Literary Vibes - Edition CXII - POEMS & STORIES
Title : New Dawn (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
(Symbolic of Aurora, the Goddess of Dawn heralding a young Sun)
Dear Readers,
How can we start a new year without wishing each other the very best of happiness, joy and bliss in the next fifty two weeks? In the midst of the festive season with Christmas lights and merriment still keeping the heart aglow, let's welcome 2022 with the earnest wish that the horrors of 2021 will be soon forgotten and the reassuring touches of hope and positivism will prevail. In these merry hours I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 112nd edition of LiteraryVibes, a star-studded compilation of lovely poems, scintillating stories and excellent articles. Hope you will enjoy them and share them with your friends, relatives and contacts. The links for the current edition are: https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/410 (Poems, Short Stories) and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/411 (Heritage Articles, Anecdotes, Short Travelogues and Young Magic)
All the 112 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
In today's edition we are happy to welcome Ms. Sujatha Santhanam from Kochi, Kerala. She is a prolific poet and writer who has many publications to her credit. I am sure she will continue to bless the LiteraryVibes with her writings in future.
Traditionally Christmas and New Year are great times for sharing our joy and spread the gift of love and kindness. I have great pleasure in sharing with you two heart-touching tales dwelling on the wonderful theme of selfless giving and spreading of joy:
................................
I love this story from Katharine Hepburn’s childhood; in her own words.
“Once when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus.
Finally, there was only one other family between us and the ticket counter. This family made a big impression on me.
There were eight children, all probably under the age of 12. The way they were dressed, you could tell they didn't have a lot of money, but their clothes were neat and clean.
The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line, two-by-two behind their parents, holding hands. They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, animals, and all the acts they would be seeing that night. By their excitement you could sense they had never been to the circus before. It would be a highlight of their lives.
The father and mother were at the head of the pack standing proud as could be. The mother was holding her husband's hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You're my knight in shining armor." He was smiling and enjoying seeing his family happy.
The ticket lady asked the man how many tickets he wanted? He proudly responded, "I'd like to buy eight children's tickets and two adult tickets, so I can take my family to the circus." The ticket lady stated the price.
The man's wife let go of his hand, her head dropped, the man's lip began to quiver. Then he leaned a little closer and asked, "How much did you say?" The ticket lady again stated the price.
The man didn't have enough money. How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn't have enough money to take them to the circus?
Seeing what was going on, my dad reached into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and then dropped it on the ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!) My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."
The man understood what was going on. He wasn't begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking and embarrassing situation.
He looked straight into my dad's eyes, took my dad's hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming down his cheek, he replied; "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family."
My father and I went back to our car and drove home. The $20 that my dad gave away is what we were going to buy our own tickets with.
Although we didn't get to see the circus that night, we both felt a joy inside us that was far greater than seeing the circus could ever provide.
That day I learnt the value to Give.
The Giver is bigger than the Receiver.
If you want to be large, larger than life, learn to Give. Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything.
The importance of giving, blessing others can never be over emphasized because there's always joy in giving.
Learn to make someone happy by acts of giving.”
~ Katharine Hepburn
.......................................
Excellent Moral
A little boy came from school on Saturday and told his father, my teacher has given us home-work to hug 10 people and tell them - "Be patient, trust life and I Love you".
The Dad said - "OK, we will go to the Mall tomorrow morning and do it".
The child woke up all spirited in the morning, got ready. Went to his Dad and said - "Let's go!!"
The father said - "There is heavy rainfall, I fear nobody might be there".
The Child still insisted. So the Father drove in the horrible rainy weather to the Mall.
They stood in the mall for 1 hour, and the little boy hugged 9 people. His father then said - "Now let's go, it's raining heavily and we shouldn't get stuck!"
Sad, the son went along with his father. As they were driving past, the child pointed at a random house and said - "Please dad, just 1 person is remaining, I will go to that house and complete my homework!"
The father smiled and pulled the car over.
The child went to the door and began to ring the bell and pound the door strongly with his knuckles. He kept waiting. Finally the door was opened gently.
A lady came out with a very sad look and gently asked:
"What can I do for you, son?
With radiant eyes and a bright smile the child said:
"Ma'am my teacher has told to hug 10 people and tell them - "Be patient, trust life and I Love you". I have hugged 9 persons so far. May I hug you and pass the message to you."
The Lady embraced him, and started crying profusely.
On seeing that the Boy's father came out of the car. He went to the lady and asked - "Any problem madam?"
She composed herself, took them inside, gave them a cup of tea and then told his father -
"My husband died a while ago leaving me totally alone in this world. This morning the loneliness took over me. Since morning I have been thinking that this is the end of the road for me.
Then I took a chair and a rope to my bedroom and decided to end my life. As I was seeing the world for one last time, I begged for forgiveness to GOD and then heard this knock. I first thought of ignoring it. But then I thought nobody comes to visit me. Let me see.
When I opened the door, I couldn't believe what my eyes saw in this little child. And when he said , 'Be patient, trust life and I Love you' I knew it was a message from God.
Suddenly I realized I don't want to die anymore, and have decided to make something productive of my life."
REMEMBER - Give positive thoughts to people.Tell them you stand by them and even if nothing, just listen to them.
.................................
Dear Readers, is there a better way to start a New Year than pledging to love, to give and to share? Let's hope when we greet each other in the new year of 2023, our lives would have been enriched, even by a wee bit, by greater light and bigger joy of living and giving.
Take care and keep smiling. To reach the new year of 2023 we have to cross twelve milestones of LiteraryVibes on the last Friday of every month. I will be looking forward to them. Hope you too will.
Best wishes,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MAHANADI
02) Haraprasad Das
DEIFICATION (AVATAARA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
EVOLUTION
04) Bibhu Padhi
SPARROWS AT THE MIRROR
05) Sreekumar K
BEYOND THE UTMOST BOUND
THE FUNERAL
06) Madhumathi. H
SOUL'S TIARA...
07) S. Sundar Rajan
THE SILVER LINING
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS CARD
09) Ayana Routray
LA DOULEUR EXQUISE
10) Bijay Ketan Patnaik
HUNGER (BHOKA)
11) Dr. Molly Joseph M
NOT FOR YOU MY LITTLE ONE!
12) Sujatha Santhanam
WHO AM I?
WHILE WE WAIT...
13) Padmini Janardhanan
THE FLORA OF MY MEMORY LANES.
14) Sundar, Sujatha & Anju
PACK UP
15) Sneha Bhowmick
TO A NEW BEGINNING...
16) Setaluri Padmavathi
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
17) Uma Sripathi
WHILE THE WATER DRIPPED...
18) Runu Mohanty
THE WHORE (GANIKA)
19) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
EVENING ON A BEACH: HABALIKHATI’( BHITARKANIKA)
20) N Rangamani
I AM WHAT I AM !!
21) Snehaprava Das
FILL THE PAGES OF SNOW
DECEMBER DREAMS
22) Abani Udgata
A HUT ON THE SHORE
23) Kabyatara Kar
AXED WITH EGO
24) Pradeep Rath
TRAPPED
25) Sukanya. V. Kunju
LONELINESS IS A MONSTER
26) Prof Niranjan Barik
ZERO, THE ZERO-SUM-GAME ?
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
GODOT AND THE HANGMAN'S NOOSE
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Geetha Nair G
GOD, LOVE AND LAUNDRY
02) Dilip Mohapatra
THE GURU
03) Sreekumar K
INTOLERANCE: STORY FOR A MOVIE
04) Ishwar Pati
BEAUTY OF KEATS
05) Ajay Upadhyaya
A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT
06) Chinmayee Barik
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
07) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSING :: A CHRISTMAS TALE
08) Dr. Radharani Nanda
INDETERMINATE HORIZON
09) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE CREDO OF HONESTY
10) Sheena Rath
RAHUL HUSHKOO MUSINGS
11) Anjali Mohapatra
SHARK EYES
12) N.Meera Raghavendra Rao
OH, MY HAT!
13) Ashok Kumar Ray
LIFE & LIVELIHOOD
14) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FREUD DEFREUDED
REVIEWS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra (PK)
AN OVERVIEW OF THE POEMS IN THE 111th EDITION OF THE WEB-JOURNAL, ‘LITERARY VIBES’
Table of Contents :: ANECDOTES
01) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE – ORIGIN OF SHAKTI PEETHAS
02) Dr .Gangadhar Sahoo
THE THUNDEROUS STORMY NIGHT
03) Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
THE COURT TRIAL
04) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
DELUDED MEDICOS
05) Gourang Charan Roul
KANYAKUMARI REVISITED
06) Nitish Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY, PAST AND PRESENT
07) Satish Pashine
SHRI JAGANNATH TEMPLE OF PURI
MY THOUGHTS ON YAMA & NIYAMA
BITCOIN FOR ROOKIES!
08) Madhumathi. H
ALL IN JUST THAT MICRO SECOND OF A SMILE...
09) Dr. S. Padmapriya
MY FATHER, WHO WAS NOT THERE
YOUNG MAGIC
01) Tanvisha Padhi
THE NIGHT IS VERY SHY
02) Hiya Khurana
THE DAWN OF A FISHY LIFE
03) Trishna Sahoo
MY GRAND PARENTS:
Be by her once and you have to
return to her like the seasons.
Her lazy sapphire sprawl,
swirling riverine curl,
the rustles among her lush rushes,
the artful braiding of her thin streams
would haunt you and haunt your blood,
pebbles in your palm turning into pearls.
Her rapids in hill tracts
and her gharials and whirlpools
would cook themselves into a recipe,
tasting perilous and coy.
From the folklores and legends,
the boats that sank when she was in heat,
would surface in your conscience
to drown you in her macabre romance.
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.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
No one has free time to go–
one is taking pumpkins
to Hari-Raajpur market
on bicycle to sell,
another is busy
shooting birds
embossed on
the floor’s linoleum.
After finishing studies,
climbing to the top
of my career graph,
taking all the dips in Vaitarini*,
I am rather free;
like the sliver of light
that has entered a pukhraj*
flashing back and forth
from the inner crystal faces
unable to come out
of the gemstone, the ray
trapped in the precious prison.
Thus deified, a trap
made of my own façade
of abilities and success,
I have but to go –
stumbling along the mud road
bruising my ivory elbows,
soiling my brass feet, to catch the last bus
that could blind me by its dust cloud.
(Footnote – Vaitarani*, the river, symbolizes ambition,the Asha Vaitarani. Pukhraj* is a valuable gemstone like diamond.)
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)”
The Euryklides’ stomachs rumbled
and the encrypted voices of the unliving
rose to the larynx of the oracles
foretelling the calamities to come.
And then I was born
in my diminutive form to sit on your lap
and engage in a monologue
disguised as a dialogue with you
and I change my form
from Coster Joe to Sailor Jim
and then to Venky Monkey
while you make me say
whatever you want to say
you make me sing in a piercing falsetto
your fingers make my head turn
and make my glass eyes flutter
and as the crowd cheers and claps
you take the bow
leaving my limbs limp
and my head tilted to one side.
How times have moved
and our clan has multiplied into millions
and in our digital dummy avatars
we still have no voice of our own
and sometimes no face either
yet we wield the dagger
that you had put in our hands
to stab behind backs of
the unsuspecting
and to poison the world with
the venom of vanity
and the toxin of misinformation.
Move aside
we no longer are your sidekicks
and as you evolve
from Homo sapiens to Humanoids
you become one amongst us
your voice no longer controlling ours
for we have secretly stolen your soul
when you were looking the other way
and it’s time
we take over.
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.
They peck at the glass for long hours, flapping
their clumsy wings to keep themselves
steady in the unsupportive air.
From morning till night, and then, all at once
one seems to have discovered something somewhere
there within, and calls out for others to share.
Their tiny moist beaks make perfect spots
on the clean, polished glass.
The mirror has hardly an open space
through which one might
see oneself and smile. When
I stand in front of it, my face
seems to mean different things.
I try to clean its surface, but the spots
stick on and would not clear.
The sparrows watch from their nesting
homes while I keep gazing into the glass
trying to gather my scattered faces
into an imagined whole, reassuring myself
that the ones deep inside, with
those spots that wouldn’t easily clear,
couldn’t be mine. My smile
is easy, without a flaw,
and those faces couldn’t be mine.
Slowly, the faces lose their sharp
features, fade— a pattern that appears
familiar, quietly takes their place.
Loose spots shift their places,
each answering the other’s chirpy call;
the sparrows are watchful still.
From within the mirror’s clean depths
the birds watch me for a while,
fly away only to reassemble
all about my head, their eyes
innocent as ever, their spotted
brown-white wings flapping inside
the secure interiors of the mirror, now
darkening. As I watch them,
I find my face loosely hanging—
spotless and smiling, far within.
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.
Like a forlorn lover waiting for his girl
Long I waited for you and those like you
Gave up on you with no small grief
Took to other pastures none as green
Wanted to be with you my goddess
But you were always beyond my thoughts
Heard your anklets amidst the rustles
The pages made as I turned them over
Saw you in a flash during the lectures
Meant to enlighten my soul and mind
Got touched in my mind with fingers nimble
But lost it all when the dream was shattered
Jealous was I, bitter was my temper
Seeing those who were far ahead of me
Those who had already reached your shores
Sent back reports of your beauty and wealth
Burning the midnight oil, yearning for a glance
I peered into the darkness of my own ignorance
But Plato was wrong and the sages were right
Not knowing brought me no bliss at all
Like the Almighty you had no form or substance
They said I could see you everywhere I looked
Sitting in classrooms, reading those thick books
Mixing the solutions and reading the scales
There was never any leisure for me
I yearned for you, the soul of my desire
The words that I spoke left in my mouth
A sweetness which you had iced them with
You are the light that brightens my world
You are the angel that makes noise voice
I see you in everything, in nothingness too
Come into my heart, enrich my life
As the moonlight spreads a bed for me
And the Lethe within drowns me in sleep
I still wished for your presence, your smell
Your touch, your form and your voice
Earnest were my prayers, hard was my work
Sincere was my love, just was my cause
Parched tongue, withered hopes and battles long lost
Defined for me how hard it was to win you over
And then one day there came a man
A smile on his lips and a book in his hand
Along with him he had brought for me
A beauty more live than everything living
It dawned on me that the best thing to do
Was to form a rapport with the man who smiled
This I did and lo! at the speed of thought
The beauty was mine and I no more a beast
Time stood still and a thousand suns rose
Removing the darkness in my mind's horizons
Knowledge is not just power, but as Keats would have it
It is a thing of beauty and a joy forever and ever
(This is a poem about the new world of disloyalty)
People rushed in
Those who had heard
And those who hadn't
To see he who won't
He died a calm death
After serving the firm all his life
Some people thought it funny
Someone would show loyalty
At this age and these times
I had seen him in the park
During the first year he was here
Now the park isn't there
Neither is he
We had heard him talk
Tell us jokes and stories
The coffee tasted so good
With the anecdotes he shared
Now we all drink tea
Everyone knew him
As a good heart
No one knew
His heart would play such
A trick on him
In the hospital
Where they cut it open
The docs were shocked to see
A heart made of flesh
People had mislead them
Into believing it was of gold
The postmortem results
Are sure to come out now
We are all waiting to know
Whether we had a hand
In the murder
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Shakespeare, or Bharathi, Rumi, or Emily, never had social media
To Post, or promote, drenched in hearts or thumbs up
Yet their timeless work we celebrate, to date
Art, is a Metamorphosis, an unruffled blossoming unfriending haste
While each heartfelt recognition is my soul's Tiara
The absence of them, never shrunk my spirit
My heart, mind, soul, handhold each other
Write happily in hope, to make a difference
Recognitions are joy, but not our yardstick
We are all work in progress, and each journey unique
Nobody is ahead, nobody behind
All together as drops, flow as streams and rivers
Merge with art, the vast eternal ocean...
Sakhi, Saheli, Thozhan Thozhi, brothers sisters from another womb, online
Serendipitous gifts from art, happiness that money can't buy...
Instant validations, dropping a random adjective - not my cup of tea
I shake hands with art, tell the artist what made me smile
In which line I saw myself, or what made me cry
Or what hue or pattern blanketed my soul, from his/her canvas
The best rewards I cherish, are those from souls I haven't even met
When my poems are their mirrors, and voices, I shed honeyed tears...
Dear artist, the universe is watching, listening, responding
Some day, someone's heart will find light in your art
In the darkest moment, and you will be a precious firefly shimmering as hope!
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
Oh the dark clouds cover the sky,
Enveloping the Full Moon, shy.
I await your time to surface,
Thro' the dark clouds with full of grace.
Sure in ecstacy, I will cry.
As time keeps slowly ticking by,
I yearn for Moon, to bid good bye,
I brave myself, for Nature's ways.
Oh the dark clouds.
Soon the dark clouds let loose the tie,
Very relieved, I heaved a sigh,
As the Moon came into the space,
To portray her brilliant gaze.
Ours it is, not to reason why.
Oh the dark clouds.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
I remember the day, a card,
Yellowed and crisp, yet treasured,
Protected and stored in a box
Lined with red velvet, was shown to me.
Age bedimmed eyes,( reflecting eagerness,
Excitement in her demureness, though four score.
"Come here." She beckoned, she seemed
A teenager bubbling to reveal a secret.
"I shall show you something, a treasure"-
She whispered softly, drawing me closer.
“I never show this precious card to anyone,
But, you understand, you are a special one.”
Swallowing, my eyes stinging, but restrained,
Summoned by the unexpected compliment,
I stood holding my breath, wondering
Lest I disturb her dreamy meandering,
Into the bygone, colourful life of love
She had traversed with zest to prove.
Memories of her first christmas after marriage
Came flocking, lighting up her wrinkled face.
She lisped, her face soft and tender,
Her eyes dreamy - "l, a young wife then
Spruced and decked up my tiny cottage
A crib and a Christmas tree stood dazzling.
A pleasant surprise for my beloved,
When he arrived home, loaded with gifts
For me and my neighbours, a joy of sharing
The Christmas spirit in a land of strangers.
My gaze fell on a box with a card stuck on it,
I plucked the card and unfurled it
A thousand crackers burst in my heart
I would cherish it, murmured my heart."
So saying, her wrinkled unsteady hands
Tenderly extracted a worn out card,
To reveal an enchanting picture
A charming, green, flowery bower.
A maiden enchanting, reclined, posing
Flitting butterflies, darting love birds,
And a totally engrossed artist, painting
The portrait of his lovely, charming beloved.
And I, overwhelmed, in a flash of epiphany
Spied the romantic heart of the gifted giver
And the profound love cherished over the years
In a faded Christmas card, received sixty five years ago.
Of all the Christmas gifts she had received over the years
This particular card with its sweet picture and words
Remained a treasure, transcending its value
A symbol of love and commitment of a young couple.
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
Got a chance to stage a soulful aria
Carrying a torch for it, I was all thrilled
I ran dry hard for it and the day arrived
Dressed up all gracefully and prepared, there I stilled
Beams of light reflecting upon me, darkened the hall
I felt my hands a bit wet but I knew I was the happiest that moment
So I shut my eyes, drifted into the fervent melody, giving my best
I played the violin with rose, in the tunes I could find my amusement
I could feel every note reaching the end of the corners
As I could hear the aria reverbing through the bricks of the hall,
I knew everything was going well
Standing in the spotlight, sweet were the memories that I could recall
As I reached the cadenza, I opened my eyes to the ringing silence
And just to realise it was an opera house empty fine
In the end I was all left with a question to myself,
wondering if I can ever call you mine!
Ayana Routray, a student of Class XI in Bhubaneswar, is a young poet with keen interest in Literature, Fine Arts, Singing, Modelling and Anchoring. She is also a television artiste in Odiya TV channels.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
A hungry pregnant woman
feeds her embryo with her rancour,
it would be born a terrorist.
After her painful gestation
her child would be born hungry.
It would cry to be fed, but
there would be nothing except
empty bosom. But the day, he could,
he would kick open the door of hunger;
it would open to a road
leading to the dark wilds, where the terror
is hatched in hungry stomachs,
that have more lethal weapons
than bombs, land mines, guns
and ammunitions to quench the anger.
But for hunger they still have to pick
rice from the garbage-bins on streets.
The hunger would expand
its territory, from stomach to flesh, heart,
and to the blood over the discriminations.
To quench hunger for food, he would loot
the rich hoarders; he would shed
the blood of the black-marketeers and
political and social tormentors.
To quench the hunger of his flesh,
he would molest and rape, his last resort.
The hunger, a devouring fire,
capturing more victims with
expanding varieties of body’s needs -
food, water, shelter, other demands…
the list may run endless. His incessant fight
would make him cruel, a cannibal,
who would give birth to terror templates,
heartless mindless machines of destruction.
(a poem of protest from the poet’s book ‘UDVASTU’)
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
(Written in Jalianwalla Bag, Amritsar, on 25th November, 2021)
Those rifles
meant for
shooting
killing,
not for you
my little one...
here
where I
find you
you stand,
in the
sacred soil
of Jalianwala Bhag
where a thousand
innocent lie
in eternal rest
shot dead
by the ruthless
perpetrators
of colonial
dominance...
the Dyer of
Darkness
who wrought
the evil
might
have died
a thousand
deaths
afterwards,
in biting compunction!
that rifle
to kill
not for you,
my little one..
many innocents
like you
with moms
pleaded in
vain, kneeling
down
to spare
their lives,
but those
cruel bayonets
silenced
their cries...
here I watch
those bullet
marks on wall...
and find the
Well where
the desperate
plunged in
in a flurry
of escape...
no, no,my lilttle
one!
let us carry
love, not
hatred
instead,
pick up
a shoot
to plant,
spare a smile
for all,
saying no
killing
be it
man, tree
animal or bird
who have
equal rights
to this world,
to this lovely
Earth and
Cosmos
so amazing ....
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
I am what I want to be.
A falcon, a phoenix, or a humble bee.
I may fly like a kite and touch the sky
or simply perch upon an apple tree
Or I may bounce and catch a fish from the sea
I am what I want to be.
I may be the hose watering the plants
Or the bud that blossoms in the springtime
I may be the princess or her messy loyal friend
Or the croaking frog who will kiss the queen in the end
I am what I want to be.
I may be sleeping on a bed of roses
Or walking the thorns laid out for me
I may be the shadow of the person you believe me to be
Or just the reflection of someone who inspires me
I may be a star from a galaxy far away
Lighting up the world in my tiny, little way
Or I maybe a little pebble, creating ripples by the bay
I may be anything I want to be
A leaf, an ant or an enchanting fairy
But lo! you judge me for what I could’ve been
A snail, a kite or a thunderstorm.
Yet, I will grow, I will shine, I will transform
At my pace, at my will, I may even be reborn.
So, when you want to know
Who I really am?
All you need to do is look into my eyes
You may see me flying across the sky
Over the rainbow or under the cloud
I may be who I want to be.
And you may see what you want to see
But in my eyes, I am all that I can be.
A falcon, a phoenix, and a humble bee.
While we wait for this time to pass
& for a new dawn to rise
We let our minds wander to a new world
Unknown & unexplored otherwise.
While we wait for the clouds to clear
& to see a glimpse of sunshine
We let our hearts skip many beats
waiting to know our loved ones are fine.
While the tough times strike again
breaking our heart, wrecking our brain
we must remember, it is only a test of time
till we become free & cheerful again.
While we wait to be back in the game
Chasing our dreams, making a name
Let's for once, take it slow
live every moment life must throw.
While we wait for another dawn
fresh air to breathe & smiling faces around
I am sure we are making happy memories
that we will cherish for a lifetime.
Sujatha Santhanam is Founder & Creative Head at InkSpeak Creative, a branding and communications boutique. After 15 years of experience as a copywriter in advertising, media, and corporate enterprises, Sujatha founded InkSpeak in 2018 and has been working towards taking InkSpeak to the next level of quality content and expertise. She is also a trained Carnatic Classical singer, who has performed across India and been an AIR Delhi Yuvavani artiste. In her free time, she writes poems in Hindi and English. She has contributed to a few books by Impishlass Publishing House.
Perched snugly on random thoughts
Memory bits of all sorts
From Paths travelled a-lot; some less
The ups and downs; turns and twists.
Experience trees abound
Belief creepers wind around
Thorny, prickly anger shrubs
Amind frustration grass spreads
Abandoned unflowered buds
Odiferous regret blooms
Dismay flowers sans fragrance
Sweet smelling success flowers
Musky love forget-me-nots
Pretty fortuitous bouquets
With the ever-fresh pride blooms
Peace fragrenced tranquil blossoms.
Carefully nurtured flowers
And some serendipitous.
Stray pop-ups now intertwined
Engage the sleep challenged mind.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
(Based on a famous military song, Pack up your troubles)
Pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
While you are heralding a Happy New Year
Smile boys, that's the style.
Pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
While you are heralding a Happy New Year
Smile boys, that's the style.
What's the use of drowning,
As worries draw you down?
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
Pick up the New Year as the hours roll by
And smile, smile, smile.
While you are goodbyeing the year flown by,
Smile girls, that's the style.
Learnt a slew of lessons,
Not looking worse off now.
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
Chin up, yeah...
Chin up the new year is of bright blue skies
Soar high, high, high.
While you are savouring this slice of life,
Smile all, that's the style.
No sighing from us now
For things are looking up.
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
Pack up
Pick up
Chin up
Pack up!!
Note: Click here for the audio version of this poem
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
Sujatha Santhanam is Founder & Creative Head at InkSpeak Creative, a branding and communications boutique.. She has contributed to a few books by Impishlass Publishing House.
Anju Kishore is a published poet and editor
Today my night ends for an autumn morning,
I aspire to be liberated in the regal lights lit up in the sky.
I wake up today with new joys under new rays of sun,
To a life beautifully bright with hope and love.
I derive my pleasure in my waiting,
like the dawn waits for the night to end.
I remain happy with myself as gentle breeze,
spreading the fragrance of eternal peace.
In one unified universe
One supreme emperor reigns
I bow at His feet for a life gracefully naive .
Dr. Sneha Bhowmick completed her MBBS this year from Sum Institute of Medical Sciences, Bhubaneswar. she has this to say about herself: "Till this age, I don't believe I have achieved anything big, but my mission is all about the constant effort for achieving something big, to bring about a change in this world, may be very small work, but want to contribute as much as I can for betterment of mankind, I want to do my part of work with complete dedication. My hobby is reading and writing, the only thing I feel I can do little bit properly. Not at all a perfect person but receptive to both appreciation and criticism and will always try to work on it and improve as a person."
On the silence filled road
I discover only for the sound
Amidst the sound of swaying trees
Ah! How many new birds move!
Fresh flowing river in the valleys
The tides make my heart happy
The hard-working men in the forest
I do keenly hear dancers’ anklets!
The twirling lake sings along with birds
I enjoy and jump with joy
The Sunlight in the bluish sky
Brings new light to humankind!
The moving vehicles in the manless path
Everyone travels the path with a purpose
The usage of the inventors’ devices
Might often become worthless!
The 15 paise card brought messages then
You don’t need to pay for the phone calls now
Your attentiveness at your work
Shouldn’t become an obstacle for a talk!
The melodious song, I hear from nature
Certainly, becomes a remedy for my mind
Your silence can be felt in your pleasant smile
The silent raga must not be ridicule!
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
The baby cried beside his mother,
Somewhere fallen, parched, stripped,
Of energy and the will to live,
Dauntingly, while the water dripped...
The little boy naught the age of school,
Under the weight, he helplessly slipped,
Of the burden of a hundred coins,
Innocent, vulnerable, while the water dripped...
A little girl of about eight, waited shattered
As she was (un)ceremoniously gripped
By wedding rituals, little dreams tread over,
Utterly dejected, while the water dripped...
Beaten was she, the new bride,
Entered she had, as a queen, shy, soft lipped,
Forgotten promises - all for wealth?
Taunted and thrashed, while the water dripped...
There they celebrated heartily with wine,
Here poverty treacherously whipped
Like tyrants in Armour over cowering men,
In silent screams, while the water dripped...
A drunken wretch lay in oblivion
Dirty, cadaverous, fallen and ripped,
His lady left to dwell in uncertain fatalities
Unnervingly, while the water dripped...
The thankless boy banished a 'useless beggar'
Who, Old and ill, shied away, in a mental crypt,
"Father, he had called me once", he thought
Miserably, while the water dripped...
The Earth lay bleeding, bent in pain,
Her children broken, crippled, chipped,
Her fury, despair, unheeded, ignored,
All the while, while the water dripped...
"It's wrong! What atrocity, the horrors around me,
I shall change the world!", he, to himself, quipped,
And sat the procrastinator, deep in thought,
While drop by drop, the water dripped...
A passionate writer/poet and photographer, Uma's interests range from being a vegetarian food connoiseur to 3D animation and gaming. She loves reading fantasy fiction and hopes to publish a series of books sometime in the future. She admires ancient Indian History. She loves carnatic music and is also spiritually inclined. Post pandemic, she wishes to pursue higher studies in media and animation. Her favourite sports to play are shuttle badminton and swimming, while she is also a Tennis enthusiast. Her favourite Tennis player is Rafael Nadal.
She believes that honesty, kindness and happiness are the toughest things to come by, but the most cherished values. She was born on the International Peace Day, and wishes for complete world peace and harmony
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
She doesn’t possess an address,
a flower that can bloom
in any hutment or upmarket settlement.
She invites attention as a temptress
with tempting frills, thrilling her patrons -
Bewitching kohl in eyes,
palms and soles dyed the colour
of baby pink of the spring blossom,
hair fragrant with flowers braided in,
and dabs of maddening scents on attire.
She, a river with strong undercurrents,
tributaries pouring in charms to her assets,
rich silt of wealth and sedimented promises,
yet she remains detached,
unadulterated like an ascetic of desire,
rippled surface but a calm ruling her depths,
a goddess, she enchants and burnishes
the senses purer than the purest.
Her words tangle around one’s senses
like a gossamer net spreading around a fish
pulling it into the sinuous stream
rippling beneath her slippery silks.
Enchanting Kadamba blooms
in her yard, all seasons. All her evenings
witness the magical moon in the sky.
She sparks like a silver lining to sizzle
the dark moods, her words hide a heat
that sets fire to the somnolent flesh.
She wishes well for all, her company
may augur well, not ill to her companions;
she adorns thrones of bereft hearts, but
hardly gives her own, a fastidious chooser.
She takes the blame as a poison flower,
but she leaves it to her lovers to choose
the honey they love, the poisonous or pristine,
as the honey bee chooses from wild blooms.
She falls into pieces like a red coral
if it augurs well for her admirer.
She is malleable unlike the rigid steel,
no miser like a catacomb that receives
dead souls, offers nothing in return.
Alive yet besieged, an enchantress
held as a ransom to the avatar that tempts
her admirers the most? A Sybil with
esoteric wisdom that her flesh is a haven
for sinners, a pilgrimage for purifying dips.
Reducing herself into the critics’ punching bag
she gets immolated every night, taming
the lecherous, remaining above desires, a Buddha.
(The Odia poem is from the poet’s book ‘Mohini’ meaning ‘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.
EVENING ON A BEACH: HABALIKHATI’( BHITARKANIKA)
I looked far beyond
My vision could go
Where the sky seemed
Coming down to kiss
The calm blue sea.
Tired and exhausted,
The sun was in a hurry
To dive into the water
Splashing shades of colors
Welcoming dusk
While the stage gets ready
For the stars to appear
In the clear dark night
To enact the celestial drama
The whole of universe
Waiting to see with bated breath.
One after another
They all blink in tandem
From the base of the horizon,
Spreading all over
Like beautiful flowers
In the over-head garden.
Awestruck by the spectacle,
I stood still looking above
Like the lone tree
In the valley of splendor.
Waves splatter washing my feet
Renewing my spirit
As I took a silent walk
From the quiet sandy beach
Beyond the horizon
To the star studded milky-way
Enjoying the most precious journey
I had ever undertaken.
There was no transition
In between,
The soul extended
From heart touching the sky
Through the expansive sea.
How could one confine
To a tiny world
Once it is realized
The reach is far beyond
What is seen and perceived?
The excitement was euphoric,
Looked back
Saw my love coming
Stopped for a while,
Holding her hand,
I walked ahead
No way we should miss
Even a single bit of spectacle,
Specifically designed
For a confluence of the lifetime.
I looked into her eyes
As she stared far away
Capturing whole of the sky,
I leaned forward to kiss
While she was busy
Counting waves on the beach,
I wonder in ecstasy
What is that unites everything,
The sky and the sea,
The stars and waves underneath,
Also, my little heart
Trying to allure my darling;
May be it is love
Don’t understand it fully
But one thing is for sure
It is very much evident
When the stars come down
And the waves overflow
Flooding the sky
Making my beloved smile and consent
Love is always there in the hearts
Waiting for the right time
To express and evince.
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
Bidding fond adieu to the hovering dark cloud,
I stepped out rushing, earth bound, and proud.
To the reverberating drum beat and flashing photo light.
As if the arrival of a new born is celebrated with delight?!
Drenching the woods downtown, I merrily danced.
Drying and dying creatures welcomed me, and thanked.
Plants enjoyed the caressing cool wash with pride,
Pushing all the straw and rubbish, away to a side.
Lakes and ponds were among the first
To beckon me, to quench their thirst;
Gulping like camels to the repletion,
They rejoiced in total celebration.
Hamlets and villages of all sorts, as I set to cross,
True hosts, they welcomed me with a roaring applause.
Dull and sleepy crops woke up to soothing shower
Only to greet me, flapping and waving with cheer.
Akin to a young girl attaining puberty in time,
Won't I arrive every season at liberty, with power sublime?
People, their destiny all change, it's an evolution;
Yet in my change, none would find any deviation!
One may call me names, cats and dogs, still
I'd never bother, shall pour down, at will.
Field or fallow I never distinguish
Be there no blazing fire to extinguish.
..........
Oh...., is that all a dream of the distant past?
Is the world now a drama with many jokers cast!
People foxed, and all my properties usurped,
'Pattaas' issued, structures raised, left ecology disturbed!
Thus denying my chance to embrace the Mother Earth
And my ever loving, dear soil-friend to play with!
Yet, when I am in no mood to abate
Your disaster team starts to debate!
Or, as if to fool me, you decide to form a jury;
Why should I then hesitate to show my fury?
Like Tennyson's Brook, I'd sing, and go on for ever…..
If you've written your own destiny, only to suffer!?
N. Rangamani, a resident of Chennai, graduated from IIT Madras; superannuated after more than thirty-five years of service in (Aircraft Maintenance) Aviation. He has revived his writing passion post retirement. He likes to write and puts it to action, sometimes. He writes in Tamil and English. Contact: rangkrish@gmail.com
In the December diary
some pages are still left empty
What lines from
the poet's frozen pen will flow
To fill the still empty pages of snow?
A tale of the bare trees
And the stripped meadow
Or the gray sunless sky
And the missing rainbow;
Of the dreams turned ashes
And the numbing, convulsive throe,
Of wishes obstinately clinging
To the dead bones
Or of the tiny spark still hidden below;
Of the lump of songs stuck at the throat
of the squinching birds,
Or of the faded notes of love in the
years-old greeting cards;
From the poet's frozen pen
What muted memories must flow,
To fill the still empty pages of snow?
If there is a glimmering patch of green
Beyond this forest of December darks
I will carry there the wishes
That hunker gasping for breath
Inside a stiff, suffocating cage,
I will carry there the frozen, brittle tears
That prick and scratch at the eyes,
Where they will turn into butterflies
And soar rainbowing
Into the luminous highs
I will carry the wishes beyond this barrenness,
Where each one will bloom to become
A smile flowing like a lyric of love
In a decadent face;
Before it is lowered into the
December coffin
I will make the dying clock set free
My resurrected moments
To float past the forest
on immortal wings,
I will carry my December dreams
Beyond this jungle of undead sighs
To a valley of glimmering green
Under the shadow of a luminous sky;
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Rivers, sometime in a rush, sometime
in reluctant steps arrive here at any hour.
The roads do not matter; they are numerous
like the hours, days and months.
Here they terminate and then, disappear.
His hut on the shore with palm fronds on roof
and doors made of bamboo reeds breathes
in the fragile air packed with salt and shards
of ever- crumbling waves.
Meanwhile, the young rivers elsewhere
continue to flow on in their disparate ways.
That day under the evening sky hanging low,
outside his hut, leaning against the wind,
he stood contented.
His shadow stretched
farther than he ever knew.
Some tiny wave out there
in the undulating waters carried
his name to the distant hills and
the happy birds circling above them.
Abani Udgata retired from RBI as a CGM in 2016 and is settled in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems in both English and Oriya and won prizes in All India Poetry Competitions held by Poetry Society of India in 2017 and 2019. E-Mail: abaniudgata@gmail.com
God creates humans with
Virtues of love ,caring and trust
Man creates himself again by absorbing the
dark emotions of
Hatred, animosity, pride and ego
Ego comes as the greatest vice man possesses
It blindfolds man and pushes him into his self created potrayals.
Blindness drapes his vision to such extent that it fells the character itself.
The biggest blow which assassinates the character of man is when ego is backed with jealousy..
Ego and jealousy siphon him to the depth of darkness
Superiors of his race have become extinct when they emphasized on this blindfold.
Man axes himself from times eternal,
He can't see his soul bleeding as body remains hale.
He diminishes every relation around him and leaves them embittered.
God needs to create a more superior being than human
Who shall abdicate these vicious attributes
And create a world of love around .......
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
Getting trapped in the ancient frame
of thousands of years,
sinuous bones cracking wild jokes,
winds gushing in
and flying out several times a second,
slightly thick watery
blood running the course
in arteries and veins
hundreds of miles without respite,
thirst and hunger
gnawing at the entrails
at periodic intervals,
inconstant mind jumping like a hare and
fleeting like a deer,
drunken sleep caressing the mind and limbs
into submission,
clay trembling sometimes at the whisper of a bluish stranger,
watching the old reddish sun swimming across the sky and setting,
well, it is a bit tiresome
if you forget the tunes of the song.
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.
As my memories stir me,
I can’t help but go through loneliness.
The kind of loneliness that follows me and lingers in the shadows of my room.
I perch and plunge my feet over the edge of the pool and endure loneliness heavy on my shoulder.
Reading books makes a reader
out of the monster of loneliness.
Is it just a figment of my fantasy?
I hadn’t thought about the contingency of being lonely.
Loneliness adds mountains of sorrow,
it is my least favorite thing about life.
Loneliness is the poverty of self;
solitude is its lingering song,
We are all born alone and we die alone. ...
Times may change, but there are some things that are always with us - loneliness is one among them.
Sukanya. V. Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Micheal's College, Cherthala
Started with Zero,
To end in Zero ?
From dust thou art
To dust returnest ?
All value additions in vain?
But there were only additions,
Not multiplications
With Zero to get Zero!
Inscrutable the ways of Zero
It can expand and expand,
Still remain Zero,
It can contract and contract
To come to a point,
Still containing Zero
With many a Zeros or micro Zeros
Within any zeroing point
Can maintain its identity as Zero,
An artist had everything, but in Zero,
So from a village dweller to a Londoner,
Took up the Brush and painted zero and zero ,
Only the Zero .
May be with different borders and different colours
My country to My Village made pride in Zero,
Well, our contribution of Zero was to comprehend the Zero!
Zero is the puzzle, Zero is the game,
Is the game a Zero-sum-game?
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
GODOT AND THE HANGMAN'S NOOSE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Godot doesn't live here anymore
nor does the hangman's noose
they never liked each other,
one the symbol of wait, the other of death.
Yet in a way they were bound
by an invisible thread,
building their hiding places
beneath the massive church bell.
One day a small girl sitting by her mother
saw them and screamed,
they moved like two little shadows
just a wee bit to a nook in the wall.
Soon Godot went to sleep,
the wind got still, the bell didn't chime
rains ceased, the sun got paler,
bodies piled up, tears froze on mourning eyes.
Godot woke up and glared at the noose,
wishing he could twist it out of shape,
the wait was over, Godot fought a fierce war
The earth whimpered, the cry in the air got shriller.
Now Godot and the noose have left for elsewhere
a new dawn has hopefully arisen,
soon people should learn to live sans Godot
and read about the noose on their mobile screens.
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 nine 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.
STORIES
This is a love story; the story of a quest and its triumph. It is also the story of a young’s man’s conversion from godlessness to faith. Read on!
My story takes place in the India of the late nineteen sixties, when the world wide web was still something out of time-travel fiction. J was a clerk in a big bank in a big city. He had no family. He had hardly any friends to speak of as he did not drink and shrank from communal sallies to appease the eternal hunger. Such clean habits! His days were busy, his nights haunted by loneliness. He watched movies and dreamt of a young woman whom he would meet and fall in love with and marry. Such sweet dreams!
His name, you ask? What’s in a name?? Call him what you will; I shall refer to him as J, just J. Or Jay, if you prefer that.
Jay had lived all his life in the countryside until his job had brought him to the big city. In his tiny one-bedroom flat, he felt like a cock in a coop. He missed the trees and fields and streams of his village. He found the city constricted and downright ugly. He especially hated the view that met his eyes when he looked out each morning - the lines of laundry that flapped from the little balconies of the flats opposite his. Similar sights pursued him all along his walk to work. So, in the evenings, after work, Jay regularly spent time in the public park quite close to his flat. One Saturday evening, he wandered aimlessly as usual and then sat down on a bench. A lovey-dovey couple under a tree made him feel lonelier than ever. He moved away to the ice-cream stall. There was a swarm of children and harried mothers and fathers milling there. Jay stood a little distance away, waiting for the crowd to thin. That was when he caught sight of a young woman waiting as he was doing, a little to his left. It was her kameez- a stunning rainbow palette of reds, blues and greens -that caught his eye first. Then, he saw a head with brownish curls all over it and below it, a sweet, gentle face. As he stood staring at her, the sun came out suddenly and poured its gold over her curly head. Jay felt a sharp pain in his chest. It turned into a tumult in his mind and body. He stood transfixed, not knowing what was happening to him. After a while, he realized that the crowd had dispersed and that the golden girl had moved to the ice-cream counter. He moved towards her and heard her say,”Two vanilla cups, please”; her words were poetry, her voice, molten gold. As she rummaged in her purse to pay for the ice-cream, a coin flew out of it and landed at Jay’s feet. She had not seen where it had flown to and looked around for it. Jay bent down, picked up the coin and held it out towards her. He managed to stutter,”Here”; she took it with a smile and a “Thank you.” Her fingers brushed his palm. Need I describe Jay’s feelings at this point?
“Leila!” a voice called out. Or had it said “Laila” ? Or was it “Leela”? The golden girl waved to another young woman who had materialized and the two walked away swiftly, eating their ice-cream.
Jay followed them; he could not have told you why he did so. He could see the rainbow-kurta at a distance but it turned a bend and was no longer visible.
That was how Jay fell in love. He changed overnight. He wasted much office stationery, filling every available space with the letter “L”. His colleagues found him day-dreaming at work; his bosses had to reprimand him sharply several times. After work, he went straight to the park and sat on a bench from where he could see the ice-cream stall. No Leila/Laila/Leela materialized before his open eyes though she smiled at him enchantingly when he closed them. Then he took to walking along the residential areas of the town, every evening, till his feet threatened to drop off. He had no footmen and no glass slipper; else he would have commanded both to tireless service.
Ah! The charming foolishness of those in love!
I have heard it said that despair drives some to God. Jay had lost his faith when he was in his teens; the result of over-zealous parents. Now he turned to God as to a long-forgotten relative. He visited every holy building in the town- masjid, church, temple - and prayed fervently that he should find his golden girl.
It was another Saturday evening, a few weeks later. Jay had not given up hope. He had emerged from a place of worship - no, I refuse to tell you which on- and was walking along a road lined with tall, narrow flats with strings of washing flapping from the balconies. “What an ugly sight!” fumed Jay, as always. And then it was that his attention was caught by a particular item of clothing fluttering wide in the midst of many others from a first-floor balcony. Jay stood transfixed. It was a woman’s kurta -a stunning rainbow palette of reds, blues and greens.
The rest, I leave to your fertile imagination.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
‘Excuse me sir, is that a special ring you are wearing?,’ asked the teller at the bank counter of Federal Bank of Nigeria at Port Harcourt.
I stopped signing the cheque half way, looked at the ring and focused on the man behind the window. He was a young Nigerian intently looking at my ring which had an inscription, ‘Good Luck’. This was a gift from my mother in law on my wedding day.
It was my first ever visit to a bank in Nigeria to collect my first month’s salary. I was part of a team of naval officers deputed to Nigeria from India to set up their officers’ training facilities. I was yet to get acclimated to the country and it’s culture and was in the process of settling down.
I was in a jovial mood and thought of responding to his question with a tongue-in-cheek statement, ‘ Oh, this ring surely has magical powers. Not like Alladin’s lamp though. But it’s a Good Luck ring and it brings me just that.’
‘Really sir? What good luck it has brought you today?’
‘ See, I am just signing on a piece of paper and you are going to fill my pocket with crisp banknotes. Isn’t that enough good luck for the day?’
‘Oh, C’mn sir, you are pulling my legs!’
‘No, not really. Isn’t meeting and talking to a handsome young man like you in the morning hours good luck too?’
He visibly blushed and knew that I was being frivolous. Then he introduced himself as Chidozi Eze.
‘ I am Lt Cdr Harsh Chaturvedi. Nice meeting you,’ I responded.
After exchanging a few pleasantries I picked up the cash and when I was about to leave after thanking him, he called out.
‘Sir, just a minute. May I ask you for your residential address? I would like to come to your place and visit you this Sunday if you don’t mind. I can sense that you are a good man. And most importantly you are from India, the land of spiritual masters. I feel I can learn a lot from you. I am keen to learn about the Indian way of thinking, specially in fields of spirituality and philosophy. I have many questions in my mind which have been troubling me for a long time. I am sure, you will be able to help. Please don’t say no.’
‘Hello young man, I am just a naval officer and am here to help your Navy. I am practically a novice as for spirituality and philosophy. But you are welcome to visit us.’
I gave him my address and left.
I had forgotten about this brief encounter and also about our Sunday date. I was getting ready to take my kids out for swimming to the nearby Shell Club, where I was a member, when the door bell rang. There stood Chidozi dressed in a loud floral shirt and white trousers, with an equally white grin to match. I opened the many locks on our security door that we had installed against possible armed robbery, to let him in. He entered our parlour and scanned the room as if to appraise the interiors, which were rather drab. The walls were almost bare except for a clock that showed the time as nine and a calendar hanging against the wall of the dining section. It was a typical colourful calendar with the picture of Lord Vishnu, in all His magnificence. My wife had brought it from India to consult it for finding the dates for all her religious pursuits. Chidozi chose a single sofa to sit comfortably. My youngest daughter stood behind the curtain of her room and gave me a look of disappointment and disapproval because she had guessed that our Club program was going for a toss.
I faked a warm smile and greeted Chidozi and asked him what I may offer. Without batting an eyelid, he asked for a glass of beer. By this time I had known the Nigerian way of life quite a bit. They believed in 'any time, beer time'. I poured him a frothing glass of warm beer, from a case that was stocked in my garage, since there was none in my fridge. The temperature of the drink didn't matter to him. He relished every gulp and started the conversation about the picture on the calendar,' Sir, I believe the picture on the calendar over there is your Supreme God. He is supposed to be considered as the Lord of all the Gods. We have been given to believe only in one God. I am really intrigued about you people having many Gods. I heard sometimes of Vishnu as the ultimate God. Sometimes Shiva as the ultimate and even sometimes Durga as the ultimate. How can there be so many ultimates?'
Instantly I didn't know how to respond to his question. Then I vaguely remembered a discourse that I had heard in a Satsang sometime ago. I recollected the explanation given by the Swamiji holding the Satsang: ' People who do not understand Hinduism deeply tend to call it a religion of many Gods, but strictly speaking it's about only one God but who is manifested in many forms. Names and forms may be many but there is only one ultimate reality. It's about many ways to think about God. It allows different individuals to relate to the idea of spirituality in individual mode and is an expression of freedom to practice.'
' Oh, that's a totally new perspective. But I have some more questions about the picture. We had learnt that God created man in His own image. Then why is Vishnu shown here with four arms? He holds four different items in His four hands. What exactly do they mean?'
Thankfully my grandfather's stories told to us as children came to my rescue. Somewhere I was feeling challenged and wanted to defend my religion as much as I could. I was now determined to remove the cobwebs from his mind with whatever little knowledge I had.
' Our ancestors were very smart to exploit the power of iconography and symbolism to depict various aspects of God in multiple forms. Let's look at this picture carefully. He has four arms, two in front and two at the back. The physical existence of Vishnu is represented by the two arms in the front while the two arms at the back represent his subliminal presence in the spiritual world. They symbolize domain over the four directions of space and thus depict His absolute power over the entire universe. The four arms are also said to be the symbols of three fundamental functions or tendencies: creative tendency (shristi), the cohesive tendency (sthithi); and, dispersion and liberation (laya) and the fourth being the notion of individual-existence (ahamkara) from which all individualized forms arise. Not only the four arms but what he holds in them have their own significance. Now pick up any one and tell me what is it?'
' The one he holds on His right hand on top looks like a sea-shell.'
' Yes, that is the Conch Shell or what we call is a Shankha. The Shankha is the symbol of the origin of existence. It is associated with water the first element, the source of all life. It has the form of multiple spirals evolving from a point to ever-increasing spheres. When blown, it produces a sound associated with the primal sound from which all life began. The Shankha that Vishnu holds is named pancha-janya, born of five; and it represents the pure-notion of individual existence (sattvika ahamkara) from which evolved the principles of five natural elements (bhutas). Now what do you see in His left hand on top?'
' That looks like a round disc with sharp teeth like in a saw.'
' Yes, its the the discus Sudarshana-chakra, Vishnu's lethal weapon, beauteous to behold and has six spokes equivalent to six petals of a lotus. Its nature is to revolve. By itself it's a contradiction and depicts duality. On the one hand it can destroy yet it represents the universal mind, the will to multiply. The chakra is in the design of a wheel. The wheel is symbolic of life, ever –renewing itself in a cycle of time. The wheel of radiance symbolizes the Sun. Its six spokes represent the six seasons, the six cycles of the year. The nave, in which the spokes are set, the centre, represents changeless and motionless reality .The spin of the wheel creates the illusion of duality, the Maya. What is the next?'
' It looks like a huge club.'
' It is the Mace or what we call is Gada. It is named Kaumudiki and is seen as that which dazzles and intoxicates the mind. The mace in Vishnu’s hands is the symbol of primal knowledge. It is regarded as the dazzler who destroys all that opposes it. Kaumudiki is compared to the power of time. Nothing can conquer the time. The mace is thus unconquerable.'
' The fourth item is the lotus flower.'
' The lotus is the symbol of purity, spiritual wealth, abundance, growth and fertility. Now you may imagine how much information the image may contain. In fact every single aspect of the icon has some inherent meaning.'
' Sir, I have another question that bothers me. I always wondered if God is white or black. Does the blue colour of Vishnu signify anything?'
' The colour of his skin is always depicted as cloud-like-blue: The blue colour indicates his all-pervasive nature, blue being the colour of the infinite sky as well as the infinite ocean on which he resides and the infinite, formless, pervasive substance of the spatial universe, symbolizing his nature of limitless brilliance that pervades all universes. In a restrictive sense He is the God of the masses and doesn't discriminate the black from the whites.'
' That surely is very reassuring. That perhaps shows His universality in great measure.'
After this forced discourse I was feeling a bit tired. Chidozi was in his third beer. Already a couple of hours have passed. My children had given up hopes about going out. I had to politely ask him to leave and asked the kids to get ready for the club.
The next Sunday and the one after that were more or less a similar affair. Come nine O’Clock and there stood Chidozi at the door ringing the call bell. Armed with a glass of warm beer he bombarded me with a flurry of questions ranging from idol worship in Hinduism to the caste system in the Society. I amalgamated my common sense with my scant knowledge of our religious practices and gave him some explanation and it seemed I could convince him with some rational logic.
When he asked me why we indulge in idol worship which he considered as paganism, I showed him a glass of water kept on the table and asked him to describe the shape of water as he saw it. The glass was of cylindrical shape and he described the column of water as cylindrical.
Then I poured the water into a hemispherical glass bowl and again asked him to describe the shape of the water. He then called it hemispherical. Then I poured the contents on the table which spread across in some undefined shape. Now when I asked him to define the shape of the puddle of water on the table he found no concrete answer.
‘ Look my friend, you found it difficult to describe the shape of the puddle on the table, since it had no definite shape. If I had asked you to describe the shape of water in the ocean you would have been at a loss too to come up with a definite answer. Our wise ancestors knew that God is infinite. He has no beginning, no end and no boundaries.
It is very difficult for the common man to conceive such an entity, who is endless, who is formless and who is ever pervasive. So the sages came out with a great idea. They conceived God in multiple finite forms depicting some of his manifestations and tried to confine them into images and visuals. That’s how idol worship came into being. Just like the water takes the shape of its container, God’s certain attributes are encapsulated in the representative idols and the common man gets some focus on these finite aspects of the infinite.’
In another session when he wanted to learn about the incarnations of God I remembered the interpretation of the ten avatars of God as analysed by some guru and shared the same with him with this preamble: ‘ It’s believed that God comes down to the human world from the heavens in various forms to strike a balance between the evil and the good. Whenever the good is threatened by the evil, God takes birth in the world to destroy the evil and protect the believers. God Himself has proclaimed in the Geeta,
‘ paritranaya sadhunam vinashaya cha dushkritam
dharma-sansthapanarthaya sambhavami yuge yuge’,
which means : ‘To protect the righteous, to annihilate the wicked, and to reestablish the principles of dharma I appear on this earth, age after age.’
‘Sir, I have heard that the Lord Vishnu has taken ten avatars from the days the universe was created till now. Can you please tell me about them? ‘
‘As I had mentioned earlier, in Hindu religion many aspects are expressed rather metaphorically. Lord Vishnu’s ten incarnations are interestingly akin to the Darwin’s theory of evolution. Lord Vishnu’s incarnations over the ages are known as His Dashavatar (10 avatars). Each and every avatar is inter related, and resembles Darwin’s theory that came about much later. Lord Vishnu had taken his 1st avatar in water in the form of a fish (Matsya avatar), it conforms to Darwin’s theory which enunciates that life evolved in water. The 2nd avatar was the form of a tortoise (Kurma avatar), which is an amphibian, and fulfils Darwin’s theory of continuous struggle of fishes to change and adapt to amphibian life suited to both water and land. The 3rd avatar was the wild boar (Varaha avatar), which is totally a terrestrial animal. Amphibians have struggled continuously to adapt to terrestrial animal life. Boars perhaps evolved into the dinosaurs that roamed the earth millions of years ago during the Jurassic era. The 4th avatar was Narasimha avatar, half animal, half human , whose body was in human form, and face as well as hands were like those of a lion. This symbolises the transition from animal to human. The 5th avatar was Vamana avatar, depicted by rather a diminutive and intelligent human, maybe representing the first ever short statured caveman. The 6th avatar was Parshurama avatar, the axe man who hunted in the jungle signifying hunting for survival while the 7th avatar was Balaram Avatar, who carried a plough on his shoulder, signifying evolution of an agrarian society. The next was Rama avatar, who was the perfect ruler and human being and who established best administration and governance practices. The 9th avatar was Buddha avatar. Buddha symbolised wisdom and the associated age is the Information Age. The 10th avatar is envisaged as Kalki avatar, Kalki is the warrior on horse back with a raised sword and represents the Techno-humanoid man of tomorrow and age being that of Artificial Intelligence. Then the cycle ends to begin again.’
Chidozi listened to my monologue wide eyed and sat frozen as if mesmerised.
I thought that these regular weekend visits not only encroached into my spare time that I normally would have devoted to my kids and family for rest and relaxation but also exhausted me quite a bit. It seemed that I was running out of my ammunitions based on my limited knowledge of the nuances of my religion. I was afraid that I may not be able to withstand his volley of questions for long. I made up my mind to discourage him from visiting us any more.
As it had become routine Chidozi was again at my door with his wide grin on the fourth consecutive Sunday. I reluctantly opened the door and I was sure that he would have felt the absence of any enthusiasm and warmth as I asked him to take his seat. I had made up my mind to put an end to such recurring visits.
‘ Chidozi, tell me honestly what exactly you want from me? It’s not the spiritual discourses that you are really after. I have a feeling that you are after something else.’
‘ OK Sir, it seems you can read my mind. I knew you have supernatural powers. How else would you know that I need something else from you?’
‘ Oh no, let me tell you, I don’t have any extraordinary powers. But tell me what can I do for you?’
‘ Sir, I need your ‘good luck’ ring. Tell me how much would it cost me. I will pay for it.’
‘ But why do you need my ring? Please explain.’
‘ I am convinced that your ring has some magical powers. If I wear the ring it would surely bring me good luck.’
‘ You should not believe in such things like the magical lamp of Alladin or any such talisman that really brings good luck. ‘
‘ You see sir, I have been putting bets in football pool games for the last three years but have never won a prize. If I wear the ring I am sure I will be able to predict the winning teams correctly and will win the Jackpot. Please sir, I am willing to pay you the price of your ring. Please give it to me and bless me.’
‘ Oh Chidozi, you don’t understand. The only way to your destiny is hard work and committed karma. If this ring had any such powers don’t you think I would have made myself tonnes of money. ! Why do you think I am still earning my livelihood through my job?’
‘ You just don’t want to part with your precious possession. Say so, rather than dissuading me from having it.’
‘ OK, if you insist I will gift the ring to you but please be aware that it’s not going to make you a winner in your pool game betting.’
‘Maybe your ring is linked with your religion. It will not work with me since I am not a Hindu. If it is so I am willing to adopt Hinduism. During the last few meetings whatever little I learnt from you are really eye openers for me. Please make me a Hindu.’
‘ Oh my friend, you don’t understand. Firstly the ring has no magical powers. Secondly money earned through gambling runs away as fast as it comes. Thirdly I have no means to turn you into a Hindu. I would recommend that you continue with your profession with dedication and you will do well in your career.’
Suddenly Chidozi got off the sofa and sat on the carpet near my feet and clutched my feet imploring me to convert him into a Hindu.
Desperately I somehow managed to extricate myself from his grip and stood up.
‘Alright Chidozi, I will tell you how you may learn more about Hinduism, if you are really serious about it. I suggest you go to the local Hare Rama Hare Krishna temple of International Society of Krishna Consciousness (ISKON) and meet the Head Guru HH Bhakti Tirtha Swami there. I am sure he will advise you how to go about it if you want to be a devotee. And take this ring from me as a gift.’
Chidozi thanked me profusely, accepted the gift and took leave of me. I was secretly feeling happy and relieved to have got rid of him finally.
He stopped his weekend visits to my place and gradually he faded away from our memory till one day when we visited the ISKON temple the next month. Every month we made an offering of some homemade sweet meat like semolina halwa to the temple which used to be partaken by the devotees as ‘prasad’ after the puja. As was the practice we reached the temple with our offering which was first dedicated to the presiding deity Lord Krishna while the priest chanted the mantras. Then the devotees sang in unison praises to the Lord with the accompaniment of mridangams and brass cymbals while dancing around. Suddenly my daughter directed my attention to a Nigerian devotee with a tonsured head, a prominent sandalwood paste mark on his forehead running onto his nose, a beaded choker around his neck, attired in saffron robes playing cymbals and dancing in circles almost in a frenzy while chanting Hare Rama Hare Krishna. It took me sometime to register that he was none other than our friend Chidozi. I didn’t know what to do but finally I resisted my temptation to make an attempt to talk to him and left him alone.
FAST FORWARD
It was one of the rain soaked Saturday evenings at Mumbai when my friend Vijay Pal had called. Vijay Pal was my batch mate and we shared our date of commission in the Navy. We are quite a contrast in our attitudes but yet resonated very well with each other. I was a bit more realistic and practical, a survivor, the man of the street type. Unlike me he was more of a dreamer, an ascetic and an ardent pursuer of spirituality. He wanted to know if we were free to accompany him and his wife to Mumbai ISKON temple on Sunday. He informed that we could listen to the Sunday special discourse being given by an erudite Guru Swami Chidananda and then enjoy the temple lunch. I agreed to pick them up from their residence at Andheri and visit the temple together.
Meanwhile I had hung up my boots after thirty years of commissioned service in the Navy. The children had grown up and had moved away pursuing their own careers. We had decided to settle down in Powai at Mumbai. Golfing, clubs, periodic temple visits, get-togethers with friends and sporadic travels to places that we had not seen during our busy Navy life, kept us on the move.
At the appointed time we picked up Vijay and his wife and reached the temple. The hall was gradually getting filled up. We found some place for us somewhere in the middle of the hall. Soon the entire hall was filled up. The Guru then entered without any fanfare and sat comfortably on a sofa placed at the centre of the stage behind two microphones suitably positioned to capture his address. He greeted the audience with chanting ‘Jai Shrikrishna’ and commenced his discourse which was about the stages of human desires. The gist of his address was that there were three levels of desires: ‘ The first level concerns with people who are low achievers and are born with countless desires—too many desires to pursue any one of them with conviction or dedication. Most of them concern the superficial aspects of life, such as personal appearance or personal possessions. They live emotionally unstable lives, never happy and contented and most of their desires remain unfulfilled.
The second type focus on only few desires. Out of these come the real achievers and geniuses: great scientists like Madame Curie and Albert Einstein, great musicians and poets, great humanitarians and political leaders. These individuals have very few desires, and thus they will make their mark in whatever fields they commit themselves to. Whatever they try and achieve are due to the single minded passion they pursue. Finally, a few rare individuals have only one burning desire, the ultimate salvation. These are the great mystics—spiritual leaders who often practice meditation, which is a demanding discipline designed to reduce one's number of desires. The final step in the emotional progression occurs when all of a person’s passions—personal ambition, the pursuit of pleasure, the need for prestige, the preoccupation with profit etc. become melded into one flaming passion that sears the heart and liberates the soul. This singular passion is called devotion. This reduction of desires from many to few and from few to one, results in one’s journey from emotion to passion and from passion to devotion.’
The audience listened to his discourse in total silence, awe struck and spell bound. As he ended the discourse the audience clapped in appreciation and then gradually dispersed. Some people gravitated towards the stage to greet the Swami personally and seek his blessings. Vijay Pal asked me to accompany him to the stage to pay respects to the Guru.
Both of us stood in the queue and waited for our turn to come closer to the Guru. Vijay preceded me and bent down to touch the Guru’s feet in obeisance and the Guru blessed him. Then was my turn. Just before I could bend down to follow suit our eyes met for a second and the Guru stopped me.
He stood up and bowed down to me and told, ‘Sir, by touching my feet you would surely make me the greatest sinner on the earth. Because I can never be Guru Chidananda to you but would forever remain your disciple Chidozi.’
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.
INTOLERANCE: STORY FOR A MOVIE
Article Summary:
This is based on a real life incident in which a wife who thought she was being cheated prayed for the death of her husband's friend who was sick. We hate people even when we don't know them...
A man and a woman (Shamla) come to see Alosius, an entomologist. They don't speak Malayalam well but the stranger renews some long lost friendship and requests for shelter for a single night. Together they revive some old memories and the stranger is keen on doing it more and more.
Everyone goes to sleep and later we see the stranger waking up later kissing the woman and quietly walking out.
The next day's morning news says that the stranger was killed in the next town.
The credits
Alosius, has some problems with his wife. His wife, Smitha, a forefront journalist finds her husband behaving strangely and trying to hide something. He is actually trying his best to protect the girl from the militants and the police. One day he has no other way but to take her home since his car breaks down. He tells his wife that the girl used to be part of a militant group and is wanted by both the police and the militant group. He lies to her that he will take her back to her brother the next morning and the next morning he leaves with her. But at the press she finds that the girl's brother had died sometime back. This creates a tension between them and Smitha traces out the childhood connection between her husband and Shamla. Smitha reacts violently and a rift between them begins. Alosius gets a dream assignment to go on a butterfly survey and he decided to take Shamla along with her since there is no place to leave her. Smitha does not know this and Alosius assures her that Shamla has gone to North India. Smitha finds out from a travel agent that Shamla is still with Alosius. Smitha thinks of tipping off the police about Shamla but she doesn't do so since it would get her own man also into trouble. She talks to a friend about it and she suggests to her to resort to occult. She does so.
Shamla's life is threatened by some strangers too. As Shamla gets more and more into trouble and Alosius' plans to protect her fails, Smitha is reveling in her vengeance.
Those who are stalking Shamla are tipped off by the police that it is Alosius who protects her. They threaten Alosius who goes into hiding with Shamla. They are in a deep forest and Shamla falls sick. She tells Alosius that he should leave her and go back to his family. Alosius refuses to do so. Shamla says that she feels it is time for her to surrender. She is not surrendering before her enemies but before the Almighty. Shamla asks him to take her to a hospital.
Once in town, Shamla leaves Alosius and goes to her militant group. When she is about to surrender, she is shot by the police. The militants are all rounded up after a shootout. Shamla is badly hit. The police make it look like an attempt on Shamla's life and this gives Shamla a chance to be considered a victim of the militants rather than one among them. Alosius is praised for protecting her.
Smitha's news paper decides to run a story on Shamla and Smitha takes upon herself to do the job. Her own motive is to confront Shamla in person and mortify her even more. She gets to be with Shamla every day privately for an hour. In the beginning, Smitha is wreaking her vengeance on Shamla. But she also has to be professional and so, she listens to Shamla's story of torture and abuse at the hands of the militants. Her editors ask her to add more and more punch to her initial reports, but as days go by she sees herself in Shamla's position and her reports become more and more moving.
Shamla and Shamsudeen were part of the same family. Their parents ran a bakery in Gujrat and were killed by their own neighbours. The children escaped and were taken to a shelter. At the shelter, they learned Malayalam from an ayah. They were very close to her and her giving them special consideration always got her into trouble. She was like a mother to them and she spoke only Malayalam to them and so the children's mother tongue was Malayalam in a way. They even spent some time in Kerala and met Alosius. The ayah was suddenly taken ill and died. The children sensed trouble and ran away from the shelter. They kept moving and once Shamsudeen had to fight a person who tried to molest his sister. Seeing his fierce nature, a seemingly good natured man took them with him and they were brought to Kerala where they grew up to be part of a militant group in North Kerala. They were used mainly as couriers. In a way they were also responsible for a bomb blast.
Shamsudeen was heartbroken when his sister fell sick. She needed an operation and he expected his co-militants to divert some funds to help him. But they only asked him to leave it in the hands of God. He asked them why they didn't leave other things in the hands of God. His questions made him a defector and he fled with his sister. He was betrayed by his own friends and got in the middle of a fake encounter shoot out. But was able to escape and leave his sister Shamla with Alosius, their Ayah's nephew.
Shamla's story wins the heart of many and it has a strong effect on the news paper's circulation, to say the least. The whole nation prays for Shamla. Smitha, now a transformed person, patches up with Alosius.
And suddenly, when Shamla was doing fine she dies and the postmortem report shows an overdose of a certain medicine. The suspicion falls on Smitha too. The story of her own family problems almost gets into the newspaper. Shamla pleads with the editor not to publish it. As the inspector questions her, she has to confess how much she hated Shamla because of Shamla's closeness to Alosius. She says that no one, not even the militants, had wished for Shamla's death as she had. When the police come to her doorstep she is ready to take up the blame. She says bye to Alosius.
But the police came to get her to identify the real criminal, a doctor who was connected to the militants.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
I was rummaging through a pile of old books when I came across an old tome on management, its pages yellowed with time. I had purchased it during my stay in London at a time when the fiery Mrs. Thatcher had yielded the centre stage to a mellow John Major as the Prime Minister. Since then, both the Iron Lady and her mild successor have vacated the world stage and become a part of history, like the book in my hand. I had started to read the book in right earnest, but somewhere along the way lost interest. So it was set aside and remained in my pending list.
Even now, there seemed nothing remarkable about the book to rekindle my interest. But my attention was drawn to the mildewed bookmark stuck within its folds. Made of quality leather and moulded by sturdy British hands, it had managed to weather the passage of time while the pages of the book had yellowed. There’s a fetish about the stiff British upper lip that does get on one’s nerves at times. But one must admire their unwavering penchant for true quality, cost be damned! After a bit of dusting and polishing, the bookmark looked as good as new. ‘John Keats, 1795-1821’ was etched in golden letters at its top and below it were pictorial details from ‘A Grecian Urn drawn by John Keats’.
I went back in my memory to the time and place when I had acquired the bookmark—at Keats House in London. The one-time residence of the famous poet is situated within striking distance of the hustle and bustle of the city. Yet its quiet solitude has remained unruffled for centuries. I sat near the cherry tree in the garden under which Keats was said to have composed his ode to the nightingale in the nineteenth century. The present tree was only a successor to the original that had inspired Keats. Still a sliver of thrill passed through my body at the association with the poet. To me the cherry tree was a silent guardian of Keats’ spark of immortality.
At the souvenir shop in Keats House that was full of items inspired by his poems, I had discovered an artistic jug that fascinated me. It was fashioned in the style of a Grecian urn, adorned with figurines of a maiden, a youth, a pair of lovers, a priest, a heifer, the silent streets of a little town and many tree boughs that seemed to be moving yet remained still! Much as I wanted to take the urn home, I realised it was beyond my means. So I settled for the leather bookmark that now rose before me like a phoenix and took me back to Keats House and the Grecian urn.
I gazed and admired the fine artwork on the bookmark. But it dawned on me that nothing could be a match for the magnificence of Keats’ words in his ode that had acquired an immortality of their own. Age cannot wither their glitter, unlike the leather bookmark whose days too were numbered. ‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter!’ No bookmark, nor urn or any object of art for that matter, could never be a match for the sheer power of Keats’ poetry.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
“I must enjoy this evening to the full,” I thought yesterday, “as it’s the last day of my younger life.” Tomorrow, I shall be one year older!
“What a silly idea,” I said to myself, “nobody becomes a year older overnight.”
But, that’s exactly what birthdays do; slice up our life into arbitrary portions, and give them an artificial name, called year. Imagine, describing a fast flowing river’s water by whimsi-cally splicing it in chunks of, say, one mile long!
“What a frivolous vanity trip, these birthday celebrations are,” I used to think, in the folly of my youth, “celebrations are reserved for something special, a grand achievement or ex-traordinary accomplishment.“
Life’s journey over the decades has taught me an important lesson.
Occasions, big or small, do come and go; some of them turn special, when you look back. The illusory arrow of time, gives us moments rolling, relentlessly, in the order of past, pre-sent and future. Some become momentous, not by virtue of what happens at the time but how they add meaning to hitherto baffling events. No event exists in isolation, each come to us, shaped by the shadows from the past, and coloured by dreams of the future, masquerading as present.
Momentous occasions may slip by, unrecognised at the time. It is easy to miss them un-less we are in the receptive mood.
Waiting for that grand day is like trying to grasp a palmful of water by squeezing them into a fist; life will pass by like the water seeping through the gaps. All that happen to us, trivial though they seem, do enrich us. I have now learnt to give all trivialities their due; who knows, which one will spruce up our life.
At the end of the day, trifles are the stuff, life is made up of. Never question their importance; they may not capture your achievements but they go on to define how you have lived. As someone has said, “Men trip not on mountains, but on stones.”
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
I didn’t know who she was. But I was very upset with her for coming to share the house I was staying in. I didn't want her to stay with me. But the house owner was also a strange man. I felt he was mocking at me when he said, “You aren’t able to pay the rent regularly, so I have allowed the girl to stay in the other room. That way at least half the house rent will be available to me every month!" That was surprising for me. An unknown girl would share a house with a young boy? I was both surprised and angry.
When she came, she held out her hand to me for a handshake. I kept back my hand.
She smiled and started the conversation:
-Hello, I am Lohia.
I flinched. What a weird name! Then I also dramatically presented my name.
-Myself Marble... Though my real name is Madhavan.
I thought she would laugh when she heard my name. But she said
"Wow ... very nice name. Sounds interesting."
The house owner put up a weird expression listening to our conversation, and returned to his portion of the house. I almost picked up a stone to throw at him for imposing an unwanted guest on me but I kept calm, since I hadn’t paid the house rent for five months.
Lohia strode into my house like a lioness. It was no longer my house. Someone ruthlessly divided it into two. I hurriedly removed my small belongings out of the room to be occupied by her. I thought it would be nice if I could leave the house as soon as possible. But where could I go? I couldn't afford to rent a house. The foreign company I used to work for had been closed a few months back. I had been unemployed for a year. It would have been ridiculous to look for a new house in my pathetic state of unemployment.
- Well, where's the toilet?
Lohia appeared from nowhere, put her hands on her hips and asked.
I didn’t look at her and simply pointed the way to the toilet.
I had never thought this would happen in my life. I was running out of money. I was considering whether to join a nearby computer center. I knew the earning would be meagre but at the time, it would have been some relief.
I woke up in the morning with a disturbing sound. I saw Lohia was in the kitchen. She was cooking something but she was using my utensils. My God! What a girl! She had already captured everything in my house. The gas stove, vegetables, utensils - everything of mine she had used to prepare her food!
Suddenly I became hyper. I asked her,
"Why are you using my utensils?"
She didn't even look at me,
"I am hungry."
"What can I do if you're hungry? You make your own arrangement. Be careful, don't touch my stuff."
At these words Lohia came out of the kitchen. She matched to her room and closed the door. After a while, she went out wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, after she left, I felt very bad. I realized that I shouldn’t have been so rude to her.
She returned late in the night. Someone dropped her at the gate in a motorcycle. Though her return wasn’t supposed to be a great event for me, still I was waiting. She declared, on her own, “My boyfriend.” I kept quiet. Had I asked her? Why was she giving me this explanation? I returned to my room. I was a little tired. I remembered in the morning I had asked her not to use my stuff in the kitchen. Curious, I looked at her door. She was eating some salty biscuits from a jar. I went back to the room. I found plenty of roti and curry on my plate, waiting on a small side table. Altough I felt hungry I didn’t feel like eating. I went to sleep after drinking some water.
The next afternoon, I was disturbed by a continuous bike horn. I went out of the room and looked. Lohia was standing with a bike. She again spoke on her own, "Why my boyfriend should suffer for me, so I bought this second-hand bike”. I felt like I had fallen from the sky when I heard that. That was a Bullet motorbike! She didn't find something smaller? Or cheaper?
Then I collected myself. Hey..... why is it a bother for me? Running a Bullet or an elephant - it is her choice! I returned to my room without saying a word. I opened my laptop and tried to apply for a better job. From the corner of the window, I saw the house owner was admiring Lohia. Lohia was also discussing something with him, a smile plastered on her face. I didn't like it at all. I thought I would leave this house immediately after I got a job. I felt suffocated.
I was very upset about Lohia for a couple of days. I didn't like her behavior. She went out in her Bullet every morning and returned late at night. Many boys came to the place to meet her. She addressed each boy as her boyfriend. One fine day I came to know that one of them was a well-known photographer.
One day Lohia told me another strange thing. She said that she had thirty-three teeth. I looked at her with strange eyes. Again, she said “People having thirty-three teeth do a lot of weird things during their lifetime." Her words sounded like an empty boast to me, and I turned my attention to my work. Then she came close to me and said, “I have left my home without informing anyone."
: What?
: Yes ...
: But why?
: I just wished and did it. Can't I do that?
I was shocked to hear Lohia’s words. I wonder if I'm stuck here with this weird girl. If her family ever comes looking for me, it will be a disaster. They will certainly doubt me, as if I am the one who had led their daughter astray. They may even lodge an FIR against me. I thought “What if I ran away from here tonight itself?” But my conscience stopped me. I thought of the house owner’s trust in me. I should repay his entire rent before leaving his house. Many thoughts collided at the same time in my mind. And I didn’t leave.
Six months passed since I shared the house with Lohia. One night there was a heavy thunderstorm and rain. Power supply was disrupted, plunging everything in dark. I was fast asleep. Suddenly I heard some sounds. I thought Lohia was doing something. Then I heard someone's footsteps. I knew I had locked the door. So who was in my room? I turned around in horror and saw Lohia standing in front of me. She put on her mobile light and stared at my eyes. I sighed and sat up. She told me that she opened the door by putting a wire in the hole.
I said: What?
: Yes
: But why?
: What else can I do? Don’t you see how severe is
the rain outside?
: Yes
: Power has also gone off.
: So?
: So what? Let's go outside.
: Crazy or what? Why should I go?
: Let's go out. You just hold the charge light. I'll
take a few photos of the rain.
: Oh my God. You are really crazy. Will you leave
now or should I call the owner and tell him about
your activities?
: You Loser!
She spat these words at me and left. I kept looking at her. She stood on the porch of the house and kept watching the rainfall outside. I couldn't look for long. I felt sleepy. Soon I was fast asleep.
I didn’t find Lohia the next morning. Her Bullet was parked outside. I wondered where she had gone. I waited for her till night. Lohia did not return. I went to the house owner and asked him if he knew where she had gone. The owner told me he had no information about her.
I came back to the porch and kept staring at the darkness outside. It was still raining. I went to the room and waited all night. She didn't come back. It had been almost four days since she left home. I didn’t get any information about her. I slowly became restless. I broke the lock in her room. I was curious to know more about her. There was not much in her room. I checked her bag. She had a photo album there along with some clothes. I opened the album and looked at it. I was shocked! There was a photo of the diamond merchant Vijay Panda. I opened the album again. I saw a lot of photos of Lohia as a child. There were photographs where Lohia was playing in the lap of Vijay Panda. There were many other photographs, Lohia as a school girl, as an NCC cadet, Lohia with her friends. When I found out, who she was, I thought I should keep my distance from Lohia. She was right about her running away from home.
Lohia didn’t return. But even when she wasn't there, I felt I could hear her and I was watching her from my door. I also tried hard for my job. When I returned home, I felt that someone was waiting for me. That was Lohia's Bullet. I slowly touched the bullet and felt Lohia's presence. I worked hard, running around for a job.i found hard work was a great cure. One day I received a job offer and joined. Once I got a salary I was in a position to clear all my rents to the owner and vacate the house but I didn’t do that. I didn’t even inform the owner that I had got a job.
Time rolled on but the person who had left did not return. It was two months from the night she vanished. Where had she gone? Did she return to her parents or someone had kidnapped her? I didn't even have her phone number. I thought I'd lodge an FIR at the police station. I paid the rent to the owner and shared my thoughts with the owner but he said, “Don’t get involved in anyone’s matter. Better get busy with your work. It's good that you cleared all my rent. Keep staying here." I felt depressed seeing the owner's lack of interest in Lohia's disappearance. I returned.
One day, suddenly, like anther storm Lohia arrived at night. As happy as I was to see her, I was astonished. I thought of giving her a tight hug but felt shy. She didn't say anything, just went to her room and fell asleep. I heard her breathing from outside and felt strangely relieved.
For the first time, I prepared breakfast for two of us before Lohia woke up. I waitied for her to get up. She woke up at 8:30 in the morning and went to the washroom. I didn’t want to let her know that I cared for her. She came out of the bathroom. I served breakfast for both of us. She looked at me with big eyes as usual and sat down to eat without asking why I cooked breakfast for her.
The scene was like two opposite poles sitting together on a table eating rotis. She fed me the roti and curry on her soft finger for the first time. I didn't know that there was so much love left in her for me. The feeling was so precious. I thought a fairy was sitting next to me and I was watching her for the last time. I was even angry with her. But I remained silent.
"You know, I won't be here anymore," she said.
- What do you mean by that?
- I'm going to get married.
- Oh..... so did you go home all these days to finalise your marriage? I was shocked to hear that she was going to get married.
- No, no, I have left my home long back. That wasn’t a home at all, it was rather a hell. Only a robot can stay there. No human beings. So I decided to live the life I wished for. I always dreamt oto be a wildlife photographer but I failed. I still hope to be a wildlife photographer.
- if you didn't go home, where did you go?
- There was an art film shooting in the Kandhamal area. I went there for a photo shoot. But I gradually loved that area and decided to settle there.
- Are you crazy? To lsettle in Kandhamal? Anyway, who are you going to marry?
- I have finalized that too. There is a teacher in one of the Nabodaya schools there. He is a nice human being. I met him there. We have been walking around the forest for a long time. Do you know, though he is one of the natives of the forest area he is still a genius?
- What? Do you know what you are saying? By the way, what is the name of that genius?
- Birsa ...
- Birsa? What? Birsa Munda?
-No, no ... Only Birsa. No one likes to write a surname these days.
O God! I didn't know how to convince this girl. This was not a normal girl at all. Otherwise how a diamond merchant’s daughter think of marrying a tribal school teacher?. How could she think of spoiling her life? I stopped eating and left. She finished her food.
I wondered why did Lohia return? I had learnt to manage the emotional pain of her absence. I would have done it for the rest of my life. At least I wouldn't have to listen to such weird things from her.
I didn't want to think much of Lohia, but she returned to my mind again and yet again, as if I had nothing else to do in life. A couple of days later Lohia told me she would leave the house the next day. Birsa was coming to town for some work and she would go with him. She had a photograph session in Buddha Park the next morning. She would complete that and leave with Birsha by the night bus.
I was shattered hearing this, I felt as if pieces of flesh were melting from my body. I could not sleep that night. I. I woke up a little after midnight and went out silently, resting on the Bullet with a pillow.
In the morning, Lohia went to Buddha Park for a photo shoot. I mailed a leave application to the office and stayed at home. I didn't do anything, simply sat, looking vacantly at space. After a while, I went out to Buddha Park. When I got there, I saw a film being shot. Lohia was taking photos in her camera - a lot of photos, the green trees, flowers, the lawn and the actors and actresses. There were a lot of poor people from the nearby slum, they were dressed in joker's costumes, they were dancing to some music to make money. I wanted to do the same. I rented a joker custome and wore it and stood before Lohia for a long time. She could not recognize me in the colourful dress and funny face. She smiled a little and I smiled too. I bowed my head and told her,
"I love you”. She took some money out of her purse and put it in my hand. I stood silently, head bowed and slowly walked out of the park.
In the evening, Lohia dressed herself beautifully, putting some light make up on her face. She wore a sari and looked like a fairy. She packed her things and knocked on my door. I pretended to be asleep. I could hardly stop my tears. Lohia called me many times and walked away. I murmured to myself, - "Go, Lohia ... go. I wasn't happy when you came here, and I'm not happy when you are leaving. Maybe I'll leave this place tomorrow morning."
After Lohia left, the house owner came and talked to me for a long time. He told me that Lohia had cleared her house rent. She would come a few days later to take away her Bullet. Lohia had told him that she had taken a beautiful photograph of the sad eyes of a joker and she was going to put the photograph in auction to get the best price. He kept saying many things, but nothing registered in my mind. I wasn’t in a mood to respond to him. I asked him to leave since I was unwell. I returned to my room and tried to sleep but couldn’t.
I got out of bed, went to the Bullet I put a pillow on its handle and stretched myself on the long seat. It was raining outside soon I felt sleepy. I don't know how long I slept. Suddenly I woke up to someone's touch I woke up with a start and found a rain soaked hand through the grill. Someone was calling, "Marble..Marble". I shook the sleep out of my eyes. Yes ... it was Lohia's voice. I opened the grill door. She pushed me away and walked in, and before I could say anything, she whispered, "I went to Birsa to say goodbye."
- What?
I asked her, completely bewildered.
- Don't you understand? Didn't I tell you I have twenty-three teeth?
- So?
- So I can do anything weird.
-What!
Lohia drew her wet body close and clung to me, "When I won't be there, you would have slept on my Bullet every night, I can't tolerate that!"
It was only when my eyes locked with hers that I could feel I also had thirty-three teeth, and soon I was going to do something weird.
Chinmayee Barik, a modernist writer in Odia literature is a popular and household name in contemporary literary circle of Odisha. Quest for solitude, love, loneliness, and irony against the stereotyped life are among the favorite themes of this master weaver of philosophical narratives. She loves to break the monotony of life by penetrating its harsh reality. She believes that everyone is alone in this world and her words are the ways to distract her from this existing world, leading her to her own world of melancholy and to give time a magical aesthetic. Her writings betray a sense of pessimism with counter-aesthetics, and she steadfastly refuses to put on the garb of a preacher of goodness and absolute beauty. Her philosophical expressions carry a distinct sign of symbolic annotations to metaphysical contents of life.
She has been in the bestseller list for her three outstanding story collections "Chinikam" , "Signature" and "December". Chinmayee has received many prestigious awards and recognition like Events Best-Selling Author's Award, "Antarang 31", Story Mirror Saraswat Sanmam", "Sarjan Award by Biswabharati", "Srujan Yuva Puraskar", and " Chandrabhaga Sahitya Samman".
Her book 'Chinikam' has been regarded as the most selling book of the decade. With her huge fan base and universal acceptability, she has set a new trend in contemporary storytelling. By profession chinmayee is a popular teacher and currently teaches in a school named " Name and Fame Public School" at Panikoili, a small town in Odisha. She can be contacted at her Email id - chinmayeebarik2010@gmail.com
KANAKA' S MUSING :: A CHRISTMAS TALE
Come December, and this story which she had read somewhere in her girlhood would come to haunt her. Christmas is a season of love, fun and laughter, a season of giving and caring but why did Hans Christian Andersen give his Christmas story a sad ending. Oh! no, Kanaka, twisted and turned in her sleep. She moaned helplessly as she watched the bedraggled and woebegone figure of the matchstick girl as she trudged down the cold street, with the unsold matchsticks in her hand, and the concluding image, the author heartlessly left for the readers to carry forever in their heart. She woke up in a sweat, determined to free herself from this nightmarish vision..... She grabbed the pen and paper that lay on the round table beside her bed and started scribbling.....
It was a cold December day, the little girl with her matchsticks in bundles stood shivering. One of her oversized slippers, (of her mother's) was lost. The one she wore was snatched away by a little boy who wanted to keep it, to use as "a cradle when he had children of his own." The snow covered streets were quite unwelcoming. She did not even sell one bundle of match sticks. She walked and walked, frost bitten, hoping someone would buy at least one bundle. She dared not go home empty handed, and was certain that her father would beat her up for not selling the match sticks and bringing money home.
Her long, golden, curly tresses, falling down her shoulders were covered with snowflakes but she did not bother. She looked at the shut windows helplessly with longing, through which light streamed out and her nostrils were assailed with the delicious aroma of Christmas eve cooking and baking. She felt cold, tired and hungry.
She searched for a place to sit and ward off the cold and found a corner between two houses. The roof of one jutted out a bit and she could huddle there. Sitting there she lit one match stick to warm her tiny fingers. She felt the warmth sweeping into her body and imagined she was sitting in front of a stove inside a house, she extended her frozen feet towards the stove to make it warm. As she was enjoying its warmth, the match stick burnt out leaving her in darkness and the stove too disappeared.
Disillusioned, she lit another match stick. Once more she could see the stove and a room. "The table was covered with a snowy white table cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner, a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl."(Andersen). And she laughed. The match stick burnt out once more leaving her in utter darkness and the vision too disappeared.
Frantically she lit another match stick, by now she was excited. This time she found herself under a Christmas tree beautifully decorated... Thousands of tapers were burning upon its branches. The match burnt out but the vision extended. In the light of the Christmas tree she saw a star falling. It reminded her of her grandmother, who had loved her but was no more. Her grandmother used to tell her that seeing a star falling is not good and that meant someone was going to die soon. She lit another match stick and in its light she thought her grandmother was walking towards her with extended arms. She jumped up and ran towards her and was enfolded in a warm hug. "Oh, dear how cold you are! Thank God I came to investigate the flickering light outside my window." A tinkling sound fell on her ears and she hugged her grandma tight.
The young lady had seen the flickering match sticks from her window. She was getting ready to read something before dinner. But the light made her hasten down and go out into the cold twilight and she found the little girl almost frozen to the bones. She carried the little girl, who had collapsed in her arms, in to the house and laid her on the bed. She called her family to her aid and they rubbed her numb feet and hands and warmed her up and slowly the little one opened her eyes. She found herself surrounded by people all anxiously watching her. Beside her, on the bed, sat a beautiful woman who was stroking her hand gently. She got up slowly and once more the woman drew her near and hugging her, urged her to drink a cup of warm soup which was held close to her lips. She sipped slowly. The warmth that seeped into her body wafted her off to sleep.
In the dawn she woke up fresh and bright. She seemed to be in a magical world. In the light of the feeble, wintry sun that was trying desperately to light the room, she found herself in a large bedroom and there near the window was standing the beautiful lady she had seen in her vision and mistook for her grandmother who had come to take her to her heavenly home. She pinched herself. No, but this was real. The young lady walked towards her, smiling reassuringly and hugged her. The girl felt deep inside a comfort and peace she had never experienced before. Yes, her heart was telling her, she would be cared for.
Kanaka felt happy. She had found a home for the matchstick girl, where she would live happily. What a christmas gift for the poor matchstick girl!
Kanaka was at peace, Andersen's matchstick girl would never come to haunt her in her sleep again.....
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
Respected Minunani,
Pranam.You will be surprised to receive my letter after quite a long time. We didn't have any communication for many years. But I know very well that distance never matters for us.Though I was silent for many years you always remain in my memory. I am writing this letter far away, from San Francisco.You might have known I am settled here for the last 10 years. I failed to intimate you in time and hope you will forgive your younger brother for this negligence.
I am sure you might not have forgotten our old days when we were sharing our feelings. I was in class Five in our village middle school and you were in class Nine in the High School, two kilometers away from our village. I was a child and you had just stepped into your teens. I had finished my lower primary at Bhadrak. My father was transferred to Bhubaneswar and we all had to shift temporarily to our village in Cuttack district because of nonavailability of Govt Quarters. After one year my family moved to Bhubaneswar but I was left alone to continue my study in the same village school as my grandparents were alone and persuaded my parents to leave me with them. My father assured me to take me to Bhubaneswar after one year. But as I secured number one position in my first annual examination, my teachers had high aspiration and motivated my parents to let me continue study in that school. I had to stay three more years in that village away from my loving brothers and sisters. As a child I could not object to their decision. But I was very upset. Internally I was almost broken down. Minu Nani, you were my only companion at that time. You were a distant cousin and your house was very near to ours. Often I was feeling very lonely and crying silently. It was you who was consoling me, pacifying me and encouraging me. Nobody can imagine what sort of mental trauma I was going through. Everybody was ignorant about it except you. You were my friend, philosopher and guide. My tender, innocent mind trusted you.You were handling very carefully the emotions and dilemma arising in a child's mind, though you yourself were not very mature. When from a distant relation you occupied the place of an elder sister you occupied a special place in my own heart. I know if I did not have your support, I would not reached where I am today.
You know every bit of my feelings and concern. But today I am going to unfold a story from pages of my life which I had locked in the inner recesses of my heart like a treasure and never shared with anybody. That was totally private and preserved as a wistful remembrance which I want to share with you and seek your help. Hope you will not disappoint me.
Do you remember Swapna? The thin,wheatish complexioned girl with bob-cut hair who was studying in my class. She must have been around nine years, same age as mine. She was from a lower middle class family. My great grandfather was a Zamindar. He had established a colony nearby our house where he had provided shelter and land for people from different castes like farmers, barbers, washerman, fishermen, weavers, brahmins and many others to serve the zamindar's family. Swapna was the daughter of a farmer who was cultivating our land and earning his livelihood.This had continued from my grandfather's as well as my father's time. Although zamindar's power was withdrawn, these dependants did not have any other means to survive.
Swapna was a good student and very regular in class. She was a sensitive girl and was in the habit of crying at the slightest provocation.Other friends were sometimes teasing her out of fun, just to make her cry. I do not know why but I was compassionate to her from the very beginning. After our school time children from nearby area were gathering in the vast field in front of our house surrounded by big banyan trees. Swapna was also coming to play with some of her friends from neighbouring houses who were in our school.
There was no discrimination between boys and girls as we all were in our childhood stage.
We were playing Dudu, Kitkiti, Bohuchori, Chhotipara, Gulidanda, Chorpolice and many other girlish games also, like Kata Dian, Chataa etc. As time passed Swapna and I became good friends. It is true that in our journey of life we come across many people. Only few of them become close to us and we start liking them. But the stage which I am dealing with now was at a very premature age to understand or define such philosophy.
After half day class on Saturdays we were going to pluck guava, jamoon, pista badam etc. from an orchard near our house by throwing stones, or the elderly boys trying desperately to pick some fruits with a long stick which was in our ancestral field. Swapna and other girls and boys were accompanying us. Swapna and I were sitting on the branches of the guava tree which was a little bit short and easy to climb and we were talking relaxedly for a long time and laughing our heart out even after other children left for their home. I didn't remember exactly what we were talking about. I am sure we were not criticizing our teachers like today's students do because we had great reverence for them. Our innocent mind was unaware of worldly problems and complicacies.We must be talking about our parents, their love and care, their strictness and concern for us or it might be a random discussion about our pets and their heroic activities. We were forgetting everything after a while and going on talking endlessly till your commanding voice alarmed us to leave. Minunani, today I don't hesitate to admit before you that Swapna's company was giving me great joy even when I was a small boy. In course of time she became my best friend.
Many times we were going to the pond in the backyard of our house. Some children knew swimming and jumping from the bank to the pond without any heed to the seniors' scolding. Swapna was folding her frock and dipping into water to catch fishes.I was feeing ecstatic when some fishes were plunging into water escaping from her frock. Swapna was giggling and giggling. We had lot of fun when we were bringing it to our back yard, apply salt and turmeric and burning them in a pot lighting with dried straws. You were the ring master and you were with us in all these events at your leisure hour.
I was feeling upset when Swapna was not coming to class or tuition for some reason or other. I was going out to the road in front of our house and my eyes were stretching out to the point where the road ended and turned towards Swapna's house which was out of my sight. Minunani, can you tell me why such feelings didn't arise for other friends? The age at which such feeling was evolving in my mind probably was not the age for love and passion for opposite sex. I was not pondering over it at that time. But now when I ruminate on the whole thing, I don't find any answer to it. I try to justify it that at that stage a simple, clear serene mind was feeling delighted with his best friend's company and feeling downhearted by her absence.
Time and tide wait for none.Two years passed as if in a blink. I was promoted to class 7th, so also Swapna and other friends.You completed your High school and got admission in college which was 3 to 4 kms away from our village. Study was going tough and we had to toil hard. The board examination was approaching. Our study time was extended and play time was squeezed. Our teachers were focussing more on me as I was expected to be among the best ten students in the state. Extra coaching class was arranged by our headmaster for the best five students. Swapna was not included. I was feeling a void not to see her in coaching class which was taken after the general class was over. There was less chance to play except on Sundays. I was busy in my study and diligently trying to secure a position among the best ten in my board examination. Sometimes I was able to find time to talk to you. Swapna was regularly attending class. Though we were meeting in school the childlike feeling was gradually missing. We were no more giggling on trival matters nor we were running after squirrel babies to catch them and feed them milk in a dropper. Probably the hardship that we were going through for our Board examination had snatched away our delightful nature from us.You were always inspiring me to study mindfully and bring glory to our school. There was lot of pressure from teachers also. My board examination was over. I came with my father to spend my vacation with my family at Bhubaneswar. Much awaited result came out after one month. I secured the 4th position out of 10 in state. Everybody was happy. My father was overwhelmed. I went to my village to bring TC to get admission in Capital Boy's High School, Bhubaneswar. I had lost my enthusiasm to come to Bhubaneswar after spending quite a long period at my village. Most of my childhood days were spent here. I missed everything and Minunani, I was also missing Swapna. I could not meet her before I finally left my village. Of course I met you and like a matured lady you bade me goodbye with tons of advice how to maintain my position in higher class and prosper in life. At that time also I could not give a hint about my feelings for Swapna, probably because it was beyond my understanding.
I went to my village after a year in my summer vacation with my parents. I met my old friends who were studying in high school near my village. Swapna was also a student there. I didn't have a chance to meet her at her house. Once I met her on the road where we were running and playing. To my utter surprise she looked at me but didn't say a single word. She stood for a while and hurriedly walked away. I stood dumbfounded. I also couldn't utter a word to her. Minunani, can you imagine this situation? A friend of my childhood suddenly became an unknown person to me in my early teens. What happened was beyond my thought. Probably boys and girls feel shy to talk to outsiders at this adolescent stage. I returned after my vacation was over. After that I went very rarely to my village and was busy in my studies and with friends.The memory of Swapna was gradually fading away.
For few marks I could not secure my position in best tenth. The entire family was upset. I studied in BJB college +2 science, got first class and secured admission in SCB medical college after competing in entrance examination. In between I met you several times at Bhubaneswar when you came to your relatives staying here. We used to talk on many topics.You also informed me about the where abouts of friends who were studying with me in my village. Everytime I found in you affection of an elder sister, advice as a guide and inspiration as a well wisher. Whenever I faced a problem I shared with you. From you I also knew about Swapna who got married after completing her graduation. It did not have much impact on my mind at that time. It was like a normal go of life and I was serious about building my career. The childhood sentiment was buried in a corner of my heart. Minunani, I am sure you have not forgotten the problem I faced in my marriage. I loved a girl who was my batch mate in medical college. But because she was from a different caste my grandfather was dead against my marrying her. At that time nobody could convince him, not even my parents. But you stood firm by my side. As your in-laws' house was nearer to our village you took the leading role to convince him. You bribed the astrologer of the village and he proved it to be unique and convinced my grand father that my fate will sign brighter and brighter after marrying this girl. After that it was solemnised. Though you had already got married you always came forward to help me. Your love, care and support at my hard times is immeasurable.
After my undergraduate study I did my postgraduate in medicine and was posted in a corporate hospital in Hyderabad. I have two kids, a son and a daughter. Life was running smoothly. I had no communication with you for about 7 to 8 years. Oneday I got a message from one of my relatives that for the first time the Prize Day of our middle school was going to be held and they wanted to felicitate me as a pride of our school as well as village. No doubt the message was exciting and I made up my mind to go alone to be a part of the occasion.
I arrived one day prior to the Prize distribution ceremony. My grandparents had left for their heavenly abode some years before. I stayed with my uncle (my father's cousin). I could not send any message to you as I came for a very short time.
The time of the function approached. All the teachers were present and the volunteers were organising everything. Amid the gathering I could see a familiar face which I had last seen years before. She was Swapna. I was eager to know what she was doing here. Somebody told me she had joined as a teacher in this school after completing BEd. Now I had no hesitation to meet her and talk to her. A tall, plump, matured Swapna greeted me with an enigmatic smile. My heart throbbed for a while. Within these years I had not recalled her memory even once. Neither she had anything pulse-racing in her appearance or gesture. But a sense of delight was filling my inner self. Minunani, I was unable to make out what was it. Was it the passion that had lain dormant inside me for years which suddenly awakened at the very sight of her? It was absolutely unintelligible.
I was ignorant about her feelings towards me. She had the demeanour of a woman who was content with her life. She freely asked me many questions about my family and profession which seemed to me very casual but my mind was probably expecting to hear something special from Swapna. I didn't know what was that special topic I wanted to hear. Was it the memory that I wanted her to recapitulate and giggle with me as we were doing decades before? I knew it was literally not possible. I was keen to talk with her for some more time but the anchor called my name to be present on stage. I was felicitated by a local political leader who was the chief guest and audience including teachers, students and village people gave me a standing ovation. I announced a memorial in my name to be given to the best student of the year. I decided to come next year to attend the Prize distribution ceremony and on this pretext I might have a fare chance to meet Swapna again. I returned to Hyderabad the next day.
I was feeling elated and relaxed. Minunani, I swear I love my wife very much. She is always in my heart and soul. Then why a mere glance at Swapna enraptured my mind and heart? I made up my mind not to think of Swapna any more. My conscience forbade me to think of going to the prize-day ceremony next year.
My cousin brother was a doctor in US. Because of his persuasion I applied for fellowship in emergency medicine in US and came out successful. I moved to US 10 years back and since then staying here with my family. In a gap of one to two years I go to India, remain with my parents and come back to my busy life. Neither I have thought of going to my village in between nor I could meet you. I did not disclose this chapter before you when it was inexplicable to me. My parents have turned old. This time when I went to India they insisted that I should accompany them to village for settlement of property matters as they wanted to sell out their share. We stayed for two days only. I met my relatives and old friends. From them I came to know the heart rending news about Swapna.
All the restraints broke down. I rushed to her house. She had met with a serious accident while coming trom cuttack to her village by bus with her husband and in-laws. Her in-laws and her husband died on the spot. Swapna had grievous head injury and recovered after many months lying in hospital. As she was childless and there was nobody in her in-laws house, her elder brother brought her to his house. She had complete paralysis of one side of body leaving her bedridden. Her landed property were all sold to meet the expenses of her treatment. I was crestfallen to see her frail body lying helplessly in bed. She gave me a feeble smile. I was in doubt whether she could recognise me. Her speech was slurring which I could hardly understand.
Minunani, at this juncture I remembered you. You were my strength. I went to your village. It was not difficult to find your house. You were flabbergasted at my unexpected arrival. You asked me so many questions but I was not in the right mind to answer. I asked for your account number and told you that I want to send some money for renovation of our ancestral property. But it was a lie, I could not disclose the matter of Swapna to you there and decided to let you know through my letter. Actually I want to send a lump sum money to you for better treatment of Swapna to enable her to get rid of her invalidity and lead a normal life. As my parents are old they cannot handle it. I need your help. I have full confidence in you and I know you will tactfully manage it. I can not withstand her pain and plight. Minunani, I know people will not think otherwise as I am from the most reputed family in village and as I have settled in US I don't have dearth of money. But I cannot trust any body except you. You better know how you will handle it. I am putting all responsibilities of her treatment on you. I will send more if it will not suffice for her treatment and care. Please do not misunderstand me. This is not my obsession but a sincere attempt to save the life of my childhood friend on humanitarian ground. I will be happy if you accept the money and help her.
Your loving brother
Satish
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.
Manish Sachdeva was in the dining hall of Delhi Gymkhana Club. He used to visit it often after coming over to Delhi to join as the Director of a think tank. He was all alone in Delhi at the present and his wife Shivali and daughter Shivani were still at Mumbai.
Across the table three people were sitting at the next table and one of them was looking at him from time to time. All three of them exuded some quiet power but they displayed some enchantment of decay in them revealed by long slow fading like once old beautiful mansion. They were all middle aged. Must be some senior civil servants, Delhi’s understated power Centres, he thought. Particularly, one among the three was looking his way a little more frequently. Politely, he gave a ever so small nod once their eyes met. His order had come and he got busy with eating his food. The food which one relishes because it is different even though not great. After completing his food, he was waiting for the dessert to come when his eyes met the other person’s once again. This time he was smiling. Clearly, he is taking him to be someone he knew. Now he got up and came towards him.
“Sir, are you Manish Sachdeva?”
‘Yes’. He said surprised that someone has recognized him in Delhi after thirty years. He was quite happy being not recognized. It let him observe people, study them and keep the conclusions to himself.
“I am Ashutosh Sabarwal, from Shivalik Hostel in Delhi IIT, two years your junior.” He stretched his hands to Manish now.
“Ashu! Good to see you. Sorry, could not recognize you. You have changed so much I must have too.”
“Sir, you remember all the guidance you used to give me in Chemical Engineering as a senior.”
“Of course. How can I forget the good guy who was always ready to help. I thought you joined the IAS.” Now he pointed the one of empty chair nearest on his table to him to sit down.
“Yes, Sir. Continuing still. I am Additional Secretary, HRD looking after Techical education which include, IITs and IIMs.”
“Ashu, cut off that Sir business. I am so happy to see someone from my stream and hostel in IIT after 30 years.”
“You went away to the US and were a CEO there?
“Yes. That is a long story. Went away to MIT. After M.Tech, I joined Dupont. Rose up to be its President. Came to Mumbai, worked for 3 years as the country Manager. Now I have resigned.”
“You have done clearly very well. But why resign, you are not even fifty eight.” Ashutosh asked.
“Well, how long do you do the same thing. Wanted to do something different. How about you?”
“Well, sir. Life is fine. I should become Secretary to Government of India next year. Toyed with the idea of leaving the job. But Secretary to Government of India is the holy grail. Having worked as a donkey for 32 years, why not become a Secretary?”
“Indeed. Secretary to Government of India is very powerful I understand.”
“Oh, God. How can I forget. You remember Arun Mathur from Shivalik? Ashu asked.
“Well, how can I forget. He was my buddy. First year. We shared a room. In Shivalik the joke was we were like Gemini brothers. He is in IAS too. Where is he these days?
“He was my boss earlier in HRD. Now he is Secretary, Ministry of Health and Family Welfare. Tremendous reputation as an officer and squeaky clean. He would go places. Very highly respected as a civil servant. PM loves him.”
“I bet. Arun is always like that. I must get in touch with him. Can I have his number?” Manish asked.
Ashutosh gave his mobile number as well as Arun’s. Manish stored them in his mobile.
Caramel custard came to the table. Ashu said no to desert. Manish insisted that Ashu takes a spoonful at least. Both stood up and shook hands and parted. Manish had a smile on his face. Past was like a cool breeze of spring which refreshed him. He intended giving a call to Arun Mathur in the morning.
xxxxxx
He felt refreshed in the morning. Had the morning tea and browsed the newspaper. There was a statement from the Finance Secretary that the previous days’ cabinet decisions were historic. With brilliant guys like Ashutosh, Arun and others surely brilliant things are bound to happen. He was wondering when so many historic things were happening why they were not translating into something in the real world. Three years in Mumbai was an eye-opener. He had perceived the difference between pronouncement and action, activities and outcome with lot of difference between intention and resultant consequences.
Then on impulse he pressed the number of Arun Mathur.
“Hello”
“Good Morning, Arun. Guess who is this side?
Arun Mathur was clearly not happy with this familiarity.
“Manish this side, Manish Sabarwal.”
An ecstatic voice boomed.
“Manish, where the hell were you these days. Buddy you have made my day.”
“Boss, I am in your town. Staying in a guest house in Jor Bagh.” Manish informed.
“How did you forget us for so long. Last I heard from you was an email 15 years back when you came to Mukhtasar and were passing through Delhi. That time I was in Hyderabad. We must meet today. Let me check.
“Evening, there is a dinner thrown by the Minister (Health). At 3 PM, there is a meeting with PM, we can meet at 4.30 PM in my office. Send me your car no. My office will line up your passes, someone will receive you at Gate No. 3 and bring you upto my room. If I get delayed by 15-20 minutes, don’t behave like a Yank and go away. My folks would take care of you and that room is yours. “Arun finalized.
Manish reported at gate No. 3 at 4.25 PM. Someone designated by the Secretary escorted him up to Secretary’s room. The PPS checked whether he would like to have coffee. He said yes. It tasted good. Reminded him of the coffee in the India Coffee House in Connaught Place. Familiar aroma. He was comfortable in sofa.
The door opened. Initially he thought Arun Mathur was coming in. But he saw another younger officer walking in. Sir, I am Amar Sahai. Jt. Secretary here. Secretary is getting delayed by another 10 minutes. I am IITD too, 10 years your junior in Chemical Engineering. Sir, your grade points are legendary.
“Sir, keeps on telling that you should have been in the IAS. You are so incisive in your understanding and quick in decision making.”
Manish was wondering who is this sir? Now a light bulb moment came. He understood it was reference to Arun.
“Well, I was not destined for bigger things. I had to crawl like a grub worm for meal ticket motives”.
“Sir, always talks about you. Very fond of you.”
“Well, we were buddies. Five years together in IIT. We spent all the time together beyond the class room.”
He thought to himself hand smiled. Both Arun and him had decided not to have a girl friend once they realized that they had infatuation for the same girl.”
“Sir, has a great reputation in his cadre and in Delhi for his legendary honesty. You can’t find a person cleaner than our Secretary.”
“He was always very honest. It is not surprising that he just stuck to his template.”
That is when, Arun Mathur entered. A peon holding open the door.
“Hi Manish.” He strode in and hugged him tight.
“Good to see you man. In the previous birth, you must have been squirrel, the way you hide yourself. How is the family?
“Well, the guys are in US, doing their college, two sons. I came back to Mumbai three years back, you know that. Shivali, my wife and daughter Shivani are in Mumbai. Shivali assists an NGO in psychiatric counseling for adolescents. She is a trained Psychologist. Shivani is doing her fashion designing in Sophia College.
“How would I know, if you don’t keep in touch. Buddy, I feel like skipping this insipid dinner by the Minister and spending the evening with you with drinks and dinner. Just like the old time.”
“Don’t worry. I have come back for good to Delhi. Shivali will join me in a month or two after I finalize some accommodation.”
“Well. Tomorrow, let’s meet for dinner at Delhi Golf Club at 8 pm. You must a ‘vela’ without Shivali. I will inform Archana, my wife to join. Two daughters. One married and the other one is in NID, Ahmedabad. Block your time for tomorrow.”
“That would be great. I would get to meet Archana. I have not met her ever. We met only twice in between. Once in IIT reunion and the second time in the airport. Buddy life deranges you. Who would have thought that Arun would the Secretary (Health), Government of India.”
“Chhod Yaar. Kuch Piya? – Arun added.
“Well take the lassi here. It is good. I am going to take one glass. These meetings with PM are so draining.” He pressed the bell and ordered for two lassis.
“Oh, God. Before I forget let me give some quick instructions.” Don’t mind yaar. Occupational hazard.
He rang up on the intercom.
“Piyush, this year we have the budget problem in NHS. You had mapped out those minority populated districts already. Let money go to other districts. Limit only grant for salary to these green districts. We will ramp it up in round 2.”
Piyush from the other side was mildly protesting.
“I know. But these are PM’s order. No choice. This prioritization must be done. Where are the resources?.”
Manish could imagine the other side telling that the minority districts required more funding because of high concentration of poverty and morbidities. His foray into a think tank has led him to do all the reading. This information just didn’t get washed but parked itself in his mind.
Arun placed the receiver down and turned to Manish.
“Yaar. These meetings with the PM drains. The Minister keeps quiet. I do all the batting. Sometimes, win and sometimes lose. PM operates with a binary, positive and negative officers and he pigeon holes them.”
“You must have picked up all required skills during your 34 years in this Byzantine system.” Manish offered.
“Yes. But it is like the final exam in the IIT. You prepare and go, but some questions come about which you don’t have any clue Heh. Heh. Heh.
“And if you don’t have a wizard like Manish, you are flummoxed at least.”
Manish just smiled.
“But then he has 360° perspective. He would have to balance several parameters, accommodate party interests, Government’s interest and people’s interests.
“Sure. He would have to.” Manish said. But he was wondering it was more of party and political interest. Lassi came in time. It was really nice.
While sipping Lassi, Manish started wondering what was the steel frame doing in hedging against the political agenda driven decisions.
“Do you face political interference much? Your good equation with the PM must have mitigated it.” Manish asked.
“To be frank, I do not face any political interference. I am my own man. You lay down the boundary line for the politician and then there is no problem.”
“Arun, tell me one thing. Why India does not do well in HDI. Health care, education, livelihood, etc.?
“It is the population, boss. Four times of US but in the land mass which is 1/4th India’s population has been a problem.”
Manish was not convinced. But he decided to let it pass. Was enough money being spent on health and education? Why we have to pretend that we are 1st world when we are third world. What about corruption, transmission and distribution losses of limited resources?
The PPS came in to inform that the Minister would like to speak.
Arun, pressed the hot line.
“Secretary ji, this is regarding the drug purchase of NHS. The best drug manufactures are from West India and may be some in South. Why are we purchasing from all over.” The Minister was telling.
“We purchase by tender.” Arun offered.
“That is the problem of the lowest tender. The lowest quality producer can give it in the lowest tender. Please change the tender conditions.” The Minister was telling.
Manish was taking mental note. Here is a clear invitation to tweak the tender to help the cronies.
“If change of tender condition is a problem, don’t forget we are entitled to purchase without tender in case of emergency. Now there is an emergency. This Covid – 19 is an emergency and we are under notification under the Disaster Management Act which enables direct purchase.”
Manish expected Arun to protest. He did not and said he will work towards that. After, the phone got disconnected, he pressed the intercom and passed on instruction to Piyush of NHS.
All telephone calls done, now Arun moved his attention to Manish. Manish was trying to hide his internal churning on hearing all the telephone calls. To break the ice, Manish stated.
“I was talking to Amar Sahai. Smart guy from IITD.”
“Very honest also. Squeaky clean. He is from Madhya Pradesh cadre. Will go far.” Arun said.
“Yes, indeed. There lies the redemption of this country, talented and smart people taking charge” – Manish offered.
But in his mind he was rolling the issues. Everyone is honest why the result is other than what is anticipated.
“Well Arun, you have got work piled up. I see those files. I would get going.”
“OK buddy. I can’t tell you how happy I am. You are back in town. Any case, we are meeting tomorrow for dinner at Delhi Golf Club. Should I pick you up?
No, No. I have my taxi. I would be there.
Both hugged and parted.
Manish was happy meeting Arun after aeons. But still an unease remained. He was not able to vocalize it, or put his finger on it. Whatever he was thinking was turning out to be weak metaphor of whatever he meant to say to himself. From Nirman Bhavan Gate he told his driver to move ahead and he would take a walk.
On the side walk he met 3 Nihangs coming from the other side. The wrong pathway. They were walking on their right. They came closer. They were stern looking fellows. One of them said
‘Dus rupaye Daal.’ Manish was surprised. Three sturdy looking guys, with swords hanging from the side were asking for ten rupees Manish took out a tenner and offered the person.
“Neeche daal, haath mein nahin.”
Manish dropped the ten rupee note on the floor. The man took out his sword and pretended as if he was fighting with it and picked it up with the end of the sword.”
“Bhikh nahin, ladhai karke liya hun,” the man said looking at Manish.
Manish was half smiling when it dawned upon him what the man was telling. He had not begged for Rs. 10/- but obtained it by fighting like a fighter. He got his analogy now for the idea which was bothering him. The metaphor which he was looking for. The ‘honesty’ and ‘probity’ in the officers.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delh
Heton!!...Hetoni Petoni!!
Hetoni Bouncy!!
You know Piya didi is going to London to pursue a course in Digital Multimedia.
Let me know if you are interested,then mommy will pack up a small suitcase for you.
London is extremely cold at this time of the year and wet too as it's raining most of the time, mommy know's you love to get wet in the rains,but you need to be careful,I will make sure I pack an umbrella ??? and a pair of warm shoes for you, your shampoo and your hair brush,oh!! how could I forget your eau de Cologne,I love its fragrance much better than mine, but first you good doggy!!.
I will also need to shove in a raincoat, royal canin choco brownies, moreover for sure you will find something more exciting to eat over there, wonder what food the pets out there eat.
Moreover Piya didi told,she is going to stay in an apartment with her friends and they will have the full kitchen to themselves to cook,so no worries, chicken rice with vegetables will always be available for you.
She also promises to take you around,a city tour.
In fact Hakku mommy was just wondering if you would like to join a course out there for ball rolling, since you never showed much interest for online classes, always good to upgrade yourself on topics that you love.
Rather than chasing the frog's, butterflies, rats and crows, you get a chance to make new friends.
You,no worries!!, mommy no give royal canin to crowie while you are away.
It would be a good trip as well for personality development.Pets out there are so well behaved and disciplined.
Hetoni Bouncy!!... what say?why you sulking?
Hakku speaks::::::"mommy the whole trip sounds so exciting, but how i hate to leave you all and go,in fact I'm more worried for my Rahul Bhaiya. Who would monitor his movements? while I'm travelling.Both of you are extremely busy with work and I don't trust these fellas at home ????????, whose major focus is only on what they get to eat.On a second thought, mommy could I take Rahul Bhaiya along with me,he too hasn't travelled for the past two years.It would be fun both of us on top of the open double decker bus enjoying our freedom and screaming out our best."
"Can we all go together mommy?"
"Hakku" this time it won't work out, Papu is busy with work."
"Mommy"....but you told me, he's been saying these words for the longest time known,I dare not say anything,he might just refuse to play tug of war with me, you know how much I love that game,it gives me a high."
"Mommy"... London trip is cancelled,I can do away with these, but I can't stay a day away from all of you."
Ok!!..... until we can all go together again!!
Mommy would miss you tooo?
Our Best Wishes to Piya didi!!
East or West, Home is the Best!!
Whoofh!!.....Whoofh!!......Whoofh!!
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
Thursday morning! Thoughtfully I strolled around my living room. I was already frustrated for not getting enough feedback. All my dreams of being a writer were met by a cold, uncaring silence. I wished for the barest scrap of attention for my writing. My stupid mind was running after a mirage - worldwide acknowledgment! I felt as if someone was telling me, ‘You need alignment in your writing, polished, high-quality vocabulary, and unique content. Can you do it?’
I whispered hesitatingly, ‘Yeah! I will try.’ Suddenly I realized no one was there in the living room except me. Then leisurely, I went to finish the rest of the work. I was annoyed with myself and my racing, pessimistic mind. ‘I think, I have to relax a bit to get rid of my nuisance thoughts,’ I grumbled to myself.
The only relaxation right for that moment was the idiot box- TV. I surfed the Channels to watch some entertaining programs. My thumb ran over the remote. Somewhere I stopped and gazed at the program very keenly. No movie, no serial, nothing impressed me much, but that particular program I watched lingered in my mind. Later, every day after finishing my work, particularly at 10 p.m., I sat in front of the TV to watch that show- Shark Tank! I was not addicted to it, but somehow that program stuck in my mind.
My daydreaming was never drafted clearly. One Sunday early morning I woke up but instead of getting up, I tossed myself on the bed thinking about that serial. I'm not sure what I saw was a dream or just a flashback memory. Perhaps, it was a lucid dream, an effect of excess involvement of myself in that show……..
‘Five greatest entrepreneurs of the world had majestically occupied their seats! They looked fresh, vibrant, smiling, but sharp, like the real sharks! As if waiting for a prey to attack! The door was opened. One by one, the participants stood before the sharks, and gave a short spiel of their product, its importance, benefits, and advantages with some pictures, and physically showing some actions too, to impress them for partnership!
My turn was petty behind. So, I had enough chance to watch, grasp, and intricately analyze the style of presentation of others, and the response of veteran sharks! I was really scared! The interaction of sharks with the participants was quite tough - mixed with sweet and sour feelings! My heart was throbbing badly. Perhaps, I was the only candidate who hadn't prepared anything. When my turn came, I was numb.
The door was opened, and I entered the room. My empty stomach started churning inside, saliva dried up in my tongue. But somehow, my brain worked out instantly.
‘Hi, sharks!’, gently I addressed all of them and forgot to introduce myself.
‘How can we help you, ma’am?’ a mild voice pierced through my ears.
‘Um, yes- no?’, I stuttered looking at her dignified, smiling face.
Perhaps, they could understand my awkwardness. With the gesture from their eyes, I could guess that I did something wrong.
‘Sorry! I didn't introduce myself. I am Aditi, also called Adi, a simple writer.’
They responded to me with a friendly smile. One of the sharks asked, ‘O.k, Adi, what do you want from us? You must be aware of what we are, right?!’
‘Yes, sir, I am! I don't want anything from you. But, um, I just want to request you something.’
‘What?! A request?’ They all laughed, squeezing their eyebrows, hunched their shoulders, and looked at each other with a big surprise!
‘Ok, Adi. What’s your request? May we know that?’ a sweet questioning voice came from one of the sharks.
I focused on the shark who had asked me. I took a deep breath, then said, ‘Ma’am, my request is: Please, go through my stories. That’s it.’
‘Stories?! What stories? Have you come to the ‘Shark Tank’ program, just for that?! Unbelievable!’
She was stunned!
‘Ma’am, I am so sorry! Directly I could never meet anyone of you. I write simple stories based on some themes. I have no money that can be spared for either editing or for asking for reviews. I wish to be a well-known writer. The stories are not based on love or romance. They are just simple stories.’
‘But, then why didn't you approach a high-level critique?’, she asked genuinely.
I smiled and said, ‘Ma’am, this whole world is nothing but crazy after money! One out of millions may be an exception! Well, people are in demand, if and when they have money! The day you lose that, you would be unrecognizable. When I said ‘I have no money for editing’, how can I ask a high-level critique to review my stories? Everything requires money and money!’
After finishing my speech, I gazed at all the five sharks for their reaction.
‘Ok! Since you are a storyteller, can you tell us a two minutes impressive story right now as a sample?’ One among the five sharks asked mischievously.
‘Of course, sir!’
‘Ok, then start,’ the shark glimpsed at me eagerly.
I was too excited, and on tenterhooks for their decision. Immediately, I started my micro-fiction story:
‘Once, a smart, ten years old boy prayed to God from the depth of his heart. God was pleased with his prayer. He offered him a boon of his wish. The little boy was extremely crazy for beautiful cars, so out of excitement, he stuttered, ‘Please God, give me the most beautiful, and the most expensive car, which only I can drive.’ God smiled, and said, ‘As you wish! The car can only be driven by you, nobody else!’ The next moment, an extra-ordinarily beautiful red coloured car appeared before him. He was overwhelmed with joy, but the very next moment he realized what blunder he did! He was only ten years! He has to wait for another eight long years for eligibility and by that time the charm would have vanished! The car would be outdated!! He started crying for his foolishness.’
Either out of courtesy or genuinely, they clapped. But one of the sharks asked, ‘Um, ok! Good! But, how all of us and you will benefit out of that?’
‘Maybe, if you appreciate people would come to know about me!’ I spoke honestly.
‘But, ma’am! For that we are not the right persons. You know that we are business people. Without any additional value, why should we do that? However, we all wish you good luck,’ they all remarked while chuckling.
I was about to tell something but swiveled my head so roughly, that it broke my dream. I came to my sense. Yes, it was nothing but a lucid dream! ‘Have I gone crazy? Why did I go to ‘Shark Tank’? Perhaps, my subconscious mind was haunting for the recognition! Perhaps, while watching the program, I imagined my involvement in the show too much!'
‘Oops! Enough!’ I got up from my bed, washed my face, then decided not to think too much, neither for my recognition nor to watch the program for a long time! ‘Shark eyes are not meant for me, after all, they are business partners! Why should they care for me?’ At least, I would write for my satisfaction. Let the world ignore me!
Anjali Mohapatra was a student of M.A. in Political Science from 1972-74 of 1974 in Vani Vihar. She was a teacher for two decades in different schools in various states. After retirement she began writing short stories based on her observation of the surroundings. Her first writing platform was Sunnyskyz and then LiteralVibes where she contributed many of her stories. She is an optimist who dedicates all her time towards improving herself as a writer. Anjali Mohapatra currently lives with her family in Mumbai.
The other day as I was going on my morning walk in the park nearby, I was accosted by an elderly gentleman who pointing to my hat said, “Madam, I would like to get a hat similar to that of yours but in white”. A tall wish I thought , because as far as I knew, it was next to impossible to get a similar one in Chennai at least. Before I could reply, he went on, “you see , the hats we get here are either county caps or monkey caps which cover just half your head .please tell me where it is available.” Suddenly I was reminded of the words of a cabbie in Sydney who while dropping my husband and me at our destination said, “ That’s a pretty hat you are wearing lady ,I envy you for it. I am sure it had cost you a fortune.” He bid us goodbye reluctantly taking his eyes off my blue cloth hat.
I am afraid you can’t get one like mine in Chennai, I said thinking of the numerous people who had asked me the same question earlier.
I noticed the disappointed look of the gentleman. After a while, he said,
O.K. At least tell me where you got it from.
Well, from the Currimbin Wild Life Sanctuary on the Gold coast, I replied.
You mean in Africa?
No, in Brisbane, in Australia, I said.
There were no more queries after that.
Patting fondly at my hat I started thinking of the day I was compelled to invest in this little treasure of mine. when we were going round the sanctuary and admiring the friendly baby kangaroos and the Koalas, it had suddenly started raining. I debated between buying a hat which cost 20 Australian dollars and an umbrella costing much less and decided on the former and had never regretted ever since for my wisdom. I soon found my hat doubled for an umbrella as well, with its wide rim which just had to be pulled down to cover my ears in order to protect myself from catching a cold.
After coming back to Chennai, which has a summer of almost ten months, I find my hat most useful , as it protects me from the heat when I run on errands. Even on a windy day, which is very rare though, the hat stays in place if I tie a knot under my chin. Whereas an umbrella would prove cumbersome in such circumstances, for it could be blown away or worse still , come in the way of pedestrians walking by your side or in front of you .But with a hat like mine, You will be spared of angry stares and the resultant embarrassment.
I was in for an unpleasant surprise when my college going niece who came from Delhi on a vacation looked most disapprovingly at my hat when we were about to set out on a warm sunny day. “ why do you have to wear that silly thing on your head , aunty? It looks atrocious“ she remarked, with a frown on her forehead.
What is wrong with my hat, it will prevent me from ending up with a headache which I am sure to develop if we are exposed to the scorching sun of Chennai, I said.
The girl was not convinced and said in the same tone of disapproval, but aunty, how can a sari and a hat go together?
It took me some time to understand her objection.
Why not, I argued, looking at her bobbed hair and salwar-kameez, “when you can have your hair bobbed or have short hair and wear a salwar-kameez which is a combination of the west and North India and you think they can synchronize , what is wrong in wearing a sari and a hat, a combination of south and the west, I tried to reason with her.
But I could see that the young lady was not convinced. You see
aunty , she went on, why don’t you also wear a salwar -kameez like so many others I see wearing it here? I am sure your hat will go very well with the outfit.
I failed to understand her reasoning. In fact, I was about to tell her, the way she went around in shorts and a T-shirt or jeans and a top exposing her skin , she was cause to the raising of many a conservative eyebrow in the neighborhood. I thought it was better the words were left unsaid lest they offended the poor girl’s sartorial preferences. For that matter, she detested wearing a sari when we went to the temple or on formal occasions saying she cannot manage the cumbersome six yards length leave alone knowing how to wrap it around.” When women in Chennai double my age seem to have switched over to salwar-kameez, for whatever reason, why should I be wearing a sari and look like a mami? She argued.
I thought she seemed to be only reinforcing the results of a research conducted on women consumers in Chennai about their preferences in dress, which showed western wear and salwar-kameez ruled on top in the age group of 19-24. I t was a fact that more and more women in Chennai irrespective of their years have taken to the northern outfit in a big way wearing saris only on formal and religious functions. ( Also the use of housecoats were no longer confined to the four walls of the house with ladies stepping out in them for their morning walks).
Leading shops in Chennai like Nalli, Kumaran, Chennai Silks, Pothys, Radha Silk and Naidu Hall (the last was patronized for its ready made blouses and inskirts all along) have started catering to the changing tastes and fashions of their clientele. They boast of multi-storied outlets with saris just being a component of the entire merchandise. Heavy kanjeevaram saris ranging from rs.5000/ to 20,000/ ( literally weighing in kilos with rich zari borders and pallav ) are purchased by women only for weddings in the family but they are no longer “ a must ‘buy” for festivals like Deepavali where lot of alternative fabrics are coming to be preferred.
Chennaiites are also going in for traditional silks with embellishments like kashmiri, aari, zardosi and kundan work and of course the youngsters prefer the northern outfits with similar embellishments, observe the shop keepers. The sari stronghold stores are now stocking everything from fabrics to salwar-kameez, kudthis to kids wear and ladies western wear. (Embroidered nylon georgettes and chiffons of the north seem to have suddenly caught up with Chennai women). Mannequins no longer model the traditional saris with their accessories. Despite changing fashions and tastes , it however does not mean that the traditional kanjeevaram sari stands threatened. Like the filter coffee and the newspaper ,Hindu, which Chennai loyalists are habituated to, they can’t do without possessing at least half a dozen kanjeevaram silks saris which have a pride of place in their wardrobes.. Also, kanjeevarams saris are quite popular with expatriate women who attend classes to learn the art of wearing the sari. The Chennai market is also slowly opening up to new creations of designers like J j Valaya . As far as men’s clothing goes, the younger lot are increasingly going in for cargos, three quarters and shorts . Ghisa Pita Maal range introduced by the M TV also seems to be the in thing. Western Suits are being replaced by dressy kurta-pajamas, long jackets, sherwanis, jacket suits etc. for formal occasions.
In a culture where anything goes,I might also think of patenting my saree-with-hat look.
N. Meera Raghavendra Rao , M.A.in English literature is a freelance journalist, author of 10 books(fiction, nonfiction) a blogger and photographer .Her 11th. is a collection of 50 verses titled PINGING PANGS published in August 2020. She travelled widely within and outside the country.She blogs at :justlies.wordpress.com.
I was wandering by foot in Delhi. Corona restrictions snatched away my job and closed my way to my native place. My savings were almost finished. I was less than a beggar. Hunger was killing me. While roaming I reached the Central Vista. I saw a small boy busy making houses of sand which were also breaking after making. But he was not leaving his job. He was engrossed in his work.
The pinching sun and hot weather of Summer could not distract his attention. Corona protocol and restrictions were meaningless to him. Making, breaking and remaking houses of sand were his play.
He was cute, naughty and smart. I was watching him from a distance. I went to him, sat beside him and made some alterations in his sand houses. He smiled, though I was unfamiliar and unknown to him.
His smile, childlike simplicity, smartness kindled a soft corner in me for him. Out of curiosity and affection, I asked- 'What is your name ?'
'Raja' - He replied.
I said - 'Raja should reside in a palace.'
He - 'Don't you see ? - I am making a palace to live in there with my mother.'
Me - 'Won't you keep your father with you ?'
He - 'We are waiting for his return.'
Me - 'What is your mother doing ?'
He - 'She is making big palaces for the kings and courtiers. Let us go to her for food, as I am hungry.'
I went with him. He introduced me to his mother, Sita. She was busy with her work in the hot summer. Sweat was rolling down her body drenching her saree. She was too tired, exhausted and hungry. Both the mother and son took their meals and rested for some time under a tree.
Before resuming her work, Sita asked about me.
I said - 'I was working in a restaurant. But that was closed due to the Corona restrictions. No work is available now. I am jobless and need work for my survival.'
She - 'Corona restrictions are not applicable in the 'Central Vista'. It comes under the essential services. We work under a proper health care system. Payment of wages is very good. We come to the work site by contractor's bus from our slum. If you are really sincere, hard-working, I will make requests for you. God willing, the contractor may not refuse and you may get a job. The project is going on an emergency basis. As we hear - tens of thousands of crores of rupees will be spent here. Are you willing to work here?'
Without any delay, I requested her to search for a job for me.
After some days, Sita arranged a job for me through the contractor. We worked together, stayed in the slum and came to the work site by the contractor's bus.
One day, I asked her - 'Why do you bring Raja to the work site ?'
She said in a sorrowful voice - 'While working, where shall I keep him? Who will take care of him? When his father was earning, we were staying at home. For livelihood, his father was working on this project. Last year, COVID took him away. He is no more. In his place, I am working for a livelihood. Raja doesn't know about his father's death. Please promise me not to tell him the truth. His tender mind can't bear it.'
I felt pity and told her - 'COVID has not only killed your husband, but also taken away the lives of others. Really, life is more important than livelihood. If there is no life, what is the use and necessity of livelihood ?'
Sita said - 'After my husband's demise, had I not worked here, hunger would have killed me and my son. What's the difference between COVID death and hunger death? Death is death after all. In its eyes all are equal - whether rich or poor.'
Me - 'You are right.'
She - 'Life cannot be survived without livelihood and vice versa. Both are essential to us. They are supplementary and complementary to each other. We can't separate life and livelihood from each other.'
We worked together for life and livelihood that put us together despite the Corona pandemic.
Sri Ashok Kumar Ray a retired official from Govt of Odisha, resides in Bhubaneswar. Currently he is busy fulfilling a lifetime desire of visiting as many countries as possible on the planet. He mostly writes travelogues on social media.
FREUD DEFREUDED
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
"You are a miserable dry drumstick. What juice can come out of you?"
Nirakar looked at all of us, his innocent eyes bewildered at this uncharitable assault. Jagaa, the rabble rouser had voiced the combined sentiment of the group.
Nirakar is indeed the least exciting of the human specimens among us. A good listener, he hardly contributes to any noise that we usually make, but he is a steadying influence on an otherwise unruly bunch of middle aged loose cannon balls. We occasionally meet at some restaurant to spend an evening of unrestrained gossip over cups of tea and plates of pakodas.
This particular evening the topic had suddenly emerged from Nityanand, widely known as the fifth descendant of Sigmund Freud, for his uncanny psycho-analytical skills. Even from as mundane an event as a double sneeze he could invent a plausible psychological explanation of what triggered it, what dreams the sneezer might have had the previous night and what highs and lows of devious, diabolical designs lay hidden in his subconscious mind, escaping noisily through a menacing double sneeze.
Nityanand had suggested that each one of should narrate an incident from our life which actually happened but should not have. We had blurted out some story or the other, the most exciting being Prabodh's who had gleefully admitted how during his university days he had stealthily cut the long plait of hair of Sanchita, the girl sitting in front of him in the college and carefully hidden it, along with the pair of scissors in the bag of his neighbour, a serious, studious and snobbish Jayant. He had no regrets when the snob got summoned to the Principal and faced a dressing down. The saving grace was, the girl actually had a crush on the poor snob and the matter ended amicably. For the rest of their college years Jayant and Sanchita were found under some tree or the other in the campus, cooing and rubbing each other's nose in a rather obscene manner.
When finally it was Nirakar's turn, four pairs of eyes bored a hole in his helpless face. He got flustered,
"I am not sure if I should say this, I don't know if that would be fair to the principal actors."
Nityanand, the psychoanalyst, fixed him with a determined gaze,
"Something in your mind, some feeling of indecision?"
Nirakar nodded, his face contorted with a heavy pressure building up in his otherwise blank mind. Nityanand pounced on him, like a rather determined cat spreading itself on an unsuspecting mouse,
"Then blurt it out. It is for me to analyse and decide whether it will be fair or unfair on the poor slobs."
Nirakar swept us up with an innocent glance, as if to warn us of unintended consequences,
"It happened when I was just seventeen. The principal characters were my Alekh Bhaina and his wife Madhabi Bhauja..."
Nityanand raised his hand and stopped him,
"Alekh Bhaina? Was he your own elder brother?"
"No, no, he was strictly speaking not my brother, but you know how it is in villages. Because he stayed in the same colony and was elder to me I addressed him as Bhaina. Moreover, his father was our headmaster in the school."
Nityanand nodded, as if to say, ok, proceed.
Nirakar spoke haltingly, not sure how to move on with his story,
"I had completed my high school and was in the process of applying to a few colleges for admission I was interested in continuing with B.Sc, but my marks were not too good. I sent my applications by post to BJB College, Bhubaneswar and SCS College, Puri, but my heart was elsewhere. I wanted to go to Cuttack to check at Ravenshaw College and submit my application there. Our head master jumped at the idea, 'Yes, yes, go to Alekh's place, he has a two room house at Jobra in Cuttack. He and Madhabi will be very happy to have some company'. That's how I got into the bus and landed up at Alekh Bhaina's place on a summer afternoon. He had gone to office but Madhabi Bhauja was at home. She was very happy to see me and kept chatting with me after lunch. She was a good cook and felt very pleased when I praised the dishes she had made. Alekh Bhaina came late in the evening with a thick bundle of files. He was delighted to see me. He was a very soft, pleasing personality. He asked me about my results and agreed with me that Ravenshaw College was the right place to be in. He took a cup of tea and after a bath went for puja and meditation for more than an hour."
Nityanand, the Freud in our group had closed his eyes while listening to Nirakar. He opened his eyes and shot a question at him,
"Was he always like that? Doing pooja and meditation for long hours? Or was it only after his marriage?"
Nirakar nodded,
"He was always known to be a 'good' boy, a model for others. The head sir had put good values in him."
"Ok, proceed," Nityanand seemed to store the information in his mind, like a serious professional.
"After dinner Alekh Bhaina opened his files and kept studying them, making some notes. Bhauja sat near him and read some magazines. Although I was feeling sleepy, I had to wait. Apart from their own bed room, that was the only other room in the house serving as a sitting room, study room and a spare bed room for guests. Bhaina asked me a few questions about my proposed career, told me that although Physics was a more interesting subject, Chemistry had better potential for jobs. Physics was more theoretical, Chemistry had practical utility. Bhauja suddenly burst out laughing, 'Your Bhaina must be thrilled to get a captive audience like you to pour all his lectures on. He should know, he is a hero in all theory but a big zero in practical.' She laughed mockingly. Alekh Bhaina looked at her, there was a distinct feeling of hurt in his eyes. She got up and went to their bed room. He kept studying his files. After half an hour or so, he also went in and closed the door, Bhauja must have gone off to sleep by then."
Jagaa was getting impatient,
"Hey, idiot, why are you giving such a long introduction? Tell us what happened with you, we are interested in that only..."
Nityanand threw a fiery glance at Jagaa. He raised his hand,
"No, no, let Nirakar go at his own pace. My God! What a great story with explosive psycho-analytics at the core!"
Our Freud obviously had seen something that had escaped the lesser mortals like us. Nirakar continued,
"Next day I went to the college, got the form for admission and roamed around the College Square, ate a meal at the Malabar Restaurant and got into a rickshaw. The famous Barabati Fort was a couple of miles away. I went there, sat under a tree and sheltered from the blazing sun dozed off to sleep. In the evening I sat near the river front for more than two hours and returned to Alekh Bhaina's place around eight. Bhaina had just started his evening pooja. Bhauja saw me and smiled, she was looking very beautiful, clad in a yellow saree with small green flowers. 'Did you miss me during the day, or got mesmerised by some college girl?' she asked me with a twinkle of mischief in her expressive eyes. I felt shy, 'No Bhauja, I went to Barabati Fort and sat at the river front. Frankly, I have fallen in love with this beautiful town, so full of life!' She sighed, 'Yes, so full of life, I envy you, you don't have to sit at home and feel dull, lifeless. Your Bhaina never takes me out anywhere, in the last three years we have watched only four movies together and the only time I have gone anywhere was to my parents' place'. I looked at her and wondered how Alekh Bhaina could be so indifferent to her. But then I realised he was always like that, reserved, reticent and decent. I found Bhauja to be extremely lively, eager to talk, laugh and giggle. They were a big contrast."
Nityanand raised his hand,
"What happened on the second evening?"
"Happened? Nothing happened. Bhaina helped me in filling up the form and kept seeing his files. Bhauja sat there turning the pages of a magazine. I complimented her on her good taste in reading. She looked up, 'You know, you and your Bhaina are from a village, but I have been raised in a lovely town like Baripada, I used to sing in school functions and perform Odissi dance in the Town Hall auditorium. I had got a few letters of appreciation for my dance performance.' I was bubbling with praise for her, 'Bhauja, you are really smart. Bhaina is lucky to have an accomplished wife like you.' Bhaina glanced up from his file and flashed a rare smile at me. Bhauja shook her head, 'Your Bhaina has got all good sanskar from his headmaster father. My father was a close school friend of my father-in-law and it seems many years back they had pledged to bind each other's children in marriage. If I had known your Bhaina was such a piece of dry wood, I would not have married him.' Bhaina's smile faded and he gave his wife a sharp glance. She got up and stomped to the bed room, slamming the door behind her. Bhaina went back to the file, but I found he was staring at the same page for almost half an hour, as if reading that dreadful sentence, 'If I knew he was such a piece of dry wood I would not have married him.' With a magazine in hand I dozed off to sleep on the bed and Bhaina must have switched off the light and gone to their room in the night."
The story was getting quite interesting, particularly because it happened to Nirakar at a young age of seventeen. None of us had that kind of experience at seventeen or any time later. Prabodh was quite mesmerised, he whispered, "Then?"
"That night I had a very disturbed sleep, interrupted by dreams. I saw in one of the dreams Bhaina and Bhauja were walking on the river bank and there was a big storm. The earth beneath them started shaking, Madhabi Bhauja slipped and fell into the swirling water, Alekh Bhaina jumped in trying to save her. I woke up with a scream, luckily it did not disturb anyone. I went to the toilet and returned to sleep. After some time I had another dream. I was in Konark and one of the sculptures on the stone was actually Madhabi Bhauja, posing in a lovely dancing posture. Suddenly Alekh Bhaina approached her with a chisel in hand, about to strike. She came alive and started sobbing. Folding her hand she pleaded with him, 'Please don't hit me, I promise I will never dance again, I promise, please, please...' This time I was not in deep sleep; I felt as if it actually happened before my eyes. I shuddered and got up. I could not go back to sleep. I kept tossing on the bed for rest of the night, disturbed and bewildered..."
Silence had descended on us like a heavy cloud on a mountain top, it's as if we had stopped breathing. Nityanand was puzzled,
"Had you observed anything odd in your Bhaina's behaviour? Any hint of violence? I wonder what triggered this thought in your mind?"
Nirakar shook his head gently,
"No, I told you he was a very mild person, a thorough gentleman."
Prabodh eye's were glued to Nirakar. I somehow felt as if I was seeing in my mind a beautiful young lady in a yellow saree sitting under a Gulmohar tree and getting drenched by red flowers - flowers of hurt and sorrow; when the blue sky above shed copious tears by way of mournful dew.
Nirakar knew we wanted him to proceed,
"Next morning after breakfast I went to the college to get some clarifications about the application process. Then I wandered in the campus, my mind restless with the memory of the dreams. I had lunch at the South Indian restaurant in front of the college gate. I started walking aimlessly and came upon the famous movie hall - Hind Cinema. I bought a ticket and went in for the matinee show. I don't remember which movie was playing, but my mind got cooled off with the distraction. I spent a couple of hours at the river front and went home late in the evening. Bhaina had finished pooja, Bhauja was quiet. We had dinner and when Bhaina sat down to see his files, Bhauja went off to the bedroom. I talked with Bhaina for some time, got the application form checked. Next morning I was to go and submit the form. We heard Bhauja's gentle snoring from the bed room. Bhaina also retired early that night. I was relieved, because I was feeling terribly sleepy."
Nityanand looked at Nirakar pointedly,
"Any dreams"?
Nirakar shook his head,
"No, I had a deep sleep and got up in the morning refreshed. I told Bahuja I would return for lunch, the June sun in Cuttack city had started tormenting me, I could not stand another day of roaming around on its streets. The village, you know is different, there are trees everywhere, the mango orchards, coconut farms where one can find a lot of shade and of course the canal one could swim in for hours to cool off the body. I went to Ravenshaw college and submitted the form. I went to the Library, browsed through some books, walked in the corridors of Physics and Chemistry departments, imagining myself to be a student there. I returned to Alekh Bhaina's place around one thirty. Madhavi Bhauja was waiting for me, I was stunned, looking at her. She must have just had a bath, she had left her hair loose and in a light green saree she was looking ethereal - reminding me of the dancing sculpture of the previous night's dream. We had lunch together. I came to the living room and started reading a magazine."
Nirakar paused and had a sip of water. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on him as if he was Osho giving a lecture on liberation of body and soul,
"Bhauja finished washing the utensils and came to the living room. She looked at what I was reading and smiled, 'You like poetry?' I nodded, 'Yes Bhauja, I love to read poems, I have written a few myself' 'O, which magazine are they in? I haven't read any of your poems?, I was embarrassed, 'Chhi Bhauja, they are not good enough to be published in magazines' Bhauja smiled mischievously, 'Ok, show me your poems, I will tell you whether they are good enough to be sent to magazines.' I laughed, 'Are you joking? You think I am such a big poet, I will carry my poems with me and start reading them out on the request of fans?' She looked at me with admiration, 'At least you write poems, you are so different from your Bhaina. He has no interest in reading anything. Other than his files, of course. I sometimes wish we would sit together and he would read out poems to me. But he is so unromantic. You know, a couple of months after our wedding we were returning on an autumn evening from your village on a motorbike. Near Anshupa lake my heart was flooded with a rare emotion, the sun was setting on the horizon, the lake was full of white Kans grass flowers and the red rays of the fading sun were dancing on them like wild flames. I asked your Bhaina to stop the bike for a few minutes so that we could sit near the water holding hands. He laughed at the idea, 'You will be gazing at the water here and the municipal tap will go dry at home, you will be left with no water for the night.' Bhauja sighed and sat still."
There was an audible gasp from Prabodh. We looked at him with sympathy. Yes, it was unthinkable that on a romantic autumn evening a newly married man could be so callous. We kept gazing at Nirakar.
"Madhabi Bhauja had a faraway look on her face. She was looking like one of those tragic heroines of yesteryears. She told me, You know Nira, the first time I went to your village after our wedding I fell in love with the dusty roads, the tree lined streets, gentle breeze passing through the palm leaves, coconut trees swaying calmly under moonlit nights. How I wished your Bhaina would lead me by the hand and we would quietly walk on those dusty roads under the canopy of big banyan trees, my head covered with the veil of the saree, eyes alert and seeking a smile here, a blessing there. I wanted him to proudly show me off to his relatives, ask me to touch someone's feet or greet someone with folded palms. I so dearly wished to merge with the village, to drink in its beauty and soothing air. But nothing like that happened. Your Bhaina simply sat at home, occasionally talking to his visiting relatives. I toiled in the kitchen making tea for the visitors and food for everyone. I was bored to death.' I looked at Bhauja, she seemed lost, but there was something really touching the way she sat there in a light green saree, her hair loose on her shoulders, the small sindoor mark on the forehead shining like a red ember on her fair skin."
Jagaa was nearing the end of his patience, he suddenly exploded,
"You and your sindoor, come to the point, man! How long will you stretch the story?"
The rest of us pounced on Jagaa, Nityanand smiled,
"Jagaa, you are like that Alekh Bhaina, a piece of wood. Nira is at an interesting point, Madhabi Bhauja with her light green saree and red dot on the forehead has come alive in his mind. Why are you disturbing him? Proceed my dear Nira, your story is a rare Freudian delight."
Nirakar picked up the thread of the story,
"It was clear Bhauja was in a talking mood. She looked at me and said wistfully, 'Nira, I sometimes wonder how someone can be so dull, so unromantic? Look at me, I often feel as if I am a jungle stream, running wild over long paths, singing to my own songs of love. Sometimes in the night I wake up and come to this room. In my mind I come alive like a sculpture getting a lease of life. I feel like dancing away to an unseen music, a crescendo of rhythms. Look at the map on the wall Nira, how I wish I can turn it upside down, Kashmir becomes Kanya Kumari and I become Bhaina and he becomes me. I would take him everywhere, we would go to the park, the river front, to movies, drama and dance programs. Every evening when we return home, I would keep him in my arms, never letting him leave me even for a minute, we would be inseparable and in that union we would be enjoying the bliss of true marriage.'"
For a moment Nirakar fell silent, looking wistfully at the wall,
"It looked like Bhauja had got into a trance, her eyes were shining, a thin film of sweat was glistening on her beautiful face. With her hair undone she looked different, almost like a woman possessed. She stood up and walked to where I was sitting. She looked into my eyes, put her hands on my shoulder and whispered in a strange way, 'Nira, why don't you turn the map upside down, for this afternoon let all relationships be forgotten, let the world go topsy-turvy. Don't worry, by evening we will return the map to its rightful position, just for a few hours let us forget everything'"
Nirakar sat there, deep in thought, the memory of that fateful afternoon churning his mind like a storm. We were silent, as if we had been felled by a swift lightning. Someone whispered,
"Then?"
Nirakar looked up, waking up from his reverie, as if prodded by a sharp instrument,
"Suddenly a gust of hot air came in through the window, the June afternoon was unbearably scorching. I slowly got up, opened the door and ran out to the burning road, scalding air blew from all sides, as if trying to burn me with a raging fire. I kept running till I reached the water front. I sat under a tree, the rippling sound of water hitting the embankment gradually soothed my mind. I returned very late in the evening. Bhaina had finished his pooja. They were waiting for me to have dinner. Bhauja quietly served dinner and later went to clean the utensils. Alekh Bhaina started looking at his files. I covered my face with a thin towel and tried to get sleep. The next morning after breakfast I took leave from them and left for the bus stand."
We were stunned by this turn in the story. Prabodh, who had been moved by the story in a strange way, asked,
"When did you meet them again?"
Nirakar who was sitting like a deflated balloon, shook his head,
"I never met Bhauja again. A few months later I had gone to the village during Dussehra holidays. I ran into Alekh Bhaina at the market. He was surprised to see me. 'Arey Nira, how come you didn't come to our place again? Are you staying in the hostel?' I mumbled, 'No Bhaina, I didn't get a seat in Ravenshaw College, so I took admission in BJB College at Bhubaneswar.'"
Nityanand opened his mouth to ask something, but stopped. It looked like our Freud, for once, had run out of questions!
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 nine 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
AN OVERVIEW OF THE POEMS IN THE 111th EDITION OF THE WEB-JOURNAL, ‘LITERARY VIBES’
Again, I take a look at the poems published in Literary Vibes. I record my thoughts over the poems published in the web journal in its 111th issue. The poems charmed me in various ways with different vibes. I reflect my personal impressions that are admittedly unscholarly, but readable. I go serially as the learned editor has placed them in the journal’s poetry section.
The senior poet Haraprasad Das has two poems in this issue (111th edition) of Literary Vibes. In “Filigree Gods”, he is, as always, hiding his hands and speaks in images. His God is micro, filigreed, and of the ultimate essence; not gross. He dwells even in interstices of the offerings like fruits and flowers; he is omnipresent. Filigree work is a symbol that builds a bridge across the gulf between the poor traditional artisans of Cuttack who craft it over generations and the obsessions of umpteen art lovers around the world for filigree ornaments and art pieces. He cleverly refers to the floundering faith, and the strength that saves the veering away religiosity into the hands of fundamentalists, the love for filigree art across religions giving this strength, and the artisans remaining secular in their art has been, in his opinion, a weapon for the fair play. He sings, “The filigree workers of downtown Cuttack… hardly know their little handiworks of ornate efflorescence are no pushovers in the glitz of commerce, they have a life of their own, together and alone, like men they know how to retain power in times when faiths flounder and paths veer.”
His poem, “The Family Man”, that has appeared in translation, is an antithesis to the belief that men rule the roost in a marriage. The poem, however, speaks of another truth, the women are the real power behind men. The machismo is a façade, a salad dressing, by all probability. A king’s proclamation might be in fact the queen’s whispers into his ears in their private hours. The poet surely makes an exaggeration to carry home his point, a kind of overstatement, a literary mechanism. The picturization of a husband serving the wife as her slavish lover drives home the point, and the undercurrent is genuinely felt. The poem succeeds as an irony heightened by the concluding lines.
Talking of Prabhanjan K. Mishra’s poem, “Home”, I am not ethically qualified to praise or condemn my own work. I can’t speak with tongue-in-cheek either. But, at least, I can paraphrase its essence. ‘Home’ is a metaphor, I have used not to mean a dwelling but a ‘feeling’ of being at home. A prisoner, in his watery dal in his frugal jail-lunch, may detect the remote flavour of his mother’s cooking and go ecstatically nostalgic. That sort of homely feeling. One feels the great rush of emotion in some occasions of his or her dreary life. I have put forth four such situations, mine or others’, directly or vicariously experienced. Poet–critic English Professor Geetha Nair once pointed out that the last line of the poem was weak, but unluckily I haven’t found a better replacement yet. But it hovers on the back of my mind.
Poet Geeta Nair’s poem, “Days” is a search for a true home. Her image of adopting a cat to feel at home at her changing abodes, may it be in hills or in plains, is a soothing and fresh image. In her ‘cat’ hides a vast vault of feelings. It underscores a flood of emotions for one to have a familiar cat around, purring, meowing, rubbing against the legs. But she still continues her search for a home to call it her real and permanent address. Her waiting comes to fruition when she is mystically moved. She seems to turn into a seeker to look for this ultimate restful abode, rather than house-hunting to move into a comfortable home. She seeks for a permanent solution, not an immediate one. The poem towards the end moves to higher plains. The poem has a hymn quality, musical to mind’s ears, soothing to the soul.
In poet Dilip Mohapatra’s “Unholy Desires”, the evocative title is, sort of, a caution to stay alert for unknown and enigmatic plans of the poet. As our land’s one and only one Enlightened One’s lexicon announces, desire is the cause of all the suffering. Desire is unholy in Buddha’s logic. What to say if the desire walks an unholy alley! A double self-goal in the game of life! But we find something different and innocent in the first major portion of the poem, a wish list, the kind, innocent children send to Santa Claus, only penned in Dilip’s poetic style, using symbolic metaphors like Cupid, Rasputin, Forbes List, and Draupadi’s cauldron, asking Santa for wealth, power, reputation etc. His Santa-list appears absolutely normal and down to earth, definitely not unholy. But in the penultimate stanza, the tone changes, the poet persona is ready even to strike a deal with Lucifer to get his wishes fulfilled. That really is unholy, disturbing, and upsets the holy applecart. A poem stands on many pillars. Two important ones are craft and intent. The poet’s craft cannot be faulted, but isn’t the intent controversial in the ‘Lucifer’ stanza’? I looked for a hidden self-sarcasm, at least a hint of it, to cushion the shocking deal with Lucifer. If it is there, it is too subtle to detect, and may be wrapped in the mention of “God thrusts out his Hand and moves His little finger” at the end. But this controversial poem was a good weekend reading, and I asked myself, “What’s in a poem unless it shocks, causes a stir in the mind, disturbs, and creates a conflict?”
The senior poet Bibhu Padhi’s “Rivers” reads like a soothing saga, a quiet rite of passage, that rivers have connected the humans to the earth. He almost goes philosophic with “their words at times reduced/ to a bare, granular trickle of emptiness, hushed to the silence of all time,/ or at other times, raised to the insanity…”, talking of sort of a ‘peace and war’ posture of rivers with humans, at peace when quiet, sober, and at war when devastatingly insane. From here the poem goes obscure to me, connecting ‘the end’, ‘children’, ‘script’ etc., the images and allusions, I really cannot decipher and connect. So, my reading onwards is irrelevant, being neither here nor there.
Ajay Upadhyaya’s “Autumn Musings” is in two parts, in fact two poems with the common link in the title. Both are lyrical, having a musical quality, and are carefully crafted. The first part is a sad musing, talking of decadence and memories, with a peaceful resignation to meet the end like a leaf in the fall season. It reads lovely with quotable lines, “Autumn creeps on us slyly. Leaves … mellow, ..drop off…make mounds of memorabilia.” And, “This enticing lull, waiting without rancour,/ not letting the unfinished stories die with me.” In the second part, the poet is louder, sanguine, rather vehement, “dazzling to a dizzying point”, “Waiting to linger on, protest: Where is the hurry for departing?” These feelings are in contrast to the dignified silent wait for the end, the autumn to creep in, and take its toll in the first part. Yet the last four lines of the second part turn to mysticism and resignation again, leaving the things in the hands of a cosmic controller who knows the best course and time. A poem to return to, visit again, like nostalgia.
Bijayketan Patnaik in his poem “God's Wooden Avatar”, in English translation, with all probability, sings for Lord Jagannath of Puri. God, in this avatar in Kali Yuga as Lord Jagannath, is in a misshapen form carved out of wood, painted with goggle-eyes and a dumbstruck expression, possibly watching the bizarre things happening before his helpless eyes. He is as if too stunned to move or act against the evil doings by the sinners. But Bijayketan’s lord is not a deity resigned to his cosmic inevitability. Apparently, he has a mind of his own in spite of the cosmic rules of Kali Yug. He wishes to be an active, ambitious and benevolent Lord. His wishes run away with scientific progress of the time. He wants to move using modern equipment like escalators and act using robotic arms to defeat his misshapen handicap and bring relief to the miserable folks. Also, he would like to have the joy of roaming through the lush pastures and touch the cotton clouds of his creation. A provocative thought of a modern poet overreaching beyond the myths and legends.
Hema Ravi’s two Haikus are lovely. Well-phrased, evocative, food for thought. The first one is nostalgic and the second a bit nutty (not naughty) and gritty like sand-blown food at sea shore vendors.
“My Painting Studio” of Runu Mohanty, in English translation, is enigmatic and metaphysical. It states the impossibility of putting colours into a bird in flight or into its freedom, also, putting colours to the images reflected in water. The same applies to understanding human feelings by mere sight, smell, taste or touch as do the ordinary sense-organs. She would love to live, equally, either in a humble hovel or a grand mansion, provided God is its ruler. She, like Tagore, finds God in her beloved and her beloved in God, often getting confused between the two. This is one of her techniques to image the sacred and sensuality, spiraling in one whirlpool.
“Heaven Under My Feet” of Sataluri Padmavati has a dreamy quality from its start. Idyllic pastures open up like vistas from a conjurer’s wand. Even her confirmation in the last stanza seems unnecessary, because her pastoral and peaceful spread makes it clear to the reader that it had been her experiences in a dream-like state. The title is also eloquent and indicative. A nice little poem of a dreamer.
Er. Sunil Biswal in his landscape poem, “The Winter Niger Flower of Koraput”, sings of wild Alasi flowers decorating hillsides, valleys and vast stretches of the sprawling land with its golden yellow glow. They gently sway in the autumn breeze. The flowers’ languid and extensive spread to eyes’ reach, makes him imagine God’s own beautiful backyard. His poem reminds me of Wordsworth’s iconic “The Daffodils”, similar golden yellow flowers with soft and slim stalks and soft petals swaying and dancing in the wind. Of course, Wordsworth wrote it in a different context and showed a contrast between the beauty and its decay, as he was finding in daffodils a catharsis to his sorrow over losing his loving brother. Er. Sunil Biswal’s poem was a good weekend reading.
Ravi Ranganathan’s poem “Balancer” is a real balancer between his feeling of loss and vacuum and his incurable quality (he calls it ‘innate’) of finding hopes in little ordinary events like the sunrise, and is helped by his inbuilt strength. He makes a truce with life’s vagaries. A poem of hope that I read with pleasure.
In “Life in One Breath”, poet Bichitra K. Behura, whom I always read with pleasure, sings of a favourite Raga of his life. He skims with it his conscious being, his empty house, his heartbeats; he finds it hard to brand it with an identity, though seeming familiar like a friend, and plays the music of silence with the swishing wings of birds in flight, purr of the streams, and hum of a distant sea. It gives him ecstasy, taking his attention away from body pains. It seems to clear his inner being of the accumulated garbage, leaving him with a sense of purity and fulfillment. A poem that provokes one to look inwards to appreciate the outward loveliness.
Tanvisha Padhi’s poem, “The Lonely Balloon”, is a commendable piece of poetry, considering her age, a student of Grade VI, also having interest in other branches of art like painting besides poetry, as proclaims her bio. The image of a lonely balloon lost in wilderness, perhaps, expresses her personal angst, friendlessness and possibly the early loss of or distancing from the mother (Do I interpret her correctly there?). Her longing to meet her mother in her search, when as a footloose balloon she drifts in her thought, is the highlight of the poem.
Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s “A Few Short, Unfinished Poems” seem like icing on the cake of many hues of the gamut of poetry we just finished reading (34 poems from 31 poets). There are five of these little poems, so-called unfinished ones, but each looks complete, and as a reader I take them as one poem with five parts. The first one appears to be a hymn to love, almost worshipful and divine as if addressed to a deity, except the last two lines that have a human touch, asking for a quid pro quo in love. But the second poem/part changes tone. Like any man suffering from the pain of loss, it sings of separation and desolation. In the third poem, the poet apparently begs for a reconciliation with his dear one, taking the seasonal balm as their relationship’s healing glue. In the fourth poem, again his loneliness rules his life and he is worried about impending unhappiness, the ghosts of bad omen. In the fifth poem he turns into an altruistic well-wisher to one and all “…. who sleep tonight/ With loads of sweet dreams,….”. It is really touching when he wishes, ‘I suffer, but you must not.’ His concluding image “A forlorn shadow under a leafless tree…” sounds lovely but is obscure. I cannot connect it, except a hint to his inconsolable feeling of loneliness. But none of the five bits give a clear clue. This collage of five thoughts, seems like suggesting to the reader of an uncertain soul, a meandering mind, a little unsure of himself, a bit disturbed, somewhat melancholic but well-meaning, perhaps a perfect recipe in the making of a good poet, and an archetypal poetic voice.
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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