Padhi and the author and the chief guest spoke on the occasion. A review of the book was given by Shri PK Acharya, former Head of Treasury division, PNB. The author’s wife, Smt Dhirashree, who is an educationist introduced the chief guest to the audience. I had the privilege of anchoring the web-event.
This is General Padhi’s first book but I am certain that it is not going to be his last. He has written many stories and articles about his decorated service career, which have been widely acclaimed and he intends collating them into a book soon. Eagerly waiting for the same. I am sure he has other ideas as well which we will certainly see in writing.
Happy reading of Corona Times by Lt General NP Padhi. Jai Hind.
CORONA TIMES: A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES AND POEMS
Lt Gen. Nrusingha Prasad Padhi’s book Corona Times is a collection of fifteen stories and six poems in a span of two hundred sixteen printed pages published by Notion Press, India, 2021. While some of the stories and poems are set against the dominant backdrop of the global pandemic Covid-19, some others deal with the turmoil and torture of people as a result of the sudden lock down imposed by the administration to curb the chain of spread of the disease and some others written virtually during this period of confinement. With this the title chosen for the collection seems quite appropriate. Historically too, the book shall carry great worth, being a marker of “Time” denoting the merciless ravages of the pandemic on humanity.
On reading the stories and poems, one easily finds a deeply pained sympathetic narrator in Sri Padhi who tries his best to focus on the need to follow all the guidelines prescribed for a safe and healthy life. Most of the stories have for its setting Odisha, the native state of the author, giving an authenticity to his narrative and the characters. Structurally, the stories are well-knit. Events and thoughts in each of them go hand in hand and never fall apart to turn them into a disjointed piece. The stories do have a pinch of irony and humor ingrained in them. They prove the author’s ability to probe deep into the psyche of his characters and exhibit clearly the values for which he always stands for: simplicity, honesty, patriotism and discipline. Furthermore, the syntax fits the characters well and the prose used is quite simple, colloquial and is easy to appreciate.
The book also contains six poems: each of them delineates an amount of gloom. However, they end with a ray of hope and also advice to the readers and in one of the poems even an appeal to the pandemic (Corona being personified here):
I miss my teachers, friends and school,
Oh Corona, pray be merciful!
Trainers, student and parents, in unison,
Bow to thee, please be gone!
Corona Times is a snapshot of life during the pandemic. Each of the stories and poems are thought provoking and unique and has explored the spheres of various human emotions, thus providing an immersive experience to its readers.
Corona Times is well worth reading. The book could always be quoted for its skillful delineation of pain and agony that humanity suffered from, helplessly, in a period of human history.
Book published by Notionpress in Apr 2021. Priced at Rs 250 and available at Notionpress.com, Amazon.uk, Amazon.in, amazon.com, flipcart in paperback format. Also available for. Rs 105 in kindle format.
The book has a foreword by HE Dr Ganeshi Lal, the Honble Governor of India and has been reviewed by Shri D N Padhi, IAS (Retd), Ex CIC and by Lt Gen C A Krishnan, Ex Deputy Chief of Army Staff.
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