Literary Vibes - Edition CX (29-Oct-2021) - POEMS & SHORT STORIES
Title : Sisters (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 110th edition of LiteraryVibes. It has three sections: at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/404 are poems and short stories, at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/405 are the heritage pieces, anecdotes, motivational articles, and wonderful creation by talented children, and at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/406 is a special section dedicated to the memory of two of the greatest sons of Mother India - Mahatma Gandhi and Shri Lal Bahadur Shastri, to commemorate their birthday on 2nd October. Hope you will like the splendid offerings and share them with your friends and contacts. Please don't forget to remind them that all the 110 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
In today's edition let us welcome five new contributors into the LV family. The young and talented Mrinalini Mallick, a student of Class 7 from Jajpur, Odisha, has deep emotions and a wonderful mastery over expression. She will certainly go very far in her literary journey. Mr. Prasanna Kumar Hota, a retired civil servant from Delhi, is an ardent lover of literature and writes excellent pieces laced with humour and empathy. I do hope we will get more nuggets from his vast reservoir of rich experience in the corridors of power. Shri Pradeep Biswal from Bhubaneswar is another retired bureaucrat, who is a prolific poet and has carved a spectacular niche for himself in the literary world with numerous publications in Odia and English. Ms. Snehaprabha Das from Bhubaneswar is a retired Associate Professor of English who has many Anthologies of poems to her credit. She writes insightful poetry meant to provoke as well as inspire. Ms. Durga Ravi, a Research Scholar at Shastra University, Thanjavur, is a young and talented poet. Her literary enthusiasm is exemplary.
October is not only a month of festivals and harbinger of a pleasant winter, it is also a momentous time for the country to remind us of two national icons of truth, honesty and compassion. Gandhiji and Shastriji stood tall in history, gifting to mankind values of eternal relevance. Despite the growing darkness in the world, we are still reminded that a Gandhi or a Shastri, a Mother Teresa or a Martin Luther King can emerge from the billions of people and bring light to dispel the gloom of despair.
To symbolise what these great souls stood for, let me present to you three stories which are close to my heart. Sometimes life feels complete just to know that such goodness is within the realm of possibility.
1. The Coffee Vendor
By J. P. Sharma
My wife and I boarded the Janmabhoomi train at Visakhapatnam station to attend my friend’s daughter’s wedding at Rajahmundry.
The early morning breeze and the train’s rocking movement were soporific and we dozed off until the train halted at Tuni.
I hailed a passing vendor and asked for two cups of coffee.
I handed over one cup to my wife and took a sip. I complimented him on the coffee and asked, “How much?” as I opened my wallet to find that it had only 200-rupee notes.
Hearing his response of twenty rupees, I handed over a 200-rupees note to him.
“Don’t you have change?” he asked as he put down his flask and started searching for change in his shirt pocket.
The train started, before he could take the change out of his pocket and sped away.
Our compartment was next to the engine so he got no chance to hand over the change though he did attempt to run after the train.
I blamed myself for having ordered coffee without checking the availability of change.
“Oh my God! How foolish of you! Could you not have taken the change and then handed over the note?
What’s the use of your age and experience?”, my wife gleefully took the opportunity to snub me.
I tried to justify my action,“Okay, suppose he had given the change and the train had started before I could give him the note…then would it not have been a loss to him?”
“What loss? From morning, he would have met ten people like you and at the end of the day he will have only profit, no loss!” replied my wife, with a cynical smile on her face.
“We should trust people; poor fellow, what can he do if the train started?
Will he subsist on our money?”
My better half was irritated to hear me defending him.
“They wait for just such opportunities. If he meets four simpletons like you, it will be enough to earn a day’s living,” grumbled my wife glaring at me.
I maintained a stoic silence.
“Anyway, you cannot expect him be as honest and as principled as you are”, she concluded looking around at the other co-passengers, who were all looking at us.
The train had picked up speed and we crossed the next station Annavaram. Gradually, I let go of the slender hope that I had of getting back the change.
My wife believes that I get cheated by people since I have a naive faith in mankind and am kind.
I was quite accustomed to being put down by her and being scolded, since I believe that she is not correct in distrusting others.
I strongly believe that we should see goodness in others and if anyone lacks it, their baseness should be attributed to the environment and conditions in which they grew up.
I believe that inside each of us, there is the potential for both good and evil - what we choose depends on the circumstances.
Though I have been proved wrong by her on many similar occasions, it did not affect my faith.
I believe that dharma or righteousness is upheld by its fourth leg of trustfulness.
“Let it go! Poor people! Are they going to build palaces with our money? Forget it!” I said trying to pacify her.
She stayed silent, out of her affection for me and I was in no mood to prolong the conversation.
The compartment was filled with many standing passengers.
I let my gaze slide outside to the fleeing fields. By then many of my co passengers were looking at me and assessing me according to their perception – some were thinking of me as a fool while others were looking at me with sympathy and pity; some were smiling to themselves about the free entertainment they had enjoyed and some were curious to see what would happen next.
By the time the train reached the outskirts of Pitapuram, all had lost their interest in us and were lost in their thoughts.
It was then that I heard a voice, “Sir, was it not you who bought two coffees and gave a 200- rupees note?”
I turned towards the voice. Pushing his way through the crowd was a teenage boy, who stopped in front of my seat.
Suddenly I felt elated though he did not look like the coffee vendor whom I remembered as being middle aged.
“Yes, Son! I did give a 200-rupee note to a coffee vendor but the train sped away before I could receive the change. However, I do not remember buying coffee from you,” I said honestly.
“Yes, Sir! But are you the person, who drank the coffee at Tuni station”, he asked me again.
“Why would I lie? If you want you can ask these people here.”
“No! No, Sir! I do not doubt you but I was just confirming to avoid making a mistake!” Saying this, he took out the change of 180 rupees from his pocket and handed it over to me.
“You are...?”
“I am his son, Sir”
I looked at him with surprise since he seemed to have guessed my doubt.
“Sir, every day one or two such incidents happen at Tuni station because the train does not stop for long. ???? In that short time many people panic, give a note and the train starts before they can receive back the change.
That is why, I usually board the train and wait. My father messages me giving details of the persons (of the amount, compartment and seat number) to whom the change has to be returned.
I return the change and get down at the next station and return back to Tuni by another train.
My father leaves some change with me for such transactions.”
I was surprised but still managed to ask, “Are you studying?”
“Tenth class, Sir! My elder brother helps father in the afternoon and I help him in the mornings”.
When I heard his this, I felt like talking to his father, so asked him for his father’s phone number and dialled the number.
“Your son has just returned the change for the 200-rupees note. I am calling to express my appreciation for your actions. I am so very happy that you are not only educating your children but more important instilling in them the values of honesty and integrity”, I said complimenting him.
“That is very nice of you, Sir! I feel honoured that you are taking the trouble to call just to express your appreciation. I have only studied up to fifth class. In those days, short stories about ethics and morality were narrated to us and textbooks also had material that strengthened values like honesty and integrity so we learnt to differentiate between good and bad, right from wrong. It is those principles, which guide me to lead a trouble-free honest life.”
As I listened to his words on the phone, I was amazed by his words and thought process.
He continued, “But today those values are not taught in schools. What children are taught these days is as unhealthy as giving spicy food to babies. When my children were studying at home, I used to listen to them and I noticed that the curriculum no longer has moral stories, inspiring poetry or children’s books by Paravastu Chinnayasuri – nothing of value! That is why I entrust them with simple tasks like these to pass on the few values that I know. That is all!”
I was amazed by the foresight of this man and I just patted the son on his shoulders.
My wife was taken aback seeing the glow of joy on my face as I placed the 180 rupees, returned by the boy in my wallet. She gave me an apologetic sheepish smile because she knew that the joy was not for the money regained!
I remembered that in Srimad Bhagavatham, righteousness or dharma is described as Nandi the ‘bull’ who stands on four ‘legs’—austerity, cleanliness, kindness and trust or truthfulness.
The Bhagavatham also predicts that all the four legs will not be equally strong over epochs of time - representing the degree of decline of righteousness. In the world, during the Satya Yuga, the first stage of development, the bull would stand firmly on all four legs but as the yugas changed, one by one the legs would be broken and lost until finally in Kali-yuga (the present age) only truthfulness or trust would be the dominant form of Dharma or righteousness.
This humble coffee vendor’s action appears to be proof that as predicted righteousness or dharma still flourishes in this World though it is on its fourth leg of truthfulness.
As I watched the boy move down the compartment, I mentally saluted the coffee vendor!
(Shri J.P.Sarma is a State Bank of India employee and the author of Edari Parugu: Kadhala Samputi in Telugu)
.......................................
The Cobbler who also mends souls
By Meher Kazi
There is a cobbler who sits across the street in front of my office building. Every day, I see that there is a stray dog who comes and sits with him as soon as he arrives at the place, and he feeds him biscuits and some times milk. The man goes about his work while the dog sits there and gives him company. One can feel that there is a connection between them and that unknown to everyone, they are having a conversation without a word being said. There is also food that he brings for birds, which he keeps at different places on the street pavement where he sits for his work. Many people stop by and ask him for directions, and he always guides them with a smile. Even if he doesn't get any business from them. If he sees a homeless person going by, he offers them water and food that he has brought for himself, and engages in conversations with them. One can see and feel the peace the conversations bring to them.
I felt called to go and meet him today. He smiled at me and said his name is Dayaram, and asked me if I would like to have tea?!
Pleasantly surprised, i say sure, lets have some tea. Here is a man who would be struggling to make Rs. 100 a day, out of which he would be spending 12-15 on the stuff he brings for the dog and the birds, and the two cups of tea would cost him Rs. 14. His being is rich, he smiles radiantly, and his calm, effortless, abundant state of being is infectious. I tell him that I have been observing him and what he does, and that Iam humbled and fascinated by it. We get talking, and I refer to the dog, and he says "Oh! he's just one of us - God's Own Creation".
Talk about non-duality! He goes on to say that "I am not serving...it is He who is making it happen via this person. It would be egoistic to say that 'I' am doing it!"
I fold my hands and bow to him, and request him to accept some money, saying it is not I who is giving him that money, it is He who is sending it to him via myself.
We laugh and he graces me by accepting it.
As I am about to leave, he says: "Maango Ussi se, Banto khushi se, Kaho na kissi se" (Ask from Him, but then don't just accumulate it - give with happiness and gratitude, and do it silently!)
The cobbler who apparently mends shoes, mended my soul today. Overwhelmed by this encounter.....
......................................
Rockfeller - The Moment of Reckoning
(Anonymous)
John D Rockfeller was once the richest man in the world. The first billionaire in the world.
By age 25 he controlled one of the largest oil refineries in the US.
By age 31 he had become the world’s largest oil refiner.
By age 38 he commanded 90% of the oil refined in the U.S.
By 50, he was the richest man in the country.
By the time he died, he had become the richest man in the world.
As a young man, every decision, attitude & relationship was tailored to create his personal power & wealth.
But at the age of 53 he became ill.
His entire body became racked with pain & he lost all his hair. In complete agony, the world’s only billionaire could buy anything he wanted, but he could only digest soup & crackers.
An associate wrote, "He could not sleep, would not smile & nothing in life meant anything to him."
His personal, highly skilled physicians predicted he would die within a year.
That year passed agonizingly slowly.
As he approached death he awoke one morning with the vague realisation of not being able to take any of his wealth with him into the next world.
The man who could control the business world suddenly realized he was not in control of his own life.
He was left with a choice.
He called his attorneys, accountants & managers & announced that he wanted to channel his assets to hospitals, research & charity work.
John D. Rockefeller established his Foundation.
This new direction eventually led to the discovery of penicillin, cures for malaria, tuberculosis & diphtheria.
But perhaps the most amazing part of Rockefeller’s story is that the moment he began to give back a portion of all that he had earned, his body’s chemistry was altered so significantly that he got better.
It looked as if he would die at 53 but he lived to be 98.
Rockefeller learned gratitude & gave back the vast majority of his wealth.
Doing so made him whole!
It is one thing to be healed.
It is another to be made whole.
Before his death, he wrote this in his dairy:
I was taught to work as well as play,
My life has been one long, happy holiday;
Full of work & full of play
I dropped the worry on the way
And God was good to me everyday!"
THE JOY OF GIVING IS THE JOY OF LIVING
....................................
Hope some of us will imbibe the values contained in the above three stories. I know a few who are already endowed with them. My salutations to them. For the rest, let's keep the flag of hope flying.
Take care. Be safe and keep smiling, till we meet again on 26th November.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
ROSES
02) Haraprasad Das
THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN (MADHYABAYASKA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE STRAY
04) Bibhu Padhi
CURTAINS DOWN
NIRVANA
05) Madhumathi. H
LOVE, THROUGH THE TELESCOPE...
06) Hema Ravi
HANDLING ADVERSITY
07) Sharanya Bee
ASKING
08) Pradeep Biswal
A SLICE OF MOON FOR YOU
COLLECTING THE SCARS
09) Dr. Snehaprava Das
ROADS
A TRIP TO A LOST PARADISE
10) Durga Ravi
DREAM ALONE
A SANDWICH ISLAND
UTOPIC DYSTOPIA
11) Bijayketan Patnaik
THE TOUCH (SPARSH)
12) Bichitra Kumar Behura
WINGS OF CHANGE
13) Pradeep Rath
IT'S NEVER TOO LATE
14) Asha Raj Gopakumar
BEST LIFE GUIDE
15) Pankajam Kottarath
WITHOUT WORDS…
16) Setaluri Padmavathi
WORLD TEACHERS DAY
17) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO
18) Abani Udgata
INWARD
VARANASI
19) Akankshya Arunima
A LEAP OF FAITH
MASTER OF MY FATE
20) Akshara Rai
TOMORROW, ALWAYS TOMORROW.
21) Runu Mohanty
ADORATION (VANDANAA)
22) Ravi Ranganathan
NOT AN EVENING SWAN SONG
23) Ashok Subramanian
LOST AND FOUND
24) Indumathi Pooranan
F A I T H ...
INSEPARABLE LOVERS.....
25) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
BLESSINGS
26) P.L.Sreedharan Parokode
ONENESS WINS
27) Shiba Prasad Mishra
BE STRONG
28) Sukanya V Kunju
MIND IS LIKE A RIVER
29) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WAKEFULNESS
SHORT STORIES
01) Dilip Mohapatra
ONCE UPON A TIME
02) Prof.Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS :: LIFE (2012)
03) Prof. Nachiketa Sharma
PLEASE FORBID ME, FORGIVE ME!
04) Prasanna Kumar Hota
THE BRIDAL SILK
05) Gourahari Das
WATER
06) Dr. Molly Joseph M
THE HEIGH ... HO... MELODIES OF YORE...
07) Dr.Radharani Nanda
PRARABDHA AND PRAYER
08) Meena Mishra
WHEN LESS WAS MORE
09) Setaluri Padmavathi
AN ADOPTION OF A GIRL BABY
10) Dr. Lora Mishra
DEAR PATIENT
11) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
ANANYAA
REVIEWS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
DURGA PUJA SPECIAL ISSUE OF EIGHT STORIES, 2021, A READER'S IMPRESSION:
Miscellaneous - Heritage, Anecdotes, Travelogues & Motivational Articles
01) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - NINETEEN AVATARS OF LORD SHIVA
02) Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
ME, MY PATIENTS AND THEIR RELATIVES
03) Prof. (Dr.) Gangadhar Sahoo.
AGONY & ECSTASY
04) Madhumathi. H
LET'S BE THE LIGHT...
05) Lipsa Mohanty
AN ACCIDENTAL ANALYST
HALT, HIKE AND ENGRAVE: ON TUESDAY’S WITH MORRIE
06) Satish Pashine
HARMONISE WITH NATURE, MASTER YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES-CELEBRATE LIFE!
07) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
MONDAY BLUES
08) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : UMUGANDA AS PATRIOTIC AGENDA WITH COW AS THE KEY TO DISCORD AND ACCORD.
Young Magic
01) Trishna Sahoo
PROBLEM HI PROBLEM
02) Mrinalini Mallick
THE CALLING OF THE SEA
A SMILE
03) Hiya Khurana
LIFE THROUGH THE EYES OF A SPARROW
Commemorating Gandhiji and Shastriji
01) Prbhanjan K. Mishra
MOHANDAS: THE WATCHMAN
ALL WHO WILL NOT SLEEP TONIGHT
THE MYSTERY MAN IN CHILDREN’S CLASS
02) Satya N. Sahu
LALBAHADUR SHASTRI’S ROLE IN NATION BUILDING...
03) Ajay Upadhyaya
NAMING AND SHAMING: POWERS AT PLAY, A THOUGHT FOR GANDHI
04) Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
BYREE, MY NATIVE VILLAGE AND GANDHIJI'S SIXTH VISIT TO ODISHA
05) Ayana Routray
BE THE CHANGE
06) Abani Udgata
GANDHI JAYANTI
07) Chandan Chowdhury
GANDHI AND PATEL
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS :: ON GANDHIJI
09) Gourang Charan Roul
RELEVANCE OF GANDHI IN CONTEMPORAY WORLD
10) Padmini Janardhanan
ON THE MAHATMA
SALUTATIONS TO SHASTRIJI
11) Prof Niranjan Barik
MY DANDI!
(For Gertrude Stein, poet, philosopher)
Speaking of roses –
rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
They bloom the best
at Darjeeling and Gangtok -
in gardens, terraces and on the cheeks
of women wafting bonhomie, fragrance.
Roses in streets and markets
are sold for vases,
bouquets, gods; and also, for
the sweethearts' hair.
Wife sulks -
no rose for her hair this morning.
Roses on her cheeks look withered,
sleep-starved, over-exerted
in receiving
communion with the love last night;
roses in her hair
crumpled under her thrills.
Comes along a little flower-girl,
with mother carrying roses.
Her basket, a multi-hued riot.
She smiles, and you feel like pinching
roses from her cheeks,
then recall your wife's sulk.
You take back your hand
from the blooming roses on
the little girl's cheeks;
choose one from her basket,
a rose of the purest pink,
for your beloved's hair.
(“Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” the memorable line is from the poem ‘Sacred Emily’ by Gertrude Stein.)
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.
THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN (MADHYABAYASKA)
( English version - Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
A disturbing family -
grumbling parents,
jealous brothers,
resenting wife,
naughty children
having penchant
for playing pranks,
tricking him
to buy things
of precious little use.
As night advances,
his luck sinks further -
the pan-shop he patronizes
draws shutter on his face.
His whore
kicks him out of her bed,
as he is late
for her fastidious taste.
But an old pro at the game
of playing a victim card,
he cries foul aloud,
raising the sleeping neighbourhood
with the rattle
of the iron piercing his soul.
He then goes to seek refuge
in sleep, pipedreaming -
happy parents, loving brothers,
a wife at his beck and call,
an obliging whore,
and his brood of beastly brats
singing, “um..m..m..m…um..
home sweet home”;
he eating a hot meal,
but alas (!), dipping fingers
into a blistering curry;
he wakes up groggy,
wondering… to thank
or curse the curry dream.
From pipedreams to reality,
he reminisces to appreciate
the acts of kindness of his wife,
making his bed and being his partner;
the playfulness of flowers
down his window ledge;
the teasing the morning breeze.
He gifts his wife for her good turns
an insurance policy, as huge
as her pains and sacrifices,
his quid pro quo
for giving him life’s little pleasures,
in their ‘you love me’, ‘you love me not’
chemistry; but carefully
collecting his pipedreams,
keeping them within easy reach,
his alternate retreat.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
I don’t remember
when I was weaned away
from my dam
nor will I ever know
who had sired me
for there are no
certificates
announcing my pedigree
and my lineage
but I am welcome
to the street brotherhood
that took me in
without a question.
No one throws a ball
at me and asks me
to fetch
but I am used to the stones
hurled at me
and which I have learnt
to duck
I get a pat once in a while
from the street urchins
and my tail
involuntarily wags
asking for more
sometimes it doesn’t
but my eyes tell it all.
Sometimes I crawl
clandestinely to the gates
of the residential society nearby
while the security guards
are having their lunch
and peep in
to see the spruced up
pups frolicking
in the garden
chasing the butterflies
and then I am driven away
by a vigilant watchman
that brings me down
to Mother Earth.
I have heard that
if I could sneak into
the society compound
someone may adopt me
someone may accept me
as their mascot
but there would be a
price I have to pay
for not remaining a stray
I have to wear a collar
and embrace the spay.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
The players have done their job well.
I can think of nothing except thinking of
their shadowy figures moving through the mind.
The play has ended, and now
the bare stage begins to take over—
sly, like an unwritten play.
I continue to sit at my allotted place
like one who has witnessed all
and so cannot move.
The world ends exactly here.
I know, I need not move
from this place.
There is a seed that comes from nowhere
and yet can give rise to a tree large enough
to hold the homing birds, and full and round
with branches and green leaves.
The rush of the sap could be heard
during the night, when no one listens,
amid the birds and roots to sleep.
Delicate twig and leaf stir out
at unseen places, without noise,
disturbing no one’s sleep;
dark branches support the fruit
that lies hidden, now overripe;
it lets it fall, and even while
it is falling, it is taken care of
by angels watching, its only seed
picked off its body by diligent fingers,
to be tossed in the rising wind so it may
travel through centuries before taking root.
In the morning all that remains are the fruit’s
dry husk on the cold earth, the tree
which now is only an uneasy summary
of lean branches skyward-staring,
the birds and leaves having disappeared
somewhere in the vast and sleepy night already.
________________________________________________________
Nirvana: The term, which literally means “blowing out of the flame of life”, refers to the state of final emancipation from matter, ignorance and delusion, which are the cause of dukkha or worldly suffering.
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
LOVE, THROUGH THE TELESCOPE...
The luminous muse waxing and waning
Pulling me through milky threads of hypnotic love
Mesmerising visitor of my dreams
A Sakhi to share my secrets with
Through wordless conversations
Read from the eyes, that
Sometimes are inked with tears
The silent glow, full or crescent
Smearing peace, and love upon my heart
As I gaze at the dark grey roof…
For hours we have conversed
In the language of light, darkness, and the stars
How many times have we walked together
And you, meandered through trees, and the clouds
Emerging each time with a wink, or laughter
How deserted I have felt, on New moon days…
Your gentle blossoming, in my poems
Smirks, in my captures
My long stares, while dissolving anger
My longing, that you be my messenger
Everything!
Everything rolled into one lump in my throat
Fighting back my tears of deep gratitude
I trembled in awe, and joy
Surreal to see you, my darling moon
Your surface of craters, dead volcanoes, and more
Are beyond comprehension, for this hopeless romantic!
My eyes welled up, a serene inexplicable happiness
Blanketed my soul
As I felt you, through my eyes
As you entered my heart
In your raw beautiful form…
“Welcome home”, we mutually said
And we know we will live eternally there
Just you, and me
Am glad, a part of my name too, is you
My one and only honeyed muse, Mathi, my dearest Nila.
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
Walk on the terrace at leisurely pace
As wave-like clouds fleet past stifled ripple(s)
lockdown in homes we can gleefully face.
Lives will never halt or come to cripple.
The sunlight always brings along stipple(s),
over stretches of green where cattle graze
Moon in starlit skies will ever amaze.
Nature’s tapestry changes silently
Neglects not, ensures that we are secure.
By playing our roles uncomplainingly,
socially distanced, remain demure,
for challenges of all kinds to endure.
With resilience we shall face outright -
Let not our morale be destroyed by blight.
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.
As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
If you were human enough to understand,
Anonymous force
I’d plead you to take things a little lighter
At night even my fingernails are tender
The spears you deploy
Ghosts of times long gone, times that
Won’t bother to come back
They hit right on the spot
Of what I could call my heart, soul, spirit
Or the boiling essence of my very being
And make them bleed pain
Agony – I’ve tresspassed everyday
Regrets – I am no anonymous to
As you are to me now
So hear
Anonymous, whatever you are
I hope your soul’s tender too
To requests
And repents
To asking.
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
A SLICE OF MOON FOR YOU
Pradeep Biswal
Tonight I wish
To present you
A slice of moon
That can brighten
Your space in sky
Keeping away
The darkness
Engulfing you.
I have no idea
How do you look
During these days
Since we met
Long back
In a distant city.
You had a pizza
On your plate
Seemingly moon shaped
And you were delighted
By the sight
As if you held
A slice of moon
In your hand.
Yes I promise
Tonight I will give you
A slice of moon
You cherished that day.
Come with me
Hold my hand
Look at the sky
How marvellous
It looks tonight
The thin clouds
Floating across
The blinking stars
And the bright moon
A slice is ready for you
Raise your hand
Catch hold the piece
You desire most
To brighten your own.
COLLECTING THE SCARS
Pradeep Biswal
Scars are no stars
Yet they shine in the dark
Remind the turns of life
The turbulent times
And the bruises
Inflicted on the body and soul.
The ordeals of the journey
Stay vivid in the mind
Stepped on so many
Thorns and petals
Laid on the ground
Oozing blood at times.
The shells never define
A soulful heart
When the breath
Is taken away
You are reborn
In a new avatar.
The scars disappear
For a moment
The stars shine
As never before.
Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet, translator and editor of repute. He has six poetry collections in Odia and two in English to his credit. Two anthologies of his poems translated into Hindi have also been published. His poems have been widely anthologised and appreciated by the readers.
There could always be roads and roads
Ahead of you waiting to be treaded on
A messy web of confusion
Leading to not one destination
But to those you wish for
Leading to somewhere, anywhere
You want to go,
And you may wonder why
On one fine morning you see only two,
Not sure if one of them lengthens out
To your chosen place
To a promising land of many a bright face,
Often you happen to
Make a wrong choice
And pick up the road that crooks into a tunnel
Plunged in a dismal darkness;
Then the journey is a blind groping
A breathless scrambling down the dark
Through bend after bend
Scratched, bruised from the shrapnel of
Of rocks jutting out from nowhere,
A sweating, bleeding struggle to
To discover a light at its end;
It is sunset time when at last
You stumble out to the open
To squint at another patch of
Clumsy network of roads,
A labyrinth of strips of beige
In the pale twilight
Twisting away in to the black mass
Of the ominously advancing night;
But now that the journey through
The black hollow has made you tough
And taught you not to muse enough,
Not to dread what awaits you there
Be it the angel or a demon for all you care,
You move ahead determined yet slow
For the inevitable final rendezvous!
A clock stops ticking
A moment severed from the past
Metamorphoses to a moon,
And looks demurely below
Through the spun-silver clouds
Hanging in random clusters,
Its face painted with a small smile
Of pleasant astonishment,
It leans out a little
To watch a boundless desert of time
And the millions and millions
Of other moments imprisoned there
In ever-lengthening twisted sand-lines
Close in fast and weaving into
A shining ball of twine;
Slowly the moon settles beyond the hill
To see how a night of black chill
Blooms into a profusion of colours,
How a dream comes alive
Like a resurrected spring
To take a trip on gossamer wings
Tearing the sheets of frost
To a paradise that was long since lost!
Dr. Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English, is an eminent translator and poet of Odisha. She has translated ten texts from Odia to English including the classics Prayaschitta and Utkal Bhraman (Fakir Mohan Senapati) Bandi ra Atmakatha and Kara Kabita ( Gopabandhu Das), Padmamali(the first novel in Odia) and Bibasini (Ram Shankar Ray) and several others. Her works are published by Oxford University Press, Black Eagle Books (USA) Kendriya Sahitya Akademi, Speaking Tiger Books, Odisha Sahitya Akademi and other noted publishing houses. She has five collections of English poems( Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say no to A Rose) to her credit.
Into a queer land,
Not along with adventurers,
Or challenging comrades,
But all alone ,
Like an ant along the waves.
I twitch twitch searching for leaves,
Found nothing fresh,
But dry Palmyra in the dock.
Starboard sided my burdened heart,
Sky was changing its attire,
From blue to deep black,
Not plain but starred.
I was also not plain,
But staring into the eerie silence.
Separating it strand by strand,
Each strand gave a strong throb,
That my attitude in high altitude,
Started diving down deep.
Every variant of fear paraded before me,
Those were not just seven deadly sins ,
In front of Faustus,
But were infinite infernos,
Each taking me to the hell and back,
There was no Virgil to help me out.
The last candle started melting,
Showing the secret words in the Palmyra,
Resembled an incantation,
It redoubled my fear ,
Opening another door for mystery,
It read promising me to face anything,
It sounded omnipotent and esemplastic,
It called for a mind magic,
Swearing my departure from this mystery city.
The Palmyra started glowing,
That it spoke not in my hallucination,
Not in a single voice,
But in multitudes of echo.
Aloud and alert that it said ,
“Awake your mind, provoke your thoughts and devote yourself to adore literature”
It jarred in my mental ears,
A million times as a magical orchestra,
I started provoking to devote.
I saw Odysseus's Lotos eater's island,
Through my magical eyes with the lens of literature.
I sensed Prospero’s ship amidst the Tempest,
I beheld the ancient mariner battling with albatross,
I met Matthew Arnold and his consort,
Fleeting waves of memories by the Dover beach.
I found old Santiago fighting with fullest determination.
These threw my fear away,
These were really magical,
That these I loved dimmed the rest of the universe.
I found the sky very bright,
Every star leading me to my destination.
The sky was still clad in black,
But I found it perfectly luminous.
Other than the candle light,
A very bright streak spread joy around,
The light was from me ,
From the wings given by my fancy.
Placing a mirror right in front,
Showing not my reflection,
But the real me!
I closed and opened my eyes,
Eyelids served the gateway to my fancy,
When it closes it admits no strangers,
But strange insiders.
I sailed with determination ,
Following the stars,
Shirking my fear,
I woke up with a great jerk,
Finding out a fantasy and fear filled fancy,
I took my pen for a play,
Ending with this poesy!!!
Literature not consists of magic
Literature is the biggest magic!!!
Into an aloof isle,
Counting every nautical mile,
I and my thoughts sail and sail,
Listening to my heartbeat,
The only sound around,
Eerie it was, although it was my life,
With poesy blue like the tides,
Rhythm clapping with the waves,
I am not into Coleridge’s Rime,
But it seems water everywhere,
With me left in the thirst for love.
Splashing salty fragrance,
The waves instil oddity,
Staying silent static companions,
Very grave and horrific.
Under the aloof Azure,
Longest pamban bridge over the sea,
Was not just a Vista,
But a twinkling lighthouse.
Fishes jump around in joy,
I sense a magnificent aura,
Ignited mind, igniting minds,
A dream man with dreams for his land,
A visionary with visions for India,
Sailing across this missile man's aura,
Confidence surpasses Desolation.
Sailing over this appetizing sandwich,
Sandwich of land, bridge and the sea,
Crispier at the edges,
Divine in the filling,
Mystic on the sides.
Nibbling dejection along,
Reached a queer land,
Where I seemed a lonely fish,
Spade did not move the boat,
But the waves did,
I can no more steer,
But caught alone between the waves,
Now even my heart went inaudible
As ears were in fear to the brim,
With no black carpets to welcome,
But only sea sand with no castles.
A sea of fire,
Junction of three vast blues.
Sand whipped by the horned tyres,
Waves running fast to pamper.
Migrated miracles walk around,
Hunting fishily for fishes,
A place with no power, no boat, no human,
water and waves serving the only company.
I in dearth of love,
Picked up my ever lovely company,
My pen, paper and poesy!
That I stay relishing!!!
When a microbe fights against a million,
With world marinated in tears,
Perennial waves from the merciless sea,
Attack a sinking ship with billions,
Eyes are glued to miseries,
Left wide open and fluttering,
Like the color lost butterfly.
With the staged miserable masque,
We struggle with masked faces.
Colonized by corona,
Humanity fights back,
Not for independence but for immunity.
The tip of my pen quivers
Feeling brainstorms and heartthrobs,
Was obstinate to write panegyric epics,
But oozes blood with pain,
Bypassing egregious elegies.
We ignored the green angels,
Abhorred the animal friends,
In super ego’s coronation
We suffer by the nature’s envoy
Still, suffering and suffocating,
The world is veiled into ventilators.
With lurking fear,
God-sent humans called doctors and nurses,
Sieged by the supporting frontline,
Readily lose lives for the future.
Fighting till the last second,
As an impetus,
She lost her lively foetus,
Kicking no more in her womb
Breathed her last time patiently,
For the passion she had on her patients.
The primal five that made the world
Strive incredibly hard for the infinite
Water is made life saving medicine,
Air is stained by viral vermillion,
With cry and howls reaching the sky,
Earth is filled with funeral pyres,
Burning lives, hopes and future.
“Do what my Lady did,
Else You will forever get what I lost”
Says Macbeth from Covispeare,
All the sanitizers cannot sweeten but can save.
“Common , stitch my souvenir as mask”
Says Othello to his Lady.
Literature, the soul way for escapism,
That classic Shakespeare rules covid struck minds too.
The pain of losing precious lives,
Has become a story with countless commas.
A life that costs more than a world,
Created magically in trimesters,
Smothers for oxygen,
Struggles for medicine,
Gone in minutes but moaned forever.
Their stopping spot being Almighty's feet,
From whom we pray a full stop.
No goodbyes, no funerals
But the dear departed
Are departed deep with dissolved dreams.
Socially distant but soulfully together,
Locked down with hope,
We believe to recover the recumbent,
Revive and relive in the glorious world!
This is R.DURGA, a Research Scholar and Teaching Assistant in Department of English, Srinivasa Ramanujan Centre, SASTRA Deemed to be University, Kumbakonam. She is a passionate lover of English language and literature which naturally helped her in turning out as a poet. Starting with an inspiring spark from her grandfather, with muses’ grace, parents' constant support , motivation and Almighty’s blessings she started writing when she was 13, and now she has more than 200 precious poems . She loves language and literature to such an extent that she holds an ardent ambition to transfer her passion through her magical pen, which she considers the mightiest weapon. She has published her anthology of poetry in school level and has published many others in national and international journals, one selected out of 25 in the country for publication and many others have won accolades in national and state level intercollegiate competitions. She takes great pleasure in paying her gratitude to all her teachers for the guidance, friends for their support and all other good hearts who have constantly motivated her. Pens are not only the connection with hands and brain but hearts and feelings, they are omnipotent as they propagate such an extent of admiration and pulse of passion. She takes great joy in her readers taking the propagated charm to their hands and hearts, enjoy literature to the core, admire life and start writing to experience the power of PENS!!!
(English version – Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Eager is my intent to touch you,
but the moody lotus recedes away
in the slippery pond,
ever out of my reach.
Unsure of taking my pick:
your lips, chin, nape or navel?
Or the lotus down to the groin?
What does my explorer zeal chase?
An erupting volcano in sleep,
a melting icy glacier in wait,
one of the two may take me in
before I take a plunge;
peeling layers of silk and skin,
digging into the softest doughy flesh
I may have a surprise waiting, a scaffolding
of hundred-and-twenty-six pieces of bones?
(The poem is from Bijayketan Patnaik’s book of poetry “Nai pari Jhia” (a girl with riverine spirits.)
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
Now, I am here
Don’t wish to remember
My days of glory
And dishonor.
How can the past
Decide my future?
Time to break the prison
And throw away the shackles.
Water is not the same
In the flowing river
Wind of change has taken away
The old prickly summer.
With the advent of a new age ,
It is time to grow fresh feathers
In preparation for conquering
The new horizon.
They all will continue to judge.
How am I concerned?
Nothing sticks for ever,
No rule rules permanently
As an ideal world order.
If change is a constant
Where is the option
Holding on to the past
Like a relict clinging on
To similar status?
No doubt, will lose my name,
My old identity and fame,
It is not a big price
Compared to what I get.
The sky will have
A new wave to rejuvenate
My passion for quest
Exploring the mysterious nature
Each and every moment,
With my wings of change.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
Let us jump a little
and plan the next trip either to near
or far off places and wander aimless
though dark clouds hover in the sky,
let us dream of flying to a gleaming city
or forlorn sea side
and gaze at the wonders of art and artifice, eat, dance and be merry,
listen to thunderous silence of skies and sea
and 'tis never too late,
let us roam over our town on bikes
or on walk and probe
into the mysteries
of the caves and rocks, watch the ebb and flow of quivering centuries,
of Asoka's meaningless hoax on governance,
Kharavela's renunciation after years of warfare
and big nothingness thereafter,
let us go,
explore and meditate, find some meaning
as life grumbles listless
and time hastens a lot.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
In search of tranquility,
With a flustered mind,
I visited the divine temple.
Holy abode of Lord Vishnu on earth.
The gorgeous Guruvayoor.
As an enchanting little lad,
You came to me,
And offered me,
The priceless boon.
Through your valuable freebie,
You taught me,
The key to happiness-
As the reduction of desires.
The mantra of success-
As self-control.
Detachment from material things-
As the way to inner peace.
Today I realise-
The efficacy of life.
Rejoice in the bliss of infinity.
Through your invaluable gift.
The best life guide.
The Bhagavad Gita.
Asha Raj Gopakumar, a postgraduate in English Literature and a novice in writing. She has been living in the Middle East with her family for more than a decade. She is an ardent lover of music, nature and spirituality. She is an active bajan singer in many devotional groups. Presently she focuses on reading, writing and is very much busy creating a personal vlog for bajan lovers. She had been a teacher for almost six years and gave it up for family matters.
Her large raven eyes met his
and went in hiding
mind extolled in
weaving beads of dreams
silent, stood, he watching,
breeze playing around her hair
waving, whistling
circling playfully
‘n’ making soft cuddles silent
enroute it’s mischievous rides;
Robes dancing swing and stride
with perched up frills light
to the music of night
with her resonant tresses.
Molten silver from the moon
in its albino style,
made her face glitter
that portrayed shallow curves.
Stars blinked at a distance
not wanting to disrupt.
Spring sips
from myriad roses
Crimson hues of
opening rose buds, and
wafting smell
from twigs with flowers
attract nectar-greed-bees
Eyes met each other
nurturing rudiments of love
sought each other’s with seal of
hissing sounds, from hearts
and together they travelled
and slide softly, unseen,
to another world,
beyond the reach of stars
beyond the reach of angels
higher than high Heavens.
Pankajam, retired from BHEL as DM/Finance is a bilingual poet and novelist settled at Chennai, India. In addition to several poems, book reviews and articles published in national and international journals, she has twenty-eight books to her credit, including fifteen books of poems, a translated poetry collection in French and three fictions in English. Three books on literary criticism viz., Femininity Poetic Endeavours, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry-An Appraisal and Socio-Cultural Transition in Modern Indian English Writing & Translation discuss her works in detail. She has won many awards for poems and short stories including Rock Pebbles National Literary Award 2019.
O Dear Student, you're blessed
by a teacher, you are addressed
She looks after you and guides you
in your needs and every deed you do!
A selfless teacher strives hard
to mould as a citizen, every ward
She loves her desirable profession
Her worth is only her progression!
Rude, loving, annoying, or kind
with everyone, she tries to bind
She wishes to see students shine
in any field, enables them to design!
Your pleasant place is the classroom
She teaches you to avoid your gloom
Lessons are always taught for your life
You find a path through words and strife!
She can change you from bad to good
Follow her rules and advice, you should
Teacher and student's relation is the best
You're prepared to appear on any tough test!
Love for learning makes you choose the path
Every moment points towards the aftermath
She is honest, punctual, and sincere at duty
Your duty towards your ambition is your beauty!
Teachers are honoured and remembered on this day
Who truly create professionals, it's not a child's play
She inculcates the ethics and values in your mind
that help you grow and move ahead amid humankind!
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
You are the love of our life
Our heart fills with joy whenever you bounce and jive
Mommy can't put you in her music video shoots
Instead will buy you marathon shoes
Summer sandals and
Beach slippers
I know you hate doggy crunchies
And yearn for jeera cookies
Another one of your favourite.. Kachoris
Tastier than any granaries
Your furs getting rough
Oh! It can be so tough
Mommy will pamper you with fenugreek mask
Oh! quite a task
But anything for you
What unconditional love is, is known by only a few
You cherish ghee toppings
And freak out on a chair for squatting
Lushy Tushy Lushy Tushy, who the coming?
(look see, who is coming?)
Is anyone running?
I can hear the birds humming
The sounds of bumble bee buzzing
In our lives your presence is divine
We shall always be fine
You are here to heal
With earnest zeal
We will buy you glares
To protect you from evil stares
Mommy got to work in the kitchen
To prepare your favorite rice chicken
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
She has been writing articles for LV for the past one and half years. Recently she has published her first book.. "Reflections Of My Mind",an ode to the children and families challenged by Autism
The colour of the years
trembles in these waters.
The sky in a cold-blue descent
settles on the iridescent plane
where my body lies looking inside.
The time zones in the map, smudged,
no longer, wake up to different alarms.
Those cast-away wreaths on
the timeless waters of Ganga
in Varanasi go nowhere.
Daylight dies at the end, and
bodies sink in to the river,
each day in to memory.
Like a slow flight of birds
curls of smoke travel from
Chillums of unknown sadhus
towards the city thoroughfare
where bulls roam and ruminate
under the streetlights of Kashi.
The edges of the river and the sky
meet like two lids to encase the earth.
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
(English version – Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
I adore this night.
It may not be the same tomorrow.
I beg, give me your lips,
let me take an eyeful of you,
feed you a wild berry,
take you into my little cottage
decorated with peacock plumage.
My heart is jubilant like a swan’s
swaying in rhythm on ripples,
water mirroring its whiteness
into myriad fragments.
I adore the trees
along with their companions –
their foliage and blooms,
the river that soaks their roots
and the clouds that wash them green.
The wind by the sea would
be in my adoration, the breakers
they bring ashore. They would keep
haunting me as my sweet reveries.
I would surrender myself
to this moment
with complete devotion
as in a prayer; rejoice its bliss.
Tonight, I would adore
with a garland my companion
who led me to light from the dark.
Tonight, I would not adore the gods,
or count their names
on my prayer bid,
it would be a night
for my love, my mate.
(The poem is from the poet’s Odia collection ‘MOHINI’ meaning ‘the enchantress’)
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
Soon as the evening sun wore on, West mystically reddened
Early twilight air, morning fare and day’s fire became a legend
I am reminded by all and sundry that these are my evenings!
Moored mornings, mid days and its ways are already bygone things!
Still, when evening twilight is taking down notes of the last fading rays
They reassure me , this is not your swan song nor your dying days!
Many flutes are yet to be played, many musical notes await to be relayed
Much more to be heard and unheard, of melodies down the glade.
I see a vast and endless spread which I need to tirelessly trudge
Like an Oarsman with others, or perhaps alone , without any grudge.
I know many moonlights will lit my path and grip my unwearied mind
And move my soulful caravan beyond the un trodden pathways unlined
Oh, let me know before curtains are down and day is definitely done
That I envy none, my heart at peace, in sync with the final setting sun...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
The mind searches for the last image of where we left them,
The visuals and the walkthroughs that we attempt to cobble together
About the beloved thing or the thing that we needed
But somewhere lost when we seek or need it
When we remember we go to the place we forgot
And search there – it is the same place, but it is long past
If we get it, the delight of finding the lost object
Else the desperate search, visualizing and trying to remember
At some point, we all give up on it that could never be found
Life goes on, some with fond memories and others with regret
Yet in the long run, we could live without it for better or for worse
It is the same about a person when they leave us
For short periods or for longer, forever or for good
When we try to cling to them we still can’t
For life goes on, or else death takes them away
If they are alive there is a possibility to reunite or meet
But it is the same body but a different person
This time changed and weathered by Father Time
Yet we expect them to be like they were
Like how we had them in our memories
The person has gone or changed if we meet again
Our fickle minds play tricks, bringing pain, joy and sorrow
Just because we bury our head in the sands of time
To understand that people change for better or for worse
So will we ever find what we thought we had lost?
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.
When I am a little girl,
Just born
People don't fully accept me
They wait for miracles to happen
To know I could grow big They need to nurture me
And by growing bigger
I help them to keep going
I can be born anywhere, anytime
Although I can't be seen
I can be black, blue , red or green
But having me is the theme
For those who believe in anything
Be it God, Fate, Nature or fellow human being
When I grow really big and strong
Nothing can stop you
Even if you are wrong
Whether I am big or small
Without me there is nothing to move on
If you have me , you will have
Full Assurance In The Heart
That everything is going to be fine .
I came into this world pretty and small
Everyone liked to hold me all the time
I was always given preference
Even when it came to one's sleepless nights
I was cajoled and carressed night and day
I was dressed up and protected in many ways
I was also energized always
As time passed I grew older
I started having a crush, an eye for a partner
I took her out on dates
To check out the vision that she recreates
I realized the power of her traits
I liked her for her clarity
I wanted to have her always with me
But fate plays in our lives
I fail to remember her on important days
She is forgotten and I am the sufferer to the core
Ignoring and neglecting her took a toll on my own image
I decided to develop an eternal bondage
Now, I have come to the point where we are an inseparable pair
Wherever I go she too comes with a flair,
There is no visibility without her.
So, buddy
Please dont forget to take my lover with you
Wherever I go she too comes.
Now...
My mobile and spectacles are inseparable and live happily ever together.
Indu Pooranan lives in Chennai and is passionate about literature. She started writing a few lines wishing her husband for his 50th birthday and from then on has gone on to making people feel special on important occasions by expressing her thoughts and the bonds they share. In addition to the photo grids that she tries to create, she also pens her thoughts on nature and current topics.
Keep blessing…..
Come what may.
Keep blessing any way.
You feel low,
You feel high
Keep blessing anyway…….
You feel bitter
And a bit battered;
Keep blessing anyway…….
You feel ditched
You feel pampered;
Keep blessing anyway…….
You are winning
Or at the verge of losing
Keep blessing anyway……
“Who will bless whom?”
The ‘lotus’ blooms aglow
With perplexity in eyes….
The ‘inner call’ thunders
‘Thou blesseth thou’
For the ‘Universe’ is ‘You’.
Keep blessing,
If ‘All is well’,
Keeps the vibe alive and bright.
Keep blessing;
Even at the lowest of low,
Who has seen
What next He may play!!!
Being blessed,
Or keep blessing;
It bounces back
Grace in bounty,
Filling the inner-self
With amity serene.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
Today I feel an invisible boulder on me
Should I panic should I scream?
Surrounding me is the same Black
I closed my eyes so long I think I’m blind.
The waves of compel, the waves of callous
Within my heart I cannot stay composed.
Emotions, demotions, fear and passion
When they meet they call it conjunction.
Conjunction of failed victory
Conjunction of the reset of life’s battery.
Here on will my dreams push me
Or shall my losses kiss me?
Feel me, O lord of lords
Can’t you see your child’s whine?
Ask you not for your appearance, nor fairness
Just if you can, amass the leap of faith in me.
Thousands of miles from the land,
Epiphanic Hurricane- dashed and damned.
To come out wreathed or down to wreck,
I am the Master of my Fate.
Deafening chimp of armour, frantic fog of war,
Arms may freeze, magma red numb my heart,
Down to knees or let unconquered soul stand out tall,
I am the Master of my World.
Day in and day out, living in the world full of bout,
Being little more kind, keep walking when the road seems rough,
To pass through, clean, beyond reasonable doubt,
I am the Master of my heavenly abode.
Death stuck, bed locked, isolated and shattered,
Hard earned wealth- mere litters, loved ones say “toddles”!
To break in or break through the Life-n-Death shackles,
I am the Master of my Battle.
Life’s journey between birth and death,
Who can chain you if you are freed?
To spill the life energy as you live; serve ,smile, shout for Glory,
Begin to ensure your worth, YOU are the Master of your story.
Akankshya Arunima is a medical student, pursing her MBBS from IMS and SUM Hospital Bhubaneswar. She aspires to be a selfless clinician and medical researcher in her future,holds special interest in anything and everything related to science and spirituality. She loves reading self development books and to explore life, places and people that give life it's meaning.
A note on the poem: this poem was written by the author on the occasion of National doctor's day. She long wanted to pen down her thoughts about this nobel profession, knowing how seemingly impossible the task is. The life of a doctor is most extraordinary and beautiful in it's own way. As they say service to mankind is service to God. "How extraordinary will a human's life be when it's each day is filled with dedicated service to the people. Thus being a doctor/physician/surgeon is just not a profession. It's a Divine Profession!" - Akankshya Arunima
Tomorrow, always tomorrow,
Why is it that I can’t focus ?
My dreams are drowning in sorrow,
Why am I so afraid to lose ?
I didn’t even notice,
I've left myself behind
Hiding from the face of peace,
From pain I was blind.
But a chance came from the skies,
I've been given another shot ,
To survive once more and rise,
I will show you a twist in my plot.
And every night I'll pray,
Dear Heavens, don’t give up on me,
As while everyday I'll play,
Wishing myself to live a life so free.
Ms. Akshara Rai is an MBBS student at the Institute of Medical Sciences and SUM Hospital, Bhubaneswar. A winner of multiple awards for poems, short stories and elocution, she is passionate about Drawing & Painting, Writing poems& short stories, Reading books, Acting, and Oration.
The glittering words walked
through the narrow lanes of suppression.
They were welcomed with
Garland's and shawls.
Roads were full, for just a glance
Crowds pulled with
inexplicable hopes.
Strike from the mass
Striving for a cause.
Turbulent hearts pacified with
the golden wand
making the oddities for
favourable deed.
Numerous palpitations
joined the slogans
Numberless thoughts took them
to their hearts
Wealth contributed whole- heartedly
Words calculated authentically
Thorny paths gradually
witnessed the smile
thoughtful days made the warriors courageous
Making Mother independent
and Tri -colour glorious..
P.L.Sreedharan Parokode is a bi-lingual poet and lyricist from Malappuram district, Kerala. He has a Master's degree in English literature and Population Studies and a Post Graduate Diploma in Parental Education. Sreedharan has thirty books of poetry to his credit, including 'Weeping Womb', 'Slum Flowers,'Mahatma Gandhi' 'Nelson Mandela',Poems', 'Don't mum Please' etc. He has also written songs for professional dramas, for albums, songs for competitions, devotional songs etc. He has written songs for animation film also.
Sreedharan has attended various literary conferences in India and abroad. He presented his poems at World Congress of Poets, in Taiwan, 2015, China, 2018, and literary conference in Serbia, 2007.
He has received awards and honours from various organisations, such as, Sahitya shree Award, Sahitya Shiromani Award, Shan E Adab Award etc. He has also received an Hony.Doctorate from the World Academy of Art and Culture
Sreedharan is currently engaged in Doctoral Research in Population Studies from Annamalai University. Earlier he was working in the Administrative wing of the University of Calicut.
Her little and small body
bring with them joy and pride
Like the early glittering rays in the east
She spreads brightness wherever she is
At every age and stage
Care and charm embodied,
A name for devotion and dedication
Always are to be proud of
She made voyage to moon
and still remain simple, faithful
At times suffered dowry torture
and often succumb to flames of lust,
Facing superficial smiles,
She remains firm and strong
Praiseworthy is her attitude
Just as an armlet signifies strudy and infallible
Shiba Prasad Mishra is a retired Administrative Service Officer with a passion for poetry and literature. A post graduate in Geography from Utkal University, Bhubaneswar, he loves to write short poems and shares them with his friends.
It flows wherever it feels,
Stop it only if needed.
I believe our mind is also filled with water,
Like water, minds have the capability to accept sundry things.
The mind is like a river.
The thoughts are like
various droplets of water.
We are submerged in that water,
thoughts in mind are like water in the river.
They flow, lose intensity during certain period,
become fierce at times and flood occasionally.
Stay on the bank and watch your mind.
River refers to a body of water that flows ,
from a higher elevation to a lower ground.
We cannot stop a thought once it has come;
Like river we can only provide a passage to it.
We have no control over its volume either.
Once it has come, it has come.
As the mighty river passes through deep gorges, canyons and valleys,
our thoughts will also pass through various features of the mind.
Think of the mind as a river: the faster it flows,
the better it keeps up with the present and responds to change. ...
Obsessional thoughts, past experiences and preconceived notions
They all are like boulders or mud in this river,
settling and hardening. there and damming it up.
My mind is like a river of words,
it keeps on flowing, it is the only way I talk without speaking.
Flowing river is better than beautiful thoughts in mind,
that will make us live with hope.
Sukanya V Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Michael's College, Cherthala
My moments of wakefulness
mock at sleep with a sneer,
like an old, mean man
bent on withering her to shame.
Yet, she is the one
I had brought yesterday to bed,
to comfort me, rollick me
and soothe my listless mind.
I asked her, are you upset with me
because the room is small,
bereft of all that shines,
the riches, the comforts?
Or are you disturbed by the
forlorn ghosts of my past,
walking down the stairs
In the night looking sad and lost?
She shook her head, no,
I am haunted by all those images
of torture and torment,
helpless cries of innocent victims.
The baby crying for his mother,
parents shedding tears, knowing
all the protests, the candle lights
will not bring their daughter back.
My eyes are open, unable to sleep
I see the lambs being taken to slaughter
looking at me, pleading for life,
their hoarse bleats tattooed in my mind,
And the procession moves on
of headless corpses each carrying
a story of blood and gore,
of struggles and defeats galore.
I am condemned to live
in a state of unending wakefulness,
sleep holding my hands
in a pathetic surrender,
trying to tell me of all that I lost in life,
whispering words of foreboding,
of my approaching slaughter
by the sword of time.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . 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. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
SHORT STORIES
Once upon a time in a remote region under the foothills of the Himalayas, there existed a kingdom called Suryaprastha. It was ruled by the kings of Surya dynasty and its capital was known as Suryagarh. Traditionally the kings were peace loving and were content with what they inherited from generation to generation. The subjects of the kingdom were a happy lot, content with their meagre possessions and lived peacefully under the benevolent and pious kings. The main occupation of the people was farming and tending goats and sheep. The area was also rich in mineral wealth. The main source of revenue of the kingdom was from the gem stone mines, which the king owned. The Nature was generous and never was there any shortage or deprivation of any kind. But all this changed when Suryapratap the current king was crowned and ascended the throne. Suryapratap was just twenty five years old when his father Suryabhan died of heart attack. After Suryapratap took over the reins of the kingdom, he realised that his kingdom has not grown either in territory or in wealth over the years and has remained frozen in time. He had read about the young Macedonian king Alexander the Great, and his conquests and invasions and had wondered if he could follow his footsteps to conquer the neighbouring kingdoms and become the undisputed monarch in the region. He studied the secrets of greatness of Alexander and learnt that as a military commander he never lost a battle. It was due to use of terrain, cavalry tactics, and fierce loyalty of his troops. Systematically he started raising and training a formidable infantry and a strong cavalry which never existed earlier. His cavalry inducted not only the local mountain variety of Bhutia breed but also the imported breeds from Persia and Turkey. He had understood that if he has to win all the wars that he was planning to wage, it had to be by use of a strong cavalry for its speed, mobility and shock value. He got the best instructors and trainers and established many stables and training centres. He slowly and steadily built a highly motivated and capable army during the first five years of his reign.
He also built a potent intelligence gathering group of spies whose main job was not only to garner military statistics of the opponents but also to discover their Achilles heels in their tactics and strategies. With such thorough preparations, he launched his first campaign against the kingdom of Chandranagar, bordering the eastern boundaries. They were taken by complete surprise and with minimal losses, Suryapratap annexed it to Suryaprastha. As was the custom, the king of Chandranagar offered his daughter to the victor as the latter's queen. With this victory Suryapratap became bolder and continued to plan campaign after campaign. During the next few decades, his insatiable desire to conquer saw him annexing kingdom after kingdom and addition of queens one after another to his palace. While his lust for power was equally matched by his lust for beautiful women of royalty, his biggest woe was that he couldn't produce an heir. None of his queens could bear a child despite all efforts of puja, penance and medication. As he was getting on in years, his biggest fear that constantly haunted him and that hung over him like the Damocles's sword was that eventually he would die of old age and there would be no one to carry his name forward and inherit his great wealth, that he had amassed over the years.
He often remembered the story of Yayati:
" Yay?ti, a Chandravamshi king, an ancestor of the Pandavas and Kauravas, had conquered the whole world and was crowned as the Chakravarti Samrat, the Universal Monarch. He had married Devayani, the daughter of Shukracharya, the guru of the demons. Sharmistha, the daughter of the demon king and who had misbehaved with Devayani, had to accept to be the latter's personal maid as a punishment and had accompanied her to Yayati's palace. Sharmistha seduces Yayati and they develop an illicit relationship. After knowing of his relationship with Sharmishtha, Devayani complains to her father Shukracharya, who in turn curses Yay?ti to old age in the prime of life. However he forgives Yayati later and allows him to get his youth back if any of his sons was willing to exchange his youth with the father's old age. His son Puru offers his own youth to his father and Yayati becomes young again."
Every time he remembered the story he lamented about himself not having a son. He imagined that if he had a son, he was sure that he would also have sacrificed his youth to make his father young like Puru did for Yayati.
He woke up from his reverie when his Chief of Army entered his tent and asked his permission to start the raid. They were yet on another campaign against a southern state Indrapuram. Suryapratap had no doubt about his victory and he ordered them to attack. As was anticipated, it was again an easy win. The princess of Indrapuram was rather very young and in her teens. Suryapratap was just touching sixty and it showed in his grey hair and beard. To welcome the new queen to his palace Suryapratap had arranged a victory celebration in the front courtyard of his magnificent palace. The galleries surrounding the courtyard wore a festive look with coloured flags & buntings and was filled to the brim with the citizens cheering the Army which did a flag march while the king with his new queen-to-be by his side took the salute. The other queens in their regalia were in attendance too in the Royal pavilion. The final show was of the horsemen showing their prowess in tent pegging and horse jumping. The most impressive show was put up by the chief horse trainer, Somdev a youth in his twenties, with a perfect chiselled body oozing youth and vigour. After the mesmerising show, when the king proposed to the young princess, Soumya and began to put the crown on her head, she waved it off and spoke in an undertone, ' Pardon me your highness, you are almost my father's age. How can I ever be happy as your wife? I need a partner for life. Who knows if I marry you, I may be your widow in few days. I know I will have the whole world under my feet if I accept you as my husband. I would rather marry that horse trainer over there and stay poor.' The king abruptly got up and ordered the buglers to sound last post declaring the show closed. He then walked silently into the palace amidst suppressed giggles in the Royal Pavilion.
For the next three days the King locked himself in his private chamber and refused to see anyone. He than summoned his spiritual Guru Markandeya Swamy and sought his advice about how he may regain his youth. The Guru smiled and told, ' Your Highness, what you are asking for is against the Nature. We all are slaves of time. Growing old is a natural process. I would like to advise you that you desist from this desire.'
' No Gurudev, I can't accept the dejection that I had to face from the princess of Indrapuram. I can still hear the sniggering giggles of my queens, ringing in my ears. You have to help me out. There must be some way.'
' If you insist, there is a way. But that is not prescribed in any of my scriptures. For that I would refer you to a renowned tantric and sorcerer, Baba Aghorinath who has made huge personal sacrifices and have acquired the distinction of being an exponent of 'Asuri Kalpa' as prescribed in the AtharvaVeda. Originally from Mayong village in the valley of river Brahmaputra, now he has set up his Ashram on our city's cremation ground. If anyone can help, it could only be him.'
The King sent two of his trusted men to extend the royal invitation to Baba Aghorinath, along with a gift of few gold mohars. The Baba was dressed only in a red loin cloth, the rest of his body bare but covered with a thick layer of ash, which gave him a silvery look from head to toe. He sported a large vertical vermillion mark superimposed on three horizontal lines of turmeric paste on his wide forehead and had a flowing beard & tufts of matted hair dangling from his head like serpents from the head of Medusa. He readily agreed to accompany the messengers to the king's palace. He was escorted up to the king's private chamber. He then made his grand entry and banged his trident on the floor a couple of times to draw the king's attention. The king descended from his throne, bowed to the Baba with reverence and walked up to him to usher him to an ornate chair which was designated to seat the royal guest.
The mendicant sat for sometime with closed eyes and in complete silence, while the king waited anxiously to start the conversation. After a while the Baba opened his eyes and with an enigmatic smile told, ' Your Highness, I know what you desire is not easy to get. But you have come to the right man. I will surely help. But you have to perform a special puja for Maa Pataal Bhairavi on the night of the forthcoming new moon. And you have to find a young man whose youth could be transfused into you, while your old age will be transmitted to him.'
' Baba, who could be the right person for this trade off?'
' As I understand you want to be young again to win the heart of the princess of Indrapuram. So you must find some young person who has attracted her attention and whom she perhaps fancies.'
' This morning during the victory celebrations she had shown her preference to the chief horse trainer Somnath over me. Will he be the suitable candidate?'
'Perfect. He will surely meet the requirement. But I must warn you beforehand. If Maa Bhairavi is happy with your penance, you will surely get his youthfulness and looks but his soul remains untouched and stays with him. Your soul continues to remain with you too. Your souls are unique to yourselves. The outer bodies are only receptacles for your souls.'
' I would like to know how long would I live after I regain my youth?'
'As you know, the souls are immortal. Death happens only when one is ready to leave one's perishable body. Once you get his youth, your life span would be the same as his life span. You will leave the world when he was destined to die, and he would live till you were destined to die in your current form. Now you decide if you would like to go ahead with the plan or you would like to change your mind,' the Baba concluded with a knowing smile.
The king thought for a while and reasoned to himself , 'I have already lived sixty years and perhaps only a few years are left for my death, while Somnath is not even thirty years old. Obviously he has a much longer life span than mine. So what could go wrong?'
Then he declared loudly, ' I have made up my mind. At any cost I would like to get my youth back.'
'Alright then. Meet me at the midnight of the next new moon, in my Ashram along with Somnath. We will perform the special Puja and get the switching over done.'
After the Baba left, the king ordered the arrest of Somnath. His orders were complied and a bewildered Somnath was locked up in the king's maximum security prison.
On the fateful night the king rode his chariot to the cremation ground, with a terrified Somnath in tow in a wheeled cage at the appointed time. The Baba received them at his Ashram and led them to an underground cave, where the reigning deity Pataal Bhairavi was installed. In the dim light she looked fearsome with a garland of human skulls hanging from her neck and a red tongue sticking out of her mouth. The ritual started with sacrificing of a buffalo before the deity. Baba then bathed both the King and Somnath with the sacrificial blood and made them prostrate before the Devi and went into a trance while chanting mantras unintelligible to the King. The Puja lasted for about an hour, while both the King and the horse trainer were in a state of stupor, as if under hypnosis. The puja ended with the blowing of a conch shell. The Baba helped the King to get up and led him to a water tank in the cave and poured on him the sacred water. He then asked the King to see his reflection. The King couldn't believe his eyes. The switch was done. He had got his own youthful look once again. He looked at Somnath, who looked withered and haggard with grey hair and beard. The King touched the feet of the mendicant and thanked him profusely for having made his dream come true.
The next day, the King summoned Saumya, the princess of Indrapuram to his private chamber and showed her his rippling muscles advertising his regained youth. Saumya looked the least impressed and asked him nonchalantly whether he just has acquired the looks of a young man or he could prove himself as good a horseman as Somnath. The King immediately accepted to take the challenge and prove his mettle in taming the worst spirited stallion in his stable. He then ordered the stable hands to pick up the most notorious stallion with the worst temperament and get the horse-pen ready for them. He then asked his queens and few noble men from his court to join them for the show. He then donned the knight's armour and proudly strutted to the circular pen used for training the horses. In front of the small select gathering around the pen he announced that he would ride the stallion bare back and bring it under his control in no time. But before he entered the arena, he made another announcement. He asked his executioner to execute Somnath by crushing his head under the foot of the royal elephant, on charges of stealing the affection of his fiancée.
Two of the stable hands almost dragged an unwilling black horse by the bridle with much difficulty. It was a young Kathiawar breed stallion and had the reputation of throwing off anyone except Somnath who tried to ride him. Only Somnath could pet him, cajole him and ride him. The King approached the horse, bubbling with confidence. He started speaking to the horse in a threatening voice, ' You brute, I know you don't want to be tamed. But today you will come on your knees. You are lucky, your master the King himself will give you the honour and overpower you.' He then gave a resounding slap to the neck of the horse and in one swift movement mounted him bare back and held onto the reins. Then hell broke loose. The horse took off and bucked violently and the next moment the King was in the air flung away. Then before any help could come, the horse returned and kicked the King vigorously on his face, cracking his skull. It took five men to control the agitated horse and take it away. The body on the ground shuddered a while and soon became limp and lifeless. The royal physician came running and felt his pulse on his neck, to declare him dead.
Elsewhere in the palace compound, Somnath was made to kneel down and keep his head on a stone slab. The royal elephant was led to the execution spot. It raised its front leg as the mahout ordered him. But it refused to put it down and crush his head. If such an event occurs a royal decree dictates the prisoner to be pardoned and released with honour. The jailer approached Somnath and took off the fetters and declared him free.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
KANAKA' S MUSINGS :: LIFE (2012)
Once I realized life is all about living and thanksgiving to the Almighty and not to be wasted away pining for things most often you don’t get - regretting about unreciprocated love, misunderstood friendship, not being liked etc. etc I came out of my cocoon stage armed with love, love, love, love only - for all things animate and inanimate. And life to me became one of giving, giving, giving, only and never worrying about getting anything in return. My personal grievances if ever they emerged were ardently laid at the feet of My Lord, my friend who never failed me. And life all of a sudden became rich and rainbow coloured. And I started blooming.
It was like observing things for the first time. I saw, I heard, I felt, I tasted and I smelled the essence of life around me. For the first time I started living vibrantly, looking only for the element of divinity in others and what kept them ticking. I saw no evil; if at all I perceived negativity, I ignored it and hoped for the best. I went closer to Nature. Trees, once a childhood passion, are now my next of kin. The wild trees I have planted around my home are loved and cherished passionately. The breadfruit tree, whose branches rest on my rooftop, were often mercilessly pruned, out of respect for the voice of prudence around me. But it hurts me when her life sap oozes out. I would talk to her and console her, empathizing with her and begging her to forgive me. And she does forgive me by bearing a few fruits every year on that part of the terrace where I can pick without any one’s aid.
And in my human relationships too I found changes. I started accepting people with all their faults, stopped being judgmental, and just let them be. For I had learned that I receive only what I send out. If I send out love I get back love, if I send out a positive prayer I get back a positive prayer. So life has become easier for me. Nothing matters any more, only living joyfully and thankfully to God, counting the innumerous blessings that come my way even without asking.
Now May 29 2021
But now the whole scenario has changed. Life has changed for all, including me.
The breadfruit tree which had been giving me fruit from the day it started bearing fruit, a great ornament to my courtyard dried away without any reason just before the first lockdown of the Pandemic. I returned from Trivandrum, and I saw her naked, yet arms raised towards heaven in supplication, I thought, as I got out of the car and stood staring at her. At that moment something seared me, she was telling me something. I am still a novice at reading the signs of nature but still I realised she was warning me of something. What is it? I shivered.
Now I know - the pandemic which is shrivelling us up…
August 3 2021
Today it is almost one and a half years since the pandemic started. The world is entering the third stage. The drying up of a single tree that heralded the pandemic led to a series of small-scale calamities. It pained me yet it was a relief. When Niranjan worried and fretted, I consoled him, "Let it be... Don't worry or fret, be grateful God is taking care of us".
One day they were shocked to see a landslide on the Southern side of the house exposing even their foundation. It had been raining continuously for two days. We never guessed the mud had been carved away from underneath, only when the retaining wall caved in we knew. Earlier in the day I had gone out to water the plants and felt my legs sinking into the mud in one place and I had pointed it to Niranjan. Yet we never realized. The stream that was narrowed and controlled into a small canal, when the paddy fields were converted to land by the land owner had become a damocles sword for us. But we never expected it to be this dangerous. It took days to build the retaining wall to protect the house because of the relentless rains. And a huge mango tree which was standing between the house and the wall had been cut down. She was full of mangoes. I wept inside, even when everyone blamed the mango tree and me as the reason for the wall"s collapse. But I knew it was her roots that had prevented the soil erosion near that part of the bedroom where she stood. But I couldn't save her and I hid inside the house as she was cut down. I felt a traitor and did not take even a single mango which the five workers shared among themselves and carried away in sacks. I was numb with pain. Only when my son, who was fond of mangoes asked me what I had done with those mangoes I realised that I should have saved at least a few for my children and my family and friends.
The Pandemic is still raging but people are learning to live with it. As for me, a new realisation, to go with the flow, to do what I can to make the world around me happier.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Dear Nandita,
You will be happy to know that I have been felicitated by Rourkela Steel Plant on the occasion of the Teachers’ Day. I am returning to Bhubaneswar. Lot of time in my hand. Searching for old letters. In many a letter you have requested to write a long letter for you. Though not long, I am penning a letter whose size would not make you unhappy.
All of a sudden you have become quiet, what’s the matter? Neither Guru Dibash, nor birth day, not even new year, as if all lost their relevance. Sir, sir, there was no respite with so many adjectives like my dearest Sir, most respected sir, most beloved sir etc. The key whose single twist was enough to make the toy-bird Nandita make myriad of noises, what happened? No sound, no song. An eerie silence! Where are those Youtube songs, Swamy Chinmayanand’s gospels, the art and skill of silencing the mind, meditative techniques?
Life is a non-stop eternal flow, not confined to the two end points of birth and death. Good-bad are relativistic. Who will evaluate whom? Why at all so called evaluation? Life is not an examination. Moments piling on moments do not sum up to life. One moment is everything and all moments are also nothing. Where is that naughty Nandita who was whispering into my ears these words of wisdom?
Somehow death has an undesired attraction for you, not that you want to conquer death or death conquers you. But death was such a sweet mystery for you. I still remembered the idle summer afternoon fraught with otherworldly melancholy so conducive to be face to face with death, albeit in discussion when you burst open into a poem:
“O death, please wait for a moment,
I just don’t want to die
When spring is so active in my life!”
Before I could react, you bowled at me another beauty,
“O call my brother back to me
I can’t play alone,
The summer comes with flowers and bees
Where is my brother gone!”
Can centuries of mechanical ties stand before a moment of such living experience? That passion, that living experience, that suffering which burn us unceasingly just to keep us away from the phagocytosis of an amoeba like modernity is Bhakti, that is what you so tenderly brought home to me with a Helenian Kiss, still green in my entire being.
“Expressed, but unexpressed remain a lot more passion,
And Bhakta Salabega is the name of that Cannon!”
Rise and fall, Love and treachery, lot of such contradictions have taught me that by education I mean a non-stop journey from a teacher to Guru through Acharya. If teacher is a caterpillar, Guru is a butterfly. The opportunity of this metamorphosis is being bestowed upon each one of us. But that s/he understands the pangs of a caterpillar knows the helplessness borne out of ignorance, untruth and death. And will search for the path that leads to truth, bliss, wisdom and immortality.
Finally, you concluded, preparing to go home when the afternoon was transforming into night through the veils of evening.
I am so happy that at last I am going to tell that
I taught you many years back, I loved you many years back but I did not know that that learning, that love have crystallized into pearls in your womb of silence.
But alas, I had no idea that this would be my last letter to you. Covid had played its part.
I folded my hands towards the sky and could utter a prayer,
“O sky forbid me, forgive me
For my complaints are nothing before this Sorrow!”
Prof. Nachieketa K Sharma teaches Physics in Siksha O Anusandhan University. He also holds the positions of Director, University Outreach Programmes, Director,International Relation & Admission, Programme Coordinator, National Service Scheme. He writes both in Odia & English. A columnist, panelist, science popularizer, Public Speaker Prof. Sharma has poetic sensibilities galore. A mystic by heart he loves to dwell on esoteric topics. An acclaimed translator that he is, his contribution to Unnati Aap under Atal Mission has been appreciated by NITI Aayog. He is also doing a translation project of National Translation Mission.
CHAUTHI PATA
Alamchand Bazar 2021 ( poem by Devdas Chhotray)
"About eight or nine brown dogs
rule it during the brevity of the night
They bark the moment they set their eyes on policemen
And they pay scant attention to thieves.
Where are thieves here?
But the powdered stuff keeps changing hands …
Adults fly kites …. "
This subterranean story is about the 'art of stolen love' on the part of a very popular personality. He led a very long, active and glorious life. He was a simple and affectionate human being – but a stand out human being. Even at first sight, it seemed as if he was raining nectar and accepting love and affection from one and all. This is something that took place a long time ago, a time when some students of Political Science at Delhi University were not aware of where Odisha was located. Therefore, the genius of the playwright had remained confined to the State. But he was a household name in the towns and villages of the State. The dramas flowing out of his pen were captivating. His stories depicted the happiness and sorrows of ordinary people; and these iconic Plays were the rage in the theatre world. It was already the evening of his life by the time he received official accolades, overcoming the machinations of sycophants and lobbies. But that is not the central theme of our 'other' story.
The dogs of the street did not bark at the thieves when they saw them at night. The dogs were familiar with them every day during daytime. Besides, the pack of dogs was incapable of detecting people who stole hearts and then how could they catch such a heart-stealer!
This subaltern story is about a small theft. It is small but pinching - darun (as the Bengalis would like to put it). In our Odia language, we could say it evokes compassion- karunya!
The incidents occurred sometime between the years 1955 and 1965. But black, brown and black and white patched dogs rested under the benches in tea shops or under banyan trees or some dark labyrinths at daytime even during that period. However, they began their reign on the lonely streets of the city as night grew deeper. It was not possible for them though to recognize the 'love thief', forget about barking at such a rare thief. An occasional dog barked soulfully looking at the midnight moon on full moon nights- that was his musical tribute to the moon.
A few cinema halls had already been constructed and were running successfully by this time in the town. But the live performances of Odia theatre too was appreciated by the local gentry. People belonging to the upper strata of society used to come with their wives and families to watch Odia plays sitting on wooden chairs. They bought their tickets and enjoyed the plays. The theatre was full of impoverished artists. A few handsome young men from decent families also performed as ameture but fanciful artists. But they were few and far between ; and their friends often referred to them as jesters. Their family members alleged that they wasted their parents’ money - ate at home but frolicked on the sage for free. But they had an ardent following among teenager girls and were warmly received into non-Odia households. They wore expensive hats. Their movements in Cuttack city drew the attention of people having good taste, particularly avancular women, even innocent students. All those people who were connected with movies were gradually becoming more affluent. But everyone connected with theatres just about managed to make their ends meet. 'Living from hand to mouth.' The owners of theatres had kept exhibition of plays alive through joint efforts. Joint efforts implied paying a nominal fee to the playwright and paying irregular salaries to artists. It also meant everyone connected with the theatre had to pitch in by getting something or the other from his house that was needed to use in the stage for the plays. These might include things like beautiful flower vases, small carpets, table cloths, pen stands and so forth. Almost all the stories dealt with class struggles. Most of the time there was a clash between the zamindar father and the rebel son. How could a play be staged if there were no dramatic situations? Therefore, the zamindar father would certainly speak his dialogues wearing a silk dressing gown on stage.
Extraordinary poverty was witnessed in contemporary Odisha. A person was considered to be rich if he kitchen hearth was lighted twice a day for meals for his family members. Wadas, onion pakodas, ordinary tea in small glasses and a few zarda paans with it, sufficed the daily needs of most people when they were with their friends. There was aristocracy in culture, savoir faire in conversations. The artists were dedicated to their art. People were not so particular about profits and losses in their dealings.
Most likely, our affectionate playwright also did not keep an account of profits and losses in his daily life. He was a simple man who didn’t mind giving away everything he owned. Even then he had to steal ….
A wonderful play was going to be enacted on stage. The play centred around a powerful woman character. Fortunately, woman characters did not appear on stage in dressing gowns. Certain benefits as well as problems were associated with it. Beautiful girls from ordinary families became the daughters-in-law of rich families. The stage manager would give an introduction to the play in dramatic style before the play would begin. Expectations would be heightened among the audience. The screen would be raised now and the first scene would be enacted before the discerning public. The first scene had to be impressive. Therefore, everyone’s attention was riveted on the first scene.
Staging a play was not a child’s play. A good book comes out after struggling with it for a long time. In other words, it becomes fit to come on stage. Many ancillary activities were carried on after that. The hero and heroine had to be chosen. A powerful villain was necessary. A jester was also important who could talk in a clever way with matching facial and body contortions. Scenes, backdrops, music and dances had to be taken care of after that. A decision had to be taken about the props and artefacts that would be arranged on stage during each scene. Light arrangements came next. This was very important for the success of a play. Thus, several things had to be considered simultaneously while staging a play. The rehearsals began after that. The playwright was involved with all this in many ways. Simply writing a good play was no guarantee that it would be successful when staged. The contribution of the playwright to screenplay and dialogues was in no way less than that of the director.
The rehearsals began. Woman actors were scarce those days. Most girls of good families were not willing to act in plays and movies. Their parents too did not permit them to do so. Fortunately, the choreographer was already being acclaimed by art lovers of the State and later he also became famous at national and international levels. He persuaded his pretty wife to act in the role of the heroine. Dialogues and the style of acting were entrusted to the relatively young playwright and the elderly director respectively.
The playwright was teaching dialogue delivery and acting methods in real earnest. Therefore, the director left him in charge of the good-looking wife of his friend and concentrated on other things of the play.
From play to dialogues, from dialogues to small talk and then perhaps, some incoherent words … this was the play and flow of life...
Let us now hear a few things about the fortunate moments from my early college days. I stood out among the students in the college in about a year or two of joining it. A few affectionate families provided me with unadulterated hospitality as the good friend of the son of the family. I reached the house of a friend of mine on a bicycle one Sunday morning. My friend was a year senior to me and quite popular in the college. The playwright uncle had brought khasi (castrated goat) meat and aunty (my friend’s mother) had cooked rice at home with other accompaniments. Uncle had perhaps gone out somewhere on urgent work. I was not a foodie. But aunty had been trying her best to feed me to the brim. I was younger than her son. But aunty had pulled a long veil over her head before me. I asked my friend out of curiosity why she had done so. He laughed and said, “It’s a habit with her. She takes my sister and me around the Cuttack city in a rickshaw during the Durga Puja. We had been going on the Cantonment Road one day in a rickshaw during the Dussehra when she asked, ‘This place looks so deserted. There are such huge bungalows here. Who live at this place?’ I had told her that senior government officers lived in those bungalows. She asked me this morning where you were coming from. I told her that you were the son of a senior officer. She was perhaps showing her special regard for you. You can see that she is wearing her best silk pata sari today.” I was not able to see anything of aunty except her thin, long and shining gold-complexioned fingers. I had already developed a sense of aesthetics although I was young in age. I thought of her as the charming image of a goddess who showered her love and affection on everyone. Uncle was dark-complexioned. Aunty was fair-complexioned and beautiful. Let us say they were Radha and Krishna. But Krishna had not been able to show respect to Radha by keeping her in His house. It was also the same state of affairs at this place. So perhaps, it would be more appropriate to call them as Rukmini and Krishna!
Radha' was busy learning the dialogues attentively. I had surmised most of the happenings of the rehearsal at a later time as knowing or understanding everything was beyond the capacity of this immature teen, i.e. me. But some 'art of stealth' had apparently gone into the dialogues and the small talk. We had still not reached the stage when incoherent talk would have been comprehended and would hold any meaning for my inflamed imagination.
Wonderful lighting arrangements had been made in order to make the first scene of the play impressive. Powerful beams would light up the stage as the curtains would be raised and convert it into a land of dreams. The first scene was like this. The beautiful daughter-in-law would be sitting on a well-decorated bed on the nuptial night wearing a special silk patasari waiting for her husband to arrive. The day on which the play will be staged for the first time was decided. Half the tickets werr sold and the other half was meant for influential guests who were going to get a free entry inside the hall. People will throng the theatre from the following day if the reviews of the first night were good. Therefore, it was essential that the first night of the play should be a resounding success.
Everything was in place and things were moving smoothly. The playwright wanted to see how the daughter-in-law would look sitting on the bedstead wearing the silk sari. When the beautiful wife of his friend sat down on the bedstead wearing the silk patasari and leaned to a side, it was discovered that there were repair stitches on the sari at a few places. Everyone was aghast. All the efforts seemed to have gone waste. Everyone in the audience would be able to see the poor condition of the silk patasari in the bright light of the stage. After they had taken so much trouble for the first night of the play, this flaw was like the stains on the moon. It was already three thirty PM in the afternoon. The curtains would be raised at seven PM in the evening. A beautiful silk patasari was needed before six in the evening which could be acceptable as the wedding sari of an aristocratic family. The playwright saw that his friend’s wife was about to break into a sob. The director of the play and the owner of the theatre were asking her to hide the stitching on the sari by doing a reverse fold and manage somehow. The playwright kept wondering how he could lay his hands on another silk sari that was befitting for the heroine and the scene he had in his mind. He looked at the heroine affectionately and went outside after telling her to take care of the other things. He returned in about an hour’s time with an exquisite silk sari in hand before every one was worried sick about his absence.
Needless to say, the first night of the play was a runaway success. The first scene went like a song and the beautiful heroine requested the playwright that she should be allowed to wear that patasari for the entire duration of the play. The show played to packed houses for about fourteen weeks. People belonging to good families from Bhubaneswar, Puri, Brahmapur, Kendrapara, etc. came in droves to see the play. The playwright received a great deal of accolades.
It was wrong to assume that this Creation is governed by certain rules. Perhaps the nature obeys some rules. But the adage ‘As you sow, so you reap’ cannot not be accepted as a universal truth. Therefore, religious people speak about 'prarabdha'- accumulated actions of previous births. There is no hard and fast rule that good people will have a smooth life. God is the master of the Creation. But the Devil must also have his due and snatches at Lfe intermittently..
Aunty became suddenly ill a few years later and she began to sink very fast. Cancer had taken hold of her. Aunty’s time on this earth was coming to an end. In spite of all her problems, she had not stopped taking care of everyone with a smile on her face. But it was obvious that her last moments had arrived. It was the day of the Savitri Amavasya. She was surrounded by her husband and children. But she did not tell anyone about how she suffered. She did not want to hurt Satyaban or her other relations. Uncle was an affectionate man by nature. But he knew that he would not be able to do anything for aunty. He also knew that she was likely to pass away anytime. So he took her hands in his, and said, “You did so much for me throughout my life. You served me without reservations. But I could not do anything for you. Forgive me if I have wronged you at anytime.” Aunty was in no state to say anything from the morning. In contemporary Odia, it could be said that her teeth had jammed ; she was semi-cmatose. But she opened her eyes for a few moments. A few drops of tear tricled out of her eyes along with a few words, “You have done a great deal for our children. They are my jewels and my pride. You have also done a great deal for me. But how could you touch my wedding silk pata…?” The sentence remained unfinished. Life got finished. Satyaban stayed back. Savitri went away to Yamaraj.
It was said that the street dogs of the Cuttack city had barked as if they were wailing on that dark night watching a full moon in the sky.
An old-fashioned aged lady woke up from sleep at dead of night. She said something to her neighbours in an incoherent voice in the morning. No one was able to understand her. A few old men seemed to be nodding their heads as if they were agreeing with her. The old woman said, “It was the darkness of the new moon night. But it seemed as if the stars lit up in the sky at midnight. The road and the sky were visible somewhat indistinctly in that light. A bright flame covered in a silk patasari flew away like a floating cloud from the temple of the goddess on the street.”
The pack of dogs on the street could not even know who was a thief. How could they catch stealers of hearts? But they could witness the appearance and disappearance of affectionate and holy souls. And they cried in a strange medley. The dogs of the neighbouring streets picked up the refrain and howled too. The wailing passed from one street to another till it got submerged in the water of the Kathjodi River.
Are you asking me if the incident is true or not? Everything is untruth. Everything is untruth on this ephemeral earth.
Prasanna Kumar Hota an ex Odia IAS writes stories occasionally, reads fiction avidly. Believes that short story is "nearer to a poem than a novel'", and that a great story transcends time and culture.
THE HEIGH ... HO... MELODIES OF YORE...
It was a journey to trace our roots.
The cold river lay frozen against the shores while we drove past the rural inscapes close to the shore line... There were a number of houses new and old filling up the country side which once was one quite bare and abodes so sparse, scattered...
At every nook and corner we had to stop the car and ask “where was the place the old Thachanilam Tharavad ( our ancestral house) stood, almost ten decades back?”
Almost ten decades back!
Astonished many were, the many about to answer!
They had started living there about four or five decades back, many among them new, recent settlers or tenants.
As the giant clouds thickened to form a crouching shape of a beast against the horizon, we stopped the car and wondered.
“Is it going to be of any avail... this ride, searching a remote past that has receded into the thin air so irretraceable!”
There was a hunchbacked wayfarer coming along, stopping near. Queries repeated.
The man listens. The lines on his forehead grow clearer as he knits his eyebrows in thoughts... scratching the surfaces of his memory.
“Ride ahead. With the first turn on right, negotiate the side road. You may reach a house where people of that age may recount all that. There are some elders with such stories.”
It was better to park the car and walk. Inhaling the fresh country air, that wafted in the presence of ancestors, our dear Grandpa, Grandma, their Fathers, fore Fathers…
It seemed the cloud cluster was dispersing... a radiance benevolent pierced in through the intertwined leaves of the huge looking mango trees that stood on the way.
My Elder brother was the first one to make it out.
“Hey, we are nearing those grounds... that vast stretching Tamarind tree was there... yes was there, it still afresh in my memory.”
What! We were treading the sacred grounds of our ancestral home!
Yes the elder one’s intuition was right. He was the one who lived there till he was five or six years old with my Father and Mother.
Where was I, then! Malu wondered. May be just a dream in my Mothers, Father’s...
But she could sense an affinity with the whereabouts as if it was there from primordial times…
Malu could recollect the shrunken faces and the sunken looks of her Grandpa and Grandma when they came to live with them. They had to make unwilling departure from their royal house and living, ever since their younger son started squandering their wealth. Incurring debts due to his drunken profligate ways, every single thing was either sold off or taken away in mortgage, the property attached. Their only refuge was with the elder son, his family far off...
We had reached the household near to our ancestral place. A dog suddenly sprung into our midst barking… just an ordinary kind of a stray dog that took to them.. A middle aged man got out of the house. I noticed how in a not far off distance some fishermen were at the task of stretching the net, shaking it …
The river looked afresh, clear water streaming through...
The man listened. Yes, we were in the right place. His Father who was a close associate of Grandpa, looking after the property, had deceased. But he remembered those glorious days of the Tharavaadu. Eagerly, he offered us seats in the cosy green yard in front of his small house and called in his eldest Sister from inside.
Sudhamani!
An elderly looking lady limped in. She had a problem with her legs by birth. Hence she remained unmarried staying with her brother.
She remembered each minute detail. How she recollected my elder brother the five year old of that times always standing near the balcony of that ancestral royal home, holding on to the wooden barricades, watching the small canoes that floated past the Tharavaadu(ancestral house) on riverside, the sea men singing songs. How his little lips sang in unison with their “heigh...ho..”
Sudhamani was holding us close in memory, like ‘the ancient mariner’ holding by the arm taking one as a captive. She pointed at the spot where our ancient mansion stood, the kind landlords who had a number of workers who were out on farming, fishing. There existed a large courtyard in the middle, around which the vast house stretched out… abundant coconut trees, fruit trees...
Harvest season was real festival tiime there. The family possessed their own canoes to move out, to ferry across to the church opposite side, to catch fresh fish for meals everyday.
The huge hauls of coconut would be cut and put under sun to dry up, to be transported for sales, when special boats came to take them… coconut slices in heaps that were to be turned into coconut oil.
She referred to those times when people like Grandpa shared their wealth with have nots, giving the loyal farmers pieces of land to settle down, build houses. It was in fact like an extended family, they sharing the joys and sorrows.
Sudhamani was a part of the household, of the same age as the girls of the family, treated on a par with them.
Her eyes lit up when she spoke.
Later with tears welling up she talked about the days of decadence. The youngest son who took to drunken ways, wasting his youth, squandering money. How he sold off the mansion- like house bit by bit, land bit by bit, caught up in a racket of wasted lives.
Later in strangles of insolvency the property was attached.
The scene of the heart broken Grandpa and Grandma leaving for their elder son’s (ours) casting a long, lingering look back at the river, the sole witness to all their ups and downs...
Hah! the feel it brought... we were rubbing against a past so near… the pangs pierced in.
The trees nodded in the gentle wind... the wind brushed us past in gentle caress.
Who knew! Our grandparents were touching us.! We felt a presence so tangible!
Like fleeting shadows we move on this plane. Generations... but they exist the same, the same river, water, air... trees, life, nature ever renewing itself.
With memories aglow, we parted... Sudhamani who took us through the past, waving farewell with those flickers of warmth writ large on her face...
Part of the clear sky had fallen into the lap of the serene waters. It seemed the gentle river recognized us, the progenies of an erstwhile past which was rich in glory. It was smiling.
Back in Car a silence fell. I looked into the eyes of my elder brother. Were it the eyes of the five year old looking far into the river to see the moving canoes, listening to the “Heigh... Ho…” melodies of yore…!
Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published twelve books,10 Books of poems, a novel and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include India Women Achiever’s Award 2020. She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. She can be reached at E mail- mynamolly @gmail.com ; You tube- https://www.youtube.com/user/mynamolly
As you sow so you reap.Your karma shapes your destiny. You are rightly paid for the deeds of your past life, that is Prarabdha. From time immemorial such aphorisms are inscribed in the leaf of our life as eternal truths.
Sarita continued ruminating. Which is more powerful? Prarabdha or Prayer? Loads of confusion were weighing down her inner self.
She was deeply engrossed in thinking about the precarious condition of her mother for the past many years. If it is true that karma shapes one's destiny then why her mother had to undergo such long span of miserable suffering? None of her family or even any distant relatives have suffered like her. Was it actually Prarabdha that has immense power to modulate the journey of our life?
Her mother was the embodiment of goodness. Simple, innocent, sober and generous, every such adjective would fall short to define her modest self. It was hard to think she had ever hurt anybody in her family, neighbours or people in her surrounding. She always tried her best to keep away from fights and arguments. She would never react or retaliate to any conflicts. She was adored by all whoever came in contact with her.
As you sow so you reap. Sarita's heart and mind were trying to revolt. Sarita very well knew her mother was an epitome of love, care and generosity. Whoever needed her assistance she would stretch her helping hand as far as practicable without caring for her own comforts. Sarita tried reminiscing how her mother was taking care of her old grandparents with much care and reverence. Poor, needy and hungry never returned from their door empty handed or with empty stomach.
She was a dedicated mother like all mothers in the world, but for a daughter she was unique amongst all. She had immersed completely in bringing up her children with the best possible care, guidance and virtue.
Their parents were pious.
Sarita had grown up seeing her parents observing all auspicious occasions and rituals with utmost devotion and faith. From her childhood she had seen her mother going to temple every Monday, offered pooja to Lord Shiva and prayed for the well being of her family. If anybody in the family fell sick she would be very much worried and would sit in her pooja room lighting Diya before the deity. Sarita knew that she had deep concern for her children as well as the entire family and always prayed to God for their safety and wellbeing .She was taught them the theme and morals of Mahabharata and Ramayana .
When Sarita grew up a clear picture of Almighty had been painted in the canvas of her life as the Supreme authority of the entire universe and the saviour of His believers. She had developed a strong belief that however grave may be the situation you face in your life God will never leave your hand if you put your trust on Him unconditionally and never stray from the path of righteousness.
Though Sarita had knowledge about Prarabdha, her tender heart was not agreeing to it. To her God is omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent and He can eliminate the effect of Prarabdha on His devotees. She never lost faith on God and His mercy.
Time passed on amid many ups and downs ..Her mother had a massive stroke and paralysis for which she was bedridden for many months. Sarita was crestfallen to see her mother's distress. But her faith on Almighty did not waver. Her heartfelt prayer was answered and her mother could recover, though not fully, but she could manage to do her own daily work herself. What more could she expect at this fag end of her mother's life? Sarita was grateful for His kindness. Her faith and devotion deepened. But life of good people does not always run smooth .It takes many twists and turns before meeting its eternal end.
The heart-rending news of an accidental fall and fracture of the leg of her mother broke Sarita down.Though surgery was done, she became bed-ridden, never to get up any more in her life.
It was hard for the family to withstand the pain and distress of the mother. Sarita cried before the idols of deities she brought for her mother from Puri and who her mother was worshipping with great reverence and allegiance.
Sarita's mother could not sit, her half paralytic body didn't allow her to tilt to sides.Se had to live a completely vegetative life. Sarita offered her prayer sincerely for her mother's recovery but to no avail.Years passed by. Sarita's faith started dwindling. The broad smile of the deities which emanated fragrance of bliss and confidence no longer consoled her.
She would have become more relieved if God had taken her to His shelter. Years of terrible suffering became unbearable for the whole family. All her well wishers were in utter dismay .
People started becoming judgemental, saying it was her Prarabdha for which she was suffering inspite of her good deeds in this life. For Sarita it was hard to believe that her mother was suffering for the karma of her past life. Was a journey of 90 years of life not sufficient to meet the effect of her accumulated karma? If Prarabdha was so powerful then what was the need to believe in God,.The effect of nobleness, one's prayer, devotion, good work was only for a next life which is unseen and does not exist in reality. Sarita, a devotee from childhood was turning an atheist. She stopped praying, she stopped bowing down before the Almighty. She stopped going to Puri for darsan of Lord Jagannath, which she used to do frequently.
The day came when after six years of moribund condition her dear mother left for her heavenly abode silently one morning. Sarita and her four brothers and sisters rushed to see her. Sarita's 96 years old father was present near her mother's bed.. Before her mortal body was removed from the house all of them decorated her with flowers. Sarita could see her father so affectionately putting the vermilion on her forehead and new bangles in her hands.They bowed down before her and bade her final farewell with tearful eyes. Sarita looked at the face of her mother and then she looked at the photo of Lord Jagannath on the wall above her bed. After a long time she could feel the calmness, serenity and solace evolving from the photo of the Almighty. She could hear the whispers resonating in the inner recess of her heart, "Look Sarita, that was her Prarabdha for which she had to endure the long span of affliction and from the clutch of which nobody can escape. But my child, this is her karma which she has earned in this life from her faith, belief, devotion and nobleness. She has left this world survived by all her five children, grandchildren and 96 years old husband - all in good health and well settled for which she was always praying for and which is not granted to many at her age ". Sarita came to her sense. She could realise, her mother's prayer has not gone unanswered. Her karma of present life has not gone in vain. Sarita bowed down before her dear lord. The radiance from the divine smile dispelled all darkness, confusion and gloom and illuminated her heart with love, faith and blessings.
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.
‘Goddess is beautiful.’ This is the first thought that came into TIL’s head, as she looked at the Goddess with bedazzled eyes. The Goddess had eyes carved out of emeralds and sapphires, and was clad in a gorgeous, silken sari. She had an elegant book in her right hand, and a Sitar in her left hand. She seemed to look at TIL with smiling eyes, with a hand raised in blessing. With all her heart and soul, TIL smiled back.
Out of all the festivals that touched the calendar and skidded by, TIL adored Saraswati Puja the most. She loved dressing up in silken, yellow saris (as yellow was the colour most traditionally associated with the festival), eating the traditional yellow rice ( khichdi), and joining in the hymns. She would look forward to singing in chorus her favourite hymns – Hey Sharde Maa…hamein taar de Maa…… and Veena Vadini var de….
This morning, her mother had placed a beautiful yellow bindi between her eyebrows, which glowed like the sun. TIL was a writer and a poet at heart, and thus created similes almost instantly. “Maa, your Bindi looks like the sun!” she had stated excitedly, as her mother planted a kiss on her forehead, giving her a yellow bindi to wear as well.
This afternoon was no different. TIL sat with her cousins and friend before the idol of the Goddess, her hands folded in prayer. The fragrance of the traditional bhog which involved a an assortment of vegetables and dal khichdi filled the air, and TIL took a deep breath, filling not merely lungs - but her heart and soul with the aroma. This was the scent of her home, of her home town Hazaribag, of her world. TIL was just in Grade Five, but her range of thought was like a bird, escalating the boundaries of the mind, and touching a bit of what the world calls infinity
She felt as though the Goddess was looking at her, the emerald eyes glancing into her heart.
TIL wanted to do something. Her eyes were constantly fixated on the book in the Goddess’s hand. Being a writer at heart, TIL had an inherent tendency to attach a greater purpose to things. She tiptoed out of her house, with a bit of bhog in her hands. A combination of yellow and orange bangles glistened on her wrists, she walked into the outhouse, where the daughter of her domestic help, Malti Didi lived. Malti Didi was not just a domestic help, but a second mother to TIL. When TIL was a red-cheeked toddler, it was Malti Didi who would rock TIL to sleep every night .
Malti Didi had one daughter, who was four years old. She had named her Sona. TIL loved her a lot.
TIL walked into the outhouse with two books in her hands. As per the tradition they would place the books at Goddess Saraswati’s feet so that she could bless them. After the day’s celebration all the kids of the neighbourhood would look forward to the official night out for them.
They had to guard the idol at night from animals and the best way of doing it was getting a video player on rent with 3 video cassettes preferably of Amitabh Bachchan movies. After the evening prayer the jingbang would be ready for the annual treat for them. Binge watching Amitabh Bachchan’s movies since he was TIL’s first crush. Her idea of an ideal man had been influenced by him. She would wait for the whole year so that during Saraswati Pooja she could spend a night glued to the video player , letting her heart soak in the essence of ‘Big B’. She would take in his perfect, broad-chested figure, and close her eyes to listen to the sound of his deep, baritone voice. By morning the whole jingbang would be completely drunk with the stories and would mix up everything. The most beautiful part of this event was the way the mixed up stories seemed to make complete sense.
TIL saw these mixed-up stories as a rainbow, where every individual colour belonged to a different and more beautiful story. With this rainbow in her eyes, TIL would rush towards her mother, and tell her all the tales. This rainbow was resplendent and immortal .
Today, TIL is a grown-up woman - an author, a publisher, a teacher and a mentor to so many.
“Those were the days when less was more!” she says, with a lilting laugh, while telling her students about her childhood. The immortal rainbow continues to glisten in her eyes, light up the crow’s feet that emerge on the sides of her cheeks as she laughs, and most importantly, it continues to light up the lives of those around her, those in her heart . . .
Meena Mishra is the Founder & CEO of The Impish Lass Publishing House. An award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher, are just some of the words which describe Ms. Meena Mishra. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. . Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
It was a newly constructed house, and the members of the family were very happy. Invitees appreciated the couple for having a nice house in a peaceful area.
Pretty kids in beautiful dresses were wandering with lots of joy and observing the customs and traditions of people surprisingly.
“Light the lamp, Jaagruti, Lakshmi said.”
Jaagruti’s daughter, Dolly, who’s four years old came and hugged her happily.
“Shall I help you, Mom?”
“Oh, yes! It’s so nice of you!”
Jaagruti is the proud mother of a lovely daughter. Her husband works in a private firm and manages a small business.
Jaagruti is running a small school as the principal, apart from being a good house maker. She moulds many students in a better way, inculcating values and qualities.
Dolly is a smart child who can communicate in English well. Furthermore, she is the loving grandchild of Lakshmi and Ranganath. They also have a son, Dheeraj, a software engineer. He travels in a dreamland not on the real land.
Dheeraj said, “Dad, Shall I start my own business. I don’t have any interest to work in any company or abroad.”
“Okay, do as you wish, but business is always risky, and success and failures are the two sides of the same coin. If you feel you can manage it well, go ahead!”
“Thank you, Dad! Yeah, you’re right! Competition is the keen cutting edge of business, always shaving away its costs. I will try my best!”
“I got conceived once again.” Jaagruti said.
“Time and tide wait for the none.”
After a few months, Jagruti was feeling her body so heavy and unexpected changes in baby’s growth. She couldn’t understand the reason.
Her mother took her to the gynaecologist.
“How’s my daughter, Dr. Latha?” Lakshmi asked her worryingly.
Dr Latha said, “Jaagruti is going to give birth to twins, and this is the reason why she feels bit heavy. Don’t worry! Please give her good diet on time.”
Both mother and daughter returned home with merriment. All the members of the family took care of her very well.
“I have already got a girl baby. Will I have two boy babies now?” Jaagruti dreamt and questioned herself.
One day, Lakshmi took her to the doctor for a scan. Later, she wanted to talk to the doctor and know about the gender of babies.
“Doctor, please let us know about the gender of the babies. Are they boy babies or girl babies?”
“Sorry, I’m not supposed to tell it out now. Please wait and see.”
Out of curiosity, she compelled the doctor to reveal the news about the baby, paying some extra fee.
“You’ve a girl baby and a boy baby.” Dr. Latha assured similingly.
“Wow! What a nice feeling! I will have a boy baby and a girl baby shortly.” Jaagruthi was on the cloud nine.
Jaagruthi used to dream for the future with a little satisfaction. On the other hand, she worries about taking care of the three kids in the forthcoming days.
The doctor told her she must go for a surgery on time as she’s suffering from Blood Pressure and fatigue.
On 10 January’12, Jaagruthi delivered very cute and healthy twins and they look slightly like their sister.
The whole family was shocked to see the two girl babies.
Shyam asked his wife, “How did it happen? Dr Latha said you’d deliver a girl and a boy, didn’t she?
“Yes, she did. The doctor was wrong. How come? I’m so shocked to see the babies now.”
All of them were perplexed with the news.
“Oh! God! How will I take care of my three daughters? How can we educate them?” Jaagruthi wept silently.
Shyam’s best friend, Sudhakar told him that he’d adopt one baby since he didn’t get a baby, after seven years of their married life.
Shyam was so happy with his idea and agreed to give one of them to him.
“Jagruti! Shall we give one baby to Sudhakar? He wishes to adopt her.”
Jaagruthi said, “How can I give my baby? Whether they’re girls or boys, they’re my babies and I can’t agree with you.”
“Dear Jaagruthi! Please try to understand our problems and it’s going to be very difficult for us to educate them and provide comfortable life for all the three girls. Life is very expensive nowadays.”
Lakshmi came to me and asked, “What should I do in this situation? I convinced my daughter to give one baby for an adoption since we will have more expenditure in future. Is it alright? What do you say?”
Oh! Since she gave birth to two girl babies, she wants to give away one baby. I sighed and thought silently.
“Jaagruthi is an educated woman. Will she be ready to give away the baby as a mother? She might not be happy with this idea.” I felt very bad.
“Yeah, you are right!” Lakshmi was confused and left my place silently with unhappiness and depression.
Jaagruthi was discharged from the hospital after sixth days and Lakshmi got them home.
Nobody was in peace. Most importantly, Shyam and Jaagruti were very much tensed.
After ten days, Sudhakar came with his wife, Suneela. They requested them to make their life happy by this adoption.
Both the husband and wife thought several times and decided to give their baby to Shyam forever as he’s very rich. They felt that their baby will have good future without any troubles.
Sudhakar and Suneela were extremely happy with the baby.
“Thank you so much, Shyam! You made my day!” Sudhakar and his wife assured him that they’d take care of the baby very well.
Givers were happy as they will have fewer burdens in their life and the receivers were very happy while they were moving with a baby.
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
Dear Patient,
It's been over a week since you've left. Left for eternity. I wish I'd found out sooner about your demise, because when I reached the ward that morning like I did every other morning ever since you'd been admitted, I saw them disinfecting the bed. The chemicals had robbed the bed of microbes, and the last traces of your existence.
Your wife might've wondered why I didn't show up in your last moments. But it's my fault. I did wrong by not telling you that not only were you not my pateint, but also that no one in that ward was. The day you arrived at the ward, it was mere coincidence that I was there. Every morning I went to the ward pretending to see other patients, but the truth is, I went there only to talk to you.
I've never had a patient open up to me as much as you did. I wasn't even your doctor, but the trust you'd put in me was unbelievable. I used to go back home and wonder how you'd describe me to your grandchildren when you went back home. Would you have told them that I was just another bionic machine in a white coat? Or would you have told them about all the times I made silly mistakes and got an earful from my seniors, like you told me about your grandkids' mischiefs?
But I wonder what your wife must be thinking of me now. She must be recollecting all those times she held my hand and asked me if you were going to be all right, and I used to place a hand on her head saying that you were going home soon, healthy as ever. Will she ever trust such words from a doctor again?
I was thinking of sending your son the picture I'd taken of you and your wife the night you were admitted. I'd forgotten about it, but here I am, in my home, looking at it with a bandage wrapped all around my head. Your son came into my chamber last night, and hit me with a chair. I remember you'd said that he was very short-tempered. Now I understand what you meant.
I also remember that day when you held my hand against your forehead, shed 2 streams of tears and said to me, "my son hasn't talked to me in 2 years as much as you have in these last 2 weeks. I wish I had a daughter like you." When the same son of yours hit me, he yelled, "You could've saved my father, but you didn't. What do you know about losing people to death?" How could I have told him about how much you reminded me of my father who I'd lost when I was in the middle of a major surgery? Where could I find the words to tell you that just like you saw a daughter in me, I also saw a father in you?
People think that doctors are psychopaths, like murderers. And that deaths don't bother us because the patients aren't kin, and we see them as strangers whose problems aren't ours. They think I saw you as "ward 5, bed 27". But the truth is, I look for you amidst the stars every night.
Yours sincerely,
Just another doctor.
Lora Mishra is an MBBS student at the Institute of Medical Sciences and SUM Hospital, Bhubaneswar. She is passionate about Art, Literature and Painting. Her poems have been published in various magazines. Her paintings are highly appreciated by discerning viewers.
(Translated by Dr. Snehaprava Das)
‘The fellow thinks himself to be no less than a sheikh of Arab,’ Pranaballava said. ‘At this old age he had brought home his third wife, a woman much younger in age. Half of the village is against him. The Panchayat committee was called to adjudicate matter. But the fellow is sly. He had made all efforts, even bribing the members of the committee to get the matter settled outside the village court. But you know sir!, Pranaballav bragged on, ‘this constable Pranaballava is your trusted stooge. The moment I got the news I rushed to Dengapahada leaving the raid at the distillery at Saragpalli half way through. And, the funniest part of it sir, is that the man, a dumb, such a coward is he, ran home and hid under his wife’s sari-end. But you know sir, as I said earlier, this Pranaballava is your trusted and most able subordinate. He could pull the baby out of a mother’s womb. How could he have escaped me? I grabbed hold of him and put him on the back sit of my bike and rode up here as fast as I could.’
After making a detailed verbal report of his achievements Pranaballava paused a little, waiting for the inspector’s reaction.
Inspector Surendra Prasad looked closely at him. A dark complexioned, balding man, his flat, thick lips painted red with the drools of betel juice. A fat paunch protruded under his shabby police uniform which perhaps was not been washed in months. The unkempt beard told that he had not shaved for days. He had been probably to the temple of Lord Hanuman and had put a large vermilion mark on his forehead. All these put together gave him the looks of an executioner. He stank of country liquor even from that distance of six feet or so.
The minister would visit the village the next day. He would inaugurate the programme of distributing bicycles to the school going girls of the panchayat of Saragpalli. Dengapahada in Saragapalli Panchayat was the most difficult village to reach in all the places of the district. Hemmed on all sides by bald, arid hills and stretches of barren, unproductive lands where nothing green comes to sight in miles except for occasional trees of date palm and spiky shrubs, the village wore the look of a desert. But the government survey says that there is an ore of precious stones under that barren land. There were a few random human habitats irregularly distanced from one another. In the Gochhayat bustee uphill, there lived forty odd harijan families. Inspector Surendraprasad , after assuming the charges at the police station at Sunamunda, had thought to go on a round to the place, but the jeep failed to negotiate with the bumpy, climbing slopes leading to the place and he had to come back.
‘I must leave now sir,’ Pranaballav said, ‘that goon Padana had to be dealt with first. He was to be detaimarrying thricened here in the police station for the day. You do not worry about this old fellow. no one will come to bail him. We will forward him to the court after the minister’s programme is over.
‘Do yo before the minister’s program u have any idea about a thing called Human Rights?’ Surendraprasad snapped. Under which section you have arrested this oldie? What are the charges against him? We will land in real trouble if we do not forward him to the court within twenty four hours of his arrest.
Pranaballava smiled crookedly.
‘Am I not your trusted subordinate, sir?’ he said scratching at the back of his ear. Who can raise a finger at us if we do not make his arrest official? We will not keep any written record. We can always say that we had brought him here for routine questioning.’
Surendraprsad cooled down. ‘Fine. Handle it that way,’ he returned as he picked uphis hat from the table and fixed it on his head. ‘It is absurd. A man marrying thrice!! Doesn’t this country of ours have any law? ‘
He paused and moved closer to Pranaballava. ‘What happened?’ He asked in a whisper. ‘The man from Saragpalli did not send it!’
‘Don’t you worry sir. This underling of yours had taken care of everything. I have manipulated matters in such a way that he will be left with no choice than coming here tomorrow itself. I have asked him to settle things before the minister’s programmme started. I have also warned him that we will not be responsible if anything goes wrong on account of his negligence!’
‘All Right. That hooligan Padana has to be detained in the police station. That is our first priority.’
‘I will get him sure by tomorrow morning,’ Pranaballava assured. ‘ he is out to spoil the meeting.’
‘Where is that old man you have brought?’ asked the Inspector.
‘He is sitting on that bench outside. Shall I bring him here?’
‘No, wait. I will have a look at him on my way out.
It was five in the afternoon. Surendraprasad would now go to his office quarters, take rest for a while, and would return to the police station at about eight in the evening.
Inspector Surendraprasa came out of his office room.
In the corridor outside, on a wooden bench sat an old m groan out an indistinctan of about seventy wearing collarless, half-sleeved cotton shirt and a dhoti. A long piece of cloth twisted and curled up in shape of a turban circled his head. Both the shirt and the turban looked shabby and unclean. Oan
He stood up at the sight of the inspector and joined his palms in salutation.
‘Want to say something?’ the inspector asked.
The man did not say anything but made signals that told that his throat was parching and he needed some water badly.
Padmanav, the inspector’s driver came up from behind.
‘Missing your young wife, you lewd? The fellow is such a lecher!! Still so much heat left in you even at this age!!’ Padmnav grinned evilly.
‘Get him that bottle of water,’ Surendraprasad said.
The creased face of the old man lit up at the sight of the water bottle.
He thirstily sucked away the water like a hungry infant sucks at the bottle of milk. An indistinct grunt of satisfaction escaped him as he rubbed his chest and throat. Once again he joined his palms in a show of gratitude.
‘You will be sent to court tomorrow for trial. There is no doubt that you will be sentenced to imprisonment for the unpardonable crime you have committed. People like you are fit to be put behind bars. Don’t plead your innocence to me now. I am not going to listen to any of your excuses.’ The inspector said and moved away.
The old man did not understand a word of what the inspector said. He stood their joining his palms, unable to decide what crime had he committed for which the police had arrested him. He wanted to ask when he would be allowed to get back to his home. But no words came out of his mouth. His frightened glance kept darting here and there like a trapped animal.
His desperateness tickled Pranaballava to a derisive laughter.
‘You have been booked under IPC acts 415, 494 and 495. We have collected the signature of the witnesses too. Your going to the jail now is a must. Seven years and another three years if you fail to pay the fine. What will happen to your young wife, now??’
Pranaballava’s lips twisted in an ugly, knowing smile.
Denga Pahada!!
Said in English it would mean The Tall Mountain.
It is an unassuming village located on the borders of the districts of Balasore and Mayurbhanj. Though the name of the village figures in the fiscal map of Odisha, strangely it is not included in the list of villages the government had identified for launching in its developmental projects. Never ever any government official has visited the Gochhayat bustee of the village. Lack of drinking water was the elemental issue of the village. The wells, ponds and the canals fulfill the demands of drinking water to certain extent from the month of Shravana to Pausha . (from the beginning of the rain months to late winter) but all of these go dry by the end of winter. The only
hope after that lie with the well at the temple of the goddess in the village of Mandarabasta , some three miles away. S
Jagabandhu Gocchayat’s third wife Sunita came as a bride to this village. She had crossed thirty when she married Jagabandhu. She was told that her mother had died in the hospital soon after giving birth to Sunita. Her father married again but the second wife failed to beget any child. Her father too died shortly after. The step mother, while alive, had made Sunita work her fingers to the bone. She was sent to the work as a daily-wage laborer at the building construction sites. Wallowing for long hours in the mortar took a cruel toll on Sunita’s looks. The cement mixture ate into her soles. Carrying cement bags on her head made her long hair thin away. Her impaired looks repelled the prospective bridegrooms. Returning home from work one evening Sunita to her dismay discovered that her step mother had run away with another man. Sunita lived all alone, helpless and miserable.
The proposal from Jagabandhu Gochhayat came during those crucial days.
‘The old man is damn rich,’ Banamali, the mason said. ‘Marry him. he will keep you happy!’
‘Happy?’ The word came as a shock. What does it mean to be happy? Sunita never believed that Destiny would ever sanction that remote, never ever dreamt of thing called happiness. Her life was an episode of measureless grief. Now and then the rumor that her own mother was alive and had run away deserting Sunita reached her. People also said that she was living with someone in Shalia Sahi. A hard sob choked Sunita’s throat when she heard them. What kind of a mother could ignore the cries of her own newborn baby and run away? She wondered if her mother would have abandoned her had she been a male child.
Staying alone was not much of a problem during the daytime. The mason Banamali sometimes took the liberty of touching her private parts now and then. Save that there was nothing else to disturb her.
It was the nights that frightened her. Each night seemed an unending age of darkness. She breathes out a sigh of relief when the light of the dawn seeped in. But when the evenings began to thicken stones were pelted at the door and the roof of the house in the Hanuman bustee of village Saragpalli. Sunita knew that it was the young baddies of the bustee. She waited desperately for the night to end.
The old man had hoarded good money. He won’t have difficulty in getting a wife. But your case is different. Who would want to marry a woman who has grown past the marriageable age?
Back at home Sunita looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw there made her angry with Bnamali and with herself. In a spur of anger and frustration she flung away the mirror to the road.
Without bothering about the consequences Sunita came to Denga Pahada with Banamali. Her marriage with Jagabandhu Gochhayat was solemnized in the temple of Lakshmi Narayan there. She came to Jagabandhu’s house as his third wife.
All these had happened just eight days before.
Sunita ruminated how her life had changed during the past week as she stood perplexed on the narrow hilly road that led to Sunamunda police station.
Her nuptial night was a different affair altogether. Jagabandhu could not speak and communicated only by means of gestures and inarticulate mumblings. He looked guilty and almost
on the verge of tears. Sunita could interpret form his unintelligible mumblings that he wanted to express his gratitude to her.
His ailing first wife remained confined to bed. He had brought a second wife to bring water from the well in the village Mandarabasta , miles away from there. Things went well for about ten years. But, two months before she had slipped on the hilly track while returning carrying the water pots and broke her leg. The fall had almost crippled her. There were five members in the family and at least four pots of water were needed for drinking and cooking food. ‘It is beyond my strength to get water from that distance,’ Jagabandhu had said through his indistinct mutterings. ‘ You are our only hope , now; our destiny,’ he had said.
Sunita broke into tears.
Not because she had married a man much older than her but because the unflinching trust the man had pinned her.
Her ailing elder co-wife had gifted her a necklace of gold and the second one, a pair of silver ear studs.
‘He had married you only after consulting us. We are your own. Don’t think of us as your rivals,’ they had told her.
Before dawn break the next day Sunita set out to the village Mandarabasta carrying empty buckets and water pots. The two co-wives had tried to stop her since she was a new wed bride. She returned home with the pots and buckets filled with water. The family was waiting for water. She poured out cold water from the pots and gave them. She experienced an enormous satisfaction watching her family members greedily drinking the water.
‘Don’t work so hard. Wait for a month or two. You are a new wed bride in this family after all! What would people say?’ jagabandhu had tried to dissuade her.
Sunita never worried about the remarks of the so called ‘people’. She knew that they would never come forward to assist the unprivileged , down trodden or the dispossessed. Those ‘people’ are there only for the rich landlords, the contractors or the supervisors. They never existed for the poor. Had such ‘people’ been there to fight for the poor villages like Denga Pahada would never have been struggling this hard for a swallow of drinking water.
Sometime ago Sunita had heard about a village called Ajodhya, located close to Jaleswar that had suffered from want of drinking water. The ‘Harijana’s and the ‘Adivasi’ s were forbidden to get water from the tube-well in the streets inhabited by the upper class people. Some good man had got the tale of the troubles the villagers faced, printed in a newspaper. A couple of foreigners had donated a lakh to help install tube wells for those Harijana s and Adivasi s of the village. ‘Wouldn’t someone write about the problem of the water scarcity of village DengaPahada in some newspaper? May be some philanthropic man would install a tube well too.
‘Would Jagabandhu have married her had there been a tube well here?’ Sunita thought
The first night came back to her memory once again.
Jagabandhu had run his hand over her head and wept. Though he was not able to express himself on account of his impaired speech Sunita could guess what he wanted to say to her..
‘Is there any desire for physical pleasure left at this age? I have married you to save my family. Know that you are Mother Ganges for my family. I will remain indebted to you even after my death for your unselfish acceptance of the responsibility.
This is now the month of Jyestha( June). After a couple of months rains will come. You do not have to walk this far on the hills to collect water thereafter. Forgive me!!’
Unshed tears settled heavy on Sunita’s eyelids as she remembered Jagabandhu’s words, his helplessness.
‘I had no choice,’ he had said. ‘The elder son went away to the town with his family. And now we three adult people with our nine children, five from the elder one and four from the second, are stuck here. The two of them had managed between themselves and had run the household for the last thirty years. Now the responsibility rests on your shoulder. My eldest daughter will look after the cooking, but it is not possible for her to go to village Mnadarabast climbing the hill and get water. You might have seen she is afflicted by polio.’
Sunita had glanced at her new family and heaved a deep sigh. It was more a hospital than a home. almost everyone suffered from one ailment or other. The family of Jagabandhu earned their living through sewing leaf-plates and cups from the Sal leaves. Jagabandhu also invested some amount in a money lending business. He used to give money on loan to the needy villagers and received interest on that. Some villagers probably, to grab his money taken as debt, had implicated him in this case and got him arrested hoping that they would not have to repay the loan.
Maa!
The village womenfolk talked about it at the well. They felt sorry for Sunita.
‘Why don’t the police go and fetch water for the Gochhayat family, if having three wives is against the law? Aren’t the Muslims in this country marrying more than one wives? These small time officials who cannot lay their hands on real criminals always take it out on defenseless folks like us!
Sunita trudged on the hill road. A sling bag made of cloth hung from her shoulder. She had brought roti and some boiled vegetables for Jagabandhu. She carried a small bottle of water in that bag too.
A large crowd had gathered outside the police station of Sunamunda by the time Sunita reached there. the police were letting out a tall man from the jeep. He must be a senior officer, or some powerful man, Sunita thought. She ran up to the tall man and begged with joined-palms, ‘Babu, please let my husband out!
The tall young man, who must have been around thirty, looked at Sunita. He laughed.
‘I am not neither a minister not a police officer. I am a criminal. They call me Padana. How can I release your husband?’
He turned to look at a man who walked behind him wearing a black coat and said,
‘Hey Pattnaik, do something for her. Should you always be doing things only for money?’
The police led Padana in through the door. Sunita’s anxious gaze darted around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jagabandhu.’ Where was he? The police had brought him here since noontime yesterday. He was an old man. He must be hungry and in pain!!
Where must she search for Jagabandhu amidst this jostling crown on the verandah?’
She was feeling desperate.
A sound of someone groaning weakly reached her ears. She looked here and there, now sure that it was her husband, Jagabandhu. The sound came from a corner at the end of the long verandah. Sunita ran towards where the sound came from and found Jagabandhu sitting there, leaning against the wall. Parched in thirst he was running a restless hand over his belly. Sunita sat down beside him and stroked his head and back.
With the end part of her sari she wiped his sweating face and gave the water bottle.
‘Would you like to eat some roti?’ she asked tenderly.
From his office room the inspector called for the constable.
‘Call thtat oldie’s wife here,’ he ordered as constable Pranaballava came in.
Sunita walked in to the room with unsteady steps. She was shaking badly. Thelacdye that lined her feet was smeared in dust. The spot of vermilion she wore on her forehead was washed away in sweat and ran down her nose to her lips in thin rivulets of crimson. She looked like a statue sculpted out of granite.
‘Look at her sir!’Pranaballava leered. ‘Isn’t she a deep, deep well herself?’
Inspector Surendraprasad glared at him. Pranaballava shrank under that angry gaze.
‘Babu, please let him out!’ Sunita begged, tears streaming from her eyes. ‘He is a diabetic. Anything might happen.’
‘The minister will be reaching here sometime in the afternoon. We are all busy in making preparing for his visit. We could find time to consider your husband’s case tomorrow only.’ The inspector replied.
Sunita was intimidated by the ambience in the police station. Fear choked her voice.
The district administration was galvanized into a flurry of action for the impending visit of the minister. No one had time for Sunita or Jagabandhu.
Jagabandhu was running a temperature since noon. But Sunita had gone to the inspector’s house leaving him alone in the police station. She had placed her jewelry, a necklace of gold and a pair of silver ear-studs, the gifts from her co-wives, at his feet and begged him to help her husband. she had come back to Jagabandhu and kept waiting for the inspector to return to the police station. But he had not returned till a longtime past afternoon. Jagabandhu’s temperature was rising menacingly.
‘Send home a message through someone. This demon of a police is not going to set me free. I smell trouble. It is not wise for a woman to stay in this devils’ place. Go home, I beg of you,’ Jagabandhu said in gestures and folded his palms.’
Sunita held Jagabandhu’s hands in her own.
‘I will take you home with me, or I will stay with you here come what may.’
‘what will happen to the eleven people in our family in this blazing summer if you stay here with me? Who will fetch water for them? They will die of thirst.’ Jagabandhu gestured again, urging his bride to leave.
‘The inspector has assured me that he would release you when he would come in the evening.’
Jagabandhu peered at Sunita’s face. He groped about her throat anxiously and mumbled some unintelligible words, as if he wanted to ask,
‘Where is your necklace? Where are your ear studs? Who took them?’
Sunita sat silent, holding her head down.
‘Tell me? Who has taken away your ornaments?’ Jagabandhu pressed on.
‘No one has taken it. I myself have given them to the inspector. He would set you free.’
Miserable, Jagabandhu flopped against the wall.
‘I don’t care for the ornaments. I don’t need any jewelry. I only want you to be with me. Please do not worry about them. just think how are we going to get out of this death-house.
Jagabandhu sat leaning against the wall, staring emptily ahead.
The sound of someone approaching made Sunita take a look back.
A man in a black coat, followed by a group of women was walking up to the place where she and Jagabandhu were sitting.
‘Come with me, ‘the woman in the front said to Sunita. ‘ I am from the Human Rights Association. We will meet the District Collector. The government cannot supply drinking water to people even if it is sixty eight years since our country has attained independence. The collector will have to take the responsibility.
Sunita looked blankly at the woman. What is ‘human’ and what is the meaning of ‘rights’? And why should this collector or whatever he be, be held responsible for the ill fate they suffered?
‘Madam is right,’, said the man in the black coat. ‘You cannot escape here unless you adopt thais line of action as she has suggested.’
‘My dear old sir!’ He turned to address Jagabandhu. ‘You will tell the collector the truth. Tell him that you have married three wives one after another just to have someone to fetch water from the distant village beyond the hill.’
Sunita stood as still as a statue.
‘The media people will be arriving soon. I have asked them here. You let them know your grievances. The media would not only telecast the news of the minister distributing bi cycles to the students, but also of the atrocities the police perpetrated on innocent people and of the incompetence of government in addressing the public issues. In less than a fortnight there will be a bore well installed in your village. Or else I will carry forth the matter to the Parliament. I do not need any publicity. Serving the poor and the underprivileged is my mission.’
She was right. The media people along with the camera crew reached the place shortly after and stood around Sunita recording her statements.
Sunita spoke about her miserable plight. She said that her husband had brought her as the third wife for getting water from a distant village. It was only eight days after her marriage.
‘It is not safe for you to stay at this police station. Better you come with me to my place.’
The woman who introduced herself as a promoter of human rights, said to Sunita.
Sunita shook her head. She could not go anywhere leaving Jagabandhu alone, she said.
‘It is all right,’ the lady said. ‘The police might release him tomorrow or send him to court. You stay here with him. I will send food for both of you through a volunteer.’
Constable Pranaballav returned a little after the lady left. He was drunk, almost soaked with country liquor. he lunged towards Jagabandhu and punched him hard. The old man slumped against the wall, groaning in abject pain.
‘Rascal!’ he snarled. ‘You are making a bloody show, aren’t you? You are playing politics!! Making complaints to that Human Rights Commission fellows against me! just wait, I will let all your heat off you.’ He began pulling Jagabandhu by his hand.
Sunita, her palms joined together, asked fearfully.
‘Where are you taking him? Let me go with him too,’ she begged.
‘You will go?’ Pranaballave sneered.
‘Have patience. I will surely take you with me tomorrow night. But tonight I have to take care of this fellow.’ He added.
Sunita cringed.
Pranaballav pulled Jagabandhu in to the jeep and drove away. Sunita stood under the light post, alone and helpless.
After sometime, that seemed an age, a hand touched her shoulder. A woman had brought rice and some curry in a tiffin –career. She asked her to eat. Sunita refused.
‘Where did they take my husband?’ she asked desperately. The woman who had brought food for her went inside and inquired.
‘Where did they take Jagabandhu?’
‘He was not well. They had taken him to the hospital,’ the sub-inspector, who was in charge of the police station, replied.
‘No, he was not ill,’ Sunita protested. ‘He could not speak. The police might not have understood what he said.’
The sub-inspector ignored her and turned his eyes to the files on the table.
It might be an hour later Pranaballav’s jeep pulled up in front of the police station. He got down from the jeep and walked towards Sunita in unsteady steps. He looked like an angel of death.
‘Go,’ he said looking at Sunita. ‘Your oldie is calling you. He wants you to make him drink water. Give him water and go straight to your home. Do not say a word to anyone. You will have to spend next ten years in jail if you delay even for a moment. Go now. Quick!’
Sunita scrambled into the jeep. Jagabandhu lay in the back seat and moaned. His breathing was hard and irregular. Sunita ran her hand over him, trying to comfort him.
The jeep bumped along the hilly road that led to Denga Pahada, Jagabandhu’s village.
‘Look, we are almost there. I can see our house. Didn’t I tell you that the good inspector will set you free? Look, there is the altar where our marriage was performed. ‘
Jagabandhu showed no reaction to Sunita’s panicky blabbering.
Sunita shook him. ‘Get up now, we have reached home.’
The driver brought the jeep to a stop. He got down from the driver’s seat and walked round to the back of the jeep. He brought Jagabandhu out and dragged him to the house. He laid his body down on the verandah. He walked back to the jeep, took his seat behind the wheel and turning the jeep drove away in the direction he had come from.
‘Here, listen to me! We are home!’ Sunita said loudly.
Jagabandhu lay still. He did not even groan.
‘Dei!’ Sunita screamed. ‘Get me some water! Why isn’t he opening his eyes?’
There was not a drop of water in the house. The empty water pots rolled about the floor.
Sunita picked up a water pot and broke into a frantic run.
All she could think of was to get to the well in the village of Mandarbasta.
Her sari was disheveled. Her uncombed hair swung madly in the hot wind of the summer night.
She wanted water, a pot-full of water.
It was the one and only thing she needed to save her world.
Just a pot-full of water! To protect the spot of vermilion on her forehead!!!
Gourahari Das is a creative writer, journalist and an academician. He completed BA from Ravenshaw Evening College Cuttack. Subsequently, he did his master's degree in Odia language and literature from Utkal University. Later he studied MJMC and was awarded a gold medal. He holds a Ph.D. from Utkal University too.
He is a recipient of Sahitya Akademi Award and writes regular columns in newspaper SAMBAD which are very popular. He is also the recipient of prestigious Koraput Literary Award 2019, from Odia Media Private Limited, the organiser of Koraput Literary Festival. Many of his stories has been adapted as TV films directed by Nirad Mahapatra, Basant Sahu, Dhira Mallik, Nandalal Mahapatra and telecast on DD, ETV and other TV Channels.
Sambit was in a meeting when the call came. He had put the mobile in vibration mode. He got up and went out. A call from Manas brooked no delay. It had to be taken no matter where Sambit was, what time or in what state. He shouted into the phone,
"Hey, how is it you are calling at 4.30? Has the steel plant closed down?"
"Arey na na, it is an emergency. Drop whatever you are doing and rush to the Station Square. Anu is waiting there for Baba and Maa. Rina Bhabhi is probably with them."
Sambit was surprised,
"Anu? I thought last time you came here, you had sorted out everything?"
"That's what I thought, but looks like things have gone really bad this time. Anu has left her home with a suitcase in hand and says she will not return. Either Baba and Maa should take her back or she will leave the town catching the earliest train".
"How can she leave just like that? Where will she go?"
"I don't know. That's why I am asking you to rush. She just called and spoke for a few seconds and started sobbing. My heart broke. But I can't leave tonight. Audit is going on and will be over tomorrow afternoon. I will drive down immediately after that and be at Bhubaneswar by midnight. Please Sambit, go and do something. Ask Baba and Maa to take Anu with them. I am worried. Really worried."
"Ok, ok, don't panic. Let me go and see what can be done. Will let you know later in the evening. Bye."
Sambit didn't go back to the meeting. His boss was a difficult man, asking him for permission to leave the meeting was like asking a tiger to give up the delicious deer cub already in its mouth. He decided he would give some sob story to the boss later. First things first. If Manas said, go and jump in the river Sambit would do it without blinking an eye. A friendship of twenty two years demanded that kind of commitment. They had been friends ever since the day they entered the play school, howling and fighting with their parents for freedom. And the friendship stayed for ever, they were together till they finished their engineering studies. After that Sambit joined the State Electricity Board and started working at Bhubaneswar, Manas went to Rourkela to join the Steel Plant there. The separation only made their occasional meetings more wild. Every time Manas came to Bhubaneswar during a weekend, he would drop his bag at home and rush to his friend. They would keep drinking beer, competing with each other, a practice picked up from the Engineering College. After the seventh or eighth bottle, Manas would fall down flat on the floor. Sambit would drag himself to bed and sleep till ten the next day. They would go down to Priya restaurant and have another competition on the number of dosas one could eat. Lunch at Manas's place and off to the Multiplex for two movies in succession. More beer and it would be time to board the bus to Rourkela.
And Ananyaa? Anu, the cute little sister to her two brothers and Sambit? She was younger to Manoj and Manas, was the darling of her parents, and a sweet companion to Reena Bhabhi after Manoj Bhaiya got married. Often, they would all drive down to the ice cream parlour. Anu would gulp down her ice cream and then snatch away everyone's unfinished ice cream and gobble it up. Her first target would be Sambit Bhaiya who was a little slow in eating. Sambit would order another ice cream but before he could start on it, she would snatch it away.
When Anu got into the college, suddenly from a small girl, she became a big beauty. Not a mega beauty, but she had a captivating smile and a very sweet nature. She was no longer free with Sambit Bhaiya and felt shy when he came home. While eating lunch she would look at him stealthily and smile to herself, thinking of some mischief, which she was too shy to execute. She took care to ensure no one noticed it. By the time she finished her M.A. in Psychology the parents had started looking for a match for her. Her father had just retired as an officer in the LIC and wanted to lead a peaceful retired life after giving away his daughter in marriage.
The family considered it sheer good luck when the tall, handsome Arun agreed to marry Anu. He was working as the Area Manager of a big refrigerator company which also had the biggest share of the air conditioner market in the state and in adjoining Chhatisgarh. With a six figure monthly salary, a big bungalow with two servants, a cook and a gardener, he was a dream catch for any girl. Anu's wedding was conducted with great fanfare. Everyone was impressed with Arun, who would have passed off as a hero in a film in any crowd.
Sambit and Manas did most of the running around for the wedding, carrying out all the chores - from printing of cards to looking after guests at the reception. Sambit's motorbike had no rest, ready to roar off any time of the day or night. Rina Bhabhi would tease Sambit,
"Ha, my dear Devarji, even with half of this hard labour you would have got a bride of your own, warming the pillion of your bike. Chhi, Chhi, is this the age for a young bull to carry another young bull on the back and run around like a maniac? What will you do when Manas leaves for Rourkela? Who will you carry on your bike?"
Sambit would smile,
"Bhabhiji, the pillion is pining for a beautiful girl like you. Come, I will take you around all over the town, let some people die of jealousy, seeing a rare beauty on the bike of a handsome hunk!"
Rina Bhabhi would roll with laughter,
"O my God, what an ambition! Devarji! Find a beauty for yourself, this one is already mortgaged to your brother, hunk or no hunk!"
And she would run away swelling with joy at Sambit's compliment.
Ananya and Arun were invited home for the customary dinner on the seventh day of the marriage. Anu was looking radiant, obviously the wedding had been a success. Manas could not come, Sambit was there. The moment Rina Bhabhi saw Anu, she exclaimed,
"Wow Anu, in just a week's time Arun has worked wonders on you. Your face is glowing, the cheeks have filled up, your... ."
Sambit enjoyed the way Anu blushed and looked in embarrassment where he was standing. She put her hand on Bhabhi's mouth and dragged her away. Arun was smiling.
Arun was good to talk to, very smart and suave. The dinner was a success, although Sambit somehow felt there was some undercurrent of tension. He didn't know why, till Bhabhi told him, after Arun and Anu left,
"You know, Arun was reluctant to come for the dinner".
Sambit was surprised,
"Reluctant? Why?"
"He asked Anu if drinks would be served with dinner; she said they wouldn't be as Baba was very strict about alcohol being brought into our home. Arun was shocked, 'What age is your father living in? Is he so backward in thinking? At our home my father would share drinks with me every evening when I used to live with my parents.' Anu shook her head, saying, 'That's not the practice at our home.' But she felt bad, since Arun was quite upset, 'Why should I waste an evening at your place drinking orange juice? It's better that you go there. Let me go to the club to have a few pegs of whiskey with my friends.' Anu had burst into tears, almost falling at his feet to persuade him to come with her. On the way, he gave her long lectures on the modern style of living, how he had to entertain high flying corporate customers at five star hotels with drinks and often supply call girls to them. Anu was aghast. Seeing her so sad, he tried to act normal, but he told her again and again that his going for dinner with her was a waste of an evening. Anu says he has been going away to the club every evening for the past five days and comes back late in the night quite drunk."
"Drunk? Why did you give Anu in marriage to a drunk?"
"We never knew, no one told us. We got carried away by the handsome looks and the fat salary he earns. Even now I don't feel like spilling this story to Baba, Maa and your Manoj Bhaiya."
Sambit felt sad,
"O my God, I hope our sweet, innocent Anu will be able to adjust with such a person!"
Sambit didn't hear much about Anu for the next few days. Somehow Manas had not been able to get leave and come down to Bhubaneswar for quite some time. About three months later, he suddenly turned up at Sambit's place in the evening. Sambit was surprised. It seemed Manas had not been able to speak to him earlier during the day, the call did not go through for some reason. Manas looked distraught.
"Hey, Sambit, get ready, we have to go to Anu's place. That Arun has turned out to be a scoundrel of the worst type. We have to do something."
Sambit was aghast,
"Scoundrel? What big scoundrel? Tell me, we will go and break his legs if he has raised a finger against our sweet Anu."
Manas shook his head,
"He has done worse than that. Anu is reduced to a mental wreck. I have not met her, but Rina Bhabhi says Anu is broken now, she calls her often and cries over the phone."
Sambit shouted in anger,
"Why? What is that rascal doing to her?"
"Arun tells her it was a big mistake for him to marry an uncultured, uncouth girl like Anu. What's the point in getting a post-graduate degree if one doesn't know how to behave in high class society, he asks."
"What? Our Anu? Can someone dream of a better wife than her? What is this beast upto?"
"It seems, a couple of weeks after their wedding, Arun had asked Anu to accompany him to the club in the evening. He had half a dozen friends waiting there. They kept on insisting that Anu should drink at least a peg with them; she refused and was quite firm about it. They made fun of her, taunted Arun, ridiculing him for marrying a rustic girl. Arun was furious. He and another friend caught hold of her and forced a peg of gin down her throat. Anu gagged, ran to the washroom and puked. She was shocked at Arun's behaviour, not only for forcing her to drink but also for allowing his friend to touch her. She came out of the washroom, ran out, got into an autorickshaw and went back to her home. That night Arun returned very late and shouted at her, using some very foul language. He declared her unfit to be his wife and warned her if she refused to go with him to the club or to parties he would stop talking to her. Anu was shocked. Imagine a girl like Anu, from our conservative family, suffering such a culture shock just a fortnight after the marriage!"
Sambit shook his head in disbelief,
"One has seen such things in movies, but to think this happened to our dear Anu, such a sweet, innocent girl!"
"That's not all. A few days later, Arun had to entertain some big clients in a five star hotel. He insisted Anu should come with him. He told her there would be other ladies there. Anu found out later that the other ladies were actually call girls, responding to lewd talk with lewder remarks and making suggestive gestures to their clients. She felt very uncomfortable. And she was very upset when one of the clients made a pass at her, loaded with double meaning. Arun only smiled and kept quiet. Before things could go out of control Anu excused herself saying she was feeling unwell and left for home. Arun was violently angry that night and raised his hand threatening her with dire consequences if she didn't reform and learn the ways of cultured living. Anu has been increasingly feeling suffocated in his company, she is very scared of him now. It turns out our poor Anu has got into the hands of a very immoral, unscrupulous man. He actually slapped her the next time he wanted her to go with him to a clients' dinner and she refused. He has beaten her a few times after that. Manoj Bhai and Rina Bhabhi have visited Arun's place a couple of times and tried to put some sense into him, but he is a stubborn fellow. Now he doesn't even allow Anu to visit our home any more. We haven't told Baba and Maa anything, fearing it will break their hearts. Sambit, our poor Anu's life is ruined. Let's go and do something. I feel like breaking the legs of that scoundrel, how can he behave like a beast?"
Sambit got ready to leave with Manas, but at the last minute he changed his mind. What if Arun questioned his presence? Who was he to interfere in the affairs of Arun and Anu? And if Anu felt embarrassed by his presence? If she didn't feel like saying everything she ought to say? He explained this to Manas and excused himself.
Manas was in a murderous mood. Anu's sobbing had added fuel to the fire. He threatened Arun with filing a domestic violence and dowry harassment case against him if he ever raised his hand against Ananyaa again. Arun seemed to have sobered down a bit after that, but Manas doubted if it would last.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sambit felt disturbed on the way to Station Square from his office. Something must have precipitated a crisis again. It was impossible to think of a sweet, innocent girl like Anu leaving her husband's place and preparing to catch the first possible train to go away to some unknown place.
At Station Square, things had reached a stalemate. Anu's parents were all sympathy for her, but insisted that she should go back. They didn't know the whole story and thought it was a small domestic tiff. Her mother was trying to console her when Sambit reached there,
"Anu, when two people come together in marriage, they are from different families, with different backgrounds. Tiffs and misunderstandings are quite normal. Go back to Arun and try to compromise, just try to understand each other and build a new life. God willing, soon you may have a child or two, that's how life moves on. Don't be stubborn."
The father was worried.. How would he face the world if the daughter deserted her husband and retuned to the parents' place? What justification could he give to others? And what would he do with a daughter like that? She might get a job, but would she get a husband again, a husband as handsome and rich as Arun?"
Reena Bhabhi was nonplussed; she knew the torment Ananyaa was going through with a cruel, sadist husband, but she didn't have the courage to go against the wishes of her in-laws.
Ananyaa's heart had broken into a thousand pieces.
"Baba, Maa, how can you say this? You want your daughter to live through hell? I wish I could show the scar in my mind. How can I do things which my conscience does not permit? How can I consume drinks in a club or accompany Arun to five star hotels to entertain his guests? And he thinks this is all civilised, cultured behaviour!"
Her mother tried to convince her,
"Beti, you can still go to a club without drinking, to a hotel just to eat and enjoy yourself with others. One has to do a lot of adjustments in marriage. You both have to understand each other's needs. Arun is such a handsome boy, looks like a film star. And look at his salary, the big bungalow, the servants, the cook. You want to give up all this luxury because of some difference of opinion with him?"
"Difference of opinion? What do you know Mama? When he is very very drunk he behaves like an animal, he has slapped me a few times for not trying to fit into a cultured society! You want me to go back to him?"
Her Baba was disturbed,
"He has slapped you? No. No. He can't do that. He shouldn't do that. Come, all of us will go to your place and meet him. I will fall at his feet and ask for forgiveness for any deficiency in you, and beg him not to beat you again. Let us make one more attempt to make the marriage work."
Anu, the usually quiet, pliant Anu flared up,
"Baba, have you gone crazy? Why should you fall at his feet? He is the animal, not you!"
Her eyes blazing, she looked at Sambit,
"You, what do you say? Why are you standing quietly, watching the drama?"
Sambit was worried,
"I think all of us can go to your place and call Arun. Let's give him a piece of our mind".
Anu stamped her feet in anger,
"There is no way I am going back to that house of horrors."
Her mother panicked,
"O my God, where will you go then?"
Anu looked at the railway station, her eyes red with anger and hurt,
"Since my parents do not want to take me to their home, I can go and catch the first available train and go away somewhere, but I have another option also."
Everyone looked at her, puzzled. Was Anu thinking of some other drastic step, was she planning to end her life? Her Baba exclaimed,
"Please don't do anything foolish. We will find a solution, let us go and meet Arun."
Anu shook her head firmly, she looked like a woman possessed. Her eyes spewing fire, she fixed her gaze at Sambit,
"Will you take me with you?"
Sambit felt the ground sinking beneath his feet. He was shocked, beyond belief. How could he take Anu to his bachelor's den? Somehow the first thing that came to his mind was to recollect how many empty beer bottles were lying under the bed. He started sweating. He stuttered,
"M..m..e? How can you come with me?"
Ananyaa let out a maniacal laugh, and quite uncharacteristically, spat on the ground.
"Chhih, you all are a huge disappointment! At least my husband has the guts to demand of me the duties of a wife. No matter how drunk, how often he slaps me, he comes back in the night to demand his pound of flesh. All of you are eunuchs, good for nothing talkers!"
With that she dragged her suitcase and started walking towards the station. Baba, Maa and Rina Bhabhi shouted at her, "Wait, Anu, wait." She didn't even look back.
Sambit started his motor bike and reached her in a few seconds. He grabbed the suitcase from her and waited for her to get unto the pillion seat. She held the suitcase close to her and they drove away to his small one room bachelor's apartment at Sahid Nagar. They didn't speak to each other, his mind busy in remembering what kinds of things are lying scattered all over the apartment, how many beer bottles are in the fridge, how many lying on the floor. He consoled himself with the thought that Manas would come next day and take Ananya away either to their parent's home or to Rourkela. He hoped Anu would be too tired and go off to sleep after he got some food from the hotel for both of them. Hopefully she would not do an inspection of the apartment.
They reached in ten minutes. The apartment was dark. With trembling hands he opened the lock, the key slipped twice before fitting into the lock. Anu was enjoying his nervousness. It was obvious this was the first time a lady was entering into the bachelor's den. She wondered if he had a huge idol of Hanuman in a corner with a few dumbbells for exercise. The moment the door opened and a dim bulb lighted up the apartment, she realised how wrong she was about Hanumanji finding an abode there. It was just one room with a single bed in a corner. There were papers lying everywhere, washed and unwashed clothes lying on the bed. It was obvious Sambit used to push them into one side of the bed and slept in the night. Footwear of various types was heaped in a corner, he had probably not thrown away the used ones for many years. And even in the dim light she could see couple of empty bottles peeping from under the bed.
Anu had got back some of her lively spirit. She put her hand to the mouth and exclaimed,
"My God, can someone live like this? Looks like it will take me a week to set this house right."
Sambit smiled to himself. The foolish Anu, innocent as ever! She is going to leave tomorrow with Manas, why was she talking of a week? He flashed an embarrassing smile at her,
"Sorry, I never thought you or some other girl would come here today, otherwise I would have tried to clean it up."
She smiled, in her typical, sweet way, the way she had been doing ever since he knew her as a cute, adolescent girl,
"Some other girl? Do you bring many girls here?"
Sambit turned red in embarrassment,
"No, no, I didn't mean that. Any way, leave it. Tell me what will you have for dinner? Let me go and get it from the restaurant nearby."
Anu shook her head,
"No need for that. Do you have any rice, salt, spices? I just opened the fridge and found only beer bottles. And a quarter bottle of tomato sauce. Do you take that for dinner? Beer with tomato sauce?" She asked him in a tone full of mischief.
He laughed,
"Only occasionally, adding a bit of Chilly Chicken or Fish Manchurian to that. If you want I can get that for you for dinner. Of course without the beer. I am scared enough by now by your tantrums."
She burst into a huge laughter,
"O my God, so scared already? I wonder how to handle you, a scared lamb! Ok, my scared lamb, go and get some rice, daal, half a dozen eggs, potato, onion, garlic, some salt and chilly powder. I will make some rice, daal and egg curry. I hate food from the restaurant. Get some ice cream, will you? For old time's sake! And yes, get me a bar of soap, I use Pears. I take a bath every night before going to bed and I don't like to use another person's soap." A mysterious smile spread over her face like an aromatic flavour from an exotic agarbathi."
Sambit went out. When he returned after about forty five minutes, he couldn't believe the transformation in the apartment. It was as if Anu had waved a magic wand and got rid of all the muck lying around. The room was cleaned up, the heap of shoes had disappeared, the clothes all folded and tucked away in the cupboard. She had managed to find a better bulb somewhere, the room was looking neat and bright. The bed sheet had been changed on the bed, the four chairs were neatly arranged in the centre of the hall with a small tea table retrieved from somewhere. For a moment his heart filled with joy. He realised the magic of the touch of a womans deft hands. He handed over the things to Anu and went out to speak to Manas, who was full of sympathy for him and assured that he would come the next night and take Anu away to their parent's home or to Rourkela.
They had dinner after an hour and half. Anu had made delicious food. It was time to sleep. When Anu went to the bath room to take her bath, Sambit managed to locate an extra bed sheet and spread it on the floor. An old pillow was taken out, the last time it was used was when Manas had come three months back to speak to Arun and persuade him not to harass Anu.
Anu offered to sleep on the floor, but Sambit insisted that she should take the bed. After all she was the guest! She corrected him - not a guest, but a guestess! When he asked how she was a guestess she explained to him, like a school teacher, "See, like emperor-empress, host-hostess, guest-guestess."
They laughed and switched off the light to go to sleep. Sambit was finding it difficult to sleep on the hard floor. It was obviously different when you are sozzled with beer up to your tongue, but now the hard ground pinched. He consoled himself, anyway it was just for a night, let him bear with it. After all, he was doing it for Anu. The poor girl has suffered so much in the past few months. Let her get some good sleep.
Suddenly he got a message alert in the mobile. He looked at the time. It was 11.15. The message was from Rina Bhabhi. Sambit was shocked. A message from Rina Bhabhi! So late in the night! He opened the message.
Devarji,
I am sure you are tossing on the floor, unable to sleep. Poor Anu must be going through the same fate. Let me tell you why. About a month back on a day she was very depressed, she had come to me. She broke into a sob and told me she was paying the price for her foolishness. Ever since she was a school going girl, she has admired you and loved you with a tenderness one reserves for the special love of life. She was too shy to tell you and hoped you would notice. But you are made of Hanumanish stuff, all brawn, no brain. You never noticed it. And Anu was reluctant to tell anyone in the family. She was afraid that they would misunderstand her, and think of her as a girl of loose morals, giving her heart to someone who was almost like a family member. She told me, her life would have been different had she taken the courage to tell someone of her feelings for you. She blamed her destiny for the mess she was in. she told me, Arun, despite the handsome looks and the fat salary, is an inhuman monster, no decent girl can be happy with him as a wife.
Devarji, this evening I could not go against the wishes of Baba and Maa openly. They are a typical middle class family, scared of 'What the society will think, whether they will be blamed for not giving good sanskar to their daughter, what will happen to Anu after them' and all that kind of stuff. I was so happy and relieved to see Anu get onto your motorbike and both of you driving away.
I am sure Anu will never go back to Arun. She should not. Devarji, it's time the pillion seat of your bike is taken by the one who deserves it the most. She should have got it long back. Don't worry, Manoj Bhai and I will convince Baba and Maa. And we will ask Arun for a divorce on the grounds of physical cruelty and mental torture. I have kept all the messages Anu had sent me against him. We will show them to him. If he still doesn't agree we will send a notice to him for divorce on the ground of dowry harassment. We will get the divorce no matter what. We will fight for Anu, the poor girl deserves it.
Devarji, just go and check. Anu is probably tossing on the bed, restless, sleepless, waiting for you. Good luck to you.
Bhabhi
Sambit was shocked. Anu, the cute little Anu, had lost her heart to him! And she never told him! He remembered the many occasions when she would snatch away ice cream or sweets from him and gobble them up before he could stop her, the endless teasings, the mild pulls and pushes, the subtle hints of closeness. How come he never read the signs? What a champion idiot he was!
On an impulse he got up from the floor and slowly walked to the bed. Anu was lying on her back, her eyes closed. She had switched off the light, but moonlight was entering through the window and illumined the bed. Under that soft moonlight Ananyaa looked like the sweetest and loveliest picture of heavenly radiance. His heart beat fast, he felt as if it would burst. He kept gazing at her.
Ananya felt Sambit's presence near her. She opened her eyes. A smile spread over her face, a smile so special that for a moment it dazzled the room like a streak of lightning. She moved away towards the wall and opened her arms to welcome him to the bed. He hesitated for a few seconds, aware that a life-defining moment was waiting for him.
He climbed onto the bed. Ananyaa giggled,
"The first thing to do tomorrow is to buy a double bed. This single bed is going to give me cramps. You won't like a hunch-back wife, will you?"
And she giggled again, a series of soft, shy giggles.
Sambit had no experience but he had read somewhere how to stop such giggles.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . 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. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
REVIEWS
DURGA PUJA SPECIAL ISSUE OF EIGHT STORIES, 2021, A READER'S IMPRESSION:
I had the pleasure of reading the Pooja Special Edition published on 14.10.21 at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/401. Please find hereunder my impression as a reader. It gave me immense pleasure to read the seven authors of unusual perception, but of very unique creations, each of them has a 'wow' quality. There is also a story of mine "Mulk had the Last Laugh" which I personally consider as one of my best works, but I would refrain myself from discussing it here, it would sound unethical. So here we go.....
"THE SHELL" by Prof. Geetha Nair
An absorbing story with a climax like in that in the iconic short story "The Monkey's Paw" of W. W. Jacobs. A smooth narration of oceanic beauty and tranquil life on a pristine island proceeding to tough and adventurous terrain of a military camp, and then to the death-defying war front. The story leads the reader inexorably to a tragi-magic finish. Mili prays that her gift, the doll, sent by the hands of Ahmed to his little sister Amina, should reach the recipient soon. And her prayer is granted, but in a most tragic fashion, unknown to her. What cruel turn destiny takes for an early delivery of Mili's return gift for Amina's gift of a sea-shell, the jewel of her collection! The climax parallel to that in The Monkey's Paw story is replayed in its macabre details. The old father in Jacobs's story asked the magical talisman, the Monkey's Paw, for some money, and there was a knock on the door, a messenger entered bringing him a packet of dollars, the consolation money for an accident of his son just an hour ago, who had been crushed to death by a machine. Exactly in the same manner, without the knowledge of Mili, her gift of a doll for Amina, was going ensconced in Ahmed's box along with the casket of Indian army, containing his dead body, draped in Tricolour, befitting a martyr. Such turn of events and climaxes are rare creations in the annals of story writing and makes the reader spellbound.
"LEELA OF LORD VINAYAK" by Sulochana Ram Mohan.
An out and out family saga, unfolding from the childhood until the age of reason around three main story personae, - Ammu (who narrates the events to us, the readers) and her two cousins, Uma and Vinayak, apparently a few years older to her.
It is a remarkable down to earth narrative, that appears to be about all of us, and the events from lives of almost each of us, in bits and parts. It touches one where it burrows deep like fingers touching and searching during an intimate hug.
The pain, pleasure, care, contact, jealousy, relish, all the senses and feelings are there and the reader is drawn into a vortex of family viscosity.
In fact, the story or the narrative doesn't begin or end in exact sense, it is like a part of an enjoyable family drama peeped at through a hole on the door, and relished.
"DURGA" by G K Maya
A unique narrative with plashes of local vocabulary, apparently, of the story teller's area, that gives the language an ethnic charm. In the story, goddess Durga is visualized by the story persona in four different ways at different four stages of her life, such as - as a kid, as a little primary passed child, in youth, and as a middle-aged retired woman.
As a very little kid, she once found Durga's weapons, appropriately draped in red and gold textile and being worshipped on a pedestal in her family temple. When she asked her grandma "why couldn't she see Durga Mata?", she was told "Durga is a presence to be felt and sensed, not necessarily to be seen." But even to her kid-like mind, grandma's reply appeared illogical. She perhaps would be satisfied with something more tangible than only being palpable. Just after crossing her last threshold of primary standards, she had an epiphany like experience in a dream. She visualized Devi's lovely decorated feet as she would imagine the goddess from her grandma's stories and smelled the jasmine fragrance giving away Devi's nearness to her. A display in her subconscious somnolence. When she grew up to become a young woman, during one festive occasipn of Durga Puja, Devi as if came to her door steps as an old female mendicant with a luminous presence and accepted simple home made food and a new sari, to her immense satisfaction. Her experience had a divine edge, though she thought that the lady could even be a human. But all that mattered was her sensing the goddess in her. But her last meeting during her matured phase of life with the divine persona was the most touching among all; a young lady, surprisingly, her name being Durga, who managed a little orphanage came to her, and she felt as if the goddess was giveing her a darshan. Durga's dedication and sacrifices in spite of her personal pain and loss in life, raised her position in the eyes of the narrator to a Devi's level. She seemed the divine presence incarnate.
The story impressed me more because of the protagonist was a life long seeker of the divine experiences and finding it differently as maturity of self-realization progressed, the final discovery was - finding divinity in humanity, finding goddess Durga in a woman going by the name "Durga". The story touches the reader's soul in me.
"THE WORST COUNSELLOR" by Meena Mishra
The story gives a jolt of sorts. One is unsure of one's bearings by the story's laid out facts. The story persona, who narrates the series of events, often indexing them as if for a later day references. The fellow is beating his own drum too loud to sound true at his so young an age. He describes himself as the best selling and the most popular author, poet; classed the best among psychiatrists and psychoanalysts with secretaries looking after his small errands, heading a business house etc. what could hardly be achieved so early in life.
But that is neither here nor there, because he compromises with his professional ethics and steers his counseling abily to bring around his so-called female patient, a super model Diva, and his childhood crush-cum-classmate to fulfill his personal desire and marry the woman. So, one is shocked by his Damien type character, a handsome, saint-looking, sweet-tongued crook.
But it does not harm the story if the story is judged from its qualitative angles. The story is a shocker. Like a story with a dark hero, it succeeds. The author has slowly built up his narrative with a sure and steady foot work to reach the end when the man's intentions are totally disrobed.
But I suspect another latent plot inside the story. It also leads one to suspect and question, if the social Diva, the pretty model, was, in fact, not setting up a honey trap for the materially and socially successful man, all along under the pretext of engaging him as her sink and counselor.
It is a story where complex psychology is at play. For success, such stories need great research. I presume the story has a very bright future and needs more research, more revisions and quite a bit touch up to satisfy a fastidious reader. The control through compromises, getting influenced when under the false impression of holding the other impressed etc. are intricate psychoanalytic aspects that the author treads into, so utmost care should be its hallmark.
DILIP MOHAPATRA'S "DESIRES"
A story of desires - good versus bad, balanced versus imbalanced ones. The palm-leaves-inscripted library, left behind by the protagonist's ancestors as an heirloom, bulging with ancient wisdom and magical spells, is the fulcrum around which the story revolves. Dilip creates a magical world with a touch of realism with these palm-leaf records. Put a finger, wish a thing, recite a verse or mantra inscribed on a relevant page of the palm-leaf, and get carried away to a world like that of Jumanji* or Narnia*. When the man, Tapas, asks the inscribed/etched wish-tree on the palm-tree to be the wealthiest man in the world, he is advised against it by the empowered wisdom. When he wants to fly like Garuda, lord Vishnu's transport, he finds himself getting converted into a real time huge eagle. He gets scared of the transformation and wishes back to normalcy. When he wishes the entire world be full of happiness, goodness, joy and bounty, a land of Utopia, he is advised by the palm-leaves to desist from it, and leave it alone, because that would imbalances the purpose of creation.
Finally the book of knowledge teaches him the right desire to desire after - "a desire to be the master of all desires" meaning to desire after a power to rein in all your desires, have a clear understanding and perspective of them, and accordingly manage them in life. As soon as he wishes that, he gets it, finds a release, feels a lightness of being, and understands his worldly wise wife's desire for a fish curry as the prohibitory period of "pitrupaksha*" had ended. He finishes his search for wisdom, and proceeds to make for a hilsa fish.
A story written as a magical realistic narrative where the palm-leaf diagrams of Kamadhenu or Kalpbriksha etc. serve as switches you touch as you do on your PC to use Google search. A well crafted idea with a strong message, be satisfied in what you get, say a good dish of fish curry served by your lovely wife and not to chase after balls rolling into great unachievable goal posts.
(Jumanji* and Narnia* - the magical worlds in children stories. Pitrupaksha* - an auspicious period in Hindu Calendar when the ancestors are offered food etc. to satiate their hunger and during this period devout Hindus abstain from indulgences like liquor, sex and fish&meat etc. out of respect for their ancestors.)
"SILHOUTTE" by Nikhil M Kurien
A story with gory details from the outset till the end. The details are revealing and vivid, reflects the state of a distressed psyche, as it may appear. To add strands of straw to a drowning camel's back, the story's protagonist Venkat is prodded by his boss to visit a city to buy land for a new factory. The city is notorious for frequent crimes. To add to Venkat's woes, a Kali idol with protruding tongue and decapitated human head with dripping blood in her angry hand, enshrined in a temple by his hotel. A room in front of his hotel room is said to be notorious for being sealed by the police for the murder of a girl in there. To hammer the last nail to the coffin of his miseries, he finds a red silhouette outside his tenth-floor room's window keeping a watch over him with a blood red moon behind the mysterious silhouette. He finds the moon plashed with blood.
All the blood curdling images congest the story to make it a gory, bloody and horrific narrative. The redeemer is the Venkat's ten year old son who breaks the horror bubble with a telephone call to his disturbed papa and informs him that the previous night the moon had turned into a blood-moon because of the effect of an eclipse. Venkat has a consolation that he was yet sane and lucid. A blood curdling story that disturbs the reader.
"AN EVENING OF CHAMPAIGN AND A WET ANTHILL" by Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
No doubt, it is as long as a mini novel, as proclaimed by its author in his WhatsApp posting, a story to be savoured leisurely like frothing chilled champagne, served by the successful corporate executive Devdutt in his five-star hotel room to Abinash, put in mouth and rolled around and about the taste buds; and also a story to weep over an anthill ruined in the rains, a metaphor for the brilliant student Pranab's ruined state of affairs. A story to show the success of mediocrity and success of ordinary students over the brilliant ones, like poor Dr Pranab who never got what he deserved.
All are circumstantial and situational – what the built-up of the narrative indicates, might it be Abinash imbibing champagne with Devdutt, both in their productive and successful mid-life; be it the young Debdutt, besotted in his one-sided love for Deepika, being cold-shouldered by her, be it the high-decibel academically brilliant Pranab with great expectations but reduced to lead the life of an ordinary rural doctor with a hand-to-mouth income, only comparable to a rain-washed and destroyed proud anthill just by Dr Pranab's little cabin. As the well-built anthill gets soaked and smashed by a torrential rain, so goes Pranab's big dreams of being a great surgeon down the drain because of his family's poverty, erratic game the academia played at the crucial periods of his life, the excessive family responsibility and other obstacles. His hopes were dashed by his circumstances and he helplessly calls it his bad luck. Obviously, such rags to riches or riches to rags life-stories, when have no obvious reasons, are left into the irresponsible arms of the goddess, the Lady Luck.
Though long, the narrator's work is unputdownable. It tells us many minor and interesting plots within the main plot. The success of mediocrity (the academically most backward student Devdutt getting to be worldly successful), the brilliant student Pranab going nowhere in the successful world's scheme of things, fallacy of love as the highest emotion (the great lover Devdutt, in spite of worshipping the ground his classmate Deepika walks on, appears happily married to some other woman outside his love and jolly well celebrates the 25th marriage anniversary with champagne in company of his friend Abinash), and the metaphorical story of an anthill that could be the great mover for merriment of hostel-mates (imagined by naughty Devdutt to be growing around the studious student Pranab who studied like the Rishi Valmiki doing tapashya, and this joke of it keeping the hoteliers in splits at Pranab's cost); and another similar anthill making the reader cry (the pathetic looking rain-washed anthill outside the unsuccessful Dr Pranab's single-cabin-accommodation his clinic-cum-living quarters), bringing the reader antithetical feelings, guilt and helplessness. Abinash incidentally finds his friend Pranab in misery that the brilliant man did not deserve, but, he feels like being between the Devil and the deep sea - if he extends help, it may seem like a pity and it he doesn't extend help, he would be haunted by a life-long guilt. The story also has a sub-story of Deepika, for whom the bells of love of besotted Devdutt tolled, but she appears to never hearing the gongs of love that tolled in Devdutt's heart, she even fails to recognize Devdutt at her doorsteps. Or does she feign not to recognize Devdutt?
I find the story hint, but not elaborate that Deepika, the heroin of the story, might have her own love story, attractions and love-life beyond the knowledge of Devdutt, Abinash, and their close-knit friend circle. Her behaviour towards Devdutt was too weird and cold, like an ice-nymph. Either, she was too naive and dumb, or too sharp, selfish and evasive an escapist, or opportunist. She even didn't have the minimum politeness of greeting a classmate, whom she might not be knowing closely. The author leaves Deepika's story in a limbo, unsaid, to the best guess of the readers.
Devdutt, the prince apparent of a renowned rich business family, is so different a Johnny than a man from a business family, that it boggles the mind. He is honest, hardworking and of ramrod principles. The author has made me eat out of his hands, when he writes how an honest and upright Devdutt slapped his boss who was instigating him to be dishonest and corrupt. And further, he could not work as an ordinary engineer in our old-school India, replete with self-acclaimed high-decibel-moral standards and culture, but his principled approach made him a successful high-salaried corporate vice-president in America, whereas the Americans in our eyes are barbarians just out of the jungles in comparison to our well-oiled, well-bred, and cultured civil life.
MS tells his long story in style, going into various memory lanes, walking to and from in the terrain of time, from childhood to youth to middle age, and back and forth, with ease and fluidity. Undoubtedly the best story of the lot of eight.
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.
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