Literary Vibes - Edition CVIII - 27-Aug-2021 (ARTICLES)
Title : Serenity (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Table of Contents ::
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
KAMALA CARE HOME
02) Geetha Nair G
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST
03) Sreekumar K
AN INSIDE STORY
THE BIRTH OF A PAINTING
04) Ishwar Pati
REQUIEM FOR A COUNTRY SURGEON
05) Krupa Sagar sahoo
STORY OF A SUBURBAN RAILWAY STATION
06) Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
PERFUME 2.0
07) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - WHAT ARE NOT OFFERED TO LORD SHIVA?
08) Prof.(Dr.) Gangadhar Sahoo
SORRY
09) Madhumathi. H
VASUDHAIVA KUTUMBAKAM
10) Debjith Rath
THE EXPLOITS OF RAGHAB CHACHU
11) Dr Radharani Nanda
A MOTHER EXTRAORDINAIRE
12) Shradha Satapraba
PATITAPABANA
13) Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik
LEAVES FROM HISTORY: ON OLYMPIC SPIRIT, THE SPIRIT OF POSITIVE VIBES.
14) Satish Pashine
OUR TRYST WITH COVID-19!
OUT-OF-BODY EXPERIENCES: MIND-GAME OR THE PARANORMAL?
BHIKARI!
15) Setaluri Padmavathi
SCHOOLS TODAY
16) D.S. Padmapriya Vinodhkumar
TRUE LOVE
17) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
VIVA WOES
18) Sudha Dixit
THE MIRROR
A MEMOIR - THE REAL HIM
HYPOTHESIS OF KINDNESS
19) Sheena Rath
THE INDIAN FLAG
20) Ashok Subramanian
SHORT STORY: THE COMRADE
21) Gouranga Charan Roul
HAND OF GOD
22) Srikant Mishra
GREAT SON OF THE SOIL
23) Abani Udgata
MORNING WALK
24) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
WHEN TO TELL THE TRUTH
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE KING OF HEARTS
Reviews ::
01) Anil K Upadhyay
REVIEW OF A FEW STORIES FROM LV107
02) K. Sree Kumar
WHAT ISN'T POETRY - A BRIEF REVIEW OF SOME OF THE POEMS IN LV107
03) Padmini Janardhanan
MANTRA YOGA BY JAIRAM SESHADRI.
04) Hema Ravi
EMOTIONS IN TRANQUILITY
I am Laxmi Tripathy. The world around me treats me as a kid, but I know I am not a kid; may be a kid by count of years and look, but an adult at heart. I am all of twelve years, if counted by my birthdays, and I feel that as a child I have been precocious all along. I even consciously remember my first birthday as well, though vaguely, my journey to this world from my mother’s womb. My papa laughs to hear my claims, “You, jhuti* little brute, half of what you say are cooked up in your fertile brain.” I also know, though all have avoided telling it to me for not hurting my sentiments but the truth is that my mama died while giving birth to me.
I recall the twelve years of my life living by my papa as he manages his ‘Kamala Care Home’, an orphanage. To me, my papa is eternal, indestructible. He is another ‘Buddha’. He is my Polestar, always there for me. He runs the orphanage that takes care of more than three-dozens of orphans and homeless individuals, from kids to adults, including one very aged gentleman, who is a retired professor of philosophy.
Some of the inmates of Kamala Care Home study in schools and colleges, one doing her masters in medicine after MBBS. Once they settle down, they would leave the home, but would sort of remain in its family forever. Kamala Care Home is a shelter for the homeless without distinction of religion, nationality, or caste. Our own house and the orphanage are in the same compound about a hundred paces apart, on the shores of the river Kathjodi and in a rocky terrain on the outskirts of the Cuttack township.
Recently, Papa had a telephone call one morning. As a habit, he would talk very little on a phone, complete the call with only essentials in minimum time. He hated to beat around the bush, and would come to the moot point directly. But that day, he kept listening very long, all along grunting politely, sighing repeatedly, looking rather sad and distraught. He was not his usual detached self over the telephone. When he went off the line, he simply said, “Get ready Laxmi dear. We are to go and pick up someone in great distress.” I guessed another homeless person would be brought to our orphanage. But why should papa be so much concerned? Very unusual!
We took a hired taxi and drove for a few hours from Cuttack to the town of Bhadrak, and went into a house that looked badly in need of repair, wearing signatures of the owner’s poverty. The owner of the house took us to a lady in her sixties, lying in bed in one of the rooms looking cluttered. The lady looked very unwell, shabby, and I could smell her unwashed odour of days. She had the disheveled and wild look of a crank, similar to what we had picked up once or twice earlier, lying in a park or footpath and brought to Kamala Care Home in the past.
Papa had told me in the car on our way there, “The man who telephoned me this morning is a landlord, and his tenant, an old lady, is lying ill in his house. Her husband, who had taken two rooms in that house on rent, went away months ago somewhere without any message or contact address. He sort of has sort of deserted her, as seen from his behaviour. He is gone, it appears, after spending all the money the lady had saved, including the sale-proceeds of all household articles like their radio, the lady’s wristwatch and table clock, some family silver and a few trophies she was awarded for her academic excellence as a teacher. The ailing wife has been left alone in the rented accommodation. The landlord, after doing his best for months, a poor fellow himself, has been pushed to the wall by the expenses of her food and treatment. He got the number of our orphanage from her personal telephone diary and contacted me this morning on her request.”
I was surprised why the lady had saved our orphanage telephone number. She might have copied it from a newspaper for an emergency. My papa addressed the ailing lady as Kamala didi*. He might have got her name from the landlord; and had added ‘didi’ having an eye to her age and she being a teacher.
Papa sat by her side, took one of her hands in both of his. I noticed the lady’s hands looked like pincers with uneven dirty nails, possibly from arthritis that had advanced without care and treatment. The woman sighed, as if relieved. She gave me a beatific smile. Her smile was pretty and exuded a deep kindness veiled behind her suffering. She signaled me to her side, patted me with immense fondness, put her pincer like right palm on my head and blessed me. My papa looked immensely pleased as if the destitute woman had poured a pot of Amrit on my head.
I saw papa whispering with the owner of the house. He paid the landlord some cash that the poor landlord accepted with a lot of reluctance. My papa’s whispers were surely to find the amount spent on the lady by the landlord. My papa was like that, very considerate and generous. He would pay any needy person out of his own pocket, and he knew that the landlord was not capable of forgoing the pending rent and expenses on the lady’s food and medicine. He then collected a few belongings of the old lady, made a cloth-bundle of those tidbits, and put the bundle into the rented car’s boot along with her big box.
We returned by the same taxi, this time I was asked to sit by the driver. Papa sat with Kamala auntie on the back seat of the car. I had decided to address her ‘auntie’ to please my papa, as well as to make her feel at home in our orphanage. After a while I noticed with surprise, Kamala auntie was sleeping, her head resting on papa’s lap, and papa lovingly stroking her head, unwashed and dirty with stringy and tangled hair.
Generally, my papa’s kindness was universal. It was deep but detached for all except me. He would often say, “Laxmi, if we get personally attached to all, then their suffering would distress us like the misery of a family member. Closer the bond, if broken by a misfortune, causes deeper pain. How much pain can you take, if you love all that way? So, we must love all of them equally, but be poised and collected in our kindness, remain a bit detached in mind. Of course, you are special, and above that rule.” But now, I noticed papa’s attachment towards Kamala auntie had broken his own rule. I thought, she could be a very special person and papa was hiding some part of her story from me.
Papa did not take the taxi to the orphanage as I had expected, but to our house. I had not imagined it that way, that Kamal auntie was so special. He led Kamala auntie inside, supporting her, or rather partly carrying her frail body into the house. She was put on the bed in the room, adjacent to papa’s room.
With papa’s instruction, I helped Kamala auntie to have a thorough bath with soap and shampoo. On her request, papa called for a lady hairdresser to cut away the knotted strings of hair from her scalp and give her a shoulder-length neat haircut. I had to help Kamala auntie whenever she had to move from one place to another, because she was so weak and unsteady on her feet.
Even while we had dinner that evening, instead of one of our armless dining chairs, she was made to sit on a study-room chair with arms, so that she would not fall off without side-supports. Papa asked me to help her to eat as her hands were shaking out of weakness. She ate very little. She was very choosy about food. Papa didn’t press her to eat more, like he would do with me always.
I felt a little jealous, because Kamala auntie appeared to be cornering away a big chunk of papa’s affection that so far belonged to me alone. Kamala auntie seemed to read my thoughts and my anxiety. She patted my arm, whispered, “No, no, my child. Your papa will always remain your papa, one hundred-percent.” Her eyes for the first time danced with mischief, “She can never be my ‘papa’, you see, he is so much younger to me.”
I cringed for being caught off guard, not knowing she was a mind-reader. She seemed to have sensed that also. She added, “No, Laxmi, I am no mind-reader. But it is easy to read the minds of children like you from their eyes. Children’s eyes are like clean mirrors reflecting their thoughts, until they get covered with the grime of complications brought by adulthood. I could always guess my young students’ thoughts like I did yours.”
She went quiet, while smiling to herself, and continued, “You have very lovely eyes, my child. Your eyes are exactly like those, I had once been in love with. The first time when I saw you, I also fell in love with your eyes…” She went dreamy, as if recalling memories from past years. I saw papa listening and watching us with an amused face. He looked very relaxed and pleased. The tension and anxiety that clouded his face that morning, were totally gone.
Just in two days of staying in our house, Kamala auntie blossomed into a pretty dark oldish woman with comely features and shoulder length bouncy semi-grey hair. She was steadier on her feet, and her hands shook much less enabling her to eat her food by herself without my help. She appeared to be at home, feeling confident, and secured. Still, an immense pall of grief and uncertainty seemed to be hanging upon her deeper recesses, clouding her big limpid eyes. I was curious as well as anxious about her hidden sorrow.
By then I knew by instinct that she was not like that always, the poor, unkempt and helpless destitute. Time had played cruel games on her that eclipsed her true serene self. Her poor physical health was definitely the outcome of a long struggle, lack of nutrition and health care. Still my curiosity was overflowing. Who is this Kamala auntie, so special to papa? My observant papa told me, “I know what is bothering you.” He then asked me, “Have you forgotten the story of Goutam and Kamala, I told you quite a few months ago?”
I shook my head, “No papa, I have forgotten nothing, I clearly remember every word of it.” The story came back to me in a flash, and I recounted it to papa in his own short and sweet style – “Kamala was a working young unmarried woman living alone and teaching in a government high school. She, the only child of her rich parents, had already lost both of them. She had no close relatives. One night, while returning from a tour, she found a child on the railway platform. Very shabby, around eight or nine years of age, shivering with high fever on that cold night. Everyone said, he was an orphan living on that platform for quite some months. Kamala took the ailing child home. She thought it over that entire night and had a change of heart. She converted her home into an orphanage the very next day, got it registered as ‘Kamala Care Home’ in a few days’ time. The boy from the platform was Goutam. Kamala brought him up like her own kid brother. Goutam studied to be a post-graduate in political science and did LLM in law. Under Kamala’s guidance he became a man of the world, a lawyer by profession.”
Papa listened to me carefully and beamed with satisfaction. He said, “That day, probably, I had no time to complete the story. Hear from me the remaining part of it. The lucky boy Goutam, the orphan wretch from a platform, who was taken care of by two very kind hands of Kamala, is sitting now before you, your papa himself.” Papa paused for he found me struggling to swallow the surprise.
With tears in eyes, my papa continued, “And Goutam’s kind sister, who picked him up from the garbage bin and made him a man of the world, is none else but my Kamala didi, who has just gone for an afternoon nap in her room. The orphanage I run today, which is still called ‘Kamala Care Home’, was the original house of Kamala didi, that has become bigger with time by adding rooms to cope with the increasing number of inmates in the orphanage. I grew up in that house by the side of my Kamala didi. This house where we stay today, I built it later. I run our orphanage from my earnings as a lawyer in the High Court of Odisha, and the pittance of financial aid from the government.”
I remonstrated, “But papa, you are not Goutam, you are Siddharth Tripathy.” Papa smiled, “Weren't Siddharth and Goutam, the great Buddha’s two names?”
That afternoon, papa got a call from the Choudhari Bazar police station. Papa listened carefully and asked me to accompany him. The police had a destitute orphan in their police station who was brought there from a local park by the night beat constable. They had asked my papa if he could consider accommodating the child in his orphanage. On the way to the police station, I asked papa, “What happened to Kamala auntie later? Why was she at Bhadrak in such a bad state and poor health when we met her?”
Papa briefly told me, “In her late forties, she fell in love with a man of her age. She had found one Tathagata Das lying wounded and helplessly bleeding on the road, hit by a motorbike. She brought him home. The man was unmarried, had no relatives, was a professor in a college at Koraput, and was visiting Cuttack for some personal work. He had come before a bike while crossing the road. He was a bit eccentric in behaviour, and so far, a loner by attitude. But Kamala didi liked him immensely. After the man’s wounds healed, bones repaired, and he regained his health, I found them both neck-deep in mutual affection. Kamala didi entrusted the orphanage to me, married Tathagata Das, and went away with her husband to live at Koraput.”
Papa paused and added, “Kamala didi also found a teaching job there at Koraput town. she was an excellent teacher, had won laurels and trophies and the best teacher award of the state. She remained in communication with me over the telephone. It seemed her marriage was running into rough weather. After two years they had a baby daughter, that brought back a short-lived joy in her family life, as she told me over telephone.”
Papa continued, “But suddenly without any advance communication, one afternoon, she returned here looking unhappy, tense, and distraught. She entrusted her little baby girl, about a year old, to me with tears in eyes, ‘Goutam, take care of my baby. My husband has become an addict to drinks, very violent and unmanageable. I apprehend, he may harm the baby. I will go back and manage him, be by his side, try to help him come out of his fits of temper. I still love him. I will take my baby back some day, I promise you. Until then, let her grow up here. Give her all the love and care that she might miss in my absence.’ Kamala didi left as suddenly as she had come.”
Papa continued, “Kamal didi did not take away her baby as she had promised, sooner or later. She became incommunicado after that. She and her husband, I came to know, had shifted their house from Koraput to some unknown address. But she would return at irregular intervals, pamper her baby for hours and leave. Her happiness would know no bounds to see her little daughter blossoming into a healthy child. But as her child was growing up and she might ask inconvenient questions, by mutual arrangement with me, Kamala didi came to see her only when the child was asleep. She would visit here very late in the night by prearrangement and would be taken to her daughter’s room, where she would spend a silent hour or two, drinking the sleeping-beauty’s soft presence.”
To my questions about the identity of Kamala auntie’s daughter, papa smiled, "All in its own time, my child. Now there is no time. We are just at the police thana, and we have to get down from our autorickshaw.” I made it a point to meet Kamala auntie’s daughter in the orphanage as soon as I returned there and bring her to her mother.
At the railway police chowky, the station master showed us a very sick homeless boy of around six years in his office, sitting in a corner wearing dirty rags, and shivering with fever. Papa asked me to comfort the child. I sat by his side on my haunches, wrapped my cotton dupatta around him to make him warm, and with reassuring pats, asked, “What’s your name little boy?” He replied, “I don’t know, they simple shout at me as ‘Hey boy’. My mama, left me on a park bench promising to return with food but went away, never to return. She used to call me ‘Goti’.” I said to father, “Papa, he is Goti. He is smart. He can talk so clearly.” Papa smiled back, “Laxmi, can you take care of little Goti?” I nodded.
Papers were made to shift the child to ‘Kamala Care Home’. In the place of the child’s name, papa put ‘Geet’, and for who adopted Geet, two names were put, ‘Siddharth and Laxmi Tripathy’. I looked at papa’s face in surprise. He nodded and smiled reassuringly, “Yes, this Geet will be mainly your responsibility. Bring him up and educate him, of course, I would always be there to assist you.” I felt very proud of my papa’s trust in my ability.
Returning to the orphanage with Goti, alias Geet, we put the child in care of the matron of the orphanage. I requested the motherly matron, as now Geet was my charge, “Auntie, please give him a hot sponging, and a change of clean dry clothes as fast as possible. Then give him a bowl of hot soup. I am calling our doctor on a house visit to give medicines for Geet’s fever.”
I now nagged father, “Which one of the girls here in the orphanage, is Kamala auntie’s daughter, papa? I am dying to meet her. Let’s take her to Kamala auntie now. She can live with auntie if it suits them both. I think, that arrangement would be good for both.” Father smiled and said, “I think so myself, Laxmi. But she is not here in the orphanage. We can find her in our house. Let’s go there.” I thought, oh, the great union between daughter and mother had already happened behind my back. I felt a bit upset to have been deprived of watching that sublime scene when Kamala auntie had met her daughter.
We went to Kamala auntie’s room. I said, “Auntie, I want to meet your daughter. Where is she? Papa said that I could meet her here.” She smiled and looked at both of us with tears in her eyes, “Yes Laxmi, it is high time, you must meet my daughter. I also want to meet my kid myself, properly.” Her words surprised me. It sounded like a riddle.
She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, came to me slowly, and collected me in her arms, kissing me all over my face. She was openly sobbing, “This is my little baby, this Laxmi is my little one.” It was the wonder of wonders of my life. Kamala Devi, the founder of ‘Kamala Care Home’, was my biological mother, and her run away husband was my father. My papa was, in fact, my maternal uncle of sorts. My hunch of my mother who had died while giving birth to me vanished like a water bubble, as did the belief about papa being my father.
The revelation pained me more than bringing me joy. Papa had been my chrysalis in life, my protective armour and carapace, so far. Now with new revelations, I felt awkward and insecure. The chrysalis was being cut-opened and I, the butterfly, was left to fly free into a bigger, perhaps, a free and unsheltered world, a world dreamt by Kamala Devi and her protégé Goutam who was now the prodigious talented lawyer Siddharth Tripathy, a worldly man of immense capability and kindness.
The pleasure of finding my mother just after my twelfth birthday, and the pain of losing my wholesome papa filled up my eyes with burning confused tears. I released myself from my mother’s arms and ran to my own room, locked myself and cried. I cried to my heart’s content. I cried happy tears for having gained a new world of possibilities like Kamala maa, my mother, and Geet, my sole charge in the orphanage. I cried sad tears for leaving behind a secure, sheltered and bountiful world, my papa’s world, that used to belong to me alone, my monopoly, my fiefdom.
After quite some time when I came out of my room, I found them both, Kamala maa and Siddharth papa sitting on the verandah in front of my room, chit-chatting. They broadly smiled at me, and there was infinite love for me in their eyes. I realized I had only gained, and had added more love to the love I had already possessed earlier, and had not lost anything at all.
Today, a few days after my union with my mother, I am sitting quietly on our veranda watching little kids play. I have time to ponder on my life. I feel, I have been very selfish all my life so far. I have only bothered about myself. I have my papa. I have added a mama to my existing possession of a papa. But what has my Kamala maa got out of these great events and unions? There seems to be an emptiness in her life, that bothers her every moment. Her eyes are clouded with a pall of sadness, searching for a missing face.
I know what her eyes are searching. She is worried about her man, Tathagata Das, she was and is in love with, who is her husband and the father of her only child, me, Laxmi Tripathy alias Laxmi Das. She is worried because, Tathagata’s whereabouts are not known yet. He has gone away no one knows where. I feel a rising jealousy for Tathagata, the lucky bastard, my mother’s first and the last love, though utterly unworthy of her. I feel angry about the passion called ‘love’, the riddle, beyond logic, beyond reasoning.
However, I see our orphanage children play football on the sprawling grassy ground in front of our house. Geet, who has been adopted a month back from the police station and been entrusted to me by papa, though only six years old, frail and much smaller in size than his co-players, is scoring goal after goal. He behaves like a sparking rocket missile firework that is guided to the goalpost only, and he seems to me like a little Arjun of Mahabharata in action.
My heart is gladdened. I see in Geet, a sports champion in making. I dream of bringing him up as my mother, Kamala Devi, has built up her ward Goutam into Siddharth Tripathy, the astute lawyer of the local High Court, the friend of the poor and destitute, my most loving papa.
(Didi* means ‘the older sister’. Jhuthi* or jhutha, meaning a liar, is generally used as a mock rebuke to call a young person’s bluff. Jhuthi is feminine expression to Jhutha, the mail version.)
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.
I think my childhood ended that cold October day when I was barely ten. That was the day Cheryl Murphy and Mrs Wood wept.
Mrs Wood was my class teacher. She seemed to my child’s eyes to be old but I think she was probably in her forties. She was as fair and frail as a drooping white lily, the kind that grew in a corner of my garden. She was gentle; as gentle as the doves that nested in the twin spires of our stately old school, Greendale. I loved her.
Mrs Wood taught us everything except Moral Science.
Miss Sawyer, dragging one stunted leg as she walked up to the Teacher's platform, taught Moral Science. She read out from a book called “How to Live.” We wrote down and learned the questions and answers she dictated. I fared well in her exams.
But it was Mrs Wood who taught me everything that really mattered.
How to use apostrophes, how to spell “embarrassing”, how to express myself, how to smile, how to forgive, how to play fair, how to fight for the weak, how to love.
Mrs Wood taught me how to live.
My school was about five miles from the sprawling housing colony where I lived with my parents and baby brother. The house next to mine was aptly called ‘Paradise”; it was inhabited by an angel. An angel who studied in Class XI of my school. Cheryl Murphy. A long, lithe figure. Soft brown curls framing an oval face and streaming down smooth shoulders. Blue eyes, pink cheeks and a cupid’s bow of a mouth. All these combined to make her the most beautiful girl in Greendale Anglo-Indian School for Girls.
She was also the most talented. She could sing and dance beautifully. She was a topper in studies as well. Cheryl was the uncrowned Queen of Greendale.
Is it any wonder that I, a timid, brown, nondescript girl separated by nearly seven years from Cheryl, adored her ? Cheryl was kind as well. The vast green meadow studded with lantana bushes that separated her house from mine was her arbour on holidays. She would lie there, her head resting on her arm, reading some book or the other. I would look out for her and join her. As I said, she was kind. She would sometimes let me twine the lantana garlands I wove, pink intertwined with yellow, around her head. She looked enchanting that way, like the picture of Eurydice in my English reader.
Sometimes, she spoke to me about love… .
Cheryl was an only child. Her father was a doctor in the town hospital. Her grandfather stayed with them. He was a jovial old man whose eyes were the same bright blue as Cheryl’s. Once, my father commented on this and he replied, “Yes, my boy; she gets it from me. My Irish eyes. My blarney, she missed getting, the good Lord spared her that!” He had rocked with laughter until the blue eyes were almost hidden in his crinkled skin and the full glass in his hand almost tipped over.
Cheryl and I went to school by an ancient and venerable bus dubbed The Silver Queen. She was older than the Queen from whose hands our land had flown to freedom barely two decades back.The Silver Queen maintained a stately speed of 15 miles an hour. Not that we minded. The bus was a sort of cosy, moving clubhouse in which girls of all ages spent chirpy times. It took almost an hour one way; the grand old lady moved sedately along the road that wound from our residential area through meadows and thickets of eucalyptus trees until it reached White Bridge. That signalled the entry into town.
At White Bridge, the gleaming motorbike would be waiting. There would be a sudden hush and every head would turn toward the last seat at the back of the bus where Cheryl would be kneeling, her curls blowing, her pretty fingers waving at the young man in blue who stood waiting by the bike. I always tried for a seat in front of Cheryl’s so that I too could take a long look at the man Cheryl waved to. Peter was as attractive as Superman, the hero in the comics I devoured. He was always dressed in deep blue which made his creamy skin glow in the pale sunlight. He was known to all of us, after a fashion, and the heart-throb of almost all the older girls. But, quite naturally, he had eyes only for Cheryl. We knew he worked as an accountant in a tea factory, the one we could see at a distance on the road from our homes. After the bus had creakingly crossed White Bridge, all of us would go back to whatever it was we were doing or saying. Only Cheryl would be silent, a dreamy smile on her beautiful face.
The coming Saturday was Cheryl’s seventeenth birthday. Her parents had promised her a lavish party as she would be passing out of school in a month’s time. She had invited all her classmates and a few others. I was invited, of course and so proud and excited that I danced around my house all morning. The party was to be held in the parish hall. Mrs Mendez was doing the catering. She was a rich widow who loved cooking so much that she would happily prepare a feast for a very modest sum. Her pork vindaloo, ball curry, cutlets and ‘kuseed “curry were masterpieces that had been raved over for decades.
That Saturday evening lives on within me as a magical memory. I can see it all so vividly, even now. The hall, transformed with flowers, streamers. Fairy lights throwing red, blue, green rays all around. The long table heaped with food on one side. Cheryl’s friends spread over the hall like many-coloured flowers. Three young men in a corner, strumming on their guitars. And in the middle, in a frilled, pink dress with a sequin-studded sash, her curls floating around her shoulders, Cheryl herself. She seemed to me to be like Cinderella at the Ball.
Then, as the music grew louder, a figure appeared at the door. It was the Prince! The burst of applause welcoming Peter nearly drowned the music… .
Soon after the cake was cut and the delicious food eaten, the dancing began. At eight, my bedtime, my father arrived to take me home. But the next day, on the meadow, Cheryl poured, drop by drop, the honeyed moments of the previous evening into my thirsty ears. I had never seen her so dreamy, so happy.
On Monday, as usual, we climbed into the Silver Queen which wound its slow way along the road. Cheryl had brought slices of cake for “the bus girls” as we were called. They were eaten in no time at all. As we reached White Bridge, I looked out. Peter wasn’t at his customary place. Cheryl was still on her knees on the back seat, craning out of the window when the bus slowed down. Just beyond the bridge, there was a growing crowd. I stood up to see better. There was a motorbike on its side. Spreadeagled a little distance from it was a man in a deep blue shirt. As an ambulance came screeching up to the spot, the Silver Queen picked up speed. We moved on… .
On Tuesday, we were taken from school to the church.
There were flowers, so many of them, as there had been on Saturday in the hall next door. It was their scent that met me as I entered the church. Peter Wood lay in his coffin. I stood awhile by the pews, not knowing what to do. Then I caught sight of the two people I loved very much. Cheryl was standing motionless by a pillar. I went to her, put my arms around her waist and looked up into her face. Her eyes were blank but when I called her again and again, recognition dawned in them. She held me close. Then, she moved with me to the silent figure who was seated close to the coffin. Cheryl put her arms around Mrs Wood. Together, they wept.
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
When Pappan uncle died, we mourned for more than a week. In fact, we mourned a little more than his own family which was devastated with his death. We felt worse. From our childhood, he was not just my dad's driver, but a member of our family. He belonged more to our family than his own.
He was a very good driver and took great of our vehicles as well as who happened to be in it. Sometimes we were irritated at how slow he was. So, when we wanted to go somewhere in a hurry, we would not call him. And my dad never liked it.
And how he respected every member of family. His reason for his careful driving, though it was slower than we wanted it to be, was a joke among us: You have to be careful about who is inside. For the same reason he kept our vehicles very clean, even our vintage Maruti 800, my dad's first car which we faithfully kept in good condition. Even after two decades it gave us a full fifteen kilometres for a litre.
Well, Pappan uncle too was like our Maruti. He never asked for a pay rise or any undue privileges. He was happy with whatever he got. Actually we were unhappy that we could not give him more than what we did. My dad is a government servant famous for not being corrupt. Our Maruti had been to every temple Pappan uncle went to with my dad. So, the only difference is that Pappan uncle prayed when he went to temples but the car didn't.
I remember telling this to him one day and his reply was 'how do we know?' He repeated the old maxim that god is there in stone, soil, rust and pillar. A famous maxim in my language. That made me think. What if he is right? My first short story was about two cars falling in love. It was published in our school magazine.
My dad survived Pappan uncle only by a couple of months. Pappan uncle's death had taken such a toll on him. After Pappan uncle died, it was usual for my dad to share with my wife and my sister the conversation he had had with him. I was too busy with my work to be with him but I heard it all through my wife. Lovely conversations, just lovely. Someday I should write it and publish it.
Before my dad passed away he made me put up a marble stone where Pappan uncle lay buried. Along with Pappan Uncle's full name (Padmanabha Pillai R K), his date of birth and death, he wanted a strange inscription of what he used to say about why he was so careful about driving.
Well, I had to do it twice because he insisted on a grammatical error which I had corrected. In the first one it was: He knew who was inside.
I had to get a new marble stone with the same inscription and throw the first one away because my dad insisted that 'who' should be capitalised.
Shobin added his name at the bottom of his newly finished painting, got up from his seat and moved back as far as the wall. From there he carefully examined his work.
Not bad. Not realistic. Rather impressionistic. He had said bye to realistic painting long ago.
Hari, his landlord’s son, brought him his evening tea. Shobin liked the young man and his dad. He found the mother disagreeable in her attitudes but still pretty.
“What! One more painting of murder?”
“Yes, how is it?”
“Good, scary. How many have you done in this series so far?”
“This is the one hundred and forty seventh one.”
“Could you sell them all?”
“Only half of them,” Shobin said, sipping his tea. Radha, the young man’s mother, made very good tea. Was she good at cooking too? There was no way of knowing. He got only a cup of tea, one in the morning and one at night. He took his breakfast, lunch and dinner from a nearby restaurant.
He was happy Hari never asked him about his obsession with blood and gore like the critics did. He would have happily told him if he ever asked. With critics it was different. They had no business to know what his inspiration was. That was beyond the point. IF they liked his painting, they should talk about it.
So far the critics, not all of them, but most of them were in his favour. They praised even the one he himself hated and wanted to discard. It was helpful. He was getting a better price for then than what he got a decade ago.
He had to finish six more. There was an exhibition coming up at Kochi. If he displayed fifty or more, he would be able to sell at least ten. Five to one, that was mostly the proportion. After transportation and food, he might be able to bring home a good amount. He had not paid the rest for the last two months. He had decided to change his old car.
“Why do you paint only murder? Your work is quite scary because of the unusual style you have. Not realistic, but very impressive.”
Shobin wished the young man had not said the last sentence. That made him a critic, though an amateur one. If Hari had not uttered the last sentence, Shobin could have answered him.
He would have given him a detailed account of his life which looked like his previous birth now.
How his memory took the better of him and presented him with images he didn’t want to see. Objectifying those images as paintings and tiny sculptures was not just past time or a profession for him. It was therapy which he had found on his own.
He knew Hari was waiting for an answer. He could tell him that it was just his interest. OR, he could tell him that he had murdered a couple when he was young and had been in jail for years. He could tell him he learned to paint while he was in jail. He could tell him much more. But now that Hari sounded like a critic, he didn’t want to disclose anything.
“Don’t you like them? I too like my own work. For me, it is not murder. It is birth. When I paint I am bringing a new creation into this world. So, it is a birth for me. It is my rebirth also as an artist. Every new painting. I chose murder as a theme because it is the direct opposite of birth. Two sides of a coin, you can say. I like that irony.”
He said what he had said to critics many times. It had become like a chant now. So, it came easy. Hari wouldn’t suspect he was making it up. No critic ever did.
“Do you believe in rebirth?” asked Hari.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Why should I?”
“Many people, especially artists do. I find that to be the theme of many popular novels.”
Hari was a great reader. Shobin had not read novels for years. The last novel he read was And Then It Rained.
“I am not one of them,” said Shobin and he wondered whether he was rude. Hari was a critic now and it is good to be rude to critics.
“I am one of them,” said Hari, “I believe in rebirths. Not, not really believe. I like the idea because it has given us great poems and novels. What is life without eternal hope?”
Hari walked around and picked up a palette knife. The palette was stuck to it. He pulled it off the palette and the palette fell off.
“Is this sharp?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it like any other knife or is it just a name?”
“It is a real knife. I always forget to buy a real palette knife.”
“Are painting knives different.”
“Yes they are. But I use this one for both. That adds a kind of sharpness to my work.” Shobin laughed.
“Just like what you said about your theme. Two in one.”
Shobin thought Hari suspected something. Reasonable. Hari had asked him several times about his family. He never gave him any clear answer. Now, here was a painter using a very sharp clumsy knife that looked more like a dagger than a palette knife. Reason enough to ask silly questions.
“Can this be counted as your painting tool. What if you stab someone with this? Will it be punishable? I had heard that killing someone with a work tool is not considered murder.”
Shobin shuddered at the last word Hari uttered. His mouth went dry. He regained his poise and managed to respond.
“That is just a myth. School boy stuff. It is not the weapon but the intention that can pin you or save you.”
“Yes, you are right. I heard it in school, from one of my friends. His father had been to jail. He was very proud of that.”
Shobin was feeling uneasy about that conversation. He wanted to talk about something else. He kept mum and waited for the boy to pick up another subject.
“Did you have a crush or a flame while you were in school?”
Shobin jumped up to grab it.
“Yes, of course. Who doesn’t!”
“You are right. But did you have a real girlfriend?
“No, what about you?”
“I have. I had told you.”
“Yes, I remember now. I never had a real girlfriend.”
“Oh! That is sad. I thought you had one. I thought that is why you never got married?”
“That is alright. I am married to my work. I never think about anything else.”
“My case is different. I can’t think about anything other than this girl. I can’t even study properly.”
“I know that. Your dad told me that you are not doing well in exams. He said you did well in school. He was wondering what got into you after you joined college.”
“He knows. She got into me. Maybe you don’t understand.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you never had a real girlfriend.”
“I can imagine. I am an artist!”
“Sorry to say you can’t. I also thought I could. It is not what you think it is.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it kills you man. Maybe that is why we say `killing looks'.”
“I don’t know. I too have heard that. I never took it seriously.”
“Not kill really as in kill or murder, you know. A girl’s beauty could be devastating. Do you know that word?”
“Yes, yes. Once a critic used that word to describe my painting. It helped. I sold that for a good price.”
“That means your painting was killing.”
“I am sure it was. I got a killing price for that, I said.”
Shobin realized that both of them were enjoying this conversation around the word killing. He enjoyed it, but he wanted to change it. Too much of anything is good for nothing, he recalled. He was tempted to tell this young man all about his life. He was good at story telling in school and college. He had not done that for a long time now. Could he be good at it still, he wondered.
What will Hari think if he found out that the man standing next to him had killed a couple out of sheer revenge? Will he understand? Like being in love, is it something you understand only if you have experienced it at first hand? What if your are shut up for months in a room with hundred of his paintings on murder? Will that make you come to terms with murder? He doubted. Art is powerful, but powerful in a different way.
What if it was a novel, a few novels and not paintings. Reading a novel was like living a story, in a way. Is it possible that literature has an advantage on fine arts?
“Do you think my mother is pretty? I have seen you being very nice to her though she is rude to you. I think she is very charming, even at this age. My dad never thought she was pretty.”
“She is pretty, all right. But I stare at her like I would stare at a sculpture from the point of view of an artist. Nothing personal there. Only an academic interest, if you can call it that.”
Shobin knew he was lying to Hari. But he didn’t want to hurt Hari’s feelings. Hari might find her charming and may even have fancies about her. But to think that someone else feels the same hurts. Hari sounded resentful that his father does not like his mother. Or, find her pretty. But if the old man had been in love with her, Hari would have resented it more.
“You are a strange man. Are all artists the same way?”
“No, not all. Only the good ones like me,” Shobin laughed.
“You are good, I know that.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yes, you are. Just like your paintings. You are as good as your paintings. I can’t think of you as different from your paintings. You are your painting, man!”
Hari laughed. Then he picked up the empty cup and was about to leave the room.
“Hari, are you taking the knife?”
“No, no. Sorry. What use it is to me! I don’t paint. I don’t intend to kill!” Hari laughed again.
“Well you can never say that.”
“What? Do you think I could kill?”
“No, I mean you may start painting some day later in life. Like I did.”
“I doubt it. I might even kill. Anyone can kill. But, not everyone can paint.”
“I think you got it all wrong. Anyone can paint if they try. But killing might be hard. Not everyone can kill. It is not that you need skills like you need in painting. You need to have that kind of a mind, unlike you need in painting. In painting you are only another brush. One of the two brushes, I mean.”
“Then why is it different in killing? You are only one of the two knives. Can’t you see my point?”
“Yes, you have a point. You have a sharp brain. Please keep that knife as a keepsake from me. That might make me buy a real palette knife.’
“Yes, yes. One used only by artists. You can get one from Flipcart. It might be cheaper. Thank you for the gift.”
Saying that Hari left the room and walked down the steps.
Shobin sat there for a while and got up to remove the painting from the easel.
He fixed a new canvas on the easel.
He thought of starting a series on birth with that one.
Not knifing. Not impressionistic or surrealistic. A new style he was never comfortable with. Utterly realistic.
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.
He was a rare doctor. The whole countryside mourned his death, with real tears in their eyes. No wonder. He had been their god, whose deft fingers had saved countless lives. A brilliant surgeon, he could have made a fortune if he had simply opened his ‘door’ to money. He chose instead to remain in the by lanes of opportunity, a simple man among the simple folk of his small town.
For decades he served in local hospitals, even after retirement. He had to work under trying conditions, with outmoded equipment and dearth of facilities that are now taken for granted in cities. An apology for an operating theatre, with frequent breakdown of power, without sufficient anaesthesia and other tools—and yet he saved lives.
A kind-hearted and emotional man, he carried out his task silently even beyond the call of duty. He never raised his voice nor did he shout at anyone, using soft words to win over his nervous patients. But at the operating table he was as cool as steel. No amount of screaming or pleading on the part of the patient under his knife could disturb his concentration. Nor did he shed tears for those he could not save. It was God’s decree, he would philosophise in the manner of the religious man that he was. He was only an instrument of God, he used to say. His patients believed otherwise.
His obituary did not figure in any leading newspaper. His name was not ‘newsworthy’. But as news of his sudden death spread through the villages by word of mouth, the people he had served with dedication thronged his funeral, to pay their last respects to the surgeon they had warmed up to and revered.
He may have died unheard and possibly unsung, but certainly not unwept.
(In glowing memory of Dr. B.P.Mishra of Sambalpur, Orissa)
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.
STORY OF A SUBURBAN RAILWAY STATION
Krupa Sagar Sahoo
Your attention please! P-10 Down Panskura Local will arrive on the Platform No. 3 in a short while from now.
The three such consecutive announcements through the station public announcement system made me realize that it was going to strike 6. Then I used to get up from bed.
The small suburban station slowly wakes up to the harsh and discordant sounds of microphones blaring incongruous tunes. The birds perched on the old banyan tree take to wings. They call each other. "It's time for us to go in search of grains."
The homeless destitutes who have long settled on the platforms begin to jostle with each other in a queue for a space in the general toilet. Kalu Kaka banged the tin cellings with an explosive noise to get his two tea shop helpers up from sleep. "You scoundrels, get up. Boil the water on the kettle. The first local is just arriving."
The Panskura local screeches to a halt when I Just embarked upon the station. I was greeted with old, familiar voices.
"Ae Chai Garam, Garam Chai"
"Murhi, Murhi, Masala Murhi"
"Ae Dim, Dim, boiled Dim"
"Ae Badam, China Badam"
The morning breaks here at this suburban station with an intricate web of voices and tones. It reverbates with the incessant calls of hawkers and the sweet choruses of birds. A thin, petulant smile seems to lurk on the pink tips of the station when the soft morning sunlight begins to kiss the dried terrace of the station building and the plantain leaves and gets scattered all over the railway tracks.
I lived in a rented house near the station. Travelling here on my way to and back from Calcutta had become an inextricable part of my daily routine. Everyday I made for the station for tea, particularly for the tea prepared by Kalu Kaka. It was sometimes extraordinarily special for sure.
Every day Kalu Kaka was seen seated on a tin chair close to his stall. In front of it there lay two cement benches side by side. Some regular customers read newspapers under the pretext of taking tea here. They also discussed the current event and international affairs. On many occasions I handed over the complimentary office copy of the paper on my way back from work.
This was the only authorized stall of the station. During salad days, Kalu Kaka used to sell murhi and groundnuts on the train from compartment to compartment. Once he lost a leg while alighting from the train and got this stall on the railway quota for physically challenged people. He had employed these two children to assist him in every work.
At times, some other hawkers sold tea right in front of his stall. But Kalu Kaka scared them away like dogs chasing the black-faced monkeys which has strayed into the village. He hurled swear words at them. Of course they hurried away from his sight, not without hurling their dose of expletives at him.
A morning "haat" used to sit here on a corner of the platform. The essential threshold commodities required by the residents of the area were on sale here, from murhi and peas to the seasonal vegetables at a fair price. Some rare articles which are dream in Calcutta such as small fishes. Deshi mushroom and plantain flowers are available here. People from the vicinity come to sell guava, blackberry and local mangoes besides all kinds of seasonal fruits.
Apart from daily haat, something that drew everybody's attention was the several dance forms that people came to perform on the platform. The monkey dancer came with the monkey, the snake charmer with his snakes to entertain the onlookers. Their innocent creatures performed various dances in various postures to earn money for their masters.
At the end of the station there stood the lone saloon of Fakruddin, the barber. A wooden chair was the only article the saloon could afford to have, a broken mirror hung from the tree trunk. The barber made a good income on Sundays.
Every day, a thin girl came with basketful of guavas to sell. In a coarse voice she called, "will you buy guava, sweet guava." Kalu Kaka was extremely critical of the girl, "Bloody girl" he frowned, "Sell guava as much as you like but selling them with half bare breasts not good. Others toil to sell their goods that takes around three hours but this clever girl sells them in just one hour."
I could not but laugh at Kalu Kaka's comments. "It is the outcome of a complex," I thought to myself.
I reached the haat wee bit late that day.
The Red Train, called "Lal Gadi" in local parlance arrived at around 8 O'clock. All the people such as hawkers, beggars, fruit-vendors, boot polish, shoe shine boys and vegetable-sellers - all began to run helter skelter - when they saw the approaching train.
They were aware of the terror the Lal Gadi perpetrated on them. It is the train that used to track down the ticketless travellers. Hundreds of railway personnel are deployed to use a phalanx - to hound them.
The Senior Divisional Commercial Manager with his team comprising Inspectors, Squad TTEs was at the helm of affairs. The Divisional Commandant was in charge of the armed RPF and GRP force, including the women squad who were deployed to catch hold of the ticketless women travellers. The Divisional Railway Manager was in overall control.
All the trains running via the station were detained for checking. They were allowed to move only after the checking was done.
It was DRM's instructions to spare none, not even a one-eyed cat. No excuse. no pleas, no alibis whatsoever.
The platform wore a deserted look with the umbrellas, shoes and bags of the passengers. The kettles and fruit baskets of the vendors lay scattered all over it. The gun-totting force were on patrol on both sides of the Lal Gadi. It appeared as though a curfew has been clamped down on the station.
I had to return to my rented house on my way to office. The staff of the squad demanded the ticket at the gate. Thank God, I had the season ticket on me. A journalist associated with a small newspapers in Calcutta, I had to commute by train everyday. Therefore, I had formed a habit of carrying the season ticket along with the identity card with me always. Even though I wished to pen a story on the Lal Gadi's terror by staying there a little longer, willy-nilly I had to return to Calcutta for an urgest piece of work.
On my way back I heard rest of the events from Kalu Kaka.
- Do you know Journalist Babu, today a sort of stampede broke out at the station. As you know, the daily passengers who made ticketless travel their birth right, say, doctors, engineers. officers-everyone had to pay the penalty. It is fine for the poor and the destitutes to travel without tickets. But why such people who have everything on them make a ticketless travel a ritual?
- "Yes, true," I said in support of Kalu Kaka's views.
- Today also one can mark the unprecedented honesty of the RPF and GRP personnel. The other days these people grease their palms thanks to the generosity of the flower and fruit vendor and let them go for a rupee or two. But today they all parcelled these people into the Lal Gadi like the bullocks get huddled into the kine house. As you know, the GRP personnel deployed at the station are curt and unfriendly and are known for their highhandedness. These are the no-good, dead woods of the state Government who are shunted out to the railways. They do not nurture a sense of belonging. Today I saw how they pulled the doctors, engineers by their collars. Among the bands of ticketless travellers were also many school and college goers and petty politicians in khadi dresses of course. On the regular days they would have behaved in exceptionally polite manner. The TTEs would have treated themselves as mice before the group of students. But today the scenario had changed with each TTE moving about the station being flanked by a couple of gun-toting policemen. They twitched their moustaches like lions. That boy and girl, you know, they were also caught today.
- Which boy and girl?
- Don't you know? the couple who used to lurk around the corner in the platform? How they tread on air! Those cracks of smiles ! How they bob up and down in the ocean of love ! They have no care for the rains or storms. Go on talking and talking without a stop, endlessly. How come they never get tired, never, never. Anyway, what's that to me? Rather I earn a little more because of them as people come to enjoy their togethemess.
Meanwhile Kalu Kaka's boy handed over a steaming kulhad of tea to me.
- Aye joumalist babu, I have piece of good news for you.
- What good news?
- Nayana has come back.
The guava selling girl was untraceable for a long time. I heard form Kalu Kaka that she had eloped with a boy to Calcutta.
- Has she come along?
- Yes, When she saw the kind of situation in the station, she tried to get back stealthily to the same compartment again. But one could not escape the prying eyes of the checking staff who chased her along the railway track. But how long could she slink away in with a baby in the womb! She could skulk in to the guard's dog box. After all, how long could she hide?
- The Lal Gadi's compartment were replete with ticketless travellers. I arranged some chairs for the officers and also tea for them. The DRM started taking position of the checking results from the Senior DCM. I listened to them:
- There are 98 AB cases registered Sir. Penalty amount has come to 5020 rupees.
- Luggage?
- Fifty Luggage cases Sir, Penalty amount is 2050.
- Only?
- The vegetable vendors, flower sellers do not have even the minimum Rs. 50 fine to pay Sir. If you permit, we can file a single case against all of them together.
- Hm! said the DRM and slipped in to silence.
- How many E-cases?
- Seventy in all Sir, counting both male and female? They are in the lock up of the Lal Gadi.
- Collect some more through them...
- The search is still going on sir!
- A number of female domestic helps who are regular commuters were hurling abuses at the officers and their ancestors. The couple - the boy and the girst were seated in a corner of the compartment. The lover was cooing some words of consolation in his beloved's ears.
I could not control my curiosity,
- And Nayana?
- Why are you obsessed with Nayana?
- Look Kalu Kaka, instead of speaking on Nayana, you are babbling on the extras which are of no interest to me. Should not I be worried? Who would then read my story?
Both of us burst in to a wild laughter.
- Now listen, the story will grip you, It was time for the Lal Gadi to leave. The engine throbbed to start in perfect sync with its clangour. The wheels begain slowly to roll.
Suddenly somebody pulled the alarm chain. Some started to scream form the compartments lock-up. It was the voice of a woman. Along with the Station Master and the other staff I rose to my feet and rushed towards the compartment. I saw three or four people hanging like bats from the compartment's alarm-chains.
Nayana was screaming, "I am dying, please save me. She was experiencing the start of a terrible pain." She was beating her legs against the window railings. It was presumably the delivery pain that was gnawing at the woman.
There was complete chaos that pervaded the compartment. Someone was speaking in a bit loud voice. "Lets take her to hospital" To this someone responded, "Where is the hospital here? Such a small station this is and the city is far off."
- Aye girl, do you have any male companion?
Inside the compartment a female domestic help was rubbing her feet. Another said admonishingly. "Please leave us alone. Let the air come in please !"
- Kalu Kaka, please fetch a clean towel and some boiled water.
- I limped back to the stall.
The DRM was gnawing his teeth in utter disgust from inside his saloon. Why the hell the train does not move! He was showering all his abuse on the driver through the VHF.
- You bloody scoundrel, why don't you start the train?"
- Sir, there is no vacuum. There has been a chain-pull.
Then he blew the whistle thrice, two short, one long to indicate that the train had been subjected to chain-pulling.
The saloon door then flew open and a platoon of subordinates, including the Station Master, stood in attention.
- Sir, A woman in the lock-up is to deliver a child, said the Station Master in a feeble and extremely polite voice. "There has been a chain pull on that account"
- What ?
- She has to deliver a child over here? Nowhere else I Bloody bitch!
The DRM then started to move in a huff followed by a string of his subordinates. Two baton-wielding policemen managed to clear his way through the anxious crowd. The DRM was still fuming with indignation.
The 4 seated compartment's entrance was covered by a saree. It was guarded by some maids.
The DRM stood up just there in a sort of attention position. Nayana's screams were getting increasingly louder. He looked perplexed. His 25 years of administrative experience stood crippled as hamstrung in face of such a situation. He had absolutely no idea how to act in such an eventuality. He was in an accident site when his son was born. Unable to push forward, he sat motionless on a wooden berth, sweating profusely.
The cry of the new born baby was heard from inside.
- Who has got a blade?
Fakruddin, the barber was there.
- Then what happened? I asked Kalu kaka.
- What to happen? Then Lalu was born.
- Is it that you christened him after your name?
- A child born in the Lal Gadi has to have a name Lalu, meaning Red.
Then I treated the DRM Sahib with sweet meats and saw a lurk of smile on his lips. It looked like the streak of lightning flashing across the darkish sky.
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Broken Nest’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
PERFUME 2.0
Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
Sunila left.
And along with her, Shubham felt, a scented cool breeze exited from his apartment. Oh! What an irony of fate! She made a vicious burglary on Shubham’s heart and robbed the whole of it. For a few moments he was in almost comatose condition and the entire world dipped into darkness. The sweet melodious voice of Sunila was still echoing in his ear.
Coming out of this disturbed state he suddenly felt a strangling desire in his deserted heart to have another look of Sunila, the devastator of his inner tranquility, eloping with his heart. He went to the balcony and saw the lemon green salwar kameez clad beauty just disappearing to the street. He positioned himself in the balcony without blinking his eyes and watched Sunila, waiting for the local bus to board. At some point of time he thought of approaching Sunila to offer her a ride on his motor bike to take her home instead of leaving her to a troublesome and laborious bus journey. What if some lecherous fellow cast his evil glance on her?
But he restrained himself. Would it be too bold an attempt after the first meeting? Would Sunila ridicule him and refuse the offer? Indication of intimacy to this extent at this juncture might force her to think that he had an ulterior motive behind it. He patiently waited in the balcony till she boarded the jam-packed bus and vanished from his view. He resigned himself to his room with a heavy, forlorn heart.
Now the million dollar question stood before Shubham like a formidable barrier. He had persuaded Sunila to come again the next Wednesday and had got her unequivocal commitment. But how could he take leave from his old haggard boss and make himself available for the sweet, dreamy meeting? How could he convince his Boss, the shrewd, clever and experienced vulture of his need for leave? What to do? He was very much perturbed with the fear of losing Sunila’s company. Innumerable ideas arose in his mind but all were discarded one after another after thorough scrutiny. The likelihood of rejection by the Boss made these ideas look childish.
Shubham pondered, he lost his sleep, tossing on the bed like popcorn son a hot plate. Two days passed but nothing materialised. Finally after many ifs and buts one idea struck his mind like a bolt of lightning while returning from the bank on his motor bike. Although it involved some risk, it still looked like a perfect full-proof plan. It would look real and natural and deceive his boss’s eye. But it required the co-operation and connivance of his doctor friend. He was pretty sure that nobody on earth could compel him to be on duty in the bank if he got admitted in a health facility due to grave illness.
Ashutosh, his intimate friend from the memorable school days, was a doctor and was practicing in his own hospital, the Sunrise Nursing home, in the same town. It was Shubham's habit to frequently visit the nursing home in his off-hours to have a gossip with his bosom-friend. He called upon his friend in the evening hour, had a delightful dinner in the most luxurious restaurant of the town and narrated the story and his fathomless love for Sunila. The doctor friend was quite amused and came forward to help Shubham with the condition that the trio, Ashutosh and the two love birds would attend a dinner party, courtesy Ashutosh, in the next earliest available opportunity. So a plan was evolved, all the pros and cons were analysed and was given final nod.
And finally Wednesday arrived. To add to his joy, Amaresh, his apartment-mate was out of town and expected back in the apartment only in late afternoon after his college hours. Shubham was submerged in sweet dreams imagining himself alone in the flat to enjoy the company of Sunila. Around 9 am on Wednesday Shubham reached the Sunrise Nursing home and occupied Cabin No. 5. Stage for the all-important real looking drama was set. He was clad with the patient apparel, a head cap and a mask on his face. To have the perfect sick patient look he had not shaved for the last two days resulting in the growth of beard of a few millimeters length. Only his eyes and few beards beyond the boundary of the face mask were visible masking his facial expression. A saline stand with an empty one litre saline bottle, saline tubing and intra venous needle attached to it and hanging on the stand, was stationed at the bed side. Two micropore sheets were placed on his left wrist creating an impression that he had been just infused with saline due to dehydration. A one litre water bottle mixed with ORS solution and fresh pomegranate fruits were put on the bedside table. Other formalities like maintenance of the patient admission sheet with complete patient biodata and findings were done. Loose motion with severe dehydration was mentioned as the disease requiring hospital admission.
The most difficult part to convince his boss regarding severity of the disease was executed by his doctor friend.
Cell-phone of his boss rang at 9.30 am. Mr. Khurana responded, though it was from an unknown number.
Halo. Good morning. Mr Khurana this side. Who is calling Sir?
Very Good morning Sir ji. Dr Ashutosh from the Sunrise Nursing home at this end.
What? Dr Ashutosh from the Sunrise Nursing home? What is the matter, Sir? Any mishap? Anything grave?
Mr Khurana panicked getting this call from a renowned hospital of the locality. He had visited this hi-fi nursing home of high repute on two or three occasions in the past to visit his sick relatives. He apprehended some untoward news.
Dr Ashutosh was delighted to hear the panicked tone of Mr Khurana. The bullet had pierced the target perfectly. He pacified him.
“No, no. Please take it easy and don’t panic. Nothing so serious Sir”. He tried to keep his voice cool and consoling. “Mr Shubham, one of your colleagues in the bank, got admitted here around 4 am today in a severely dehydrated state resulting possibly from food poisoning. We resuscitated him by infusing few bottles of saline. Now he is better and we would discharge him within two three hours. Amaresh, his apartment mate is out of town and expected at any time during the day. Shubham badly seeks your gracious presence for a while here. It would be kind of you if you pay a visit on your way to the bank to boost his morale.”
“Ok, Ok. I was just preparing to start for the office. I would be there in another fifteen twenty minutes. I would depute one of my staff if the situation warranted”.
“Thank you, Sir. No need to depute a staff. Just your presence would be enough to cheer him and facilitate speedy recovery. We are waiting for you. Bye”.
In exactly twenty minutes the boss arrived. Shubham painted his face with all the sorrows of the earth and in a feeble voice greeted him. The boss interacted with Dr Ashutosh and took stock of Shubham’s health. Ashutosh assured him that the patient was out of danger and would require only another few hours for full recovery. He does not need help of any other assistant and his friend Amaresh is expected at any time. Mr. Khurana stayed there for fifteen minutes, chatted with Shubham in a friendly manner who only answered in “yes and no”s in a morose voice lest his drama might deflate before his boss. Before parting he advised Shubham to take full rest for the day and join the next day if he found himself fit and to contact him immediately in case of any emergency.
After ten minutes of Mr. Khurana’s departure, Shubham jumped from his bed, embraced his doctor friend and danced in utmost joy taking him in arms and moving in circles. The boss might inquire about health condition of Shubham frequently. Hence it was agreed that the doctor friend would tackle the situation and finally inform him around 12.30 pm regarding Shubham’s discharge from the nursing home. He profusely thanked his friend and took leave of him. On the way to his home he bought a bunch of red roses and planted it in the flower vase in the drawing room of his apartment. He shaved, stood under the shower for a pretty long time making sure that the typical hospital odor vanished from his body. Drying himself he went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and sipped while thinking of the imminent rendezvous with Sunila and getting enthralled with the prospect of a happy romance. He kept his cell-phone in switched-off mode and was determined to keep it in this mode till his sweet chit chat with Sunila was over. Relief from the mental tension of the morning hours made him drowsy and he went into a deep sweet slumber on the sofa brushing aside all the thoughts.
Sunila arrived at fifteen past eleven and the familiar scented, exuberant odor pervaded the room which forced Shubham to wake from the soothing dreamy nap. The sweet mellifluous voice of Sunila reverberated in his ear.
“O! O! What a pleasant surprise! Shubham babu at this hour enjoying a deep nap in the apartment.”
She felt ecstatic finding herself in Shubham’s company. Suddenly she got alarmed and put her palm on his forehead, “Are you fine Shubham babu? Is everything alright?”
Shubham was amused at Sunila’s concern for his wellbeing. The pleasing touch of her palm made his body shiver with a romantic sensation. He wished to have Sunila’s palm on his forehead for an eternity. But alas! That was not to be. Sunila became conscious and removed her palm from his forehead with a crimson face.
“No,no. Nothing of that sort. I am perfectly well. I just stole some moments’ nap.Would you mind preparing two cups of coffee for us. Then we would gossip and I would tell you my story, as promised last week”.
“No. Quite impossible for me. I don’t have the luxury of gossiping with you. I only have two hours within which I am to finish all the household work, I am to sweep all the rooms, clean the utensils, keep all the nuisance created by two bachelor flat mates in order, prepare the dinner for today and what I gather I am to also prepare lunch for you because you are at home. I am preparing the coffee for you, you sip and read magazine or watch the TV. I will listen to your story if some time is left after my work is finished. At the best I can overstay by an hour as I had informed mausi to be late by one hour for some trivial purchase from the mall.”
Shubham’s heart began to sink. “I am not your employer, we are friends. Don’t call me Shubham babu, rather call me Shubham only. I will assist you in doing the household work. We will gossip and work simultaneously. You are to prepare lunch not for me only but for both of us and we will have it together. You talk, I listen and I talk, you listen.”
Sunila smiled, at the eagerness oozing out of the words of the young Shubham,
“There is nothing for me to talk. I have already disclosed every tidbits about me in our last meeting. I am an orphan brought up by mausi. She is everything to me and without her I am nothing. Leave that chapter alone. Will you please tell me why you are not at the bank today?”
“Sunila, my dear, you are forgetting everything. Don’t you remember you assured me to come today and I would narrate my teenage love affair with Madhabi Didi. So how could I be absent today? I longed to enjoy your company for the entire time you are here."
Shubham told her how he had to toil hard to take leave for today from his not so easily yielding boss and recited the morning episode in the nursing home.
Sunila could not control herself and burst into loud laughter. She giggled, “Am I so important and dear to you making you enact such a drama? I am already late, let me start my work”.
The session progressed with both enjoying each other’s company. Both of them opened their heart and poured out their feelings. Friendship was converted into intimacy. They inadvertently touched each other’s hand and a sense of romantic thrill electrified the two love birds. Shubham narrated his teenage love and adoration for Madhabi didi, how he was infatuated with the perfume she was using, how he was waiting for hours for her and watching her through the keyhole on the door and how his heart was shattered when he saw her in an intimate pose with her boyfriend in the park.
Sunila once again giggled;
“What a beautiful adolescent love affair! It looks our Shubham babu is a born lover and romanticism is flowing in his blood stream right from childhood! By the way, did you fall in love with your darling sweetheart Madhabi Didi or you were only haunted by her gorgeous perfume? And this time also are you after the perfume or the perfumewali? I presume you are immersed in the fragrance of my perfume only.”
Shubham laughed at the idea, and replied in a wounded tone; “No,no. Please don’t misunderstand me and put me to shame. Of course at the outset I was attracted by your perfume when I had not seen you. But from the time my eyes were set on you, the elegant damsel, the serene beauty, I fell in love and surrendered my heart to you. Sunila; I love you from the core of my heart. I don’t impose my love upon you and don’t compel you to respond immediately. Take your own time. I will be waiting for you. By the way, next Wednesday I would not be able to meet you because the grand old man would not allow me leave. But please shun the idea of not coming to our apartment. At least I will feel the presence of my Sunila from the astounding aroma of your splendid perfume. It’s already 2 pm. Mausi would be waiting for you. Would you mind if I offer you a lift on my motorbike and leave you near your home? Of course, I will not enter your compound lest we get caught by mausi.”
Sunila was speechless. She agreed by shaking her head in affirmation without uttering a single word and both came outside for the bike ride.
Mr. Khurana got extremely busy in the bank in Shubham’s absence and could not contact the doctor. Dr Ashutosh informed him at 12.30 pm that Shubham was sent home with an attendant in the nursing home ambulance. After about half an hour Me. Khurana called Shubham and found his cell-phone switched off. He expressed his concern to Dr Ashutosh and requested to provide the contact number of his flat-mate Amaresh from the patient history profile which Shubham must have provided at the time of hospital admission.
Amaresh, in the mean while had returned to his college and completed his task for the day and was chatting with his colleagues in the teachers’ common room. Mr.Khurana telephoned him and narrated Shubham’s unfortunate happenings of the morning. He expressed his concern regarding Shubham's present health condition as the cell-phone was switched off. Amaresh assured him that he would proceed to the apartment immediately.
Wasting no time he took leave of his friends and proceeded to his apartment on his scooty. He just dropped in the road side restaurant in front of their apartment building, bought a cup of tea and sipped while looking at the apartment. And lo! What a wonderful scene he captured! Shubham who was supposed to be indoors due to illness was coming out of the apartment with a young devastating beauty. The young duo drove on Shubham’s bike and disappeared in front of him without noticing his presence in the restaurant. What’s the secret behind it? He thought for a while and decided not to disclose this affair to Mr. Khurana without unveiling the mystery. He only told Mr. Khurana that Shubham was completely hale and hearty.
He entered his flat and instantaneously the marvelous aroma of the perfume haunted him. He recollected the happenings of the past few weeks. Shubham was categorically exploring the presence of this perfume on Wednesdays and today was also Wednesday. He had also smelled the maddening fragrance of the perfume in the past few weeks but he had feigned his ignorance. To Shubham he was an idiot, nonchalant philosopher, dry, hypocrite, reticent in nature and what not. But he doesn’t mind these ornamental appellations showered upon him. He was never showy, florid, imposing and talkative like Shubham. He lived within his own world and never brought out the wonderful, loving human being hidden within him. He was such an ardent player of human character that it is too difficult to recognize and judge his real self lying hidden underneath. He talks less but within minutes he would certainly conquer your heart by his innocent look and loving expression.
Who was this mind-blowing beauty? Where was mausi? How could Shubham bring this beauty to the flat in the presence of mausi? Since how long this affair was going on? Is this girl related to mausi? Innumerable questions appeared in his mind. He decided to investigate the matter and find the real truth.
What a fantastic lovable gem! Being in the academics, he came in contact with countless handsome lovely lady colleagues and students but he had never encountered such a mind-boggling damsel. There was a mysterious attraction and grandeur in her eyes just like an expectant, floating cloud, a little restless and a little active, on the verge of pouring out in showers. The Epics describe that even the hermits were lured into conjugal love by Apsaras of the heaven possessing magnificent beauty. Amaresh was in no way better than the hermits. In a flicker of a second the enchanting beauty robbed his heart, soul and mind. Unknowingly he was in fathomless love with her.
He was aware of the locality mausi was living in. In the afternoon he visited mausi with the pretence that he had come to her locality for some other work and so visited her. Mausi was utterly happy.
“Sunila. Come and see who has arrived here in our house.”
Amaresh felt as if he fell down from the sky! The enchanting beauty he had seen in the afternoon was in front of him. He was in a trance, endlessly staring at her and could not lift his eyes from the lovely face.
Mausi introduced him,
"Sunila, he is Amaresh babu, the flat mate of Shubham babu. Amaresh, she is Sunila, my niece. She lives with me. On Wednesdays she visits your flat and performs my job there. You have not met her.”
Sunila folded her hands and in a sweet melodious tone reciprocated “Namaskar, Amaresh babu. We are honoured with your gracious presence at our tiny home. We don’t have sofa. Please sit on the chair. I am preparing a cup of coffee within minutes.”
Amaresh occupied the chair and talked with mausi regarding Sunila. He sipped the coffee and took leave of them profusely thanking Sunila for the tasty coffee. On the way back home, he decided that he would take leave next Wednesday and be in his apartment to have the company of Sunila. He thought of Shubham courting Sunila. But in no way he was prepared to give up Sunila, “Everything is fair in Love and War.” He would definitely open his heart to Sunila and express his boundless love. Sunila is to decide to who she would choose. It would be like a Swayambar where the princesses would choose her companion.
Now it was Sunila’s turn to be anguished like a scorpion stinging her head. She could not believe the pretext offered by Amaresh to visit her family. Was he aware of the meeting between her and Shubham? She was sure that he came in search of her. It was clearly written on his face. His look and facial expression conclusively indicated his obsession for her. In contrast to Shubham, Amaresh portrayed a gentle, innocent, meek and mild appearance. She could figure out his unstinted adoration for her. But she was unsure and sighed; “Ok. Time will reveal the Truth.”
The fateful Wednesday arrived a week later. Both Shubham and Amaresh departed simultaneously from the flat for their destination. While Shubham straight reached the bank, Amaresh loitered here and there for a while in the market and returned to the apartment at thirty minutes past ten. He was quivering with an unmatched thrill contemplating the imminent tryst with Sunila.
Sunila arrived at ten minutes past eleven and the intoxicating, captivating essence penetrated the room. She was least astonished finding Amaresh at the apartment because the show was progressing as per her expectation.
“Ah, what a pleasure to meet Amaresh babu once again. But would you mind telling me why you did not attend your college and what actually led you to visit our family?”
Amaresh assured her; “Please calm down and don’t be perturbed. At least we have two hours which we can utilize in a meaningful way. We will be working and chatting. In between I will narrate my part of story like the live telecast of a cricket match without hampering your work and delaying you. I will also give you the demo of preparing my favorite dish.”
“Ah. What a wonder! Our Amaresh babu is a multi-faceted personality! I also love cricket and cooking. It would be a pleasure to watch the demo.”
In the next two hours Amaresh mesmerized her with his eloquent conversation. He is the type who does not volunteer to talk on his own, but once he develops friendship, no one on earth can excel him in chatting. At this juncture his love affair made him courageous and vocal. He touched various subjects, he joyfully narrated how he saw her for the first time last Wednesday with Shubham coming out from the flat and disappearing on his motor bike, how he deduced that she might be connected with mausi and how he visited them to explore her identity. He gave a lecture on cricket, on Gavasker, Tendulkar, Dhoni, Ganguly, Kohli and their records, on tidbits of cooking and to her surprise the extensive account of various perfumes available globally, their evolution and how expensive they were. He prepared his favorite dish - paneer masala- which both of them shared at lunch. Throughout the session he was the performer and Sunila was a spellbound standby spectator, a passive listener. He did not attempt to express his boundless love for Sunila. But it was quite apparent that he had fallen in deep love with her.
Finally the parting moment arrived. Amaresh accompanied her to the bus stop and silently waited till the bus was in sight. He could not restrain himself any longer. He caught hold of Sunila’s hand and uttered emotionally; “I love you Sunila dear and I will be waiting for your reciprocation.” The bus arrived, Sunila boarded the bus and murmered; “Bye, Amaresh babu” and waved.
Amaresh returned to the flat with a heavy heart.
On the way back home Sunila recapped the happenings of the past three weeks. Both Shubham and Amaresh proposed to her. Both impressed her and left deep foot prints in her mind. Now her status was like “Ek Phool Do Maali.” Whom to accept and whom to reject?
Note:- The above story is a sequel to the article “PERFUME” penned by the maestro Dr Mrutyunjay Sarangi which was posted in the 105th EDITION OF LITERARY VIBES. I am not a long-time writer. Mine is an attempt by a novice who is only six stories old. The readers will judge whether I passed or failed. I sincerely invite the feedback from my knowledgeable readers. And I hope the story will continue since I have left it hanging without a conclusion. I invite others to write and carry forward the story.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo,MD (Pediatrics) is a retired Joint Director Grade 1 of Health and Family Welfare Department of Government of Odisha and now a practicing Pediatrician at Vyasnagar, the Steel City of Odisha. Besides being an eminent Pediatrician of Odisha he is also a prolific writer in Odia. He pens down the real happenings around him and his characters are his patients, the parents and his colleagues. He has contributed a book in Odia " BABU SAHOO KALAMARU " which is an unique characterisation of human values and nature and is adored by one and all. He is also a Columnist in Health Problems and writing on different aspects of current health issues since last several years in a local monthly Newspaper " The Kalinga Nagara Bulletin". He has represented the state in several National Platforms. He has a record number of 24 Awards, Local, State and National, noteworthy being PURBANCHAL SISHU BISESANGYA SHIROMANI AWARD 2017 and MAHATMA GANDHI AWARD 1997 by Government of Odisha. He is Life member of many Organisations including Indian Medical Association, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and National Neonatology Forum. At present he is State President of both, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and Pediatrics Allergy and Applied Immunology Chapter.
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - WHAT ARE NOT OFFERED TO LORD SHIVA?
In Puranas, the author of Mahabharata- Sage Vyasa prefaced that Lord Shiva is smaller than the sub-atomic particle like Electron, Proton, and Neutron. Simultaneously, he also mentioned Lord Shiva is greater than anything greatest in this Brahmand (Universe). Lord Shiva – the Most handsome and powerful God of Hinduism is the ultimate - Para Brahma and everything originates from him (whether living or non-living). He is Supreme Power who is the God of Gods. He is limitless and the reality. Lord Shiva has overwhelmed the whole world and the universe. He is the Soul of the Souls. He is superior and has no sentiment. Lord Shiva is known as “Bholenath” and has special likes and warmth towards his devotees and followers. He listens to any of his devotee’s prayers. Lord Shiva is always passionate about some of his favourite things. It is mentioned in Shiv Purana that offering water through a vessel, while chanting Shiva mantra brings calmness in life and warmth in aura. Lord Shiva likes Bael leaves, Saffron, Sugar, Scent, Bhasma, Cow Milk, Curd, Cow Ghee, Sandal wood, bhaang, dhatura,. An article is devoted on such things. Let me dwell here some of things which Lord Shiva does not like and hence not offered by devotees.
However, some devotees of Shiva do not know that there are few things that must not be done / offered to Shiva. Though worshiping Gods and Goddesses with flowers is not only considered auspicious but has its own significance too. However, there are a few things that one must not do or offer. Here is a list of few things forbidden to offer to Shiva.
1. Tulsi (Basil) Leaves
According to Shiva Purana offering Tulsi on a Shivalinga is strictly forbidden. Reason behind this why Tulsi is not offered to Lord Shiva is based on the following legend: According to Shiva Purana, Tulsi is the daughter of Dharmaraja - God of righteousness. Since her youthful days she was a great devotee of Narayana (lord Vishnu). Once she saw Lord Ganesha mediating and she fell in love with him. But he was following bachelorhood (Brhamacharya). So, Ganesha politely refused Tulsi for marriage. Tulsi took this as an insult and she became very angry and cursed Lord Ganesha. In return Ganesha cursed Tulsi that she would marry an asura (demon) and then under blessings from the sages she would become a plant.
There existed a demon or Asura named Jalandhar (Sankhachuda). Jalandhar was married to a woman named Vrinda. She was wholeheartedly devoted to her husband and was a truly a virtuous wife. This was the biggest complication that no God was able to kill the demon because of her prayers to Lord Vishnu, which kept him safe at all times and situation. Finally, finding no solution to the problem the Gods decided to ask Lord Shiva for help. Gods plotted against the demon and his wife, even though Vishnu was heartbroken to cheat on his biggest and ardent devotee. While Shiva and Jalandhar were engrossed in a battle, Vishnu transfigured himself as Jalandhar, Vrinda’s virtuousness was broken as soon as she touched Vishnu thinking he was her husband. However, upon touching him she immediately knew he wasn’t her husband Jalandhar and asked him to show his real form. Upon Vishnu revealing his true identity, Vrinda broke down completely and cursed Vishnu to turn into a stone. While, on the other side, Jalandhar had become powerless and then Shiva killed him ending the misery of Gods and Sages. As Vrinda was given a boon to be reborn as holy Basil, she denied Shiva to be ever worshiped with any part of her. It is for this reason that Shivalinga should never be offered Tulsi. Whereas, worshiping Vishnu is incomplete without Tulsi.
2. Ketaki Flower: The Ketaki flowers though highly fragrant and used for making aromatic oils and perfumes, are not offered to Gods. The reason why Ketaki flower is not offered to Lord Shiva is narrated in the following legend:
At the beginning of the universe, Vishnu and Brahm? approached Shiva lingam and set out to find its beginning and end. Taking the form of a boar, Vishnu began digging downwards into the earth, while Brahma took the form of a swan and began flying upwards. However, neither could find the appointed destination. Vishnu came up to Shiva and bowed down to him admitting his failure but Brahm? did not give up so easily. As he was going up, he saw a Ketaki flower floating down, At that time Ketaki flower was dear to Shiva,. Ketaki told Brahma that she had been placed at the top of the Shiva lingam. Brahma’s ego forced him to ask the flower to bear false witness about Brahm?’s discovery of Lingam’s beginning. When Brahm? told his tale, Shiva, the all-knowing, became angry by the former’s ego. Shiva thus cursed Brahm? that none in the three worlds would worship Brahm?. The Ketaki flower, for bearing false witness, was cursed to be never used for the worship of Shiva.
3. Champaka Flower
Champaka, also known as golden Champa or yellow Champak or Kewda is not used in the worship of Lord Shiva and the reason behind is described in Shiv Purana. In ancient times, on the way to Shiva temple in Gokarna stood a beautiful Champaka tree with full of flowers. Sage Narada once on his way to temple noticed Champaka tree and admired. Suddenly he found a priest nearby. He came to pluck the flowers but on seeing Sage Narada he refrained from doing so. When enquired by Sage Narada the priest told that he was on his way to a nearby village and just stood there enjoying the Champaka tree. After Narada left for the temple, the priest plucked the flowers in a basket and hid it. On return from the temple, Sage Narada again met the same priest and this time he told that he was going home. But suspicious about his behaviour, Sage Narada went to Champaka tree and asked whether anyone plucked your flowers. The Champak tree said no. But still Sage Narada had his doubts so he went back to the temple and found that the Shiva lingam was covered with Champak flowers. Sage Narada asked a man who was meditating nearby as to who offered this flowers to Lord Shiva. The man told that a priest daily comes and showers the Shivlingam with Champak flowers. Lord Shiva is pleased with this act and due to His blessings the priest has become very powerful in the King’s court and now harasses poor people. The Sage Narada went to Lord Shiva and asked why he was helping the bad man. Shiva told that a devotee who worshiped him with Champaka flowers could not be denied to do so. Sage Narada went back to the Champaka tree and cursed it for lying to him that the Champak flowers would never be accepted in worship of Lord Shiva. He also cursed the priest to be born as demon and will attain moksha only when he would be killed by Lord Ram.
4. Infected Bael leaves
Anything infected is forbidden to offer to Lord Shiva, we use leaves and flowers to offer Lord Shiva but one should keep in mind not to use infected Bael leaves. Bael is one of the most sacred trees. It has a lot of medicinal properties and is known to be a cooling agent. Bael leaf is Lord Shiva’s favourite but it should not be cut, there should be no hole, or Bael leaves should not be insect-eaten when given as an offering. Each Bael leaf should have three which is offered, If Bael leaf contains one or two should not be offered to Lord Shiva.
5.Kumkum and Sindoor
Though the devotees can use Kumkum and sindoor for the idols of Goddess Parvati (wife of Shiva) and Lord Ganesha (son of shiva), not only on Shivratri or Sawan but also in general, sindoor is not offered to lord Shiva. The reason is that Lord Shiva is a recluse, and recluse people put ash on their forehead. And it is a universal fact that Shiva puts ash, not Kumkum. Also Kumkum is applied by married women for the long life of their husbands. Lord Shiva is considered to be the “destroyer” hence Kumkum is not used for his puja. But few questions arise. If Kumkum or Sindoor is prohibited to be offered to Lord Shiva, then why Shri Adi Sankaracarya wrote in Lingashtkam that “Kumkum Chandan lepit Lingam”? Let me quote the relevant and give its meaning.
I bow before the Sada Shiva Lingam
The Lingam that is applied with Kumkuma and sandalwood paste
The shining Lingam that is adorned with lotus garlands
The Lingam that wipes out the accumulated sins
Yes we do not offer Kumkum / Sindur to Lord Shiva because these things represent the material world and for him everything is the same and when burnt away everything becomes Ashes.
6. Haldi (Turmeric)
Though haldi is offered to most of the Hindu Gods and Goddess, but haldi is one of the holy items, which is never offered to Shiva. Reason being this item is used for enhancing the beauty and the Shiva being a saint, worldly pleasures have been given up by Lord Shiva. So turmeric is considered as feminine in nature and a cosmetic product for females while Shivlinga represents masculinity, hence it is not offered to Lord Shiva. Haldi is therefore, one of the items, strictly prohibited to be offered to Lord Shiva.
7. Use of Bronze Pot
Copper pot is considered auspicious in Hindu religion, so while offering milk or curd to Lord Shiva, use of bronze pot is prohibited, instead one can use copper pot. Reason is that it is equivalent to pouring wine as per some passed down theories. Also, do not let your fingers touch the water, milk, curd and ghee because the touching of nails makes these things inauspicious.
8. Coconut Water
You can offer coconut fruit to the deity but do not offer coconut water. In Shiva temples one witnesses the coconut after broken either outside sanctum or inside coconut water is wasted and coconut alone is offered. Normally, to drink coconut water after being offered on other deities is considered as mandatory Even the coconut water is not offered on Shiva Lingam. Reason behind why coconut water is not offered to Lord Shiva. There is no such story listed in any Puaranas, but yes, it is not generally practiced and hence not recommended to offer coconut water to Lord Shiva, especially on Shivaratri. Reason behind this is that everything offered this day is considered as Nirmalaya, and cannot be consumed. It is therefore not offered to Lord Shiva.
9. Going round Shiva Lingam in circle is prohibited: In most part of our country devotees generally go round the Idols of Gods/Godesses but in case of Shiva Lingam going round in a circle is strictly prohibited. According to the Shiv Puran, the devotee isn't supposed to take a full round around the Shivling. You should only go around in a semi-circle and return to where you started from. A full circle is said to offend the lord and the blame will be on you.
There is a belief among the people that lord Shiva is destructor only as part of Trinity in Hinduism. However the nature itself is a Lingam or symbol of the Lord. The Shiva Lingam is a clear mark of Shiva who is the creator, sustainer and the destructor – all three life qualities of nature. It is appropriate to refer to the Skanda Purana which depicts that the whole universe is created from the supreme Shiva and it finally gets submerged there.
[This means that the endless sky is the Linga and the earth is the base. And at the end of it all exists the entire universe and all the Gods finally merge into the Lingam from where it originated.]
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.
Words like Sorry, Excuse Me, Thanks, Thank you, Welcome, See you, Pardon, No mention, Take care , Bye, are used like a fashion. Out of all Sorry and Excuse me are two words which are over used and misused the maximum.
Parents, Grandparents at home and teachers in school teach children these words at a very immature age, when they learn it mechanically.
They teach them as good manners, whether the child understands it or not, only God knows. The child learns and uses. Parents and teachers are happy. Parents take credit and boast about their children. They feel as if it's a great achievement.
One day I was returning from Hyderabad with my NATUNI (granddaughter Trishna) and my wife by Indigo flight. Natuni was around five years old. On the way she wanted to go to the toilet. I asked, "Can you go alone?" Yes JEJE, was her positive and bold answer. I let her go. At the door of the toilet she talked to the air hostesses, then entered. She came out successfully after a few minutes saying bye to the air hostesses. She was very happy, signs of joy radiating from her face. I asked what both of you were talking at the door of the toilet as if you were known to each other? Natuni replied that Nisha didi asked my name, for what purpose I want to use the toilet and how did I know that the toilet was free. I replied everything. She thanked me, “Nice Trishna, thanks”. After about half an hour, once again she wanted to go to toilet. I thought that probably she's going on a new discovery voyage. So I allowed her out of curiosity.
She returned and told me, “Excuse me JEJE " as I was on the side seat and her's was the middle one. I was surprised by the new phrase from her. She took her seat, tightened the belt and told, "JEJE! JEJE ! I learned a new phrase today."
“What's that?" I asked.
"Excuse me”
“Where and how did you learn?”
"Here only from Nisha Didi", She replied."
While Nisha didi was taking her drinking water trolley, she found a fellow passenger on her way. I heard her saying "excuse me Sir!" While I was going to toilet I met Nisha didi. I used the same phrase, I learnt from her. Then she said OK Trishna and moved from my way.
I complimented NATUNI that she's a fast learner.
Moreover I told her that today people are using these words like" excuse me" and "sorry " very casually without understanding the seriousness and gravity of the situation. Then I told her two incidents one in 1973, when I was an MBBS student in SCB Medical College Cuttack and another in V.S.S. Medical College, Burla in 1978 when I was a post graduate student, where the word “Sorry” was used in two different perspectives.
The first incident was in early 1970s. Prof. Radhanath Rath, was the Unit head of Medicine, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Our group was posted in his unit. In the routine ward round he was seen very much upset while enquiring about a young diabetic coma patient who had expired the night before. The post graduate student on emergency duty had failed to administer the required dose of insulin, nor he consulted the senior physician on call. When asked why he did not follow the order, the P.G student narrated what happened last night. At that time there was one postgraduate student and two interns on night emergency duty to look after all the medicine patients scattered in different wards including infectious wards and super specialist wards like cardiology, neurology, nephrology, etc. The post graduate on duty went round the wards and attended all the serious patients at around 10 p.m. He got an emergency call from home that his mother had severe chest pain. So he had to rush home telling one of the interns to inform him if anything happened during his absence, and also the staff sister in-charge. At that time land phone was the only mode of communication, so he gave his land phone number to that intern and went home. He told the intern to convey this message to the staff sister in-charge that he will come after attending to his mother. He attended to his mother, stayed back at home as his mother was serious and forgot to infrom the senior physician on call.
The interns after the ward round usually go back to their retiring room. At their age of 23 to 24 years they have other engagements. Due to some reason or other they might have forgotten to convey the information to the in-charge staff sister. The staff sister without the written order had not administered the insulin dose to that patient. It was a communication gap. After narrating the story the postgraduate with folded hands said “Sorry Sir! I am responsible for the negligence in duty.” Then came the reply of Prof. Rath, the quote of the life for any medical practitioner “Sorry is a word which is not found in medical dictionary. By saying sorry one can’t make a dead man alive”.
SECOND INCIDENT
This is another incident which happened in 1977 – 78 when I was a 2nd year postgraduate student in Obst. & Gyn., VSS Medical college, Burla. Prof. A.K Dey was my teacher, guide and mentor. One day he was demonstrating forceps delivery to his senior P.G students. Patient was Mrs. Singhania, a VIP and very rich. He described the whole procedure and what precautions to be taken to avoid complications. He showed a dummy application too. Then he applied forceps and delivered a matured male baby. “The birth of a male baby in Singhania family” : – the news spread in lightening speed. Sweets were poured into the Labor room. While others were enjoying Prof. Dey started sweating. The reason was there was a 4th degree perineal tear with traumatic PPH (Severe tear with bleeding). With all calmness and seriousness he told, “In best of the best hands, in the best institution and with all preparedness and precautions complications can happen. It is a part of medical science. It may not be due to anybody’s mistake. At times it is inevitable. But the most important part of dealing complication is not to feel guilty, nor to say sorry but to identify the problem and treat it.” Very sportively he taught his students about perineal tear and demonstrated his masterly skill of repairing the 4th degree preineal tear. The P.G students thanked their professor for teaching two lessons (forceps delivery and repair of 4th degree perineal tear) with one stroke.
The words like “sorry” & “excuse me” should not be misused as a plea or excuse to escape from one’s negligence, mismanagement, disobedience or defiance. Rather one should “feel sorry” instead of “saying sorry”. One should introspect and learn from one’s mistakes. Then only one can learn and gain experience. One should not say sorry to escape from owning one’s responsibility.
Mistakes do happen. But a mistake however trivial, can turn to be fatal in medical profession in no time. Mistakes in general are committed out of two things; ignorance or arrogance. If out of ignorance, then it can be corrected then and there. One should not feel ashamed of one’s ignorance because even a genius may be ignorant of many things. It depends on one’s humility and attitude to learn from one’s own mistakes. But mistakes committed out of arrogance is fatal. A professional should be flexible. There is no place for dogmatism in science, more so in medical science. To be a good professional one has to give up one’s ego and arrogance. One should always feel like a beginner. One should not be a follower of “say - sorry” rather be an advocate of “avoid saying sorry.”
“You learn nothing from life if you think you are right all the time”.
- Thiya Sac –
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
(The world is one family)
Raksha Bandhan is round the corner, and am delighted to be a humble voice for all the only children(single child) in the world.
I know the value of siblings - to have one, and to be one. Am truly happy for all those blessed with siblings.
Though a only child, am immensely blessed with few go-to brothers, sisters through friends, and family who have gifted abundant love one cannot receive even from a sibling! 'Same Womb' alone, doesn't define the beauty, and warmth of a bond.
I wish people understand, only children are actually better givers...
I wish the bias, "Single children don't share, they are selfish/self-obsessed" no longer prevails in the minds of people...
I wish people accept the fact, 'Only child' is actually capable of times more compassion, generosity, and blossom to be more humane, more social and happy; even those who grew up with siblings too might not have evolved so, 'sometimes.'
Beyond the atmosphere they grow in, the upbringing, values taught-learnt, every child is an individual, and evolves in its own time.
In all humility I shall confidently say, only children gift abundant love.
Am voicing on behalf of all the only children in the world, and NOT for pity or sentiments.
Only children are also often MISUNDERSTOOD as clingy, or attention-seekers!
But most of them actually reach out not just seeking, but often to GIVE love, too.
Only children also know the joy of sharing, caring, giving, and being empathetic souls.
Oh the eternally JUDGEMENTAL world! Sigh!
It also hurts, when people unnecessarily create a scene, that it is going to be a tough life without a sibling support. I totally understand and agree with all the joys, comfort, and strength of having a sibling while growing up, and throughout life. I don't deny the pain in the void...
But, only children too are capable of LIVING happily even without a sibling. The pity, and drama created is annoying.
I might be rude asking this, but it is important! Do all the orphan souls in the world lack empathy, humanity?! Aren't there cunning selfish beings who grew up in large families, too?! The most generous charitable givers had been orphans too, rising like a Phoenix! I wonder why the world still quotes "Single child syndrome", without empathy.
Often, only those without a sibling prove through actions, they believe in 'Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam!'
Whomever gets to read my thoughts on Only children, If they make you think am jealous, feeling insecured, or justifying/defending just because am an only child, kindly stop assuming, and make efforts to understand.
Am only disappointed and infuriated at the perceptions the world has, on only children. As if those with siblings alone can heal the world with love, and compassion! I know worst bitter stories of siblings, but that's not the point!
Human beings are INDIVIDUALS meant to EVOLVE!
On this note, I would like to share, how I celebrate Raksha Bandhan.
Religious beliefs/faith are personal indeed; need not be shared with the world but am NOT talking about my 'faith' here. It is all about LOVE, and LOVE only.
I also believe, the Almighty is beyond forms and names. The Omnipresent. Omnipotent. Omniscient.
Raksha Bandhan being one of my favourite festivals, every year, since childhood, I celebrate Raksha Bandhan with Lord Krishna.
I developed a deep connection with Him, the Lord Himself, with whom I communicate on a daily basis like I do with family members.
Krishna is EVERYTHING to me, yet I do NOT like it, when someone pulls my leg saying "...As if you are Radha, Rukmini, Meera...".
Am just a humble Madhu, in love with my Krishna. Simple. I fight with Him, like an annoying Sister! He wisely smiles and suddenly becomes my best friend. My Mentor! Dad! Soulmate! Melts into a dewdrop and blooms as a Lotus! In no time, an innocent child would blink at me...
And ultimately, Krishna is within me. Krishna never lets me down, though I often feel left alone to fight the challenges, only to realise gradually, He is the challenge in front of me, and He is the fighter in me. Never leaving me alone.
He has always taught, Never feel lonely when you have YOU!
Well! Krishna becomes all that I want to see and need to see. I believe Nature is the Pseudonym of God. So, Nature too, is my sibling.
"Nature never did betray the heart that loved Her".
~Wordsworth
A creeper's tender branch turned into Rakhi last year, with tiny flowers and leaves becoming beads and stones, to celebrate a beautiful bond.
Nature, my ALL.
"Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam". Let's always remember, and reiterate.
Let us extend love, compassion, kindness to the world in gratitude!. There are genuine brothers and sisters waiting to be adopted. The Universe is conspiring... Let's go find them! Be one, too!
Let's be a brother or a sister at least for a brief moment to a stranger too, who needs help...Who longs for a shoulder...
Let's be HUMANE.
My deepest gratitude and love, to all the loving souls in my life as my aNNas, and Thambis, akkas, and thangais, who have been kind, affectionate, and patient with this incorrigible sister all these years.
Beyond yearly celebration, the essence of Raksha Bandhan must be always remembered, and the best gift one can give, is lasting love, warmth, and trust, being each other's anchor.
Happy Raksha Bandhan, dear world!
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry, Photography and Music. Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), AIFEST 2020 Poetry contest Anthology, CPC- Chennai Poetry Circle, IPC – India Poetry Circle, Amaravati Poetic Prism, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, Storizen, OPA – Our Poetry Archives, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes, and Science Shore.
‘’Ignite Poetry'’, “Arising from the dust”, “Painting Dreams", “Shards of unsung Poesies", "Breathe Poetry" are some of the *recent Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of. (*2020 - 2021). Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, to create awareness and break the stigma, strongly believing in the therapeutic and transformational power of words. Contact: madhumathi.poetry@gmail.com Blog: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com
Sibu was quite excited about their forthcoming visit to Balangir. The road passes through dense forest and often the wild animals stray on to the road and that was the scene in early 1960’s. He loves to recount those thrilling time and narrate his great experience to his grand children. The children cling to him as he unfolds one after the other episodes every evening.
Those were the days when the roads were quite rough and the vehicles struggled to negotiate some difficult patches. The trip was planned in his father’s newly acquired fiat car, which was delivered in packed condition at Sambalpur station and it came all the way from Italy since Fiat Company was yet to start manufacturing cars in India.
Sibu’s maternal uncle Neelu Mamu, who had come from Cuttack was to join them for the trip. Neelu Mamu, known to his clients as Neelamadhav Dash was a renowned and prosperous lawyer and was fond of adventure. Besides, he had a splendid network of notable clients and friends – the Maharaja of Balangir being one of them. Accommodation for the whole family was arranged in the Raja’s palace.
Besides the adventurous travel through forest roads, it was great fun to travel with Neelu Mamu, who was very fond of Sibu. Every time the visit of Neelu Mamu comes with gifts which he carried from Cuttack. His stopover at Sambalpur meant adventurous trips to the neighbourhood. However, the trip to Balangir had other great attractions. The occasion was thread ceremony of Raghab Chachu’s son Moglu. While the evenings were to be spent in the cosy comfort of Maharaja’s palace, the day would be spent at Raghab Chachu’s cottage. Raghab Chachu (as he was popularly known to friends and relatives) was married to Sibu ‘s aunt and was a very interesting person. Projecting himself as a great hunter, he also claimed to be a legendary personality of the town. The thread ceremony was organised at Balangir, his ancestral place. Sibu once asked Raghab Chachu for his postal address. Instantly he replied, “You just write Raghab Chachu, Sambalpur and that will be enough.” His hyperbolic rhetoric at times left others stunned.
But Raghab Chachu was very fond of children and Sibu was his favourite. As a child Sibu had recurrent bouts of severe migraine. Raghab Chachu used to sit by his bed side and massage his forehead for hours till he recovered from the pain. Besides, Sibu was fond of listening to his stories of adventure, mostly relating to his hunting expeditions. Chachu was always on the lookout for someone to listen to his tales. One such episode was about his encounter with a Royal Bengal Tiger. The Tiger had turned a man eater and was on the prowl in the forest range en route to Sundergarh. According to him, no one dared to venture into those areas after evening and the people of the surrounding villages lived in great panic. Responding to a request from the people of the area he set out on his mission to eliminate the predator. He was accompanied by a villager who initially agreed to assist him, but after walking through a short distance into the forest he deserted him and quickly made his way back to their wagon. That is when he could sense rustling from the bushes. He steadied his twelve-bore and started aiming in the direction of the sound. In a split second the tiger took a mighty leap at him with its chest in his sight and he fired in quick succession. The huge animal landed near him but was immobile and gruelling under pain. He quickly reloaded the gun and shot again to ensure that the Tiger is stone dead. After hearing the gun shots the persons accompanying him rushed to the spot and dragged the dead animal to the wagon. He showed me the Tiger skin displayed in his drawing room and pointed at the holes on it marking the gun shots to prove his point. Later from the whispers of elders Sibu gathered that the tiger was actually shot by a group of hunters and Raghab Chachu had accompanied them.
There was another episode that relates to his bravado of catching a thief. A thief had once entered his premises. It was a small time robber probably trying to lift some scraps from the garden. One of the domestic helps saw the thief and raised an alarm. The person panicked and bolted. But Raghab Chachu would not leave it at that. He took out his twelve bore and dashed after the thief. After sighting the man running at breakneck speed he fired in the air and that was enough for the poor thing. He collapsed to the ground just at hearing the gun shot. The thief was released after mild thrashing but for Raghab Chachu it was one more feather in the cap.
We were once having a get together in his house. The occasion was to meet Neelu Mamu, who had arrived from Cuttack for some work relating to a case. Such get together were usual for us since Raghab Chachu was a close friend of Neelu Mamu. Neelu Mamu was also fond of hunting and on such trips another of his friends accompanied him. It was Mr.Sahu, an experienced hunter whom the children used to know as Dho Dho Sahu Uncle. Invariably they would have gone for hunting on the way and the booty- either a sambar or deer- would be carried in their car boot. After their arrival the cooks and ladies got busy with cooking the exotic meat from the wild and the children keep playing and waiting for dinner. Since they arrive late in the evening it used to be midnight by the time dinner was served. The elders kept gossiping about different topics, interesting incidents including the numerous hunting expeditions. That day was special and it was raining heavily with sporadic thunder and lightning. Suddenly there was a strange odour permeating the entire environment. Raghab Chachu was restless. “That smells like sulphur. That means the lightning has struck at the point where there is a sulphur reserve underground and this is right inside my premises. If sulphur is discovered here that would mean a fortune.” He immediately set out to look for any evidence of the point where the lightning struck. Others joined him with torch lights. There was quite a bit of commotion for some time and he returned along with the search party since there was no success.
Everything about Raghab Chachu was something to be chronicled. He always came up with out of the box ideas and was extremely successful in life while treading the rarely trodden path. We were told Chachu was actually a forest officer. But the Government job could not satisfy his yearning to live an unshackled life. Chachu had made up his mind to quit the government job. Thereafter he busied himself in construction contract, where he hit the jackpot. Soon he was one of the richest persons in the area. The new status helped him further to nourish his temperament.
Sibu had reasons to be quite excited about the trip to Balangir. He remained alert during ravel. Although the road passed through some densely forested region, as ill luck had it there were only few wild animals that could be sighted. There were a couple of jackals and at one instance the car had to stop to make way for a huge bear, which was crossing the road lazily. It was evening by the time they reached Bolangir Maharaja’s palace. For Sibu it was really a royal treat. The palace was huge and they were shown their bedroom after dinner to rest for the night. Next morning Sibu was bit late to get up and found that others had left him alone in the room. He got up and walked out of the room. He felt a bit lost in the corridor with multiple doors opening to it. He walked into the next room and was greeted by the horror of his life. It was the trophy room with stuffed animals almost like living ones glaring at him. The head of the bison hanging from the wall was gigantic. Not knowing what to do Sibu started screaming. In minutes his mother appeared and led him to others who were already getting ready for the Breakfast. The day was spent by visiting around the palace, the gardens and the surrounding. The next morning they left the palace for Raghab Chachu’s cottage.
Chachu’s cottage was located at a height flanking the main road. The other side of the road had a steep slope and went down by couple of hundred feet. Down below was a dense forest, which could be reached after driving down the road and then taking a u turn. The cottage and the premises were agog with family members, relatives, friends and guests who came to attend the thread ceremony, bless the Brahmachari and join the group lunch being organised for the occasion. The puja ritual started and Moglu was already seated on the altar with the priest performing the rituals.
Suddenly there was a commotion and a group of persons rushed to Raghab Chachu to inform that they certainly heard a roar, perceptibly of a tiger coming from the forest below. Then all hell broke loose and Raghab Chachu shouted, “ Moglu! Get my Twelve Bore and we are off to the forest. “Soon Moglu, carrying the gun joined Raghab Chachu and they along with two others to assist left for the forest. Next few minutes were tense moments for all. All were warned not to move out of the premises. Sibu was all excited to be in the midst of a great event, which he could later narrate to his school friends at Sambalpur. After numerous anxious minutes all could hear gunshots and then there was silence. Few minutes after the hunting party returned and Raghab Chachu proudly announced as he got down from the jeep,” I shot the bloody menace. If not dead, it is definitely badly wounded to die in hours. Since a wounded tiger can be very dangerous, the carcass can be recovered tomorrow morning and now let us go ahead with the ceremony.” The accompanying persons corroborated, “The forest was very dense and dark. We saw the animal like a shadow, dragging itself towards the bush after it was shot.”
Strange pictures were floating in Sibu’s mind. He could imagine another tiger skin added to the collection of Raghab Chachu. The next morning Sibu and his family were all ready to depart for Sambalpur. The driver was speaking in a hush-hush voice, “The servants were telling that they located a dead Jackal under a bush in the forest”.
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.
Sanjukta and Subhendu were getting ready to go to a mall near their area to meet Nita, the girl their only son Sarthak had chosen to marry. She was his batch mate in Engineering and they were in love with each other . Nita was the second child of the famous Advocate Mr. Suryanarayan Das who was a multimillionaire. After finishing his study Sarthak did a job in an MNC .
Subhendu was a retired Professor. Though they were not very backward minded, they were also not very supportive of the ultra modern life style. At first Sanjukta was in doubt that a girl from a high status family would actually adjust in their middle class family. But they didn't like to hurt their only son and agreed to meet her. Sarthak was not in favour of the traditional way of selection of daughter in law by his parents and suggested a formal meet in a mall instead of their going to "see" her at her parents' place.
They reached the mall in time and waited. After sometime they saw Sarthak approaching them accompanied by a fair, slim, tall girl. At the very sight of the girl Sanjukta's face beamed with appreciation for the choice of her son. Yes, she was beautiful. With a glistening golden top and white shinning Capri she was glowing. Her carefully brushed step cut hair and red lipstick were a perfect match to her fair colour. The girl was smart and greeted them with hello aunty and hello uncle style. Sarthak did mark the facial expression of his mommy, papa, but remained silent as Nita had insisted that his parents should meet her as she is and she did not like the formalities. It was a short meet. They came to know that Nita was not interested in doing a job and Sarthak also didn't want a working wife. As she was the daughter of rich parents she had never felt the dearth of money. All through the discussion Sanjukta noticed that the girl had a very carefree attitude towards life. She didn't find any sense of responsibility in Nita which is badly needed for smooth going of a family life. Sarthak was observing the expression of mommy and papa .He was aware that they were very much worried for the future life of their only son.
Sanjukta and Subhendu expressed their concern before Sarthak but he was determined to marry her. He assured them that everything would be streamlined and Nita would be conscious about her responsibility after her marriage like other girls. Parents were bound to agree with Sarthak's proposal for marriage. Sarthak and Nita got married and Nita came to stay with them as Sarthak had his job in the same town where his parents were living.
Sanjukta was very considerate and a reserved type of person.She was aware that as Nita had been brought up in a rich family and had led an ultra modern way of living it would take time to adjust to their middle class family. She tried to handle the situation carefully.
Days passed by. Sanjukta looked after the entire household work. Every morning She prepared breakfast for all members and kept it on the dining table. Sarthak took his breakfast and went to office at 8am. Nita got up according to her sweet will, took some juice and went out to the swimming club just as she was doing during her pre- marriage days. She spent her time with friends in badminton court, in luxurious restaurants and parlours and spa. When she did not feel like going outside she remained confined to her room and listened to music for long hours without caring for anything that happened in family. Sanjukta tried her best to motivate her towards her responsibility. She was hopeful that Nita would change herself and would try to maintain a balance between her living style and household responsibilty. But Nita wouldn't pay any heed to it. On the other hand she was becoming reactive to any conversation related to it.
Day by day the conflict continued to rise. One day Sanjukta broke her silence and brought this matter to the notice of Sarthak who she thought could convince Nita to change her attitude and life style. Sarthak was of course not ignorant about all these matters. He also tried to make Nita aware of the problems arising out of her irresponsible behaviour towards family. But Nita stubbornly rejected his advice. Sometimes she would become aggressive and bluntly reply that if mommy papa of Sarthak don't like her behaviour she will prefer to be independent. At last parents thought it right and adviced Sarthak to move to a rented house with Nita. They thought if they remain separate from the parents Nita would be compelled to bear the burden of her family.
Sarthak and Nita moved to their new house. With a heavy heart mommy papa let them go. Every weekend Sarthak came to meet his parents. He asked Nita to come with him to pay at least a courtesy visit to them. Nita frowned upon him and refused to see them and to face their middle class feelings towards her. Sarthak wanted to tell her that his mommy papa are not bad people as she thought. But he preferred to remain silent.Time rolled on.Though Nita was not willing to have a baby so early but submitted to Sarthak's earnest desire for a child of their own. She became pregnant after four years of her marriage. Unfortunately as pregnancy advanced doctors diagnosed that it was a complicated pregnancy and adviced her to take absolute bed rest from 7th month onwards to avoid risks to both mother and baby.
Sarthak felt the need of a responsible lady to look after Nita though servants were there to work. His mother in law had gone to US to visit her son and his family and to look after her newly born grandson. At this hour of crisis he thought it right to bring mommy who would be the perfect person to take care of Nita. Though Nita strongly objected to it Sarthak didn't care. Sanjukta could not refuse Sarthak's request and came to his house. She took over all the responsibilities of the house. She would look into work done by servants, make special dish for Sarthak as per his liking and for Nita, suitable to her in her pregnancy time keeping an eye on nutrition. But Nita would mostly refuse the food prepared by her mother in law and order online food from outside. Sanjukta tried to convince her about the hazards of the spicy, oily restaurant dishes but Nita didn't care. What Sanjukta was apprehending happened. Nita fell ill due to hyperacidity, vomiting and stomach ache. Doctor advised her to avoid such irritant foods and adopt a habit of simple bland diet. Gradually Nita started to take food prepared with much care by her mother in law. Nita noticed how efficiently Sanjukta was managing the entire house hold works starting from kitchen to garden. She was vigilant to the working of servants as well as took utmost care of Sarthak and Nita.
Sarthak marked the gradual change in behaviour of Nita towards mommy. She didn't object to take whatever food mommy was preparing for her. She had started talking and interacting freely with a streak of smile on her face. She warned the servants to do work perfectly and not to overburden mommy. Sarthak was relaxed and happy.
The time came when doctor did elective Caesarian Section for the safety of mother and child and Nita gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Everybody was happy. Sanjukta occupied herself whole heartedly in taking care of the mother and the child. Nita was amazed to see her sense of decency, her modesty and her capabiliy of managing everything in an organised way. Sanjukta was soft spoken, and loving. Her dedication made Nita regret for her ruthless behaviour towards the in laws especially for Sanjukta who was so good at heart and so sacrificing. Her heart was filled with love and gratitude towards her in-laws. She could not know when Sanjukta had occupied the place of mother in her heart.
After Nita and the baby Pupun started doing well, Sanjukta left for her house. Sarthak as usual used to visit his parents on weekends. This time Nita would insist to go with him to meet mommy papa. Sarthak was surprised to see such a great change within her. Sometimes to test Nita Sarthak pretended as if he was not interested to visit them this time and wanted to go for an outing.But Nita used to get ready with Pupun and urged him to meet mommy papa as they might be missing their grandson with whom they were deeply attached and would be disheartened if they did not go to meet. Sarthak was thankful to mommy for her amazing personality that changed a girl like Nita .
Suddenly Sarthak came to his sense when he heard Nita calling him. He felt as if he was in deep slumber and till now he was visualising the entire scene in his dream. Today is mommy's first death anniversary. She left for her heavenly abode last year leaving her dearest 3 years old Pupun and Sarthak, Nita and Subhendu behind. She had pneumonia and the infection was grave which could not be controlled with best possible treatment. After a few days of lying in bed and under ventilator, she breathed her last. Whole family was in deep shock. Nita cried like a child falling on the dead body of mommy as if she had lost her own mother. Today Nita is managing every aspect of death anniversary rituals starting from Sraddha and the feast. She also remained busy in attending to the invitees.
Nita was calling Sarthak to join the pooja and offer Sraddha to the departed soul. Tears were rolling down from his eyes. Nita put her arms on his shoulder and pointing towards Sanjukta’s photo softly said “Mommy has not left us Sarthak. She will be always with us and her dear Pupun.” Sarthak looked towards mommy's photo. He felt as if streams of blessings were flowing down from her graceful face. Sarthak and Nita bowed down before her and got ready for attending to death anniversary rituals.
Dr.Radharani Nanda completed MBBS from SCB Medical college, Cuttack and post graduation in Ophthalmology from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. She joined in service under state govt and worked as Eye specialist in different DHQ hospitals and SDH. She retired as Director from Health and Family Welfare Department Govt of Odisha. During her service career she has conducted many eye camps and operated cataract surgery on lakhs of blind people in remote districts as well as costal districts of Odisha. She is the life member of AIOS and SOS. She writes short stories and poems in English and Odia. At present she works as Specialist in govt hospitals under NUHM.
"Patitapabana" or " The savior of the abandoned" , as it means is not a deity but an emotion . A sensation . And a way of life for many. It is believed that the lord of the cosmos, "Jagannath " , came all the way to the entrance of santum Santorum to give darshan to his devotee, Ramchandra Dev. The then Gajapati of Odisha. He had started chanting namaz, changed his religion so that Puri, the heart of Kalinga could be away from Islamic invasions by Taki Khan who was settled at the Barabati Fort in Cuttack .
Anticipating the nature of attacks, Ramachandra Deva an ardent devotee of the Lord was determined to protect the protector.
But alas! He no more had the privilege to enter the temple..
One day at dawn when the chief priest entered the temple, tulasi leaves , petals of Dayanaa and Malli that had been offered to the lord last night had made their way from the Garbha Griha to the Mukhadwara. The door which was locked was half open... Who was it afterall !
How could he preclude Ramachandra Deva from having a glimpse of him.
Yes, it was The Lord himself, who came down to the entrance last night .
A beautiful description where Bhakti (devotion) overcomes all barriers.
Since then, Patitapabana is worshipped at the very entrance of the temple where people from all religions, caste, creed, races, nationality can have a glimpse of the from the Garuda Stambha outside.
A thrilling incident of this has been mentioned in the timeless odia novel Neelasaila.
This time I was posted at Puri District Covid Hospital some days back. In such times where we see people suffering, struggling for life it's really a distressing situation for young medicos like us. It was my first experience working in a COVID ICU , and after about 2 weeks of duty I manged to get some time to have a Darshan. Yes, I knew the temple was closed. All I could do is have a glimple of "Patitapabana" and the Neelachakra high above standing behind the Garuda Stambha. Momentarily , tears rolled down from my eyes . Silently I uttered, ''Oh! Lord save your beings''.
As I returned home, opened my watercolor palette and painted the picture I clicked there.I owe you my paintbrush. Oh lord!
Shradha Satapraba is an intern at IMS AND SUM HOSPITAL BHUBANESWAR, she had her schooling at St.Xavier's High School, Khandagiri. She believes that Art is a medium to express oneself, a beautiful stressbuster and a medium to bring about change. Though good at academics, she believes there is a big world beyond books and is keen to explore that. Takes interest in local travel, exploring nature and our rich cultural heritage. An Indian by heart. shraddhashataparba9@gmail.com
LEAVES FROM HISTORY: ON OLYMPIC SPIRIT, THE SPIRIT OF POSITIVE VIBES.
2020 Tokyo Olympic held in 2021 would go down in history as “COVID Olympics" or the "Pandemic Olympics". It has also been called the "Anger Olympics.", as many Japanese were upset that their country was hosting such a mega risky event in the middle of the global pandemic to which they cannot be direct witness in physical mode while Tokyo itself remaining in a COVID-19 state-of-emergency. Many people in the outside world were truly surprised that it happened at all. At the end of the day, yes, it was US ,like many other times in the past got at the top of the table with 39 golds,41 Silvers and 33 Bronze making an impressive total of 113 medals closely followed by China that bagged 38 gold 32 Silver and 18 Bronze with a tally of 88. The host country came third with 27,14 and 17 respectively which added up to a respectable 58. India recorded its best as it jumped to 47th rank in the medal tally after Neeraj Chopra won the gold in Javelin .
With a total of seven medals at Tokyo India surpassed its 2012 record in London . While Syria, a very small country , was placed in the 86th position with a mere one bronze, Pakistan, India’s arch rival failed to bag even a single medal in this Olympic and was therefore nowhere in the medal list. Significantly, some of the other neighboring countries of India – Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and Nepal also drew blank and failed to make it to the tally as even they didn’t win a single medal. But are these statistics everything in the Olympic? No,it is the Olympic spirit !
The Olympic spirit is basically to take part irrespective of your win or failure.The Olympic spirit is best expressed in the Olympic Creed: The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.
Two events in Tokyo this year brought out the Olympic spirit in the best ways possible . First it is about USA’s Isaiah Jewett and Botswana’s Nijel Amos in the 800m semi-final. Jewett was almost coming third, close to close with Amos following behind with a razor margin difference when both of them fell down on the track a few meters from the finishing line. Jewett later said in an interview that ‘it felt as if he had been hit in the back of his heel, which threw off his stride and caused his legs to tangle’.Those who would have watched it live on the field or on small screens would have been amzed to see the Olympic spirit live – they did not exhibit even an iota of hurt ,anger or hard feelings ! Rather just the opposite. Both these runners were good sports. The two helped each other to their feet, put their arms around each other and resumed the run to finish the race in that semifinal heat ,just 54 seconds behind the winner. It has been hailed as a remarkable show of sportsmanship. Amos stepped back to give Jewett a one-stride lead, with Jewett finishing second-to-last at 2:38.12 and Amos last at 2:38.49.
A bend on the road is not the end of the journey. Two great examples we may cite from Tokyo Olympic 2020 in this short paragraph.US star gymnast Simone Biles, 24, had cherished a career haul of nine Olympic golds, perhaps to reenact the record set by Soviet gymnast Larisa Latynina in Tokyo in 1964 and many also hoped so . Unfortunately on July 27, Biles dropped out of the women’s gymnastics team final after one disappointing vault, saying she had to take care of her mental health. She then excused herself from four out of five individual events, citing the “twisties”, which refers to a condition where gymnasts suffer from a loss of perceptual awareness of body positioning during a spin in mid-air. Interestingly Biles didn’t entirely miss her chance to be in the record book in Tokyo. She did return and register a victory with a bronze on the balance beam, adding to the silver she had helped win in the team event despite her early departure. Sifan Hassan , a long-distance runner of Netherlands ,stumbled on the ground just when she was powering through the last lap of the women's 1,500-meter heat. As it is reported a runner ahead of her had tripped, prompting a domino effect on her . Hassan it is said tried and failed to jump over a fallen runner but then fell down herself. But from the nightmarish event the most incredible thing happened. Sifan was undeterred; she immediately got back up and, now suddenly from the last place, raced to pass 11 runners to finish first for her spectacular golden moment. It was a fantastic comeback. To add another feather to her cap and that of her country, she went on to win gold in the women's 5,000-meter race too that same day, becoming the first Dutch woman to medal in a long-distance race.
Olympic spirit and unity can never be an empty slogan. The ‘Olympic spirit is alive and well’ was once again displayed in the joy of Italy’s Gianmarco Tamberi and Qatar’s Mutaz Essa Barshim as they were leaping up and down and embracing each other in the Olympic Stadium. Both had agreed to tie for a gold medal rather than deciding the winner in a jump-off. In 2016, just before the Rio Olympics,Tamberi had suffered a serious injury while attempting a 2.41-metre high jump.
Round after round, the two star athletes ad simply failed to outdo one another — prompting an official to tell them the next step was a "jump-off," to see who could simply outlast the other.As the official went to ask the two athletes about the jump-off, Barshim , the reigning world champion in the event instead asked, “Can we have two golds?” to which official had instantly said, “ It is possible,Yes”. This led the two athletes to jump up in joy and hug each other. People called it the best Olympic moment and saw tears of joy all around the stadium and on Twitter- it became a symbol of the sportsmanship and friendship the Olympics were designed to create.
Every Olympic has its share of positive vibes – the Olympic Spirit in action that makes the spirit of any onlooker or observer soar sky high. It brings to mind a leaf from history – from 1936 German Olympic. It is about African-American athlete Jesse Owens who stole the show in the face of many odds and callenges. Those who know about Fascism or Nazism know how racism is heart of that ideology . The 1936 Olympic Games were part of Nazi leader Adolf Hiltler’s grand plan to prove Aryan superiority. But Owen exploded the myth of Aryan supremacy by winning four gold medals . Owens came out at the top in the 100m in 10.30 seconds, the 200m in 20.70 seconds, and then the long jump, with an impressive leap of 8.06 metres. The fourth gold for him came in the 4x100m relay, in which Owens had formed a key part of the team that set a new world record of 39.80 seconds. By the way Owens had set a record that would stand for 48 years before being broken by compatriot Carl Lewis at the 1984 Olympics.
Interestingly, his gold in the long jump came apparently after getting some valuable and timely advice about his run-up from a German competitor, Luz Long. This piece of advice helped Owens reach the final after a couple of failed attempts. As it turned out, Owens had set a new Olympic record (8.06m) leaving Long for the second position to grab silver (7.87m). This would have dismayed the hyper-national crowd in Berlin, including Hitler, by what they saw, but Long wasn’t. To the surprise of many and the credit of the German,Long was the first to congratulate Owens and later walked around the stadium, arm-in-arm with the later. The duo even posed together for pictures.
As Owens would record later, “It took a lot of courage for him to befriend me in front of Hitler”.Perhaps for History to record and treasure it for all time to come he had said the golden words, “You can melt down all the medals and cups I have and they wouldn’t be plating on the 24-carat friendship I felt for Luz Long at that moment.”All will agree that it was a friendship Luz Long, Jesse Owens (a White and a Black respectively)had woven that triumphed over racism and would be a lesson for humanity. The story of Owens and Long’s friendship has been commented as great demonstration of the fact how sports could unite people across gender, race and nationalities, even in the toughest circumstances.
Ironically the hero of 1936 Berlin Olympics did not get a White House invitation nor reception that he deserved . It is said because he was the grandson of slaves, Owens was snubbed by his own president when Franklin D. Roosevelt failed to greet him, an honour and custom for returning Olympic champions to the home country. See how Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi has received the Indian Tokyo Olympic winners and participants at a breakfast meet and talking to all of them individually and collectively. Though not fully, yet a lot has changed in America.Racism,casteism ,mysoginy are still structurally ingrained in many societies. Recent Taliban takeover of Kabul has drawn a purdah on the aspirations of Afghani Women .One wonders if Afghanistan would be able send a women contingent as part of its national delegation to Paris Olympics in 2024. As if to show to the world American Women were at their best at the Tokyo Olympic .In a historic first, nearly 60% of the U.S. medalists were women. Let us hope the sporting spirit prevails every where – the spirit of friendship, brotherhood, humanity, bonds between peoples and cosmopolitan culture. Let not the Olympic spirit, the spirit of positive vibes be confined to the stage of isolated stadiums ,but spread to the entire world stage where as actors we play our part but in Sportsman spirit .
(Sources and stories are many, but the spirit is one)
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore
The society we live in (Z1RWA) had organised a free RTPCR camp under the aegis of BMC (Bhubaneswar Municipal Corporation) for the staff, drivers, and housemaids of our walled community on the 2nd & 4th of May 2021. Our two maids were reluctant to get themselves tested and didn’t go on 2nd. With great persuasion, we were able to send them for the test on the 4th. Both looked good and were asymptotic. After 48 hours list of COVID, positives were notified by the BMC and it was shared by Z1RWA with the residents. One of the maids was found positive for COVID. It was recommended that the inmates of the flats where infected staff or maids were detected should get quarantined for a minimum of 7 days as a precautionary measure and if symptoms develop then an RTPCR test should be done. Infected maids were prohibited from entering the campus for 17 days. This was notified to the boom-barrier for compliance. Our maid in question was asymptomatic as of then. She, however, developed symptoms after 3-4 days. No immediate RTPCR test was expected from us as we were asymptotic as well as had also taken both doses of the vaccine -the second one having been taken about a month back.
On the 10th of May (which was the seventh day after the sample collection date of the maid who was found positive for COVID) we got ourselves tested and received the report on the same day evening. The results came negative. The report was shared with society promptly to maintain transparency. We were greatly relieved and thought that after all two doses of COVAXIN and our extreme care had paid off.
It may be mentioned here that since 22nd March 2020 (in the previous 14 months), we had imposed a strict SMS (Social distancing, Mask and Sanitisation) protocol on ourselves. We had also implemented an SOP for maids in our flat and I had even recommended it to the society members and friends on social media. We were taking vitamins, homoeopathic medication and Kadha (herbal concoction) as recommended by the department of Ayush (GOI). Even our maids were given homeopathic medications every month for 5-6 days and were screened for the temperature at the entry to our flat. Additionally, I was inhaling steam two times a day and monitoring forehead temperature and SpO2 levels at least once a day. We are health conscious and regular walkers doing 5 km 5 days a week on average. We seldom eat red meat and take mostly fruits for the dinner. All these measures had given us a sense of security(?) against COVID-19. We were quite confident that it happened only to other careless people, didn’t care about SMS and ordered junk food.
This was not to be so as the events unfolded! The fourteenth of May was our 44th marriage anniversary. But, it was a Friday. We eat just one meal(lunch) on Fridays and so we postponed cutting the cake sent us by our daughter to the next day evening. The next evening, Archana (my wife) wasn’t feeling too well. She didn’t even feel like changing into new clothes which she usually does for such special occasions. She didn’t want any photos to be taken- “meri photo achchhi nahi aayegi”- she said. I sulked a bit thinking that she was being a spoiled sport. The evening turned out to be a damp squib and even I didn’t enjoy my fine scotch. I drained most of my fine Scotch. I drained half of it into the kitchen sink which is quite rare for me. Glenfiddich is rather an expensive brand to be so treated most people would agree.
During the night Archana kept coughing intermittently on my side but didn’t otherwise complain. Her tolerance threshold is high. The next morning she had a 101 F fever and a sore throat besides dry cough. I got alarmed and reported this to my doctor friend GB Nanda - our morning walk buddy. He advised the RTPCR test for both of us and immediate isolation. We asked our COVID negative maid who had been coming on and off to stop coming for her safety and separated our rooms. Archana was put on antibiotics, saline gurgling and steam inhalation forthwith. For fever and body aches paracetamol was started 8 hourly. Vitamins we were already taking. None of her prescription medications was put on hold. Dr Nanda kept in touch regularly and supplied medicines through his driver Ashok. Our downstairs pharmacy was also very accommodating.
On the 16th night, I too started feeling feverish, thirsty and had some discomfort in the throat. I perspired profusely and had a choked nose. I drank a lot of water throughout the night and used the nasal spray for relief. I now knew that I was infected despite all care and caution. It didn’t feel like a normal cold. From the other room, I could hear her intermittent coughing. It was a night that didn’t seem to end. It felt so lonely. The next morning, as also advised by Dr Nanda, we both started on standard COVID protocol medications including ivermectin 12 mg and Favipiravir 400 mg and went for an RTPCR test. By now we felt quite sick and weak and would have preferred home sample collection. But, except for BMC, no agency offered this service. About BMC there was a misconception in our mind that they would straightaway dispatch us to some COVID centre in case we were to be found positive. The idea of going to the hospital brought forth pictures of iv-line, oxygen and so on. Like most people we hate hospitals. The pandemic news in the media hadn’t done good publicity to hospitals and medical men by and large. At the Zeus Jove Diagnostic laboratory, we had to stand in a line. There were some 12-13 people ahead of us. The sun was intolerable. We were scared because some people really looked sicker than us and were sitting on the curb (stone edging) being unable to stand on their own.
On 18th May, towards evening, Archana’s fever subsided to 99 F, and she didn’t need paracetamol for the fever, but it was continued due to her persistent body aches. Her dry cough wasn’t getting any better and that remained a concern. We were advised to do pranayama, saline gargling, take plenty of rest , drink water and juices 4/5 litres per day. My temperature remained high going down only under the influence of paracetamol. I was also perspiring profusely. We both felt run-down and had lost 2/3 Kg of body weight. Food (we were eating only khichadi and soups) tasted bitter and unpalatable. We also lost appetite. Archana also lost sense of smell.
On 19th May RTPCR reports came positive for Archana but negative for me though I had more pronounced symptoms. I was advised to assume myself as positive only and continue with all the medications and care. I forwarded the reports to the society again. Our flat was officially put into the infected list to be quarantined for 17 days. COVID protocol of the society came into force, and we started getting advisory from the facilities management office. This was also about the time when I started posting on the Facebook and on society WhatsApp about our tryst with COVID for information to our numerous friends(?) and well-wishers. Though, I had advised all through my postings to refrain from calling us we still received a few calls most of which Archana answered for me-she always does this. A few were from our society members also and that felt good. But, largely inmates whom we knew remained rather aloof- the pandemic perhaps has made us all insensitive to sufferings and pain of other people. Some close friends and relatives called regularly. A school friend from Nanded and our both daughters sent goodies , medications and even a steamer to us though we already had two. Our flat by now had become ‘out of bounds’ due to society protocol and getting home delivered goods was quite an ordeal for us as we were weak. For this reason, we also politely refused an offer for food delivery from the society as well as from one Shri Gopal Mishra who called us on behalf of OTV courtesy of Mrs Jaggi Panda-a long-time acquaintance. Disposal of the leftovers would have been a problem as our trash was collected every 2/3 days only.
On 19th May we gave a sample for CBC(Complete blood chemistry), CRP (C reactive protein and D-Dimer. Blood test reports came the next day. It was normal for Archana. My C reactive protein value was 6.5 times of the limit. The temperature wasn’t going down. The only solace was that the SpO2 level was good. I was asked to repeat CRP after two days. By 22nd May, Archana was feeling much better except for the intermittent cough. She started taking Ayurvedic medications for her cough. My fever hadn’t gone down even on this seventh day. In repeat CRP test the value had gone up over the previous value by 5. I was told that as the temperature wasn’t going down, I should get admitted to a hospital as my case had the potential to develop into severe COVID. The situation was tense. I was later told by Dr Nanda that on 22nd night he had contemplated sending me to a hospital and was about to call us. On 23rd May as advised by him we both had HRCTC done in the morning. He had arranged for a COVID patient carrying Uber taxi (it was mentioned in the cab). I was told that since my HRCTC score had come out 5 on 25, my lungs were only 20% affected (considered mild) but, that could potentially go up rapidly. I was also told that things changed very rapidly in COVID and was advised to take no chances and start on steroids. Archana had a score of 1 on 25 (4%) which was ok.
It was a difficult choice - listen to the experts or follow your closest/ dearest people. My daughters had their valid reasons and legitimate fears born out mostly of hyperactive media. These days news and social media have taken away the power of positive thinking from people. Herd mentality has taken a firm grip. The black fungus was in the news. Steroid treatment was linked to this. It could happen even 2/3 weeks post steroid treatment and post getting well of COVID.
My temp hasn’t been coming down. C reactive protein was high indicating inflammation and HRCTC score though low at 5/25 it wasn’t good news at my age of nearly 70. The elevated levels of CRP might be linked to the overproduction of inflammatory cytokines in severe patients with COVID?19. Cytokines fight against the microbes but when the immune system becomes hyperactive, it can damage lung tissue. But my D-Dimer and SpO2 were normal and I had no breathing issues. D-dimer is commonly elevated in patients with severe COVID. The levels correlate with disease severity and are a reliable prognostic marker. But, I am also free from any of the listed comorbidities including diabetes. I had now been in consultation with three doctors. Experts- I, gave me two choices #1- to start on low dose ivepred at home under monitoring, or #2- to get admitted to a hospital where they would do what they think best. Expert-2 suggested not to worry, chill continue with vitamins and paracetamol. Expert-3 suggested starting on steroids. A room had already been organised where Archana could also be with me we two being living alone here. I contemplated on all these things and was pretty sure in my mind that I didn’t need hospitalisation.
As I said the choice was difficult. Finally, I decided to go with the expert-1, option #1 which was also expert-3’s suggestion and started on steroid ivepred 16 mg 2 times 2 days, 12 mg 2 times 2 days, 8 mg 2 times 2 days, 4 mg 2 times 2 days and then to be stopped. Random blood glucose was to be monitored after 2-3 days with CBC, CRP and D-Dimer. Just one dose and temperature became normal. 4 doses and it felt good again. My ivepred medication tapered down to nil on 31/5/21. My third blood test report came on 26/5/21 and the doctor said it was ok. My CRP had come down to 7 from 38. International stds for CRP is 10(Google). In India, they take like 5. Lifestyle changes should bring it down further. Lymphocytes were a little less indicating that the immune system still needed to pep up. Red cell distribution width was slightly on the higher side which probably indicated nutritional deficiency. These should normalise in time with nutritional food. Pranayama, light exercises, and rest, I was advised.
On 3/5/21- by now 17 days prescribed by the society had elapsed, we felt good enough to start with a morning walk of one round of the campus (equivalent to 1.6km) and gradually increased to 1.5 and then to 2 rounds. We walked, but, couldn’t walk faster being weak and took 45 minutes for 3.2 km. This “time” now has since been reduced to 40 minutes. You know and feel that you are getting better because pre-existing pains and aches which you didn’t feel during the sickness gradually come back. Also, your old sleep cycle starts making a comeback. Pranayama which was a little difficult during sickness also starts becoming easier. Perspiration too reduces. Pulse rate which was higher than 100 also goes down.
When one is suffering from Covid or I guess from any other sickness, what one needs most is patience, kindness and repeated reassurances from people who talk. Counselling is as important as the treatment and rough or matter of fact hurried talk is a definite NO-NO! Recovery from COVID is not only 14 or 17 days. no... it may be 3, 6 or more months. Weakness lasts a long time and leaves many post-Covid problems that we have discovered and still discovering little by little even after 2 months. They said on the TV not to be alarmed, it was a matter of hygiene, that this was going to make us better people. We think it is not...! Some of us do not know the sadness and powerlessness of going through that or seeing a loved one sick and not being able to do anything People are treated like a walking bomb. Few put themselves in their place. In this most difficult time, we realize who our ′′ true friends and friends ′′ are or the people who truly appreciate us. This has been a good learning experience for us both.
Those who fought or are still in the fight against COVID don't deserve to be discriminated against. This virus destroyed families, friends and as a society, it's bringing out the best and worst in people. Let's not forget that a COVID patient is a human being, who often doesn't even know how he got the virus and is fighting for his life. Let's not treat them as strangers or bugs if I may say so... They are human beings waging a battle.
OUT-OF-BODY EXPERIENCES: MIND-GAME OR THE PARANORMAL?
The year was 1977. I was 26, working in shifts in the Materials Handling Department of Durgapur Steel Plant in West Bengal. Recently married, we were then living in a married executive's hostel fashioned as a row of cottages. It was a small 300 square feet accommodation. The master bed was separated from the sit-out at the entrance by a half wall with an open kitchen on the other side. The bathroom door opened into the kitchen. There were just two doors, one at the entrance and the other one at the exit to the narrow backyard from the kitchen. An alarm clock was in the only cupboard located sideways from the bed on the bathroom sidewall. The open cupboard was covered by a screen made from an old saree and was kept always drawn to protect things kept on the shelves inside from dust and grime. From the headboard side of the bed, this cupboard wasn’t into the view. If you were lying on the bed, you had no chance of seeing the time.
One morning, I returned from the night shift, took bath, ate my breakfast of crushed Chapatis (Indian bread) and milk mixed in a porridge-like consistency rather sleepily and dropped onto the bed falling asleep quickly. I must have slept for 2-3 hrs when I woke up, but my eyes were closed, and I was lying still completely immobilised. I then experienced myself floating out of my body and going up to the ceiling. I could see myself lying on the bed as if in deep sleep. I wanted to see the time and as soon as I wished, I instantly floated around to where the alarm clock was. I saw the hands of the alarm clock which was on the other side of the room invisible from the bed where I lay sleeping as described earlier. I was scared and wanted to go back to my body and wake up physically. Just as I wished, I floated back to my body instantly and woke up. To check whether it was a dream or reality, I called out to my wife who was working in the kitchen and asked her to check the time. She told me the same time as I had seen during my out of body experience (OBE).
Till that time, I had not heard or read about the OBE phenomenon. I told my experience to many people including a doctor. They all dismissed this as either a dream or hallucination. The doctor at the Ispat Hospital even asked me if I was on any psychedelic/ recreational drugs. Psychedelics are a subset of hallucinogenic drugs whose primary effect is to trigger non-ordinary states of consciousness (known as psychedelic experiences or "trips"). I knew of some inmates in “steel house” (bachelor executive’s hostel) taking mandrax (Methaqualone). Methaqualone is classified as a narcotic drug. It is banned in India and the manufacture, possession and transportation of this drug is an offence under the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act. They used to take it for relaxation and as a sedative antidepressant (manufacturing stopped in 1980 due to its abuse). It could also be fatal if taken with alcohol and/or marijuana smoking and is addictive. At that time, it was a prescription drug. We jokingly called these chaps “Golis”. One “Goli” later went on to the IIM and another one is a “mentor and guide” of some repute at present. They were strong-willed lucky individuals who did not fall prey to its addiction and did well for themselves in life. I tried to forget the whole OBE episode and it never happened to me again.
Last year, my older brother who died of Covid-19 in April this year had a somewhat similar albeit different experience. He posted it on Facebook and so I know. He claimed to have woken up in the middle of the night finding another person in the room. He said that he called out to him like, “Kaun hai”. The person seemed to cast a fleeting glance in his direction, turned around and walked into the impervious wall disappearing from the view. Was my brother dreaming or hallucinating? He was very sure he wasn’t doing either. He believed in ghosts, I don’t. He was well educated and had a very high IQ and what he claimed could not have been dismissed. Do you guys believe in “after-life” and ghosts? I am sure some of you do!
My own experience and then decades later my brother’s experience got me thinking and I decided to do some reading about the paranormal. Wikipedia says, “an out-of-body experience (OBE) is a phenomenon in which a person becomes aware or conscious of the world from a location outside the physical body”. In OBE, as we lie in slumber (“slumber” is the state of the mind that is not accompanied by dream), our spirit body seems to break free and float upward while our physical body is left behind on the bed below. In my case, it looked like an OBE. In my brother’s case, it did not fit this definition. He was probably seeing a ghost and he thought as well. But in both instances, these incidents sound like evidence of the existence of the soul and perhaps proof of life after death.
When do OBEs occur?
As per Tim Newman, OBE can occur Just before falling asleep or waking up. They are more likely to occur when sleep is not particularly deep. OBEs have also been reported following or during extreme exertion, during a near-death experience when the person is near death but not actually dead and then comes back and narrates OBE.
Can OBEs be induced?
Hallucinogenic drugs can give rise to induced OBEs. Too much torture can also trigger them. Pilots and astronauts have occasionally experienced OBEs. Due to extreme G-forces, blood can partially drain from certain parts of the brain. This can also induce an OBE. Even during standard flights, some over-worked pilots have sometimes reported feeling as if sitting on the wing, watching themselves flying the plane. This is known as spatial disorientation (SD).
Reproducing OBE by Direct brain stimulation:
In 1955, a Canadian neurosurgeon called Wilder Penfield electrically stimulated the brains of epilepsy patients and could produce OBE in some cases. In 2002, a Swiss group working on patients with epilepsy passed a weak electric current through a patient’s right angular gyrus. As they increased the magnitude of the current, the patient said, “I see myself lying in bed, from above.” In patients with brain lesions also OBE could be produced by electrical stimulation.
The unexplainable!
Scientists require all phenomena to be reproducible, provide details that cannot be explained away but which are found to be true, and undergo rigorous tests to rule out all the known alternative explanations. Using the scientific method, near-death experience has already been proven to be a real scientific phenomenon because it is reproducible. In some patients with neurological issues, OBE has also been produced. But perhaps the most controversial aspect of OBEs is the claim that during an OBE, the viewer can float out of their body and witness something or someone that they could not have otherwise seen.
A well-known example is the case of Pam Reynolds, a brain surgery patient who underwent a procedure to remove a brain tumour. Following surgery, Reynolds was able to describe aspects of the procedure that had happened at a time when she was clinically dead. She claimed to have surveyed the scene during an OBE and was able to describe activities and tools too correctly for a layperson.
Why OBEs should happen to otherwise healthy people is still a mystery.
Conclusion:
We have all seen ourselves from outside, in photos and mirrors. We have all seen rooms from above in films. It should be easy to think that our brains can manufacture an OBE and present it to us as a kind of reality. In patients with neurological issues, OBE could be produced and in normal people under stress and overwork when the brain gets overwhelmed not being able to process all sensory information OBE can occur. The conclusion, therefore, seems to be that OBE is perhaps a mind game only which is controversial and contested because it challenges the oneness and integrity of our sense of self.
The year was 1973. I was doing my post-graduate diploma after engineering in Visvesvaraya Regional College of Engineering in Nagpur. This wasn’t out of my love for education. The jobs then were few and scarce and mostly in public sectors. Their selection process took almost a year. In the meanwhile, having nothing more to do I joined this course as it paid a stipend enough to pull on in Nagpur. My older brother Pramod Bhaiyya and his wife Jyoti Bhabhi were living in Chandrapur-a small hamlet. Brother was a forest officer posted at the forest timber depot there.
Chandrapur can be described as a small size village located in Bhandara Taluka of Bhandara district, Maharashtra about 30 km from Bhandara with very few families residing. The village had a population of under 100 at that time. Forest timber depot had a colony of prefabricated wooden houses and an office for the forest officer. The habitat received a limited power supply from a DG set from 7 PM to 10 PM. There was no bus stop, no electricity, no phones and just one shop which sold everything the villagers needed including some over the counter medicines and torch batteries. The bus on that route covered several villages on the state highway. At each stop, one had to take a side lane and walk inside about one km of village Road. There were no streetlights on the state highway and the leading village roads.
I was actively looking for jobs. Whenever any interview call came my way or I got tired of the tiffin food, I would travel to Chandrapur for getting train fare or just to be with them. I loved talking and storytelling and my sister-in-law was a great listener. Brother used to be busy with his forest duties and spent most of his weekdays travelling into forest areas for logging, his orderly in tow with camping and cooking equipment. On weekends he would spend his time with his clerk writing reports in the wooden office room. They had a son- Akash who was about 18 months old then. I was very fond of him and always carried some Ravalgaon or Perry’s toffees for him from my meagre budget whenever I visited.
There was a state transport bus from Nagpur to Bhandara about 62 km away at about 5:45 PM which connected to a private ramshackle small bus from there to Chandrapur with 30 minutes layover. If you missed that then there was the last bus by the same operator at 8:15 pm which terminated at a jungle village near a Dhaba about 8-9 km before Chandrapur. I forget the name of this place as I am very bad with names. This last bus sometimes went up to Chandrapur if there were enough passengers to justify the trip as the bus had to come back again to its termination point where the owner lived. I used this connection usually on a Friday afternoon on moony nights when the roads in the jungle were visible if it wasn’t cloudy and reached home before dinner time. Friday also being a market day the bus usually had some villagers from Chandrapur, and I could walk with them even if it was cloudy. My brother had advised me not to travel on Amavasya nights as it would be pitch dark and difficult to find the lane from the state highway leading to the village. I am particularly bad with roads and tend to use Google Maps now very often. Besides, there were stories about ghosts on that one km village road which of course I didn’t believe. Those stories proved to be correct, but that is the subject of another true story which I will write later.
It was in December that year. Nagpur usually became cold during that month. I didn’t have woollen clothes except for a full sleeves’ acrylic (new wool) sweater which wasn’t much help. One afternoon as I returned from my class, I found an official-looking envelop slid below the door of my rented room. It was delivered late due to some address issue. The interview was scheduled in Hyderabad after 4-5 days. I had no money and so I immediately started for the intercity bus station which was 5-6 km from my locality. I hadn’t taken my lunch. Even then I was late for the bus which connected from Bhandara to my destination. I had to take the next bus which was after 60 minutes. I helped myself to samosas and tea at the bus stop and purchased a small packet of toffees for Akash from a kiosk there. I had just a small Hawaii bag with a pair of undergarments, a pair of trousers and my toothbrush. I expected to find the rest of the things in my brother’s house including a lungi -we didn’t wear shorts or boxers then, and sleepers. Much as I prayed, I still missed the connecting bus by 30 minutes. The next bus was only in the next morning. I also had the option of taking the next bus which would drop me 8-9 km before my destination or could even take me there if luck favoured me. I had close relatives in Bhandara and could have gone to them for the night. But I did not like the idea of dropping in unannounced and decided to take my chances. I was hungry and cold, and I had scarcely any money.
It wasn’t my day! That last bus turned out to be deserted with no other passengers for Chandrapur. The bus started around 8:30 PM with just 3-4 passengers. We reached the owner’s village after 45 minutes in that rickety thing which swayed from left to right and jumped at many speed breakers. The bus stopped in the maidan by the side of the dhaba (roadside cafe and eatery). It was already after 9:30 PM which looked like dead of the night in that jungle village on that night. Dhaba owner was waiting for the bus driver and conductor to give them their last tea and leftover snacks that had been reheated from the previous bus halts. The driver offered me some which I couldn’t drink as it was too sweet and blackish from reheating with a kind of foul flavour. I ate some Bhajis (Fritters) being hungry. Dhaba closed for the day. They cleaned the utensils. The dhaba owner left for his home. The helper spread his gudadi (a quilt made from old sarees) and went to sleep covering himself completely in a thin sheet as a protection against mosquitoes and cold. The mud chulha still had some ambers which provided some warmth. A solitary dog and a beggar in rags were the only other living presence there in addition to me.
The next bus was in the morning. I had the option of walking 8-9 km at the night or staying either at the dhaba or in the parked bus. Walking was out of the question as I would have surely lost my way. I chose the bus and tried to sleep in the back seat. The mosquitoes kept buzzing in my ears and biting me in all exposed places. It was impossible to sleep. The bus had also become cold in the open. After spending about 2 agonizing hours on the bus I came out and went to the dhaba. The dog looked at me and then went back to his sleep. The beggar didn’t even acknowledge me and kept sitting near the small fire he had built close to the still warm chulha. I sat on the bench fashioned out of wood and bamboos. The bamboo seating wasn’t very comfortable and was probably designed as such to dissuade idle villagers. I sat as close to the chulha as the seat would permit but the radiated heat didn’t reach me, and I was as cold and miserable as in the bus-actually more. But the mosquitoes were quite less in numbers compared to the bus which was the only saving grace. The jungle sounds can become quite unnerving in the dark wilderness with foxes calling and shining eyes in the distance. After seating thus for about an hour I got restless and wanted to talk to the beggar. I was seeking company, but the beggar was totally disinterested. I decided to take initiative and got down from my high seat and sat squatting near him. I asked him, “Apaka (didn’t say tera or tumhara for fear of antagonising him) nam kya hai?” Bhikari, he says! Is your actual name is Bhikari? Nahi kuchh log “sala”, “Ullu ka pattha”, “bhag yahanse” bhi bolte hai. Then he kept quiet for some time which felt like an eternity. I took out the packet of sweets and gave him. He took it and started eating one by one. He offered me one which I did not take for hygiene reasons. He understood my dilemma and continued to help himself. His stance now had become a little softer. He asked me to sit closer to the fire and put some more twigs into it. After a while, he started to speak, and the dog opened his eyes and sat in rapt attention as if to hear his story. Dog and I were in attendance, he started to speak……
“My name is Ramu. My parents were farmers. We had a cow, few goats, and some land. It was enough for our family of three as I had no siblings. The Forest department started cutting jungles for the road and God knows for what else. Gradually the weather changed and once it didn’t rain for 2/3 years. My father had to take a loan from the sahukar (money lender). He kept paying the sood (interest). The loan remained. Then one day the sahukar took away our land and my mother, father (Amma, Babujee) became his workers on their land. Still, we were good as we got our Chutney-Roti and had our Jhopadi. I grew up to be a strong man due to hard work at the lands and contributed to the household income. My parents became old and were no longer able to work so they married me off. Eventually, I was blessed(?) with a son. There was no school in our village, so he remained illiterate. In course of time, my parents died in quick succession, and I had to take a top-up loan from the sahukar’s son. In return for the interest, he employed my wife and teenage son at his house and did not pay any salary. They were however given leftovers to eat. My loan added to my father’s loan remained unpaid.
After few years my wife died of TB. I had to borrow more for her terhavi and had to sell my Jhopadi which was my only possession. My son who was a young man now built a small hut which had one room and front, and back canopies. I married off my son from the leftover money from the Jhopadi sale. His wife moved in, and I started living in the front veranda. Both son and his wife started working on the farms. His wife was very quarrelsome and always created problems between me and my son. He would always take her side. A son was born to them. The money wasn’t enough for 4 people. It was alright till I kept working on the farm. But I became weak and was unable to work on the farm. They removed me. There were more quarrels in the house and my daughter in law told me to beg and earn for my living and give some money for my grandson. One day after a prolonged altercation both drove me out of the house saying that I was a loose character. I sat outside for two days but they gave me no food. Hunger makes you do things and I started asking for alms. My son and daughter in law told people that I have become mad and had “Buri Nazar” on the bahu and that I leered at her in my son’s absence. My God knows that is all wrong and I always treated her as my daughter. From that day on I am a Bhikari. I also don’t get much Bhiksha (alms) because of the bad reputation they gave me. God bless this dhaba wala whose father was my friend and so he lets me live here and I also eat any leftovers and get some money from passengers.”
His story was long and full of pathos. It was interrupted with occasional sobs and pauses. The dog was also in rapt attention as if he understood it all. He looked sad and even walked up to the beggar and leaked him as if to console him. I was speechless! I searched my pockets. I had a twenty rupee note. I took it out and gave it to him. He took the money and raised his hand in blessings taking care not to touch me. I was a 22-year-old unemployed engineer who had lost his father at 15. I had my own stories of sadness and sorrow. But, listening to him I felt extremely lucky and blessed. It was 5 AM already. The birds had started leaving their nests for bringing back food for their chicks. In the morning light, I saw the bus owner’s house. After some more time, I knocked at his door and asked to use his toilet which was outside his house. He not only allowed me to use it but later also offered me some breakfast and tea when he heard my brother’s name. Later, when I reached home my brother told me that I should have contacted him in the night itself to get a bed with a mosquito net. My brother had never heard about that beggar.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Seven Deadly Sins
“Wealth without work
Pleasure without conscience
Science without humanity
Knowledge without character
Politics without principle
Commerce without morality
Worship without sacrifice.”
? Mahatma Gandhi
“The word school derives from Greek σχολ? (schol?), originally meaning “leisure” and “that in which leisure is employed”, but later “a group to whom lectures were given, school”
School is a temple of learning where the students, teachers and administrators are involved in the learning process. It is expected to teach basic values such as discipline, manners, punctuality, and patriotism to the students. Moreover, it is the place where the students (more importantly, their parents) look for an all-round development considering that they are very inquisitive, smart, curious and attentive in classrooms today. Accordingly, the teachers are required to be very alert and meet their requirements and expectations in all possible ways as today’s students are exposed to various resources that the technology and surroundings provide them. In a nutshell, Schools should help the child to develop spiritually, academically, morally, and intellectually.
“He, who opens a school door, closes a prison.”
The number of schools has been increasing by leaps and bounds. The students can get admission based on what the parents expect in terms of academics, extracurricular activities, ambience and atmosphere. Amenities in schools, efficient faculty, planning, and good administration add an extra dimension. The greater the facilities, larger is the number of students joining such a school. In fact, parents and students expect Total satisfaction in all aspects of schooling.
“You can drag my body to school, but my spirit refuses to go.”
I remember one of the administrator’s words to his teachers. ”I definitely expect a good result by the end of the year and at least five of the students in a class should get 95% in all subjects.” Some of the teachers used to give out some lame excuses for their poor results. Does the result depend on student’s intelligence level or the teacher’s calibre? Do all schools have suitable faculty that can impart learning in a proper manner?
“Our body has this defect that, the more it is provided care and comfort, the more needs and desires it finds.”
In my view, all international schools utilise their amenities in bringing out the students’ hidden talents, apart from providing good education. All the students and teachers have a busy schedule throughout the year. As the students pay heavy amount as school fee, they expect a lot from teachers and talent differs from one student to another. Moreover, they are engaged throughout the day with lot of curricular and co-curricular activities.
I strongly feel that most of the private schools concentrate on academics and sports as they have minimum facilities at school. It is difficult for the management to take up extra and co-curricular activities since their budget is low. In cities, many schools have hostel facilities that can help the students hailing from far off places. Hostel life begins at any age.
I heard some of the administrators worry a lot about imparting knowledge to the students. Do they really recruit teachers who have teaching techniques and skills to deal with young minds? Are all the teachers satisfied with their job and salary? They recruit teachers based on the school’s budget, but not on their methodologies, subject knowledge, and abilities.
Teachers are of three categories:
- Teachers with higher qualifications and teaching methodologies,
- Teachers who have qualifications, but inefficient, and
- Teachers who are trained and able to teach well.
In my view, teachers must be given an opportunity to attend useful seminars, workshops and observe different classes or situations. A teacher is a continuous learner and should show interest in constantly updating her / his subject knowledge, teaching skills and methodologies. Students are the real judges and observe many things in a classroom. Therefore, all teachers must gain experience, exposure and knowledge.
“Where there is a will, there is a way.”
Syllabus differs from school to school and the parents are often confused about choose the right school for their child/children. Different schools follow different curricula such as State board, CBSE, ICSE and IGCSE. The concept and information about the topics are presented in a systematic manner in all these syllabi. We often observe many changes in each curriculum with different methodologies, systems, activities, and perfect criteria. The schools are asked to follow the same rules and regulations.
Today, Schools have become commercial establishments, with the greedy administrators geared to make money somehow by fleecing the parents in many ways. Do students gain what they wish or require? They dream of their golden future with lots of hopes. In the name of development, they are kept engaged in often unproductive ways and thus become restless. Many students feel that quality of teaching of quite a few teachers is below par. Teaching teachers to teach is a difficult task as it leads to various misunderstandings. I strongly believe that the institutions must spare time in developing the students in a systematic manner, by hiring suitable faculty and by providing at least the basic needs. When faculty members are happy, the school will automatically progress in various areas that will ensure that the students come out with flying colours.
“A child educated only at school is an uneducated child.”
At Primary Level, a child must be given an opportunity to learn and to do things on his own through activity-oriented classes where the teacher is prepared with a wide range of resources that attract the child’s attention to the classroom activities. The Middle and Higher Secondary School students could be encouraged to participate in stage performances that go a long way in developing their confidence, communication skills, capabilities, and intellect. The Academic Plan of a school should be designed in such a way that all the facilities and resources are optimally utilized to promote value based education.
“Education is Power”.
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
There was a young girl, Sharmilee. She was beautiful and loving to all. She was generally gentle but susceptible to sudden bursts of compulsive but mild anger. She had thin and long fingers, which were trained to play the harmonium well. She was a fine writer as well. Her pen wove beautiful stories and lyrics. Her writings were devoured by a large number of readers. Her fan following grew larger and larger with each passing day. Around that time, in the prime of her youth and at the peak of her fame, she married a wonderful man, who was both noble and intelligent. He was also kind and handsome. He was almost perfect and she loved him, faithfully. He was faithful to her, too. His devotion was unquestionable. She was ready to give up her life for him. Their mutual devotion and love was admired by many people.
One day, she received a letter from one of her fans. His name was Raghav. The letter was a beautiful one both in content and form. It was sheer poetry radiating warmth and deep love. Passion, after all, is not surprising from a young man. What was special in the letter was that her fan had expressed his deep love for the works of the author. The letter was mesmerizingly beautiful. She folded the letter with care after reading it and went to bed early that night. Sharmilee’s husband was a workaholic and would never come home on time. Sharmilee lay awake as usual waiting for her husband but today, she had other thoughts.
She woke up early, next morning. She washed her face and threw water upon her bleary eyes and went straight to the kitchen to prepare coffee for her husband and herself. Her husband was still sleeping. Normally, she would kiss her husband after he woke up. That day, she broke her routine. The old passion was missing and a new and dark passion was unfolding in her heart. Her husband was surprised. However, he didn’t show it on his face and woke up to follow his routine. Sharmilee did not even kiss her husband, when he left, which was her routine. Her husband wondered, “What has happened to this woman? Something seems amiss.” He was right.
Days and weeks passed in suppressed quietness for the married couple. A felicitation function was organised by her publisher and Sharmilee was invited as the chief guest. The Guest of Honour was a balding college Principal. The venue was a premier college in the city. After her speech and the huge round of applause from the audience, she noticed a young man with a bright face. After the function, the young man was among the first to shake hands with her. There was queer warmth in those hands. He introduced himself as her fan and pronounced his name. In a minute, Sharmilee knew it was him; the sender of the exquisite letter.
Sharmilee began to like him a lot. Raghav stalked her but did not disturb her in any other way. He seemed content to be just near her. Sharmilee befriended him. Raghav was endearing and unaffected. He was young and handsome. Sharmilee understood that this fan of hers did not just love her writings but her, as well. His eyes and subtle expressions were enough for her to understand. It was implicitly clear to both of them that they valued each other’s friendship more than anything else in the world.
The next few months and years passed, stealthily. Time flew quickly! Then, difficult days fell on Sharmilee. The sales of her books came down due to the economic downturn. Raghav returned into her life. He sold his only house for her and used his marketing wizardry to help Sharmilee. Her books began to sell well again and she began to become wealthier again. When Sharmilee offered Raghav some remuneration, he refused to accept it.
The following years were very busy years. Unfortunately, Sharmilee and Raghav were separated by the devious hands of time and circumstances! When Sharmilee died, she was given a state funeral. On the same day, a man died in his dingy apartment; a celibate and a dreamer. No state honours came to him. His body had to be removed by the municipal corporation because its stench had disturbed the neighbours. The municipal officials had noticed an old copy of a book by the writer, Sharmilee. They decided that he was her fan. Raghav had been a true fan and lover. The man had lived an entire life and seen his love in the withering pages of a book.
Dr. S. Padmapriya is a well known poet and writer from India. She began writing poems in English at the tender age of seven. She is the author of three poetry collections – ‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’ and ‘Galaxy’ as well as one novel, ‘The Fiery Women’ and ‘Fragments’, a collection of short stories. Her poems, short stories, book reviews, articles and other literary works have been published far and wide. She is a multi-faceted personality with experience in teaching, research and administration.
With bated breath and thumping heart, whose lub-dub sound could be heard by my friends from a distance, I waited for my turn to appear for the viva. It was nothing less than entering a lion’s den, rather than a hungry ferocious lion’s jaws. Once a while I felt if I could faint and directly wake up when the results are declared and I am topping the chart, of course in the qualifier’s chart. Ah! If such musings can become true.
My roll number is called and another surge of adrenaline gushed, thousands of butterflies churned my belly, a tight band across my head, not able to feel any life below the knees and I enter the HOD room.
Four pairs of eyes ogling at me, including my Professors’ two pairs and two stranger pairs, suddenly making me feel as if they are scanning deep into my skeleton. Before I could realise where from the voice came, a thunderous ventriloquist voice instructed me to sit down. Yes, it was a very kind gesture for four of them, or else my tottering feet would not have carried me more than 5 more minutes. There was a mixed smell in the air that of Jasmine room spray, cashew fry, potato chips, cookies and coffee which made me feel bit nauseated even.
Just as I was about to take my seat, I was instructed impatiently by one of my known Professors- “Sign here quickly”. Dang! Forgot my pen which was lying peacefully as a bookmark in my book while doing last minute revision. By reflex action I asked- “Sir, pen!” Oh! How dare I could do such a disrespectful act! I had asked for the external examiner’s pen!
My Professors came to rescue and drove me out of the room and chided me to get my own pen quickly. I also wanted to get over with this viva very quickly. I shot out of the room and snatched a pen from my friend’s pocket and was back inside the room within five seconds or even less.
I already suffer from signature phobia i.e. as if with my signature my future wealth may be snatched by someone or it may not match with my previous one so that I can’t take out any money from the bank with my present signature. Only I was to earn some bucks to have a real bank balance if I become a doctor! With penetrating gaze from four pairs of eyes I had to scribble down my name, thinking that definitely later I would be known as a forged student due to signature mismatch. Hardly did I know that no one gave a second glance at that paper.
Now blurted the first question- “Define carbohydrate”. Out of gargantuan knowledge amassed, this question!! Why God…I hated it so much. As a doctor I need to check the blood sugar and give a diagnosis, I don’t have to explain him the classification of carbohydrates or how many alcohol groups it contains!
All four pairs scanning me from top to bottom, my left-over nail polish on little finger also might not have been missed! Now next question- what is phenylketonuria! Ah! Some relief! Answered it rapidly, tension on my college Professors eased a bit. Next question on LFT- answered. Now my confidence built up and adrenaline surge has been forgotten. Now the chips and cashews on plate seemed quite inviting to me and suddenly I realized that it has been around 16 hours that I had any food out of exam tension.
Enthused by my response my Professor channelized me to Molecular Biology – my prized questions! Answered replication of DNA, some trivial questions and recombinant DNA technology. The first examiner made a face and said—look at her! Not able to answer definition of carbohydrate but answering questions on Molecular Biology! Rest others giggled, I couldn’t know whether it was a complaint or compliment.
Meanwhile my Professors were even encouraged to ask me few more questions so that they can bestow an Honors on me. Inside I was crying out- “Mummy! Please let me go. I have said enough to get pass marks na!”
One of the externals said, “OK! Now if you answer this, you’ll get an honors!” I cringed within, “Mummy! I don’t need one. I want to go back and fluff on my bed. And had you planned to give me an honors, first you should have asked the question and then could have complimented. Why are you playing KBC (The famous quiz show in which Big B asks a question for one crore and keeps you confusing)? Another adrenaline surge, again butterflies in the belly and ears going red. The question was shot from the bow of the examiner. It was the last question for my previous roll number and I had no time to rummage through the book to get the perfect answer. Mumbled under breath and jumbled up the answer and poof! All the previous impression was gone. But instead of worrying over what marks I got I was too relieved to get out of the lion’s den and breathe some fresh air outside the room.
It was past 2 PM and slowly I became aware of my rumbling sounds in the stomach and felt light-headed. Only thing that I wanted was to get something to eat quickly and retire to bed so as to prepare for next day’s exam.
More or less this is the story of all viva-goers. In twenty-five years gap now I am on the other side of the table and put forth few of my observations.
- Putting all examiners at one place is certainly not a prudent idea. If the 20 marks viva can be divided among four examiners or between 2 pairs of internal-external examiners, then more topics can be covered.
- In minimum time maximum possible questions should be asked. We never know which is the strong area of which student. By asking questions from unrelated areas, the thought block can be broken rather than making sorry faces and waiting too long to extract answers from the candidate.
- Munching snacks before a candidate, who might not have taken any food for a long time, never seemed a good idea. Ah, yes! Not to mention the steaming samosas served in Theory exam halls to the invigilators, when the students would be scribbling frantically.
- 2-3 breaks should rather be taken by the examiners which will break the monotony, straighten ageing backs and remove drowsiness.
- On candidate part, they should prepare for viva by discussing among friends for one-mark questions, catchy points and not reading the entire book like preparing for Theory exams.
- Students should feed on easily digestible food, have some fruits before coming for the examinations. Though my character did not faint, we have encountered many such vaso-vagal attacks in examinees.
- Students should come prepared with correlation of all subjects rather than doing rote-learning. They must understand the difference in strategy in studying for Theory and viva.
- There’ll be certain very basic questions that examiners think comfort the candidates like classification, definition, uses, inhibitors etc which the candidates should not miss to prepare.
- Over years, area of interest and background knowledge from +2 classes have changed drastically which most of the examiners are not aware of. The examiners hence should update themselves with school learning and change their orientation for evaluation.
- The examiners should randomly ask questions from anywhere and everywhere or the portions assigned to them. Thus, the word won’t go around that inside the room, the examiner is asking questions on Vitamins or Metabolism or Function tests only.
Bottomline is, no particular method of evaluation is exhaustive. Viva is essential for a Medical student as it develops the interactive skills, which later helps him/her while dealing with patients. With proper approach from either side this evaluation tool of Viva can be best utilized.
Best of luck!!!
Dr Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor in Medical Biochemistry and has been into Medical teaching for past 15 years. She believes that lot of experimentation can be done with Medical education for producing ideal IMG (Indian Medical Graduate).
We had one rectangular mirror to be used by papa for shaving and one big dressing table mom’s room. Shubha often used to take the small mirror out with her. It was weird. I asked her about it. She told me that she looked at the garden and then she looked at its reflection in the mirror. She found that the garden looked very different in the mirror. She could not explain in what way it looked different. Just nodded her head. She looked dazed.
She was only ten years old. When not in school she would be outside chasing butterflies or simply looking at trees, flowers or grass. It seemed as if she was sleepwalking. I was very fond of my kid sister. She was very quiet and looked so vulnerable. Always ready to help others, otherwise very aloof. Sometimes she would confide in me some of her uncanny thoughts and visions. I used to be amused but empathized with her. Everyone has some quirks. That was my policy. Still, I used to keep an eye on her. I had a protective instinct about her. From somewhere she learned the phrase “Grass is greener on the other side.” She told me that the grass is not only greener but also exotic inside the mirror. I, often, saw her placing her hand behind the mirror to feel if something was there. She didn’t know what she expected to find. She told me that not only our lawn or garden but everything that was reflected in the mirror was different and inviting. She wanted to enter the word she saw in the mirror.
She stumbled upon Lewis Carrol’s “Alice in Wonderland”. She came to me rather excited and asked, “Can I, too, enter the mirror and explore some exotic world.” She was almost eleven now. I laughed at her musings and dismissed I them as childish fantasy.
Mom’s dressing table had the tall and big mirror. It could not be moved. Shubha, often, saw someone or a certain image in that large mirror; she told me and I told her back that that was her imagination. She seemed confused. There was no communication and no connection but she felt a presence. That she had confided in me. She said that she was not scared. For her it was a natural phenomenon.
As she entered her teens, she became a little romantic. Her philosophic attitude took a back seat. But again whenever we joked about some romantic hero, she would, with twinkle in her eyes, say that her prince charming would come out of the mirror. “He lives in far away land. He would appear very dramatically.” We would tease her saying that her beau was a king.
We moved on with life. I became less attentive to Shubha. One summer evening, it was raining. Our whole family was sitting on outside veranda, having hot tea and enjoying the weather. Mom said, “ Arre, where is Shubha? Call her.” “Oh mom! Let her be. She will come at her own.” I spoke. Suddenly, there was a loud sound as if something big had crashed. We ran inside. Nothing. We started looking around. I went into mom’s bedroom. I saw the dressing table mirror in shards. But how? Then we realized that Shubha was nowhere.
I decided to publish my poems. The publisher liked my poems but said that they needed some editing. He had a writer friend, who was good at grammar and language. Let’s call him Durgesh. Durgesh would do the editing and charge for it. I agreed. I put a condition that while editing he should not change the meaning of my poem. I was very particular about sensitivity my poems conveyed.
I paid and Durgesh did the job. I had reservation for some of the poems he edited. I felt that Durgesh didn’t do justice with them. My publisher had full faith in his friend Durgesh. According to him Durgesh cannot be wrong as far as grammar is concerned. He insisted that I should keep my poems as they were edited by Durgesh. Seeing me a little unhappy he said that Durgesh was supposed to come Bangalore in a few days. I could meet him then and discuss the issue directly with him.
I went to meet Durgesh at my publisher’s apartment. We started discussing the poems. While concentrating on the subject of their meaning we started commenting on various genre of poetry. Since he was a master, I was asking many questions. Although he was quite friendly, he, suddenly, said that he charges for the discussions I am having with him. I was aghast. I told him that I was talking to him as a friend; I had paid for the job he had done but I was not going to pay for talking to him. He told me that he had fans who took him to various places at their own cost, etc. I kept quiet. I had gone to meet him and discuss the work he had done on my poems, for which I had paid him. Anyway, nothing came out of it and I came back.
Frankly I didn’t like him. I felt he was a free loader. One may be a great scholar but one should be a human being first. I found him too commercial. I felt, he was not the teacher material who imparts knowledge to others. Later my publisher had invited him for some purpose which I am not aware of, but at the same time he had arranged for launching of the book of my poems that he had published. I had to share the cost of that event.
The launch of my anthology was at a place that was quite far from my house. I and another poet friend of me took a taxi and reached there. After the book launch, there was dinner and all. It was past ten in the night. We two ladies came down on the street and booked a cab. All other invitees went away. We saw the publisher, also, going away without a backward glance at us. It was quite secluded now. We, two, ladies were standing alone on the road. We could not do anything but wait for the cab. Suddenly, Durgesh, who was with his entourage, saw us and came to us. He asked what we, two, lonely ladies doing there. We told him that we were waiting for taxi. He started chatting with us. I said that his companions were leaving so he should, also, accompany them. He replied in an outraged tone, “What! And leave you two here on empty road?” I said that his friends had already gone quite far. He laughed, “They will come back for me. They can’t afford to go anywhere without me. And I will not go till you girls are, safely put in taxi.” True to his words, he stood there till our taxi arrived.
Once, in taxi, both I and my friend, sighed relief. We both were very talkative but that time I remained silent. How we misjudge people! The, seemingly decent publisher didn’t bother to send us home safely and that apparently money minded, elderly person, kept us company like a good Samaritan.
Have you tried to touch a bird’s eggs in the nest, while the mother is watching? If yes, you must have seen how the tiny & frail mother bird reacts. The fury and the violence with which she attacks the encroacher, is amazing. The chirpy little singing bird forgets all sweetness of her nature and acts like a predator to protect her offspring.
Kindness, forgiveness, humanity all are emotions of peace time. We as human being strive to live in peace. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself’ is the mantra of all civil societies but when confronted with the question of life and death it is only survival that matters. In war it is either I or him or broadly we or them. Whosoever pulls the trigger first survives. No sermon, no preaching comes to your or their rescue.
With Terrorism we are at war. The whole concept of condoning death sentence, altering hanging to life term is a misnomer. Tiger Memon, the escaped terrorist (brother of Yakub Memon) has been caught on tape talking to his mother about revenge for Yakub’s death. Had Yakub been alive, serving life term, do you think Tiger would have kept quiet? No! He would. Still, have tried kidnapping, hijacking or storming in parliament, any such thing to blackmail Indian Government for Yakub’s release. Many lives might have been endangered or lost. Danger is still there but at least one reason has been eliminated.
In Udhampur, the captured Pakistani terrorist Usman says “It’s FUN to kill Hindus”. He does not show any remorse for what he has done or would have done before being caught; he did not have even an iota of fear on his face. He tried to pass off as a minor in order to take advantage of The Juvenile Law. Can a child be a terrorist? He has been conditioned to become inhuman. Pakistan has de-recognized him. So why should we fall over each other to pamper the ‘poor misguided child’. Terror has no religion and a terrorist does not belong to any nation. He is disowned by all.
Terrorists are the unwanted elements. They do not belong to this planet. The hypothesis of mercy does not apply to them.
Sudha Dixit, was born and brought up in UP. Presently settled in Bangalore.. She is doing what she always wanted to do - painting landscapes and portraits & writing poetry / articles on net and various magazines, including print media.
She looks at nature with myopic eyes & paints it wearing tinted glasses, with poetry in her heart. Poetry just happens. It acts as catharsis in her life, removing the toxin from her heart in the form of words on paper. It’s therapeutic. This high spiritedness reveals itself in both, her poems & paintings.
The Indian Flag has always been a pride for every Indian.
The first Indian Flag was hoisted on 7th August 1906 in the Parsee Bagan Square (Green Park) Kolkata. The flag composed of three horizontal stripes - red, yellow and green. Mahatma Gandhi first spoke about the need of the Indian Flag in 1921.A student named PingAli Venkayya presented a flag design to Mahatma Gandhi that consisted of two principal colours associated with religion. Red for Hindus and Green for Muslims. He was a freedom fighter and a staunch follower of Mahatma Gandhi, born in Andhra Pradesh.
Lala Hans Raj Sondhi suggested the traditional spinning wheel which was associated with Gandhi's crusade to make Indians self reliant by fabricating their own clothing from local fibres. Gandhi modified by adding a white stripe in the centre for other religious communities (Christians).Later the colour red was replaced by Saffron and the spinning wheel by a blue Chakra (Dharma Chakra) associated with Emperor Ashoka. The Flag is made from khadi which is domestically spun Indian cotton a symbol of nationalism and freedom.
The Flag was designed by "Pingali Venkayya"a hundred years ago in 1921, but many believe that it was designed by a muslim women named "Suraiya Tayyabi "from Hyderabad.
The middle part is White that denotes::Honesty, Purity and Peace of the nation.The bottom Green represents ::Prosperity, Fertility, and Growth. The top band is Saffron ::representing Strength , Courage and Auspiciousness of the land.
The Chakra contains 24 equally spaced spokes. All the 24 are the representations of the 24 Rishis of the Himalayas in which Vishwamitra is the first and Yajnavalkya the last. Ashoka Chakra also known as the "Wheel Of Time" where the 24 spokes represent the 24 hours of the day. It signifies that there is life in movement and death in stagnation, depiction of Dharma Chakra a wheel represented by 24 spokes in Buddhism.
Ashoka Chakra India's highest peacetime military decoration awarded for valour, courageous actions, or self sacrifice away from battlefield. The Chakra is blue as it represents Sky, Ocean and Universal Truth. It is built on the Lion Pillar of Sarnath, the capital of Ashoka.
The Indian National Flag represents Hope and Aspirations of the people of India. Several people including family members of the Armed Forces have laid down their lives to keep the tricolour flying in its full glory.
The Flag cannot be used for communal gains and clothes. It can be flown from sunrise to sunset irrespective of the weather. It cannot touch the ground or trail in water. No other flag can be placed higher than the Flag.
India must move and go forward .
Happy Independence Day!!
Jai Hind!!
#15thAugust2021
Celebrating 75 years
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
She has been writing articles for LV for the past one and half years. Recently she has published her first book.. "Reflections Of My Mind",an ode to the children and families challenged by Autism
‘Sorry’, I said to myself, looking at the mirror. The mirror stared back without a reply.
‘Are you the poet and the fiction author?’, it seemed to ask silently.
‘I am not sure,’ said I, looking away from my own reflection. Somewhere, the last week had unhinged the new life I had set upon, in the COVID years. Suddenly, all the peace was gone. The jigsaw puzzle pieces of my life were disturbed and scattered.
‘A friend is gone. And we both felt that the other one betrayed. All that was left was the money I owed him.’ I talked back to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me. The mirror was talking through my mind.
‘Why did he not speak to me when somebody painted me black and poisoned his mind? After the brush with the poison ivy, he was never the same.’ I replied. My friend had a partner who he called the ‘Comrade’.
‘If that was him, what about you?’, somewhere the inner voice asked. I frowned at the mirror. Without a flicker, it stared back.
‘I was right. I thought and did well to him. It was he who never told me that he had been poisoned. All he could say was ‘I cannot say anything more. I only can tell you that things are not the same.’ My thoughts raced as I thought about my last meeting with him.
I went to the meeting, as I got a call from my friend. But never turned up. I met his ‘comrade’. The culprit and the villain.
He sat on his high pedestal chair, his Gods behind him adorned with jasmine, an overdose of the flowers’ smell, flooding my nostrils. I covered my nose. He laughed and sniggered at me, saying that every time he saw us together, he had mocked our friendship. ‘You guy never figured it, right?’, he asked with an air of conviction.
Something was wrong about this comrade guy. Very wrong. He was a sadistic, small time, uncouth megalomaniac.
When I entered the meeting, the last one, I knew that my friend had gone — just to avoid a situation. After the meeting, where I was insinuated by this ‘Comrade’, I called him.
He just said,’ I had been telling you.’
I knew he was a weak but well intending soul, but now all that was gone. Only the last experience would remain.
‘I was wrong’, I told the mirror. A sigh was heard, but not seen. All I had to do was settle the amount with my friend. He had been poisoned, but I had no energy at this stage to explain myself to him. I just wanted to move on.
‘Then why are you stressed?’ asked my look alike across the glass surface.
‘I did everything that I could with good intentions. Yet, those came back to bite me. I wonder what I did wrong.’ I said, holding the edges of mirror tightly and grinding my teeth.
I could remember the comrade’s cackles. I felt humiliated.
That night, I dreamt of walking in a corridor of a building just after Komala Vilas, my favorite eating joint, in Lake Terrace, Rashbehari Avenue, Kolkata.
It was a bright evening. A crowd blocked my way and amidst the many unknown faces, was the comrade. He looked at me as if why I had turned up there. He was selling his real estate inventory to this cacophonous crowd.
The comrade laughed at the weary me. Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
My mind felt uneasy on his sight. He was uneasy too but seemed to quickly overcome it. Instead, he stated feasting on my unease.
I turned back and walked away in hurried steps. I turned a corner, just near the end of Lake Terrace Road. The crowd has vanished, and I was alone. The comrade ran and caught with me easily. Then he walked side by side with me, his shorter steps trying to keep pace with mine. Silence prevailed in the air.
‘So how is it feeling?’, his words poked me behind with a heated iron rod. Ouch! I saw his face; it was peaceful yet sadistic. He was shorter and younger than me, yet he played into my mind. I did not reply to that poke and walked ahead silently. He ran up ahead and turned around at me, as if to block my way to make more fun.
I stopped. It was getting windy and dark. The air swooshed once, blowing away the autumn leaves. We both stood in silence. I, with an angry face, and the Comrade, with a smirk.
He pointed his car to me. It was a dark blue BMW. Then he pointed my car, standing further along the road. I knew my car. A 10-year-old Toyota, screaming for maintenance and a cracked windscreen. His smirk grew bigger and uglier. I knew what he implied.
‘Come along, I will take you for a spin.’ he said. I did not respond. He held my hand and opened the door of his Beemer. I hesitated once and looked around. There was no one except the dark road and the wind.
We both strapped on our seat belts, and he switched on the ignition. He drove smoothly. His sly grin never left his face. He knew that he had me. He let me simmer and boil inside.
I looked around inside the car. Plush, beige interiors and fresh jasmine smell. His God loved jasmine. The God of Wealth. I caught his side-glance. His sly grin became an ugly smile. I looked ahead.
He drove around the blocks. We were silent. The silence was a battle. A battle of wits between the sly, smirking comrade and the simmering me. The tussle broke when he reached his parking lot.
‘So, here we are!’ he said, grinning like a rabid dog. ‘How did you feel? I had figured you out all along, dear friend.’ I looked at him in anger. ‘You think you can get away?’, he said. All his smiles had gone, and I could see a white monster in the driver’s seat, with its fangs gnarling at me and white claws tearing into the plush beige steering wheel cover of the Beemer.
The gloves were off. I felt that his car was shrinking and coming down on me. My breath became shallow, and my palms were sweating.
He had got me inside the Beemer, where he wanted me — in his car, a dark blue monster with soft beige innards, and I was in its stomach.
I pushed the lever of the Beemer’s door and stepped out. I stood there for a moment, sucking in the warm night air.
I walked hurriedly towards my Toyota. My hands searched desperately inside my trouser pockets. The warm metal tip of the key felt safe against my fingers. I clicked the unlock button on the keypad, and the faithful Toyota beeped in response.
I got into my car. The familiar smell, a combination of my own sweat and the unwashed dust, hit my nostrils.
The smell, my own, was palatable — much better than the sickening smell of Jasmine in the Beemer. More importantly, it felt safe. My Toyota. My home.
Ashok Subramanian been writing poems and stories since 2011. He is a published poet and fiction author. His published past work involves Maritime Heritage of India ( Contributing Writer, 2015), Poetarrati Volume 1& 2 ( Poetry series, 2020 - Ranked #8 on Amazon Hot Releases List in May 2020), A City Full of Stories ( Short Fiction, 2021) and Ponder 2020 ( Poetry Review Collection, 2021). Upcoming work includes Poetarrati Volumes 3 and 4, and a contemporary fiction novel in 2022. By profession, he is an investment banker and fund manager.
HAND OF GOD
Gouranga Charan Roul
Mysterious are the ways of God. The mysterious design in the sequence of events in our lives goes to prove that the hidden hand of all pervasive God is always stretched to protect the believers. I look at them as miracles - glimpses of the hand of God and there were several such blissful glimpses in the stretch of life. My staunch convictions that God is all pervasive and makes Himself manifest as the light or aura emanating from everything, living or non-living, and the consequent devotion and faith in Him were enormously strengthened by the miraculous happenings that saved me from almost threshold of disaster beyond my control on a cold winter night while returning from the Millennium City of Cuttack to the City of Temples, Bhubaneswar.
I am inclined to write about this incident which happened on the fateful night of 25.11.2018 on my return trip from Cuttack after attending the first Shraddha ceremony of my friend Uma Mishra's father, who had left for his heavenly abode a year ago. I was abroad at the time of his death. So I could not pay my humble respects to the great man who had always treated me with fatherly affection whenever I visited their Chandni Chowk in Cuttack. When my friend Uma had requested me to attend the first Shraddha ceremony arranged in the Municipality Kalyan Mandap, Choudhury Bazaar in the night, I considered it incumbent on me to attend the ceremony Accordingly I booked an Ola cab to leave for Cuttack by 7 pm on 25.11.18. But the cab didn’t report in time perhaps fearing the massive traffic surge due to the ongoing Baliyatra - a historic festival to commemorate the rich heritage of naval and commercial tradition of the millennium city of Cuttack. As time was running out, I ventured to take out my car. Sony, my wife accompanied me to Cuttack and we arrived at the venue of Shraddha ceremony at Municipality Kalyan Mandap by 9 pm and paid our humble tribute at the flower bedecked life size portrait of Uma’s father late Sri Kishore Chandra Mishra. Uma introduced us to his mother, the daughter of late Sri Jagnnath Rath, freedom fighter and Gandhian, who had the honour and distinction to host Mahatma Gandhi in 1934 in his Kadua Ashram near Puri. His mother happened to be the younger sister of my University professor Dr.Satyanarayan Rath . We exchanged some comforting words in remembrance of our past meetings and sought her blessings. After finishing our dinner (Prasad) and exchanging greetings with some of our departmental friends, we begged their leave for our return journey via Netaji Setu through Trisulia by 10.30 pm .After driving for about 25 minutes my car developed a technical snag and praying God for His help I could cover the stretch of distance from Nandankanan to Raghunathpur bridge. Before negotiating the distance up to Patia Bigbazar squire , all on a sudden the car stopped and moved in reverse gear .Being alarmed and apprehending a possible collision with the vehicles following my car, I frantically prayed for God’s intervention. My wife was terrified and prayed for our safety. Then intuitively I applied the handbrake and the car came to halt with a loud screeching sound, sufficient enough to attract the attention of passing cars. Some good natured drivers came to our rescue and helped me in pushing the car to the left side of the road. As I have subscribe to the 24 hours Roadside Assistance scheme of Hyundai motor company, I contacted their helpline number but to no avail. Then I tried calling the manager of Hyundai service centre near my house in Gajapatinagar, Bhubaneswar, for immediate assistance. However the manager of Hyundai service centre, Gajapatinagar asked for my location and in the dim street light I searched for a landmark spot to inform him to enable him to send the rescue team. Suddenly by the flash light of a passing vehicle I could see the signboard of Hyundai sales centre just on the side road to my utter amazement and great relief. It appeared as if a miracle had come on my difficult time when I glimpsed the Hyundai billboard just at 10 feet in front of me and felt the hidden hand of God in all these tormenting and difficult time. Mysterious are the ways of God as I had experienced in an earlier incident in my life in way back 1980 at Sreemandir Puri, when I was about to lose my luggage bag stuffed with valuables which was left in a rickshaw during our temple visit to pay obeisance at the lotus feet of Lord Jagannath. After a frantic search for some time the honest rickshaw puller who was driven away by the police from the Lion’s gate of the Sreemandir, came with the box and took us to Rail Station to enable us to catch the Puri-Howrah express in time.
Now, the manager being informed about the spot in front of their Hyundai Sales Centre, Patia, directed their watch men to render necessary assistance to push my car inside their compound wall and arrange for my safe journey to my Gajapatinagar house. By the grace of God we reached our home by 12.30 am safely. We profusely thanked God for His infinite mercy to save us from an impending accident and danger of the night travel in the desolate Nandankanan - Patia Road. My conviction that God is all pervasive and makes himself manifest as the light or aura emanating from everything living or non-living, and the consequent devotion and faith in Him were vastly strengthened by the miraculous escape that night from the jaws of a possible road accident. The memory is still green in my mind perpetually reminding me the existence of all pervasive God who in his infinite kindness has all along been extending His protective hand to me in various ways at critical situations in my life.
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.
GREAT SON OF THE SOIL
Srikant Mishra
Life is a teacher. Enriching experiences on the journey give a sense of fulfillment.
It was a cherishing episode going back to early nineties during my stay in the city of Cuttack, Odisha.
There was a news flash that Honorable Chief Minister of Odisha would attend the grand Independence day celebration at police ground in the State Police Headquarters, Cuttack. He was none other than the great Son of the Soil, popularly known as Biju Patnaik.
Words are not enough to describe this towering personality of immense depth with my limited aptitude.
Bijayananda Patnaik was a great intellectual and political figure, reformer and an adventurous aviator.
He was born in Cuttack, Odisha on March 5, 1916. Since his school days he was inspired by Mahatma Gandhi and worked with him to remove the British from India. During “Quit India” Movement he collaborated with prominent leaders like Jay Prakash Narayan and Ram Manohar Lohia and was imprisoned for thirty months.
In 1947, flying his own Dacota DC-3 aircraft, he rescued premier leaders of Indonesia during their independence struggle — Mohammad Hatta and Sultan Sjahrir from Dutch colonizers. Recalling this Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru wrote in 1947: “I pay tribute to a very gallant Indian airman who brought Dr Sjahrir to Delhi. He has been known to us for a number of years not only for his great efficiency in flying but also for his adventurous and daring spirit.” For this bravery he was honored with Bhoomi Putra (Son of the Soil), the highest civilian award by the Indonesian Government. During World War 2, he flew missions to resupply the Soviet Red Army, which was besieged by German forces in Stalingrad, Russia. He started his own airline, the Kalinga Airlines which later merged with Indian Airlines in 1953. He took up the first plane that left Palam Airport at Delhi on 27 October 1947 and landed at Srinagar Airport in the early morning saving 17 soldiers of Sikh regiment and countering the Pakistan-backed tribal invasion that helped rescue of Jammu and Kashmir. After independence of India, Mr Patnaik concentrated on business, building an industrial empire in Odisha that included textile mills, iron ore and manganese mines, a steel mill and plants manufacturing domestic appliances. Few of his remarkable contributions are - Bhubaneswar Airport, Orissa Aviation Centre, Paradeep Port, Orissa University of Agriculture and Technology, Regional Research Laboratory, Rourkela Steel Plant and REC Rourkela.
It pulls me back to the majestic ceremony that started with opening rituals, resounding slogans and bugles at the Police ground.
My father’s quarter was situated opposite to this venue. Crossover of branches of huge Peepal and Wood-apple trees inside the boundary of our quarter were partially obstructing the view at the venue. I managed to see a significant part of the show as it was only few meters away from our terrace. With a warm-hearted welcome, the tall and vibrant personality climbed onto an open Jeep and took rounds and rounds on the Police ground amid cheers and spirited applause by the fellow policemen. The entire program lasted few hours. Sitting at home, it was a shine of luck, pride and wonder to experience rare view of this exceptionally popular leader in dynamic form.
My father had spoken highly of Biju Patnaik during our leisurely conversations. While heading a special cell in Odisha Police, he had met this great icon at Chief Minister’s office for discussion on crucial matters. As a student, to see him closely in action was a treasured pleasure as this legend has terrific imprint in the minds of my generation, before and after. His mammoth contributions to the state, the country and beyond will be reminisced forever.
(Aug 2021)
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depict real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
Sadhana stared through the glass window .
Dawn was about to break. Slowly the sky was brightening. Heavy rains continued to pour.
The road was deserted - not a soul was stirring. It had rained through the night with gusty winds and thunderstorm since the evening.
In this big house , she lived alone except for Kuni, a 15-16 year old girl for company. Kuni did the household chores . Actually , Sanjay, her son , brought Kuni nearly six months back and insisted that his mother must have company. Sanjay constantly worries about his seventy-five year old mother staying alone in their ancestral house. Sometimes Sadhana, visits her only son and bahu, Sangeeta, living in Bangalore. Both are doctors.They are too busy to spend time with her. She returns home after a few days of stay each time. It has been like that for a long time. Her son, though, is convinced that she can not stay away from this house as she is too deeply attached to it. Even the love for her son can not hold her back. Sanjay tries to dissuade her from going back by raising issues of her failing health. But he fails every time.
She returned her gaze from the rains and looked around the house. She let her eyes sweep through the room and tried to recall how so many years had passed by..
This was not simply brick and mortar. She regards the house as an intimate friend. They talk to each other in lonely hours. These days she sleeps lightly and often wakes in the late hours. She talks about the past days with the house who listens to her intently. Kuni sleeping just outside her bedroom can not get an inkling of their conversation. Sadhana can not stay too long away from this house for this reason.
The rain had slowed down but not stopped entirely. She thought she should step out with an umbrella for her morning walk.
She loved to do her morning walk. But Sanjay worried a lot about her going out alone in the morning. She might have a fall. He says people are so reckless while driving that anything can happen on the road. He suggests that instead of going alone she should take Kuni along.
Kuni sleeps like a log of wood in the early hours and does not respond even if Sadhana calls her repeatedly. Her morning walks will have to stop if she has to depend on Kuni. Sadhana keeps quiet and does not respond to her son on the subject.
She was almost addicted to her walks in the early morning. The cool air and the silence on the streets in that hour was enchanting to her. After her husband’s retirement, it was their daily routine to take long walks at the daybreak. She was losing herself recalling the past years. Suddenly, she became conscious of herself on touching something below her throat.
She spent long hours rummaging through old articles these days - old boxes, albums, books and clothes fascinated her. Her son has named her room as a museum. He wonders as to why she was maintaining that collection of trashes. Sadhana replies: “You will realise their value when you reach my age”. Sanjay smiles and says, “Ok, do as you please.”
Yesterday she was alone in the house as Kuni had gone out. She decided to open and go through the old almirah .
Sometimes Kuni goes out to meet someone she calls her Suratha bhai. Suratha does odd jobs in the clinic of a doctor. A strapping young boy of pitch dark complexion Suratha belonged to Kuni’s village. After returning from such meetings Kuni keeps humming a tune while working and remains absent-minded. Sadhana watches her keenly. Kuni says Suratha was working hard to save enough to pay to a middleman who would fix a job for him in a textile mill in Surat. He had plans to earn a lot of money, buy land and build a house of his own. Kuni seemed to believe that all that would come true one day. Sadhana listens to her quietly without comments. She knows very well that at Kuni’s age, one’s mind is restless.
The lonely hours of the long afternoon. Her pet, a pussycat, was hovering around her feet. Often in such hours, memories come alive as watermarks on the faded pupils of seventy year old eyes.
The afternoon sun shines brightly on the dense wilderness of memories.
Unknown to her, her fingers rested on the necklace hanging from her throat. All her jewelleries were safely deposited in a bank locker. Her son was adamant that she being a lone old lady staying along with servants, no valuables should remain with her. It was safer to keep in the locker. She had agreed immediately. Again at her age, where was the need for her, she thought. Despite her son’s insistence, she refused to part with only this piece of her jewellery, this necklace. Even her son was taken aback at her vehemence. What does her son know about this necklace? She never regarded this as a piece of luxury. This necklace with a locket, made of two and half tolas of pure gold, was an object of reverence to her. It was a heirloom from her in-law’s house. A picture of the family deity, Bal Gopal, was engraved on the locket. Her mother-in-law, in her own hands, had put this round her neck right after marriage and blessed her. She had asked Sadhana to preserve this with care as this was a mark of the family tradition. Till today she had kept her word. After putting this on today she did not feel like keeping it back in the almirah. She enjoyed its feel round her neck and thought of keeping it that way for sometime. On her return, Kuni’s eyes grew wider on seeing the necklace and she exclaimed “ Oh Ma, what a beautiful locket! Why you did not show me before?” Then she teased her “ Do not take it out. You look like a newly married girl” Sadhana ignored her. She decided that during her visit to Bangalore, she would give this to her daughter—in -law. After all, it was her duty to maintain the family tradition.
The rain will not stop today. Umbrella in hand, Sadhana emerged from the house for walk. For last two days, she could not come for walk because of the rains and was a bit lethargic. The walk should refresh her body. Besides, she will visit the temple which was a little ahead.
The garden was dripping wet. From the porch, she glanced around. Outside the main gate, she looked at the houses of the neighbours. All doors and windows were closed. She thought, perhaps, they were enjoying the cool weather as no one was seen outside. The rain water had started flooding the empty road.
The narrow lane from her house merged with the Main Street of the small town after a short distance. That was the roundabout from where taking a left turn as you proceed a furlong , there was a mango grove. A temple stood there with its held high . No one knew since when the temple stood there. Besides the mango tree, many other trees and plants crowded the place. It was always shadowy and tranquil. Even in scorching summer there was an assurance of peace and comfort . Like a canopy, a huge tree towered over the temple. A narrow trail from the main road led the way till the low compound wall of the temple. Few houses were at a small distance from the temple. Overall a serene and soothing setting.
Today, though, not a soul was visible. Usually two or three devotees are present even in this early hour. Even the pujari was not to be seen. Sadhana peered through the grill door. It was dark inside though someone had lit a small earthen diya inside. While clutching the umbrella handle in one hand, she bent down to pray. Just then something went wrong.
A pair of strong hands in a vice like grip pinned her neck along with the umbrella to the ground. She was breathless, Her forehead and nose hit the the ground with force. She writhed, struggled to extricate in order to escape.The more she tried, the burly wrists tightened its grip.She realised that she was helpless now. The strong grip tightened round her neck.She went numb with fear and anxiety. A strong hand reached below her neck to tug at the necklace. She opened her eyes to see a black, sturdy hand tattooed with a snake. Something- an alphabet - was written below the snake which she could not read. She felt as if the hand stung her viciously as she tried to read. With a parting hefty push , she was thrust to the ground. Then she heard the heavy footsteps of someone running away and scaling the wall.
Neither she had the strength or the courage to raise her head. To whom could she have shouted for help? Who would have rushed to her side in the lonely early hours? She steadied herself after a long time and looked at herself. Her bruised forehead was swollen and bleeding. Her back and shoulders throbbed with pain due to the physical struggle. Whole body felt numb. Her clothes were torn, the umbrella broken. The loss of the dear necklace filled her mind with anger and frustration. She felt as if home was miles away .
She dragged herself in to the compound of her house. On seeing her Kuni ran to her enquiring what kept her so late today but stopped in the midway and gasped. “ Oh my God, Ma, what happened to you”, she exclaimed. Sadhana kept silent though Kuni was asking again and again. Kuni led by her hand to her bedroom and wiped her face. After changing in to fresh clothes, she felt a little feverish and thought it was better to go to a doctor. Kuni suggested that they should go to the clinic where her Suratha bhai was employed. Sadhana asked Kuni to find out whether the known auto rickshaw driver in the neighbouring house was at home. Luckily due to the inclement weather, he was available.
It was almost ten o clock when they reached the clinic. The doctor usually comes at this time. Due to bad weather, no other patient was there.Suratha was waiting for them at the entrance to the clinic. On seeing her he ran and touched her feet. Kuni said that she had told him everything on mobile. Suratha said that the doctor had arrived just then and was free. Suratha was holding her for support and led to the doctor’s chamber. Again and again he was asking her” Ma, are you alright? Is it paining too much? Feel free and tell everything to the doctor.” Tears came to the eyes of Sadhana. She was missing her son Sanjay. She was in trouble for not listening to her son. The doctor was very sorry to hear all the details of the incident.He thoroughly examined and said that there was nothing serious except a bit of shock. He wrote down a few medicines and advised rest. Sadhana thanked him and offered to pay which he declined. He said that since Suratha whom he liked had brought her, he could not accept fees from her.
Auto rickshaw waited outside. Suratha held her on the way to the auto followed by Kuni. He tried to help her reach the passenger seat and extended his right hand. On seeing his hand, she froze in shock. It bore the tattoo of a snake below which was the alphabet “SU”, that she could not read properly in the morning.
Back home, she rang up Sanjay to come and take her to Bangalore.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) retired as a Principal Chief General Manager of the Reserve Bank of India. in December 2016. Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in All India Poetry Competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English. He can be contacted at his email address abaniudgata@gmail.com
There is an anecdote about telling the truth at the wrong place and at the wrong time. It appears a bridegroom had asked his friend to accompany him to his marriage which was to take place in the neighbouring village to which the bride belonged. Since the friend happened to be more prosperous than the bridegroom; and had a lot of zari 'angavastrams', the bridegroom chose to borrow one from him and wear it while he was being received by the bride's party.
Some village women, while conversing among themselves, were curious to know who the bridegroom was between the two men and addressed the question to no one in particular as is the practice among villagers. The friend looked at the women and said, "The man next to me is the bridegroom but the 'angavastram' he is wearing is mine."
The bridegroom grew furious at this and taking his friend aside, admonished him. Again, after a while, he found another group of women who expressed the same doubt to which the friend said, "The young man on my right is the bridegroom but the angavastram he is wearing is not his," and thought he had been very diplomatic this time in not giving out the whole truth.
To his consternation, the bridegroom again pulled him up and said there was no need to talk about the 'angavastram' and he should not volunteer to give unwanted information.
The third time he came across yet another group of women who wondered who the bridegroom was. The friend promptly satisfied their curiosity by pointing to the bridegroom and saying, "He is the bridegroom but don't ask me whether the angavasthram he is wearing belongs to him or not."
Though this is an anecdote, telling the right thing at the wrong place, and at the wrong time, in real life, causes immense embarrassment. We do find ourselves in such situations sometimes and are at a loss, not knowing how to extricate ourselves. But of late we see there is a tendency to say the wrong things at the right place and at the right time and getting away scot-free.
I am referring to the increasing tendency to tell lies and resorting to denials and making a mockery of the CBI and the judiciary not to speak of the enforcement authorities. Persons heading the investigating bureaux find themselves hepless and feel frustrated when they reallise all their investigations had been in vain because no action is taken against the corrupt who manage to have the last laugh. So how does the truth come out? Does it come out at all, one may ask. Yes, it does when the chiefs of CBI choose to publish their memoirs.
Let's talk of truth in the field of journalism. Every student of journalism is taught that 'facts are sacred and comment is free and when in doubt cut it out. But how much of this do we see in practice? I would like to cite an .incident where a speech was made at a meeting of the Public Relations Society of India. Since it was on the occasion of the Public Relations Day, the speaker related an unpleasant experience of hers in getting her phone shifted to her house which was just across the road and how she was compelled to approach the general manager, Telephones, who was kind enough to help her. She stressed that the staff in the department could be more humane and have better public relations.
Her speech was promptly reported in a regional language magazine which quoted her name and her experience, adding that she was approached by a line man at the telephone office who said the job would be done on a payment of Rs 5,001. The joumalist who gave the report failed to check his facts because it wasn't the woman who said the above but the speaker who spoke after herl The writer mixed up the two speeches and made a wrong attribution.
Since the woman's name figured in the report, she found the whole Telephone Department contacting her to identify the lineman who asked her for the bribe! Worse was to follow. When she sent a rejoinder to the magazine, stating the facts, the correction was not published. So much for truth in joumalism!
True professionalism lies in not making mistakes but correcting them and owning them and seeing to it that they are not repeated. This way the journalist who gave the wrong report and the magazine that has published it will rise in the reader's esteem and set an example to others in the profession to emulate.
(Previously published in Eve's Touch, on March 16th, 2005)
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.
"You know, I met her in the lift today!"
The glow on the face was radiant, the glitter in the eyes unmistakable. My wife Manjari was undeniably, decidedly excited. She had been bowled over by someone, a rarity, considering that she is a fastidious critic by nature. I could not contain my smile,
"Who did you meet? You are so excited as if Madhuri Dikshit, Juhi Chawla or Alia Bhatt had set their dainty feet on the grunting, panting lift of our decrepit government apartment complex?"
She dismissed my comment like it was the idle fantasy of a middle aged moron. Her smile got wider,
"Chhi, they are nothing - all painted dolls. This one was a real beauty. Unless you see her you can't believe a girl could be so beautiful! Petite and lissome, like a ballerina, fair, like the colour of a champak flower, eyes of an innocent doe, cheeks like a pair of ripe peaches waiting to be plucked. And believe me, when she smiled at me, even my heart skipped a couple of beats. I wonder what effect she must be having on men!"
I sat up, somehow Einstein's famous saying paraphrased itself in my mind - generations from now, mankind will scarce believe such a beauty set her feet on a dirty, stinking building like ours! I could not contain my curiosity,
"Who was this divine beauty? What was she doing here? Did you ask her if she would come again?"
Manjari's eyes narrowed,
"Why do you want to know if she would come again? You men are all same, wives are like dried up, shrivelled achaar to you. The animal in you is eager to prowl in the open looking for a meatier prey."
I panicked at the unexpected turn, but found to my relief she was smiling, perhaps smug in the knowledge that the prey had already been picked up by a bigger animal. My guess proved to be correct,
"Any way she comes to this building everyday. Don't you remember I had told you about her a fortnight back, the Nepali girl who works as a cook for Alok Sriavstava."
The Shrivastavas live exactly one floor above us. Our building, The Oceanic, on the Breach Candy Road in Mumbai is meant for senior Central government officials. It is on the sea front, a fifteen floored ungainly monster with two apartments on each floor. By Mumbai standards it is a short building with a small community. Almost everyone knew what happened in its narrow corridors, as the gossip machine among the ladies runs overtime once the Sahabs leave for office. And for everything else, as they say, there are of course the maids, carrying stories from one memsahib to the other like benevolent bees carrying pollen from flower to flower.
"Sorry, I don't remember, you tell me so many things that sometimes I am not sure if I am remembering something or dismembering it. What is it about the Nepali girl? Is it the same lovely girl you saw today in the lift?"
She nodded her head and pinched me on my arm,
"O, already hooked to the lovely girl? Just by listening about her beauty? What will you do if you see her?"
I defended myself from her mild punch, the gloves were unusually soft today, she was probably still recovering from her encounter with the girl with cheeks of ripe peaches,
"I will run back home, look at myself in the mirror and sing 'Koi lautadey merey bite hue deen...' Now tell me what is it that you had confided to me fifteen days back, every gossip you tell me is always in a low whisper as if you are a RAW agent and letting out the military secret of an enemy country."
"Array, didn't I tell you how this Nepali girl Mamata comes to the Shrivastava apartment at eleven every day and stays till five?
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Yes, I remembered. Juicy tales always tend to leave an indelible mark on tender minds. About a fortnight back when we were having dinner Manjari had suddenly dropped a bombshell,
"You won't believe something I heard today!"
My eyes narrowed, the ears pricked up and the roti in my hand remained suspended midair. Manjari usually offloaded the gossip of the day during dinner time like a public spirited dumpster unloading garbage at the dumping ground. Occasionally a couple of interesting nuggets could be found in them.
"Shoot, I am all ears. But first tell me what is the source of your unbelievable story? Someone from your Officers' Wives group? Mala? Dimple? Or Sudha?"
She spat out in disgust, as if a singularly unattractive frog had got stuck in her throat during the dinner,
"Chhey, what names are you taking? Those three are real witches. Experts in sucking information out of others giving nothing in return. My source is more reliable, the story is from inside the den, passed on to my source."
I looked at her, eager to pick up what she promised to be unbelievable. A coy smile spread over her excited face, the way ladies get into a mild trance before unloading a juicy gossip,
"You know Mr. Srivastava upstairs, don't you? At least you would have heard about him, the stinking rich introvert who doesn't mix with anyone in the apartment complex? Well, he has a rabbit up his sleeve, or rather up his pants."
Manjari started giggling, a suggestive, obscene giggle.
I was thunder struck,
"What do you mean, a rabbit up his pants? Who can have a rabbit up his pants?"
Her giggles became louder,
"He has. A Nepali rabbit. And quite a stunner, it seems. Looks like a girl plucked straight from the garden of love, that's what my source said. She comes everyday at eleven, supposedly to cook for the Sahab, but stays back after lunch. Mr. Shrivastav has opened a boutique for the Mem Sahab at some Mall. People say it is to make his black money white. So Memsahab leaves by ten and the girl comes in after that. She stays till five. You know Mr. Shrivastava comes home for lunch at two and doesn't go back to office after that. So something must be cooking there, some delicious Nepali dish."
"What? What's cooking? Why are you saying it with that dirty smile?"
"Oho, don't be so naive, my Bholaram! As if you can't guess what must be cooking there, a stunning piece of beauty, a middle aged man with tons of money, the wife away at her boutique, don't you think the afternoons must be hot and steamy for the Sahab and the delectable cook? .....You men are all same, given a chance, you will get a biriyani out of every piece of meat and lick your fingers after eating it to your heart's content. And my source says this piece of meat is one in a million."
I was still not convinced,
"Have you seen her? Why are you after the poor girl? You must have spread the scandal like AIDS by now, all over the building!"
That was like showing a red rag to a bull from Baluchistan,
"Ha! Poor girl? Poor girl? So much sympathy for someone you haven't even seen? And what do you mean spreading like AIDS? AIDS? Hah, what a thing to say!"
I knew I had accidentally stepped on the tail of a cantankerous cobra. I tried to pacify her before things went out of control and the sting turned out to be fatal.
"Don't be so upset, all that I meant was just like AIDS can spread from mouth to mouth, scandal can spread through loose gossip. Why should we say such things about Mr. Shrivastava and that poor girl? Who is your source, how does she know what is happening there?"
Manjari looked at me straight, in a challenging sort of way, eyeball to eyeball, not blinking for a second.
"It is Kalavati, our maid!"
"Hah, that garrulous halfwit! You are going by her words!"
"She got it from the maid working at the Shrivastavas' place. They are great pals, our Kalavati and that Suman."
"What else she has got from Suman?"
"You want to know? What will you do knowing it? You will still live like a Tibetan refugee, from hand to mouth even after knowing the details!"
The disdain in her words pinched at a tender spot of the heart, still I put up a brave face,
"No harm in knowing naa?"
"Ok, here it comes, Shrivastavas have two huge TVs bought from Singapore, minimum 60 inches screen, their wall to wall carpets are all Afghani, they have imported Air Conditioners in every room, their music system is top class. Suman says it is like that of a movie hall, the walls shake when it plays. I think she is right because last year when their son had come during his vacation from London, for a full month our roof was trembling like a frightened fugitive, thanks to the full blast of the music. Have you forgotten how you used to curse them! Under your breath of course!!"
She threw a contemptuous glance at me, the derision too obvious.
"What else?", I asked.
"Mr. Shrivastava loves to throw big parties at least once a month. Big businessmen, industrialists, builders come for that party. Imported liquor flows like water there. Succulent Kebabs and tingling tikkas, Chinese and continental dishes are prepared along with oRogan Josh and Gustava."
"Who makes all this? That poor Nepalese girl?"
"Hah! Look at my Romeo husband! The heart overflows with kindness for the poor girl!"
I hurried to give an explanation.
"No, no, I wanted to know if she is such a good cook we can engage her when we throw a party here at home."
Manjari wrinkled her nose ,
"Don't even dream about it, your one month's salary will not be enough for even one tenth of a party like that. Mr. Shrivastava orders everything from the hotel. There are liveried waiters to serve the drinks and food, the parties go on till two o' clock in the night. Those evenings you should see the cars parked outside, all imported, worth forty fifty lakhs each. Why, even Mr. Shrivastava himself owns two foreign cars - a Skoda and a Mercedes. And have you seen his office car? It's a Bolero, not a ramshackle Ambassador like yours. Sometimes I wonder why God has created so much inequality, both of you are senior officials of government, why he lives like a king and you live like a clerk!"
Manjari had got up from the dining table and walked to the sofa. I knew she was looking at the TV without seeing anything. A long festering wound had started pinching her. And I could do nothing, except getting up, cleaning the table and storing the leftover in the fridge. I felt bad that a talk which had started so animatedly, meandered into a turbulence in her heart.
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I remembered this episode and started smiling,
"So, finally you had an encounter with the ethereal beauty. Ah! Some people are really lucky. For them all fruits are on low hanging branches. Even if they stay on the fourteenth floor".
I let out a sad sigh. Manjari bared her fang,
"Oye, don't even look at those fruits, low hanging or not. You can't afford them. Suman was telling Kalavati that Mamata commutes by taxi and Mr. Shrivastava pays two hundred rupees to her for taxi fare everyday. Her husband is a good for nothing drunkard. Mr Shrivastava sends a bottle of the most potent liquor to him every other day. So he spends his day drinking booze and Mr. Shrivastava enjoys the delicious Nepali dish at home. And you know what happens in the evenings in his apartment?"
I shook my head. Since he doesn't mix with anyone in the apartment complex, no one except couple of his office mates knew anything about him. That only added grist to the rumour mill. Manjari of course knew the details, thanks to her source Kalabati, the great carrier of tales.
"Every evening he stays at home and receives visitors, in Kalabati's words big big Seths. And no one comes empty handed, most of them carry things inside fat brief cases. So now you know how he can afford to host big parties. Lives a royal life, a true king! And mind you, he is not only a king of cash, he is a king of hearts also."
"What do you mean King of Hearts? How many hearts has he conquered? How does Kalabati know all this?"
Manjari smiled, tonight she was in an expansive mood, Mamata, the Nepali dazzler had truly cast a spell on her,
"Not Kalabati, it is Mrs. Malhotra. You know, her husband works in the same office as Mr. Shrivastava. She only told me about the past conquests of the colourful king. It seems when he was posted in Lucknow he had an affair with a young lady officer. They went to Delhi on official tour and stayed in the same room in a five star hotel. The husband of the lady officer somehow came to know of it and one day cornered him at the Hazratganj market and thrashed him with his shoes. Mr. Shrivastava was immediately transferred to Ranchi. There he managed to engage two very young tribal girls, twin sisters, as maid at home. Within a few months he made one of them pregnant. A scandal was threatening to break out because the parents of the twin girls made some noise. Mr. Shrivastava paid one lakh rupees to keep their mouth shut and abort the child. But he knew how to keep his bosses happy. Within a month he got posted to Mumbai. Before coming to the apartment here, they were living in some private complex at Andheri for three years. This Nepali girl had started working there right from the beginning. So now you know our neighbour is quite a Casanova, steals the hearts of maidens with the ease of a magician!"
Manjari started giggling, I looked at her, startled,
"What, why are you giggling like a sozzled school girl? What is so amusing?"
"I wonder how Mr. Shrivastava looks. Must be a handsome, hunk of a man. It's not easy to entice girls like Mamata and keep them in a spell for long unless you are a king in looks!"
Manjari's reference to "handsome, hunk of a man" hurt, like a pin pinching at an unsuspecting fleshy bottom in an office sofa. I particularly disliked the almost dreamy look that came to her face when she said that. Or, was I imagining it? Anyway I blurted out,
"Who knows how he looks. He has been here for more than six months, but neither I nor any of my friends has seen him. He gets down from his apartment only to leave for office and once he returns home around two for lunch he never moves out. God knows when we will have his darshan. A lucky day that will be!"
Manjari smiled,
"I can of course ask Kalabati, but chhi chhi, what she will think. Let's wait for the lucky day."
We didn't know that the lucky day was just round the corner. A week after our talk we had the Independence Day. It is customary for our association to get the flag hoisted in the morning by one of the residents whose name is picked up by a lucky draw. That year the honour fell on Mr. Alok Shrivastava. Pawan Gera, the Residents' Association President sent a notice on the previous evening announcing the name of the flag hoister and the timing.
One look at the notice, and Manjari and I started laughing. So the lucky day had arrived. Somehow we got very excited and spent a virtually sleepless night, in anticipation of a glimpse of the King of Hearts. We were one of the earliest to arrive in the lawn and waited with bated breath for the great man to arrive. Five minutes to nine, Pawan Gera walked out of the lift accompanied by Mr. Shrivastava. Manjari, standing by my side let out a mild gasp, drawing a sharp glance from me. But I had no doubt why she had done it. Walking by the side of Pawan Gera was a short, fat, dark man with grey hair, a pimpled face and a gaunt expression resembling that of a constipated chimpanzee.
As soon as the flag hoisting was over and the national anthem was sung, Manjari burst out laughing. She whispered in my ears,
"This man is a king of hearts for so many young girls? He looks more like King Kong, the Gorilla!"
I smiled at her,
"He is a king not for his looks but for the tons of cash he has, from brief cases pouring in every evening. You want me to open my doors in the evening to Seths and earn that kind of money?"
Manjari looked at the national flag fluttering majestically in the cool sea breeze. She held my hand and smiled. I could see her head shaking imperceptibly in a firm denial. Against the azure sky and the rolling blue sea at a distance, her smile looked very reassuring to me.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
Book Review::
REVIEW OF A FEW STORIES FROM LV107
Anil K Upadhyay
Mrutyunjay, Congratulations for this excellent two-volume issue of LV. You have given an equally worthy introduction, which has a heart-felt tribute to Dilip Kumar. Your admiration for the legend is also apparent from the songs you have selected. The anonymous story about positivity you have included is outstanding.
I could not go through all the poems closely. I was struck by PK Dash's conjunctive poems 'Father' and 'Son' give very nice perspectives from two sides. Especially, the old dependent father's musings are very poignant. The poet shows deep imagination about what might be going inside such an old parent who needs constant care for any need.
I am especially impressed by five stories by three authors: K Sreekumar (2), Mrutyunjay Saranagi (2) and Geetha Nair (1).
K Sreekumar's 'Tradition and Culture': Though the title seems very pedantic, the story is written in a wonderful lyrical prose. It is very tight, and it is poetic without any flourish. There is message, nay multiple messages, without sounding preachy. And I love the last sentence, "The dosa in the village tasted even more delicious from that day onward."
K Sreekumar's "On Rent" is equally economical with words, but very powerful. The beauty of his style is the brevity of the climax. A turn of phrase, a sentence gives an unexpected twist and makes his stories beautiful. This one starts with the hassles of shifting being compared with death. And in the end the metaphor is reversed: "It is like death. This shifting." The two stories are high literature. It is always a pleasure to read K Sreekumar. Congratulations KS.
Mrutyujnay Sarangi's 'A Night of Endless Giggles' is a lovely story of couples sharing their unfulfilled fantasies. His characters and relationships are of any traditional family and we can all relate to it. Shrikant's fantasy of being a famous writer, sportsman or musician is everyone's fantasy. We all get some and lose some, and we have somewhere in heart a desire for achieving what one could not get, without realising that any celebrity in one field has missed to achieve so many things in other fields. A fantasy about romantic love with another person only adds to the charm of conjugal life. An excellent story.
Mrutyunjay has a special command over painting a lovable father with endearing, albeit irritating idiosyncrasies, of a middle class couple. That is Baba in the 'A Red Sweater for Urmi Biswas'. Baba's good intentions causing chaos all around is hilarious. The search for the mysterious Urmi Biswas adds suspense to the story. Having almost reached the destination, the protagonist's dilemma about travelling being more important than reaching the destination, gives the story a philosophical twist. Now there can be many interpretations of the protagonist's final hesitation. Mrutynjay gives some 'what if's, one of which could have been very awkward to face. He has used a nice literary device to end the story there.
Geetha Nair's 'Fall From Grace' is a wonderful read. You don't suspect anything amiss between Nina and Kishen Bhayya, but the Roald Dahl-type twisted ending forces you to read the story all over again carefully and you notice some very subtle hints of inappropriate touch. But Kishen Bhayya might have been thoroughly innocent, and NIna might have been over-influenced by Sister Sofiya's religious education. Even though there are grounds for the benefit of doubt to Kihsen Bhayya and the end may seem excessive and a bit macabre, I liked the story for its style and structure. Five high quality stories in one issue is no mean achievement.
Another article worth mentioning is Gauranga Charan Roul's tribute to his pet. I am myself a non-pet person, but I respect his heart-felt tribute.
Anil K Upadhyay is a retired IAS officer. He has wide-ranging interests in music, literature, sports and current affairs. He writes a well-acclaimed blog www.songsofyore.com, devoted to old Hindi film music. This article is slightly modified from an article earlier published on the blog Songs Of Yore.
WHAT ISN'T POETRY - A BRIEF REVIEW OF SOME OF THE POEMS IN LV107
The other question is so unwieldy that, one is tempted to ask it differently. As of now, it is very difficult to define poetry and the bad news is that it is getting more and more difficult even as I write this.
The last answer to the question ‘what is poetry?’ is known as an ‘institutional answer’. Poetry is what is considered as poetry. No, there is an add on. Poetry is what is considered as poetry by an ‘electoral college’ of poets, readers, critics and those who hate poetry. Sorry, teachers and professors are not included. Only those who care about poetry are included.
This electoral college can shrink or grow based on the purpose. If I am to select a poet for the Nobel Prize, then is this group the largest. Everyone’s vote counts. If I am reviewing the poems in LV, this electoral college is rather small. Only the readers of and the writers in LV should be here. The bar is lowered much.
Whatever the size of the EC is, there are some ground rules on quality. The difference is only a matter of degree to which these rules are followed. Here are some of them.
1. What is being said is not as important as how it is said. This makes poetry an art of language more than any other genre.
2. Meter, rhyme and reason have been forced to take a back seat because they limit the poet’s choices, mainly the choice of diction. Choice of diction is more important than rhyme and alliteration, let alone rhythm. Music is Plan B. If Plan A, the poetic beauty, doesn’t work, you don’t have to go home unappreciated.
3. Re-inventing the wheel is no fun. Poetry, like nostalgia, is ‘not what it used to be’. Never will.
4. Images (6 types in all) are more powerful than words.
5. A good poet has something unique to say. So, he has to use a unique language, not to be misunderstood as an ‘also ran’. No transcription of a poem can be a better work.
6. What sounds familiar by being commonplace is made unfamiliar by poetry. It pays to do that.
7. Content and form. Form is further divided into structure, language and sound. Language is further divided into diction, register, symbols, images and figure of speech.
The trouble even with a small group is that there will be some annoyingly good poems. Comparison is human nature. The LV July edition has poems mostly from hobbyists who are not aware of new poetic trends. That is OK. But what is not OK is the lack of respect shown to the reader by way of careless compositions. Poetry being the art of language, one has to keep one’s language accurate. There is ‘its’ and there is ‘it’s’. Not the same even if auto-correct thinks so.
Do take a look at this random list from this edition.
• She yells at, cries, wails...and sometimes end up in cold wars too...
• Not very welcome,
When guests are in the drawing room?
• Oh! It's raises its as well.
• Still, if you could step down from the post of Father
And taken up a bit of the role of Mother
• We must be inspired from every good things,
Life is about igniting individual identity,
discovering ourselves by introspection and
celebrate the happiness of being original.
• We will be conferred with priceless experience and
A treasure trove of memories.
• We have come a loooong way , have we ???
Little did we know about the tragedies in galore
• TO CO EXIST WITH CORONA
• A full person emerging on it
• With time co-passengers become passersby
• Associations-Fragile, be handled with care.
• Friendships result in smiles
To sustain it, miles to go
• I enquire about him, about since when and how he acquire it,
• he replies all of them
• In this interview of few minutes, he discloses me with those privy details,
which he might not even let his wife to
• Infront of me
• I request him to draw few drops of his blood,
• For I need to tell the diseased about his disease,without making him or his family loose faith in life
• I tell them as plainly for my brother to understand, as acceptable for him to realise he can be okay.
• I then make him unconscious, wear my gown, glove, cap and mask,
• When bones come my way, I drill it.
• When a vessel bleed, I tie it.
• I shift him to a bed and look after him for few days.
• By the oath of the Hippocrates
• The place where the dead “lives”
• to dispose them off
• our best interests lied in learning
• like a miser getting robbed of his misery
• The vibrant flowing of Brooks, it’s cascades
• once in a while,
• the laburnum which never grow old
• A lot of time has spent by
• To this daughter of him
• Ages after quitting on poetry,
• Even I stand unaware of the fact
that when I was able to rhyme last!
• Too many questions filled in my mind,
• In it's warm hearty hearth,
• Life trudges along, a long winding
mountain pass in a vehicle of flesh.
• Whitish flowers lighten up the heart
The heavy branches sway, as a part
Pinkish flowers brighten up the land
Evergreen bushy trees stare and stand!
• The mankind's discipline makes formation
• People revolve,
revolve around the earth,
• Beneath, love-lorn Yamuna flowing by
As tears rolling down with a deep sigh;
Reminds sage old love and separation.
A touching memory, bathes in veneration.
• That charming scenery and lovely view,
Calls me with all its colour and hue.
• Time & distance does not workout the mathematics,
When we have great ideas on how to live, it is good to write an article on it so that nobody reads. If we THINK we have modest ideas on how to live, it might be good to write a story. Today’s poetry is for those who would like to have some ideas on how to live and are still searching for them. Honesty is what poetry is all about.
Meter can ruin poems. The reason is that it is very hard to follow the iambic pentameter or whatever it is. Dicey, even a newspaper article can be read in such a way, with very few concessions, as if it is written in iambic. Such is the similarity between the rhythm of English speech and its meters. And when you have decided to kill verse forms, make sure that you shed unnecessary line breaks and funny word orders (syntax, sin-tax, pay if you sin in that)
Rhyme is cliché. Alliteration is for the illiterates. The best they do is that they take over your duty of choosing the best word. However, all these primitive poetic devices are good ways of fishing for ideas from your brain. To use a rhyming word, we invent ideas without intending to. This edition of LV is full glaring examples of this.
Before we moralize, advise, and chastise, make sure we are angels. Don’t sell medicines you have not tried them yourself. Accusation is the best defense and advice is only confession wearing a white coat. Fake.
A poem doesn’t have to be so transparent. Even the diabetic enjoy that part of a meal they are allowed to eat. Good to see other people feasting. It is almost impossible to establish the context of Prabhanjan’s poem this time, but look at this:
One of the girls, resembles
a red velvet-beetle, crawling
on the green turf by the swing.
She is to all, a darling.
The last line may spoil it for some with its abstract word ‘darling’. It being abstract, we are left to think of darlings. Trouble. But the first three lines paint a prettier picture than most darlings. Visuals are endorphins. Here is one from Madhumathi: So sweet, Madhumathi. Mellifluous is an adjective of poetry, You are true to your name. Melli means honey or madhu as in Sanskrit.
It is always two cups of coffee
Served at the table
As she waits for him
Watching the raindrops
Slide down the glass door..
And here is an awesome one from Satya Narayan Mohanty:
No color changed,
Her tongue was slit
Even the hasty incineration can’t hide
The bleeding silence of the time.
And Ritika can do it even if she is speaking in abstract terms:
I gulp my shattered courage
With a tonic of fearfulness
And Nachiketa K Sharma, in very few words:
Fooling infinity into chains.
Or
It never disappeared like a bird’s route in the vast sky
Like a fish’s course in water, it never melted away.
From Chandrakumar Choudhury
His fangs scratching my body
POISON that dripped from him,
And Runu Mohanty tells us to
A bird in a cage is no bird...
(and)
Get rid of the wetness
of shame by not walking into deeper water.
Ravi Ranganathan writes:
Clouds are just wading birds in winter branches
(and )
May be I am on threshold; evening may yet bind me
Nature is never dumb, never on edge
Patience its watch word, Peace its pledge
Sharanya Bee’s words are honeyed and ‘sting like the bees that make them:
Please say
Anamika
Are you above or beneath me now?
From Niranjan Barik
My two hands join to say in sound,
How I liked your deed or word,
And look at this short film by Mrutyunjay Sarangi
And one day I returned
to chase my abandoned hopes,
The humble hut looked at me
draped in a mild surprise.
The shadows got up one by one
and went out with a mocking smile
My point is that almost all the poets here can write wonderful lines if consistency is not in the list of demands. This means they are not trying hard to harness their full potential. I think some stern criticism might help. I volunteer.
Poets have to take a broader perspective on life and think of the whole next generation as their children. Read All My Sons by Arthur Miller first. Helps. If we worship our own father/mother/children and write poems about them, what are we actually saying? At least we are hurting those who do not have such members in their family. When they don’t have a house and you talk about your house to them, what is it? Is that of any value at all? One’s children will be the best for one. That is how it is for all. Nothing much in that, except that we are spoiling our children. So, the poems praising your own children and parents taste sour and are in bad taste, to say the least.
About moral science lessons dubbed as poems, I have already expressed my views.
There are certain themes people have been pulverizing for centuries, scenic beauty is one. When we read one more of them, it is just one more of them. Nothing sticks. We feel we just wasted our time. So did the poet. But he has the freedom to waste his own time. I don’t like him wasting my time. If you don’t have a new bottle, please don’t bring that old wine to the party. And if you have a new bottle, even fresh wine is matured enough.
Unfortunately, some of the readers have read quite a good number of poems and they can’t unread them now. The only possible thing to do here is for the poets to read more. If they do, they too will eventually get fed up with the old stuff and everybody wins. So, it is very important that those who want readers for their poems should first of all read more poems, especially those written by the new kids on the block.
Some of the poems are just storytelling and bad story telling at that. Happens. You can’t make a good story out of a poem or the other way. Poem stuff is poem stuff and story stuff is story stuff. A poem may be short and less taxing to pen. If you choose easy writing, it only means you don’t like writing. I personally don’t want to read any writing by a writer who does not like to write. Choose the best genre for what you have got to say. And if you really want to write a poem about your experience, see how you can reduce the narrative elements the most. Possible. A simple technique is to drop the verbs to make the words and phrases look more like imagery, images and symbols.
Art and poetry have some interesting definitions. Art lies in concealing art, said Shakespeare. The word art in the beginning of the sentence means art as we know it, that which you do with your heart. The same word repeated at the end of the sentence refers to something else, artfulness, that which you do with your brain. Unfortunately it is hard for a novice to say which is which. Both of them elicit an ‘aha’ from us. A trained eye can spot the difference. Shakespeare does not say to avoid artfulness. He wants us to conceal it. Choice of words demands some artfulness, some cunning and when you use it for laboured rhyming, (too many examples in LV poems) you are not concealing it, you are revealing it. Some might say WOW for some time, but not for long. Their compliments would make you get stuck there forever. Your wowers change and you lose.
I don’t know Berger, but it was the guy who said that if everything had a name, poetry would have been useless. Right. There are things that you can’t put your finger on. You know them and you don’t know them well enough to name them. So, you write poems about them. You almost succeed in catching them in your poem. It is OK. We like it.
Snakes bite. It doesn’t mean that everything that bites is a snake. Same thing with poems. Unrhyming poems, not following a meter give you a great liberty to choose and choose you must. There are words that we use no more because those words are no more. They are dead and buried. To exhume them is a bad idea. They stink like zombies and work like zombies. Shun them or they will suck the life out of your poems.
If you work on your language and master the grammar, punctuation and other elements of language, you don’t have to put so much into your poems. These elements of language will talk among themselves and create not only meaning but beauty as well. There are some examples of poems in which this is obvious. I HAVE ABANDONED MY DREAM KITCHEN FOR A SLOW FIRE by Mrutyunjay Sarangi is an example of this. His other poem is also good but this is better. It talks about a hut, but really speaking, it is an introspection by the poet. The hut is only a symbol. Body, I think. It is all about the speaker’s dreams, desires, and disillusion. NAMELESS by Sharanya Bee too has this magic of catching your attention and making you see things like you have never seen them before. Simple and exquisite. No wonder. Simplicity is the mark of quality. In poetry, it could be ‘deceptive simplicity’ as it is here and in Robert Frost. BETWEEN LINES by Ravi Ranganathan also has this magic about it. Compliments to Prabhanjan K Mishra for his choice of poems and also for his trans-creation. He has seen it clearly. Poetry depends a lot on language. It cannot be translated without losing its charm but it can be trans-created as charmingly as this. COULD HUMANS BE POETRY? By Lora Mishra is a very good love poem using poesy itself as a metaphor.
DEEP INTO THE WOODS by Akshara Rai, TO MY FAVOURITE DISH.. by Uma Sripathi, MUSINGS WITH A MIRROR by Ashok Subramanian and FENCES by
Bibhu Padhi are poems written on popular themes. I think the poets have not read those famous poems written on these themes. Mending Wall, Mirror by Silvia Plath and Shakespeare’s lines on trees in As You Like It, are good examples.
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.
MANTRA YOGA BY JAIRAM SESHADRI - A REVIEW.
A book that does not deserve to be on your 'to read' list for long. It deserves to move into the 'have read' list asap.
I like the way it starts with mantra yoga as the ‘shruti’ of all the four yogas and the way it is interlinked with all of them through the whole book.
The state of 'Shanti' has been well explained, defined and described as "that which hovers in a plane above the continuum of the positives and negatives", which the author holds as two sides of a coin. Shanti is introduced as the state of enlightenment and the goal of mantra yoga which leads to providing oneness of all beings. It is important to understand this definition because unless the goal is clear, movement towards the goal becomes elusive. The author goes on to explain what it is and what it is not.
He says, in a nutshel, the essence of mantra yoga is in the following sentence: "We can only achieve our cherished goals when we are calm and cheerful and nurture an abiding faith in our own selves regardless of whatever life may throw on us." This sentence sums up why we should seek a state of Shanti which is the goal of Mantra yoga. Shanti gives us an unshakable faith in ourselves.
Regularity and sincerity are essential for practicing mantra yoga successfully. True.
The author holds gnyana (Knowledge that leads to wisdom) and bhakti (pure love) as the two wings of a spiritual aspirant. Starting off in the early chapters about being rational - faith must be based on clear knowledge - the author, later, in the chapter on 'Love and devotion' elaborates about pure love and devotion which may be a starting point to lead to knowledge. A well-written chapter.
One is reminded about Sri. Rajaji's words: " gnyanam muthi bakthi and bakthi muthi gnyanam" - gnyana ripes into bakthi and bakthi ripes into gnyana. One may begin with being rational and explorative and move on to realization. Or yet, one may begin with pure bhakti and move on to realization.
The mantras given and explained are, in my opinion, the best choices. However, I would personally have liked it, if the Mruthyunjay Mantra and the Rama Mantra were explained with their meaning made clear.
The concluding chapter is realistic and pragmatic. Thoughts therein are classical and irrefutable. Jairam comes as no swamiji commanding obedience but as an individual like you and me nudging reflection on experience and experimenting with the unknown.
The book gently pushes one to move on to the cherished goal of self-realization, one step at a time.
I particularly liked the sentence:
"Indeed stagnation is the only sin there is."
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.
‘LET LOVE BE UNCONDITIONAL AND EVER FLOWING’
Author: P. Mohan Chandran
Published by: Xpress Publishing (An Imprint of Notion Press)
ISBN No:
Price:
LOVE – the four-letter evocative magic word! Affection, passion, attachment, desire, obsession, sensuousness……the list of attributes is endless. Vivid images of archetypal lovers ‘Romeo-Juliet,’ ‘Laila-Majnu,’ ‘Antony-Cleopatra,’ ‘Baji Rao-Mastani,’ come to life instantaneously. ‘Filmy’ love often depicts ‘Macho men’ ‘vulnerable beauties’ and ‘muscular villains’ with happy endings after orchestrated twists and turns. Legendary monuments of adoration and fidelity - the Taj Mahal and the Bibi Ka Maqbara standing as mute witness, continuously attract travelers from far and near. Does love live ‘forever in memories.?’ Is love confined to romantic overtures?
Love is all around us - in a child’s hug, in a friend’s concern, in people around us, in animals, in life forms and non-life forms. Love is constant, not an emotion, as most of us believe it to be. Taking the cue from a renowned anthropologist, romantic love is a ‘drive,’ it’s ‘too long lasting,’ consequently, it is ‘not an emotion’ as fear, sadness, or anger.
Well then, what is love? Its classification brings out varied reactions from the members of the society, that include friendship, adoration, affection, mania, lust and more. In the poet’s own words: ‘Love is divine. Love is eternity. Love is the quintessence of life and enriches and ennobles it. Love is one of the most beautiful and natural feelings ever to occur to any human being. Love is a feeling which develops naturally and blossoms with time to become immortal.’
Is love always about happy endings? Stories of star-crossed lovers Romeo-Juliet, Laila-Majnu, and a multitude of others with tragic endings have implications of union after life has ebbed out. While love is believed to be addictive, leading to euphoria, it can also be excruciatingly distressing.
Poet P. Mohan Chandran brings out the ‘painful’ aspects, ‘the lack of courage’ to express one’s feelings and more in “EMOTIONS IN TRANQUILITY.” In the poet’s words, ‘It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return, but what is more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let that person know how you feel.’
This poetic collection of 52 poems has been divided into three parts: Joyful Love Poems, Melancholic Love Poems and Abecedarian Poems; there are poems to attract the ‘fortunate’ and the ‘spurned,’ along with ‘wisdom’ ‘for managing pain in love and overcoming it with aplomb.’ In almost all the verses, the poet has used rhyme, rhythm and imagery to convey efficiently.
In ‘Mystical Love’ (page 3), the adoration of a lover is stated explicitly, even as the foundation of love builds up with warmth and exuberance -
‘By your beauty, I was awestruck,
Our rendezvous has brought me great luck.
My heart’s home, when will you adorn?
Will you make me smile or mourn?
With you alone, I want to share my life,
I want you, forever, to be my wife.’ (pg.3)
In ‘Vicissitudes of Love,’ (pg.3,5), the simile and rhyme skillfully bring out the essence of togetherness in love.
‘Of your love, you leave a stamp,
Amidst darkness, like a lamp.’ (pg.3)
The concluding lines bring out the sharp contrast as the title suggests -
‘Love knows not, to lose,
Even other impediments, it’ll cruise,
But, those who fail in love, booze,
Love, for them becomes a veritable noose!’ (pg.5)
While ‘Moments of Love’ (pg.6) projects the elated spirit -
‘My dreams, when you share,
Even the impossible, I dare.’ (pg.6),
‘Goddess of Love’ (pgs.7,8) expresses chants of love using captivating phrases –
‘Angel of peace,’ ‘harbinger of joy,’ ‘embodiment of innocence,’’ mascot of good luck,’ ‘catalyst of inspiration,’ ‘idol of trust,’’ image of true love,’ among others
It continues in ‘Magic of Your Thought’ when the pining lover confesses:
‘Life without you, I can’t even dream,
Life is worse than death, it does seem!’ (pg.10)
And, with renewed vigor, pronounces in ‘You know Not’ you’ve changed me for the better…(pg.15). Showers of praise and adoration are heaped in ‘The Beauty of You.’
‘You’re as beautiful as a star,
You’re in my heart, though very far.
You’re more beautiful than the Moon,
Your presence in my life is God’s boon’. (pg.17)
Lines in this poetic collection reveal that love is not merely infatuation, or carnal, it involves a deeper and intensifies with time -
‘You always respect and fight for the truth…’ in ‘Magnetic Simplicity,’ (pg.19)
‘As a mother bird teaches its young one to fly…’ from Paradigm Shift’ (pg.22),
‘A day when, only ‘pure happiness’ to you, others serve…’ in ‘A Red Letter Day’ (pg.26),
‘Indelible mark, my love will leave on your heart, even long after I’m gone…’ from ‘The Triumph of Love.’ (pg.30 )
I am reminded of social science researcher Karla McLaren’s views that ‘Love doesn’t just restrict itself to romantic relationships.’ Love survives ‘trauma, betrayal, divorce and even death.’ Furthermore, profound love is punctuated with spontaneity - being natural with one another, reflecting a flow and resonance with deeds that stem from the heart, not with intellectual acumen!
Adroitly, as the poet switches over to poignant verses in the Melancholic love poems section from pages 43- 86 (that includes an Acrostic verse, page 48) he brings out the pangs of separation, betrayal, and deceit with great lucidity; one wonders if he has experienced some or all of it at a personal level!
‘In love, now I don’t have an iota of belief,
Life without love, is an eternal relief. (pg.43 Love Post Mortem)
‘Pains, like bumper harvest, piled in a heap…’ and
‘I was awaiting a crop, on a barren field…’ (pg. 45 Incinerated Love)
‘Why do we love only a single soul?
Without that person, why don’t we see ourselves as a whole?’ (pg. 57 Shattered Love)
‘As drops of water cleanses a leaf,
The tears from my eyes, cleanses my grief.’ (pg. 67 Operation Blue Love)
‘It transgresses the present, future, and the past.
Every second is a veritable hell,
Where living souls can never dwell!’ (pg. 78 The Pain of Pain)
The Abecedarian poems bring out insightful lines on love that can be pure and unrequited -
‘Judge me not, purely on the basis of my extrinsic dealings.’ (pg.91 Embedded Dreams)
‘Locomotive power I lost, and drowned myself in an emotional storm!’ (pg.93 Zombie Love)
Poet P. Mohan Chandran comes across as an individual who has had meaningful interactions with people from various walks of life, has spent considerable time in observing their behavior; additionally, his research and creativity hats, I believe, have triggered a tsunami within, which has enabled ‘Emotions in Tranquility’ see light of the day.
This collection would prove to be a good read for people to understand that when love takes us on a roller-coaster ride, it unlocks the vaulted gates to purify hearts; further, it expedites introspection for emergence into a higher being.
Happy reading!
P. Mohan Chandran dons several hats in the form of a Business Writer, Creative Writer, Tech Writer, Business Researcher, Creative Thinker, Poet, Teacher, and a qualified Lawyer. Mohan has penned more than 1,000 poems in English on different genres, viz., sonnet, free verse, quatrain, limerick, haiku, acrostic, abecedarian poems, and on different themes such as Love, Marriage, Friendship, Life, Nature, Peace, Politics, Terrorism, Animals, Environment, etc. He has penned more than 8,000 quotes of his own called “Mohan Sutras,” based on his own life experiences and keen observation of people’s behavior, which has been well-received and appreciated by his followers and other social media users. He can be contacted at mohanchandran.writer@gmail.com.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’
She was a guest faculty trainer in the Virtual Communication Skills Program for the Undergraduate Students of IIT Madras in July 2021, also resource person in the National workshop 'English Language Skills for Academic Purposes at Sastra University, Kumbakonam (2019).
She was the Guest of Honor and esteemed panel member for a panel discussion with faculty members and children on the topic of Creative Writing in the Virtual U R A Writer Award Panel Discussion (Gear International School, Bengaluru in Feb. 2021)
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021)
She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020)
She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
As event organizer of Connecting Across Borders (CAB), she has played a predominant role in organizing the International Poetry Conference on March 8, 2021, in collaboration with the CTTE College, Chennai. Earlier, in July 2020, she organized an international poetry webinar ‘Connecting Across Borders, featuring women poets from India and overseas.
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort.
As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
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