Literary Vibes - Edition CXIII - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Yet Another Dawn (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
BLOOD ON THE OLIVE BRANCH (From ‘War Zone’)
02) Dilip Mohapatra
THE PARTY
03) Ishwar Pati
TRYST WITH ENTERTAINMENT
BUREAUCRATIC ZOO
04) Chinmayee Barik
ESKIMO
05) Sreekumar K
UNTIMELY VISITORS
06) Ranjana Chowdhary
THE FRONTIER SCOUTS OF THE CHITRAL AND GILGIT REGION DURING THE DAYS OF THE RAJ
07) Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
THE BURNING WITHIN
08) Sundar Rajan S
THE SEA I SEE
09) Dr. Radharani Nanda
UNFULFILLED WISH
10) Gourang Charan Roul
ENCHANTING NIAGARA
11) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE MISSING ENCOUNTER MAN
12) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
BITTER-SWEET NEEM
13) Srikant Mishra
FELINE FUN
14) Sheena Rath
RAHUL & HUSHKOO MUSINGS
15) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : LETTERS FROM A FATHER TO A SON
16) Ashok Kumar Ray
GANDHARI
17) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MY FAMOUS DAD
It was a morning in 1999. Back from my morning constitutional, I reclined on a sofa in the sitting room. My small bungalow was built in Karol Bagh area of New Delhi. My bust-photo caught my eyes on the opposite wall. I was in a three-piece gray suit, looking formal, ceremonial and buoyant, all-in-one, like any well-heeled Delhiite in his photo-shoot-avatar.
The bust-shot was in black and white, not in colour, my sons had said, for effect. My name ‘Sudhir Mathur' encrypted below in the border-space with bright gold and raised English lettering. We Delhiites feel proud if our names have a little British touch, here for the name printed in prominent English alphabet. We often admit this piteous not-so-pleasant hangover from the Stiff Upper Lip era of our colonial rulers, even after about fifty years of independence.
The photo was a birthday gift from my two sons, shot and framed by them. My elder son Raghuram was serving as a junior engineer in CPWD at the time the photo had been shot, and the younger Raghuvir, serving as an army lieutenant in the Jammu Sector. Raghuvir was a product of NDA, Khadakwasla.
I looked handsome in my bust-shot, as much as a middle-aged man could manage to look. My expression in it, appearing snobbish to my friends, looked ‘contented’ to my sons and their wives. My doting wife Saraswati called my face there rather dignified.
I was waiting for my morning’s first cup of tea from Rupa. She was Mrs Raghuvir Mathur, my younger son’s better half. She lived with me like a daughter I never had. Raghuvir looked handsome and boyish with a rakish smile in his bust-shot on the wall, hanging to the right of mine. His photo was shot a few years earlier than mine. He was wearing his smart black Armoured Corps Dungarees of a Second Lieutenant in his photo.
Raghuvir’s youth had kind of frozen in his photograph though years had passed by. He would remain there ever young, handsome, and happy. My heart swelled with pride but a drop of tear trickled down disobeying me, for I had recalled Oscar Wilde’s iconic novel ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’, I had borrowed from Raghuvir to read. In the novel, Dorian Gray had stayed young, whereas his image in the photograph was aging in look, an antithetical case to my Raghuvir’s.
I returned from my reverie, noticing my younger daughter-in-law, Rupa, enter with a cup of steaming tea with a few Monaco biscuits on the saucer. She also brought with her the morning papers, ‘The Indian Express’ and ‘The Times of India’, along with an official looking brown envelope. Before placing the cup and saucer and the other articles before me on a little coffee-table, she wished me, “Good morning, Dad”. I touched her head affectionately in response when she bent down to keep the tea and papers, “Good morning my child. Have a nice day.”
The sweetness of her voice filled me with a bracing effect, besides the fragrant fumes of her freshly brewed tea. She looked bright like a garden glory even though she was a little over fifty years of age. But my experienced eyes of a father-in-law could sense a shadow underneath the patina of her brightness.
Raghuvir was Rupa’s sweetheart before their marriage. For two years they were dating and going steady in their relationship before their nuptials. Rupa still behaved like Raghuvir’s girlfriend and it was uncanny to see her blush at the mention of Raghuvir’s name. She was still madly in love with her husband. But I always had felt a little guilty about it. Perhaps, I could have found something better for her than spending her life with me like a daughter.
The brown envelope Rupa brought with tea intrigued me. It looked tampered. Someone seemed to have opened it, read the content and gummed it back. Before opening it, I looked at the sender’s name and address, and was totally flummoxed. It was from one Amjad Razak, a retired brigadier of the Pakistan army. I wondered what possibly an unknown Pakistani retired army officer could write to me, a Delhi business man.
But I now understood why the brown packet looked tampered. The letter being from Pakistan, had undergone censorship by the postal department, a normal procedure; more so because it was from an army officer.
A thought made me smile ruefully. Indian army might not be at war with the Pakistani army, Indians might be ready to hug Pakistanis with love, but the two governments remained in a state of perennial war for grinding their own axes. Like selfish Madaaris they made their peoples dance like their monkeys.
But the incumbent Prime Minister of India, Sri Atal Bihari Vajpayee, let God bless him with a long life, recently held up the Olive Branch of friendship to his Pakistani counterpart. As a result, the two enemy nations were trying to thaw the thirty-year old frozen relationship that had hardened into ice on December 16, 1971, when Pakistan army had been summarily defeated by the Indian army and Lt. General Niazi of Pakistan had miserably surrendered with his 93000 army men fighting under his command on East Pakistan soil.
Mr. Vajpayee had just returned after his friendly Olive Branch from his cordial visit to Pakistan with his entourage of select delegates of journalists, distinguished personalities, and ministers. He had travelled by bus from Delhi to Lahore to bring back the old memories when both parts were one country and bus was the medium of travel for the common people.
Vajpayee ji had also initiated the relaxation of the passport-visa conditions for the peoples of India and Pakistan to enter and travel in each other’s countries like welcomed tourists. In response, Pakistan Government had followed suit, with equal zeal in relaxing its passport-visa norms.
I read the experiences of various journalists from the PM’s entourage reporting in their respective newspapers about their Pakistan experience. They reported the warmth of Pakistan’s people in welcoming Indians. They lavished the Indians with love, affection, food, mementos and gifts, asking them to revisit Pakistan soon. I felt, I had always been right about the people of my birth-country, Pakistan. They were gems at heart just like their Indian counterparts, but the game-spoilers were the two governments.
I was born and brought up in Sargodha, a village in Pakistan, around ten kilometers from Lahore city. My family lived there until my parents’ death, before migrating to India in 1951. I, including my wife and my two school going sons, took Indian citizenship and settled down at Delhi. I always harboured a soft corner for Pakistan and pined away for Sargodha where I had spent my childhood and where my parents had lived their entire life and were cremated after death. I lauded Vajpayee ji’s Olive Branch diplomacy and a desire sprouted in my heart to visit Sargodha soon. But I was worried about my place of stay during my visit as things might have changed a lot in the last fifty years of tumult between the two countries.
My elder son, Raghuram, had been living in Delhi with wife and children after taking voluntary retirement a decade ago from his job in CPWD. He had his own bungalow and his private construction business. I lost my dear wife Saraswati a year ago, but Rupa lived with me like a little daughter, I never had. I didn’t miss Saraswati much, compensated with Rupa’s daughterly care, except feeling lonely in bed.
I took a few sips of my tea and read the letter from the retired Pakistani brigadier Amjad Razak. It said, “Respected Sir, my appropriate salutations. Don’t be surprised sir, how I know you. That’s a long story, I will tell you at leisure when we meet. This letter is an invitation to you to come and stay with me and my family. I presume, you definitely might be planning to visit your native village Sargodha in this relaxed time of Indo-Pak relationship, thanks to your adorable Prime Minister Vajpayee ji.”
I turned the page and read, “So, I look forward to your visit. I live in Lahore, the city next door to your village Sargodha. Had there been no partition of our land into India and Pakistan, or had you not migrated to India in 1951, we would be neighbours on Pakistan soil. So, honourable sir, my hearty invitation to you to come and be my guest in my humble home. We both can visit your native village together. Kindly confirm and oblige me by giving me the honour of hosting you.”
I couldn’t recall meeting this man or his father or his family ever. The name didn’t ring familiarity at all. The surprise of surprises was that he knew me, the name of my native village, and like a mind-reader, knew my wishes to visit Sargodha and also my anxiety for finding a suitable place to stay during my visit there. Like a troubleshooter he had solved all my problems at one go.
I had been an eye witness to the history of India and Pakistan forming. I had seen the bloodbath at the time of partition in 1947, the subsequent unprovoked aggression of Pakistan against the Princely State of Kashmir and Jammu, ruled by its king Hari Singh, leading to the Princely State joining Indian Union as a federal state, and then the all-out war of 1971 between the two nations, giving birth to Bangladesh and limiting Pakistan territory only to its western flank.
I would sadly notice the two governments keeping their pots of enmity boiling after the partition and never let their peoples breathe in peace and mutual friendship with cross-country visits. People on both sides pined away for their birth places and fond memories from their past. If ever, someone from India or Pakistan visited the other country, the police goaded and harassed them as if they were spies. But our sagacious PM, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, lifted that curtain of mistrust to usher in the breath of friendship.
With my second cup of tea before the breakfast, when Rupa was reading the Pak-brigadier’s invitation, I recalled a glorious period of my country. It was the war of 1971 against Pakistan, fought under the military leadership of General Sam Manekshaw, and the political leadership of Mrs. Indira Gandhi. This war had a cameo for Indians in spite of their war-pains.
The cameo was in the shape of a sweeping wave of patriotism that washed from shore to shore in every Indian heart. The war created a new country, Bangladesh, out of the east flank of Pakistan. The government of Bangladesh was beholden to the Indian government and became a good friend. It made Pakistan smaller and less powerful and that was good for India.
The 1971 made my family proud and famous, but on the personal level all our family members suffered most miserably. To our country’s call, Lieutenant Raghuvir Mathur, my younger son, had to rush to the border to fight the war against Pakistan. He had to fight the war on the eastern sector, on the soil of East Pakistan, by the side of their recently formed ill-equipped Mukti Bahini, the newly formed military wing out of the liberation army of East Pakistan.
I would never forget that cold morning of twelfth December, 1971. Raghuvir and Raghuram, my two sons, with their wives were present along with me and my wife at our Delhi home’s breakfast table. Those days, we lived as a joint family. Raghuram was employed in a local office of CPWD and Raghuvir, then an army’s decorated lieutenant, was visiting us on a short leave. We were having a breakfast of hot Idlis with chutney made by my two daughters-in-law going with cups of steaming ginger tea from a large teapot.
As we were relishing the breakfast and family bonhomie, a telegram arrived for Raghuvir, cancelling his leave and directing him to report immediately to an army unit camping just across India’s border and on the territory of East Pakistan.
All looked grim after listening to the telegram, perhaps for different reasons. My wife was embroiled in a mixed feeling of glory, anger and fear for her son. Raghuvir’s wife Rupa, definitely feared the worst. Though she and Raghuvir had come out of their room only about a couple of hours ago, they unabashedly slipped back into their sanctum again.
I recalled how Raghuvir and Rupa had still been extremely close and devoted mutually, though they had been in a steady relationship for years before their marriage, and they were married for two years already. Rupa, before her marriage to Raghuvir, would visit us on every festive occasion like a daughter we never had. Urged by my wife, we and Rupa’s parents had agreed to unite them.
I could imagine their togetherness packed with passion and tears, an army couple’s inevitability at the times of wars. Raghuram and his wife kept sitting quietly at the breakfast table with downcast eyes, and looking scared. I felt an emptiness in my chest and sad down like a crumpled beanbag.
During Raghuvir’s absence, with our hearts stuck to our throats, we would sit by our dining table, glued to the radio the whole day for war news. The progress of Indian army gladdened our hearts, but we never could gather any news about our Raghuvir even from our army connections.
Suddenly ceasefire was announced on the 16th of December, just four days after Raguvir’s departure. Pakistan’s army on the soil of East Pakistan had surrendered lock, stock, and barrel. Our hearts swelled with pride for Raghuvir and out defence forces. We were expecting a telegram from Raghuvir any time.
Our expectations for our victorious Raghuvir’s return to us and finish his balance of his leave with us, his family, was increasing every hour. On the morning of 18th December, I went for a business meeting after an early breakfast and returned home late for lunch. I was starving and was expecting a piping hot meal with my family.
But as I entered home, I found a deathly silent compound. The front door to my bungalow stood ajar. I found Raghuram and his wife sitting on a sofa in the drawing room, silent and gloomy. They looked up and broke down on my shoulders. I looked over their heads and found that a garland had appeared on Raghuvir’s bust on the wall. My heart skipped a beat and then leaped to my mouth when I found a telegram lying open on the table.
It said, “Lieutenant Raghuvir Mathur attended martyrdom on fifteenth evening winning a close combat with Pakistani soldiers. He was wounded with a pistol shot from pointblank range and lived and fought till he led his team to victory. He finally collapsed from internal bleeding. His mortal remains would reach his home by eighteenth evening. His funeral with full military honour would take place on nineteenth morning.
I broke down. Tears rolled down my cheeks. We three entered Rupa’s room in a huddle and took her into our arms. She had turned into a lifeless piece of dumb doll. Four of us moved into my wife’s room. We found her sitting like an ice block in a deathly cold and silent tomb, our bedroom.
We remained in a huddle comforting one another till Raghuvir arrived, his iced body wrapped in Indian Tricolour in a casket, and rose together to bid farewell to our hero. We were sad and proud. We were treated with honour, praise and politeness by neighbours, friends and all those who knew us.
Today, looking at Rupa when she brought my tea, I couldn’t hazard how she had borne the last three decades of companionless life. Only a distant memory of Raghuvir was for company. Did I imagine or was it real, when I noticed Rupa made a movement of wiping away a tear furtively, When she was dusting Raghuvir’s bust on the wall and changing its garland for of fresh flowers?
I recalled one early morning when my wife was alive. She ushered me into Rupa’s room on tip-toe to show me how our younger widowed daughter-in-law was sleeping. I found her curled up in deep sleep, wrapped with the unwashed Tricolour from Raghuvir’s Casket. She was perhaps watching dreams redolent with Raghuvir’s sweet odour sipping out of the National flag that had wrapped him. My wife and I tip-toed out, and we cried in each other’s arms silently outside Rupa’s room.
Unannounced, my elder son Raghuram arrived with his wife to have breakfast with me and Rupa. On the breakfast table, Raghuram brought around the talk to my prospective Sargodha visit. Rupa might have broached the Brigadier Amjad’s letter to him over telephone an hour ago.
He bluntly put down his foot, “It is ok, Dad, if you visit Pakistan and go to Sargodha. You may camp in a good hotel in Lahore and hire the hotel taxi to reach your village. But I request you strongly not to accept the invitation of that retired Pakistani retired brigadier. They are not trustworthy. You may simply disappear and they will tell us a cock and bull story. Rather you allow me to go with you.”
But my two practical daughters-in-law gave me full throated support for accepting the invitation. I sent a telegram to the Pak-brigadier about the date and time of my arrival at Lahore airport.
Brigadier Razak was a caring host. He and his family treated me as if I were the Prime Minister of India. We visited Sargodha three times during the three days of my stay with him. I met many of my childhood friends, their wives and children. Nothing had changed in people’s affection or impression about us, who had migrated to India after the partition. I was happy to notice they all looked much more prosperous and modern than earlier times.
On the last evening of my stay at Brigadier Razak’s place, he had hosted a party in my honour. Many army officers, important personalities and my friends from Sargodha village with their families were invited. It was a gala party with delicacies from Indian and Pak cuisine. Liquor and wine flowed unlimited. It was just like any lavish party in Delhi.
When the party was in full swing, Brigadier Amjad Razak asked me to the garden behind his house to show me his roses. I would not deny that I was on my guard immediately, my hair roots pricking up, “Has the hour arrived for Raghuram’s fear? Would I be whisked away from the back of the house by unknown hands and disappear into the night?”
Drinks in hand, after looking at the roses, we sat down on a bench. I found Razak struggling for words. He cleared his throat many times, and seemed to stumble over words. Finally, he spoke in a rasping whisper, “Sudhir sir, I carry a cross on my shoulders, a heavy cross, a guilt. I feel crushed under its weight.”
It was my turn to struggle for words, “Amjad sahib, you are my son’s age. Yet I can’t hazard how would an ordinary Indian unburden a decorated retired Pak army brigadier. Anyway, tell me if I can help you?” By then the hair roots on my nape had started rising, “Is he talking of the guilt of carrying out the unpleasant command of his bosses to make me disappear? Is this party, thrown in my honour, the fistful of pistachio in the goat’s mouth before its Halal?”
Amjad’s whisper sounded more rasping, “Sir, I have to confess something, that bothers my conscience every living moment for years. You may give me an absolution. My Allah knows, I committed the sin out of momentary vainglory. I pride myself as a brave soldier of my land. But on that occasion, I behaved like a coward. I was honoued with my country’s gallantry award for that combat, but I only know, how heavy that medal has weighed on my conscience!” He started sobbing like a child. I didn’t understand his tears at all.
I urged, “Please confess, beta, if it would heal your wounds.” What he confessed was a shocker, a sword that pierced my heart deeply. He whispered, “It was the 15th December evening of 1971. I was leading my group of around hundred soldiers. A few Indian army men along with a few of Mukti Bahini, around fifty of them together under the command of a brave officer, were giving us a tough fight. We got so close that we had a hand-to-hand fight with bayonets and pistols. There was no scope or time to use our rapid-fire guns or grenades. I found them advancing on us and their leader killing our soldiers left right and center.”
He paused, steadied his shaking voice, then continued, “It was dusk time and the light had dimmed almost darkening the battle ground. Suddenly I turned around looked at a face looming over me, pistol aimed to my neck area at a pointblank separation. I recognized him, the Indian unit leader. I cringed at the possibility of getting shot. Even there was no time to take the Holy Name of Allah. But surprisingly I heard the sweetest words of my life. Like in a make-believe movie scene, he commanded, “Level your gun man. I can’t fire on an unprepared soldier.”
Amjad paused before rasping, “I not only in a clean sweep leveled my gun on him but shot him though chest and ran away. My bullet might have cost his heart. For I saw him from a distance reeling and falling, and then rise to fighting and leading his soldier to victory. Our side, rank and file, whoever had survived, had left the post and receded to safety. The same evening the ceasefire was announced.”
“During the exchange of the dead and wounded soldiers through the good offices of Red Cross, I had checked the brave officer’s credentials who had spared my life. I was informed, he was lieutenant Raghuvir Singh, who had succumbed to the bullet wound in his chest the same evening.”
Amjad Rajak was crying on my shoulders, “Subsequent inquiries over years for the identity of this gracious brave son of India, led me to you and your background, Sudhir sir. Your son was not only brave but a fair soldier. He didn’t kill me when I was unprepared. He gave me the chance to draw my gun and fight an equal combat. But I proved no match to him in either bravery or grace. I proved to be a coward and opportunist. Sir, I shot your brave son at point-blank range in cold-blood. I was a coward. I killed your son.”
With these words, Brigadier Amjad sat alone and wept quietly and piteously into his napkin. I was there on another bench, and my mind relived the tragedy of losing my Raghuvir. But my tears when reached my mouth tasted rare: brave, graceful, fair salt of a miserable father but also of a very proud father.
I returned from Pakistan, as a proud father of a brave martyr who had died with exemplary grace and fairness for his country. I also had earned a lifelong friend in Amjad Razak, another brave patriot by all standards, because it needed great courage to admit one’s momentary cowardice, that only a man, with Razak’s brave-heart, could confess.
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.
Expats in Nigeria like in any other place, are a close-knit community. Born out of the anxieties and apprehensions for survival and security in an alien country this community brings them together socially. Such communities generally exist at three levels. The first one has membership of expats from multiple nationalities and within that exists the second level, communities specific to a particular country. The third level is rather a small group that comprises of few close friends with similar interests and attitudes, and who could come from both the levels one and two. This core group meets more frequently in social gatherings, parties, picnics and excursions together and are bonded extremely well. When I landed up in Port Harcourt on an assignment with Schlumberger (Nigeria) Oilfield Support, I was automatically inducted into the Indian diaspora but soon gained entry into the international expats' community. There is no formal membership like that of a club, but one gets to meet the others in some social get-togethers, national day celebrations or through introduction by common friends. The expats live mostly in gated communities spread across the cities, in residences mostly acquired by the employers. Though sometimes one may find a neighbour who is an indigenous Nigerian, mostly the colony comprises of nationals from different countries. My company had acquired few residential houses on lease in Rumuibekwe Estate near the Shell club. The estate was mostly occupied by foreigners but also had a few local residents. My duplex house was sandwiched between two houses, one occupied by an Italian expat Mr Mancini, working in a shipping company and the other by a Nigerian naval officer, Lt Cdr Nelson. My wife Seema, who had a post graduate degree in Physics, succeeded in getting her a teaching assignment in Rivers State University. Our three young daughters studied in Port Harcourt Primary School.
I came to know Prof Polanski, one of my wife's colleagues and who taught sociology in the Faculty of Humanities. He was a Polish national and a widower. His children had migrated to United States. His son worked for NASA and daughter a thoracic surgeon who worked in Cleveland Heart Institute. He was on the other side of sixty and a perfect gentleman who lived in Areta Estate, near Choba area, close to the University. He bonded with my daughters very well and was a constant visitor to our home. He introduced me to few expats, professionals working in multiple sectors and soon we formed a close group of ten people who shared similar interests and loved the company of one another. As a matter of practice we met at someone's residence on Saturdays or Sundays turn by turn. The host would take care of dinner or lunch and drinks and we would pick up a relevant topic and share each others' experiences. The children would have their own fun and games.
On a Saturday morning I received a call from the professor, inviting us for a lunch party at his residence on Sunday. The professor stayed in a luxurious bungalow with a manicured lawn in front and a sprawling backyard with a swimming pool and a well tended flower garden. My kids always loved to go there and enjoy the pool. The professor was a great host. His parties were always a great hit with us for their lavish menu, foot tapping music and above all, the warmth the professor exuded to one and all. He always planned his parties meticulously keeping in mind the interests of the guests. He took special care of the kids and organised for them games and cartoon shows, which they loved.
Dressed up in our Sunday casuals, we all landed up at the professor's residence dot on time. Other members of our group gradually gathered. Soon the children made their own groups and the ladies, theirs. We all gathered around the bar at one end of the rear verandah and filled our glasses with chilled beer. At the other end of the verandah the professor had set up a large charcoal grill and John, his Man Friday was stoking the burning embers and had put on the grill few skewers of Frankfurters and the local 'Suya' to cook. We were introduced to few Nigerian delicacies like 'Goat-meat Pepper Soup' and Suya, which were quite popular amongst us. Suya is generally made with skewered marinated meat barbecued on a grill and served with dried pepper and sliced onions. Goat meat Pepper Soup, also known as ' ngwo-ngwo', is intensely spicy with typical Nigerian spices and red pepper. It pairs well with palm wine and chilled beer. No party menu is complete without these two items.
Somehow the discussions in such parties start with some expats' issues but soon gravitate towards politics. We men while sipping chilled beer and hot soup alternately and relishing chunks of Suyas, were discussing about the recent coup by Gen Muhammadu Buhari, that had overthrown the democratically elected president Sehu Sagari. Some of us were in favour of the take over and some defended democracy. The pros and cons of the military rule against that of a civilian regime in the backdrop of Nigerian history were discussed and debated. Some even expressed their anxiety about the uncertainties that the expats might face due to policy changes under military rule, the core concern being what percentage of our salary earned in Nairas would be allowed to be repatriated by the Federal Bank of Nigeria ! Rajan, who was the regional manager of Bank of Credit and Commerce International revealed that as per the grapevines of the banking industry, there was a possibility of reducing the limit of repatriation from fifty per cent to twenty five.
At this point something unexpected happened. Martina, that is Mrs Mancini, my neighbour's wife who was known for her sensuous hour-glass figure had just become a victim of wardrobe malfunction. She had paraded sometime earlier in a yellow floral two-piece bikini around the swimming pool making many heads turn, and then had taken the plunge from the diving board. She was an accomplished swimmer and was displaying her skills in butterfly stroke to the other girls and boys in the pool. After few laps when she came out of the pool, she took some time to realise that the top half of her bikini was missing, which had slipped off somewhere in the pool. Mancini was seen running with a bath towel to cover her up but then the oglers at the bar already had an eyeful.
To ease out the situation, the professor switched on a sports channel on his 39 inch National TV kept on a tall table near the bar. The recording of a FIFA World Championship match was being beamed. The match was between Nigeria's Flying Eagles team and USSR. The match was gripping. The Flying Eagles squad of 1983 was the first ever Nigerian team to qualify for any FIFA organised competition. After they scored the first goal against USSR, the audience was euphoric and went into rapture. Suddenly the match was interrupted with a news flash about a public execution of captured and convicted armed robbers at Victoria Island's Bra Beach in Lagos. The entire process was being televised live. There were three robbers who were cuffed and led to three stakes supported by oil drums filled with sand. Then they were lashed and tied up to the stakes. There was a large public gathering witnessing the execution. The death warrant was read out by a military officer. Three priests attired in white robes read out the last prayers for each convict. And then the firing squad fired three volleys of rounds from their automatic weapons and the bodies on the stakes slowly slumped, all in few minutes. We all were stunned to see this happening in real time. There was total silence. The professor came and switched off the TV.
Thankfully the children were away and were spared from witnessing this ghastly public execution. After a while our topic of conversation centred around the most rampant social evil of Nigeria: armed robbery. Most of us present in the party had some direct or indirect experience of armed robbery during our stay in Nigeria. Only the other day they had attacked a trading company in Kano and killed our friend Bhojwani, in front of his wife. Bhojwani was the manager of the Kano branch of Inlaks. On the fateful day, he had stayed back in his office after working hours to re-check some invoices which were not tallying with the accounts. His wife had come to pick him up and they had plans to go to a bakery to pick up a cake for celebrating their daughter’s sixteenth birthday that evening. There was no one else in the office. Then the robbers struck. They demanded the keys to the safe. Bhojwani handed over the key but the robbers couldn't open the safe since it needed a second key that was held with the accountant. The accountant had already left for the day. The robbers were disappointed and thought that Bhojwani was hiding the second key. They threatened him and demanded the key. Bhojwani' s appeals didn't cut any ice and one of them shot him point blank through his head. On another incident, Mancini's house was attacked too few months ago. Fortunately Mancinis were on vacation. His house however was burgled and the robbers decamped with his TV, music system and car.
Some of us welcomed the stringent action by the government and lauded the public execution as a deterrent. But some others considered it as a serious violation of human rights. I too had a brush with the armed robbers few weeks ago but luckily we had a narrow escape. The gathering at the bar was curious to know about the details.
' After the robbery at Mancinis, I was a little scared. You never know when your turn comes. I thought that it was time to take help of my other neighbour Lt Cdr Nelson, a Nigerian Naval officer. I had enjoyed a good relationship with him as his friendly neighbour. In fact he was rather obliged to me for my help in making Indian currency available to his son studying in Pune University. He had restrictions in repatriating adequate money to his son due to the curbs imposed by the new regime. He had requested me if I could help out. I agreed to transfer Rupees from my Indian bank account directly to his son as necessary and Nelson would pay me back here in Naira. I knew that transactions like this could be termed as hawala but when it helps someone I could always take a little risk. I thought I may request Nelson now to help me in enhancing my security against a possible armed robbery. When I approached him, he just bent down and pulled out from under his sofa a semi-automatic Sten gun that looked rather dusty and derelict. He asked me if I had ever used a Sten. I remembered about my weapon training of my college NCC days and told him yes. But I expressed my doubts if this gun can really fire. He gave me a smile, fitted the magazine and called me to his backyard. He then pointed to the sky and pulled the trigger and the gun roared into life while sending out a burst of fire. He then handed over the gun to me and told that this gun was one that was used in the Nigerian civil war and he had confiscated it from a rebel. He told me to keep it with me during the rest of my stay in Nigeria and protect myself from the armed robbers if and when needed. I accepted the gun along with a full magazine and brought it home,' I paused a while and surveyed the curious faces around me. Meanwhile some ladies also had joined us and were listening to my story wide eyed.
' Seems you have really taken a risk in accepting the weapon. I would never do that. Who knows I might hurt myself while handling it !', wondered Harish Sadnani, who was managing the retail store Chanrais, in the city centre.
' Tell us what happened with the robbers?, asked Eirik, a burly Norwegian working for a seafood company, Sofia Frozen Foods.
' Almost a week after I got the Sten, which I stripped to clean it up and oiled its moving parts, the wait was over. Past midnight, I heard some metallic bangs from my front gate. I looked through the slit of the curtains of my bed room on the first floor and saw the silhouette of some men breaking the lock with a hammer and then the gates swung open. Then a pick-up van reversed into my compound. Though I was really scared to see my fear becoming true, I mechanically picked up the Sten from under my bed, drew the curtain open slightly and challenged the robbers. In fact I borrowed a dialogue from some Hindi movie and told them, ' Look, I have an automatic gun. Before you enter my house I will kill at least three of you. You decide among yourselves who would be those to die first. Then you may come in and kill us, I don't care.' Then I fired a short burst through my window into the air. It seemed to have worked. They scrambled and jumped onto their van and drove away. I wiped off the cold sweat from my brows and sat down on the bed panting.'
' Oh, you are so brave. I don't know what we would have done in such a situation! I remember that night when we woke up with the sound of gun fire and heard the commotion outside,' commented Martina, who had joined the gathering meanwhile.
Some friends clapped and some patted me on my back and I was enjoying every moment of it.
' Ladies and gentlemen, I have a different perspective on armed robbery in Nigeria. In fact I have published a paper on the subject. First we must understand why is there such a high incidence, despite the public executions that we witnessed today. My study reveals that the reasons are many. Factors including political development, police inefficiency, undeveloped infrastructure, urbanisation, changes in social values, conspicuous consumption, flaunting of wealth as a social status, etc are mainly responsible.The aftermath of the civil war saw many unemployed soldiers who had access to sophisticated weaponry turning criminals. Frequent power outages and a limited telephone system have also aggravated the situation. I recommend a humane approach and a strategy of humanising and reforming the captured robbers rather than draconian measures like public executions which have miserably failed as deterrents,' offered the learned professor.
Our discussions got interrupted when someone rang the doorbell. John rushed to open the door and we saw five men forced themselves in, one of them pointing a pistol at John's head. We took some time to appreciate the situation. I told the women to quietly leave the place and lock themselves in the audiovisual room with the children. The robbers took up their position around us with their weapons pointing at us.
The professor surveyed the scene and then walked up to their leader who sported a red beret cap and told, ' Please hold on. I am Prof Polanski, the owner of the house. I will give you all that you want from me, my TV, music system and a cash amount of 5000 Naira. Even my wedding ring. I beg, please don't hurt my guests. We are having a party. We mean no harm to you.'
' Alright, we will not hurt you. Hand over all that you offered and we will leave,' answered the leader.
' Just a moment. I will ask John to pack the items for you. Meanwhile why don't you join us and enjoy some beer and food. We will be happy if you accept my invitation and join the party.'
There was total silence. The robbers exchanged looks with one another and then lowered their weapons. The leader extended his hand to the professor to shake his hand and introduced himself, 'Hello Sir, meet former Army Sergeant Victor Omojan. It's really nice for you to have invited us to your party. We are happy to accept.'
Soon enough one of the gang who introduced himself as Kayode Erinso took charge of the bar and started serving us with refills and poured himself a tall stout. Another gang member Taiwo Odunuga took over the barbecue and the party continued in full swing as if nothing had happened. Another guy named Sanni Musa turned out to be a stand up comedian who started entertaining us with interesting jokes and anecdotes. To our surprise we all started liking their company and got into friendly conversations with them. After about an hour the gang gathered their loot, thanked the professor, waived at us and drove off in their van. Soon most of us started to leave after the customary thanks to the host. The professor requested me to hang around for some more time and leave after an early dinner. I had nothing to do at home and we decided to stay along.
It was about 6 PM when we were having tea in the parlour, the bell rang. I went to open the door and lo & behold, the gang was back. They almost bulldozed me and entered the parlour with the same packages that they had looted a couple of hours before. They put the stuff on the dining table and came to a bewildered professor relaxing on his recliner.
' Oga (Sir) ! You had been the kindest soul whom we have ever met in our lives. God will never forgive us if we rob you and take your hard-earned things away. We came to return all that we took from you. We are really ashamed to have taken them away in the first place. Please forgive us and bless us,' said Victor apologetically, with his eyes downcast and misty.
' Never mind. I know that you have your own compulsions. All I can say is that may God bless you,' replied the professor.
The gang members shook the professor's hand one by one and left the room as hurriedly as they came.
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.
In my young days, it was not unusual for film buffs to visit their choicest movies again and again and again. In the days before the advent of the TV and video, there was no way in which one could record a movie and watch it any number of times at one’s leisure. One had to go to a cinema hall to satisfy his craving for entertainment. I spent my hard-earned dough to buy tickets for Dev Anand’s ‘Guide’ not once but five times when it was released in 1965. It was not good money thrown after bad. Far from it. Apart from the superb plot, acting and direction, the film oozed with Waheeda Rehman’s mesmerising glamour. If only I could blend myself with the hero and touch my heartthrob on the screen! No wonder awestruck fans lined up before cinema halls, which was a reflection on the film’s appeal. Whistles and cat-calls added to the magic and magnified the romantic appeal of the heroine. Viewers died to transport themselves onto the silver screen for their golden moment.
A whole new avenue opened up for viewers after the TV made its appearance on the scene. Producers vied for a share of the amusement pie, giving rise to TV serials to cater to individual choice. People stayed glued to the TV in the evenings to tune in to their favourite shows. Makers of TV serials were hard-pressed to offer show after show throughout the year and the shows were broken into episodes that added together came to be known as soap opera. Viewers were hooked to their favourite serials and meticulously followed the fortune of the characters. The ever widening demand on producers for new shows was so great that they had to take a break from shooting if only to recover their sanity. Hence the entry of reruns to keep spectators’ addiction alive during the summer break.
We can no longer return to reruns. Now a viewer can download and watch any show or episode whenever and wherever he feels like it, whether at home, in the bathroom, aboard a plane or in a train, and even on the moon! From being starved of visual treats where ‘black’ was the price of a ticket to a surfeit of shows, the world of entertainment has come full circle. Why wait for a rerun when you can download, watch and send the movie to the dustbin of one’s computer or mobile? Some even don’t bother to open all that they download. But quantity negates quality. The charm of Madhubala and Vyjayanthimala has given way to a cacophony of sound and fury signifying little. The range of entertainment on the table is so vast that today’s viewer has no qualms about simply surfing, downloading and trashing them without even looking. Whither then the next ‘advancement’ in entertainment?
Approaching a government office to get any work done is like aspiring for the forbidden fruit. Nothing can break the impervious slumber of officialdom except the sound of crisp currency notes. Rules are waved by ‘paper tigers’ like patriotic flags before wretched ‘clients’. Only when they start conversing in the language of money that a mutually beneficial bargain does emerge. The bureaucrats continue to bask in the glory of the sun till a bolt of lightning hits them on retirement. Thereafter they remain ‘toothless’ till they quietly fade into the sunset. Among their former colleagues they become a source of jokes—a fountain of amusing anecdotes that are circulated with glee within the ‘inner circle’.
Long ago, when working in the housing section of a public sector bank, we had one such ‘tiger’ who was terrorising employees by inventing obstacles for every facility due to them. One had to take his ‘prior written approval’ even for replacing a bulb in his allotted quarters! Shah’s philosophy was simple. Rules exist to deny benefits, he used to jibe, not to facilitate them! After all, he had to keep the cost to the company at a minimum. As luck would have it (or perhaps in answer to the prayers of his subordinates), a new General Manager was posted in our area. Immediately the ‘tiger’ put up a request by a senior manager to keep a pet in his premises. He recommended for its rejection. He need not have done so since the rules permitted keeping one pet. But could a horse be classified as a ‘pet’ also? It had been acquired by the senior manager during his stint in the North East and on transfer he brought it to his new place of posting.
The GM’s brow darkened. He had come up against a real ‘rule-twister’. He liked to keep away from controversial matters. But there was no escape from taking a decision—to pet or not to pet. He called for all the instructions on the subject of keeping pets. How did the matter get into the Human Resources section in the first place, he thought to himself? The GM dug deeper into the origins of the records and found a note in which permission had been granted to a top management executive to keep a cow as a pet and to construct a cowshed to house it. A cowshed in a planned colony? So much for rules and inflexible bureaucracy! Again, the approval was confined to a ‘cow’; no dog, no cat, no duck or monkey. So why only the horse’s owner? All the residents of the colony who had cats, dogs, etc., stood to be penalised. The GM smiled as he summoned a baffled Shah. Where was the sense of humour that had amused the boss so?
“Look at this, Mr. Shah,” the GM said. “Your note recognises only the cow as a pet. Dogs, cats, chickens and what have you are not supposed to be ‘pets’ as per your definition. So are you going to haul up all their owners too?”
Mr. Shah trembled and mumbled something inaudible. He knew he was in a spot; but whether he meant to offer some input or not is not known.
To cut a long story short, the GM asked Mr. Shah, “What do you say we put all this nonsense behind us and do something constructive for the town?”
“Yes, Sir, by all means, Sir,” his subordinate agreed with undisguised enthusiasm.
“Good. Issue a circular tomorrow that the residents can keep any animals as pets as long as they take care of them and don’t spoil the beauty of the city.”
The circular was issued that day itself. Mr. Shah could never live down the issue of pets, which continues to be a ‘pet’ narrative in the colony and beyond even today.
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.
A Beautiful Story in Odia by Chinmayee Barik
(Translated by Mrutyunjay Sarangi)
Eskimo!
A funny name for a boy of twelve, isn't it?
But there was nothing funny about Eskimo, the most notorious student in the school where I joined as a teacher twenty years back. I was a young, enthusiastic teacher of 22, full of idealism and high expectations of moulding the life of my students. And Eskimo? Eskimo was the name of a terror.
The principal had strictly warned me to be strict, maintain due gravity with the students and not to show any leniency to them. Soon the students knew I brooked no nonsense and every one fell in line. That is, everyone, except Eskimo.
His real name was not Eskimo. It was Stalin Mohapatra. His friends called him Eskimo because of the extremely fair colour of his skin, the thick, golden hair on his head and the deep, blue eyes. The name stuck and even the teachers had started calling him Eskimo. Despite the blue, innocent eyes, he had a streak of cruelty, beating up his friends, snatching away things from them and being extremely rude to many. Everyone was scared of him. His father was the most feared goonda of the town, sporting a small, evil-looking pistol on his belt. Eskimo used to come to the school in a big car, escorted by two ferocious bodyguards. He was never known to say good morning to any teacher, most of whom had a mortal fear of his father.
I soon felt the deft touch of Eskimo's mischief. Sometimes when all of us were in the playground he would come and using a piece of blade, tear up my purse, or spill my food from the tiffin box on the floor and quietly slip back to where we would be busy playing. Everyone recognised Eskimo's unmistakable footprint in these acts of mischief, but no one had the guts to say anything. A few times I admonished him, but it had no effect. On a couple of occasions I almost decided to give him a good thrashing but a look at his deep, innocent blue eyes, and my heart would melt with pity. More over a couple of teachers had told me that punishment had no effect on him. He had a tremendous capacity to tolerate pain and punishment only made him more vicious.
One day I decided to visit Eskimo's home during lunch break to find out if he had some domestic grievance which made him so different from others. His mother panicked the moment she saw me. I was surprised to find her young and beautiful, very docile and not at all like the wife of a Don. She folded her hands and told me, "Ma'm please don't ask us to remove our son from your school, this is the third school in the town we have tried. He is a good boy Ma'm, please bear with him, he will reform gradually." I asked her whether they should not see a doctor to check whether he had any abnormality. She showed me Eskimo's medical reports, everything was normal.
I returned to the school only to be greeted by an incredulous sight. Eskimo was kneeling outside the principal's office. Some students were passing by and pointing to him, and whispering to each other. I went near and asked him what had happened. In reply he just bent his head and kept mum. Having just returned from his home I took pity on him and went to the principal to beg her to pardon Eskimo. She agreed but told me sternly, 'Priya, don't be a Devil's advocate, go to your class room and see what he has done'.
I wondered what was the dastardly crime Eskimo had committed. Pardoned by the principal he had followed me to the class. The moment I entered I was struck dumb. The bold letters stared at me with a sickening clarity, "PRIYA, I LOVE YOU". The students started giggling when they saw me reading the bold statement. I looked at Eskimo. He was standing at the door, his head bent, trembling with fear, or may be with some sort of self-consciousness. I was confused. Looking at the twelve year old adolescent, my heart melted, I just couldn't inflict any punishment. I asked him gently to go to his seat. I was conscious that my heart was shaking slightly when I wiped the blackboard clean. I also muttered in my heart, "I too love you Eskimo, my wayward child, I wish you could reform."
The confession of his love for the school teacher transformed Eskimo completely. He became gentle, docile and suddenly possessed of an extraordinary calmness. He started following me like a pet lamb everywhere, eager to please me, carry out every little work I gave him.
And then it happened, the event that changed a lot of lives in one single moment of indiscretion. It was the evening of the annual function of the school. The function was yet to start. The principal had asked me for some papers and I had gone to the office room looking for them. There was no one else in the room. I had bent to search a drawer in the cupboard when Eskimo appeared from nowhere and coming near my bent frame, planted a kiss on my right cheek. I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. In a moment my anger burst, as if a dam had breached. I took hold of him and gave him a big slap on his cheek, followed by another, and yet another, till he fell down on the floor, writhing in pain and shame. Someone saw the commotion and called the principal who came rushing. She saw me trembling and knew what would have happened. In a fit of anger she kicked the boy and sent him home with a peon from the school.
Eskimo didn't come to the class the next day, and for many days after that. In fact he never returned to the school. After my initial anger I felt a bit guilty for being so harsh on him. I thought I should have kept my cool and at some saner moment should have told him to grow out of his obsession with me. After a fortnight I visited his home. There was a big lock at the gate. The neighbours told me that Eskimo had been sick ever since he had returned from the school on the Annual Day function. Despite strong medicines his fever had not abated and he was in delirium. His parents had taken him to some good hospital in a bigger city. Someone told me that the poor twelve year old had suffered a lot in life after the death of his mother five years back.
My heart broke for the boy. Death of the mother? I remembered the last time I had come to his home. No wonder his step-mother had looked so young! I went home and could not contain my tears. Ah, poor Eskimo! How heartless of me to have beaten him so mercilessly! I went near the mirror. From nowhere I imagined I saw the unmistakable imprint of five fingers on my left cheek as if someone had hit me with a vicious slap there. I wiped it out, and it returned! I collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing.
That night I had a strange dream. I saw Eskimo standing at the door and waiting for me to call him in. It was clear that he had cried a lot and tears had dried on his face. He came in and with love in his eyes he planted a kiss on my cheek. I shrieked and got up. I had felt the touch of a kiss clearly. I could not go back to sleep.
I tried to find out where Eskimo had gone with his parents but did not succeed. He remained a part of my memory, appearing and disappearing with frightful regularity.
xxxxxxx
And then twenty years later one fine summer morning Eskimo came to see me. It was a Sunday. A big red Innova stopped at my door. I came out. A look at the tall, handsome young man with golden hair and deep blue eyes left me with no doubt it was Eskimo. He was more than six feet tall, had a small pistol dangling from his belt. My heart skipped a bit. Has Eskimo become a dreaded goonda like his father? Has he returned to take revenge on me? Unknown to me, I shuddered inside.
Seeing me stunned, he smiled and came in. We started chatting. He told me his life had taken an astonishingly interesting course after they left for Mumbai for his medical treatment. His father earned a lot by joining some big gangster he used to know earlier. They set up a home, but as it usually happened in the Mumbai underworld, one day he was found with a few bullets in his stomach. Luckily they had enough money and his stepmother took great care to get a good education for the son. Just to ensure he didn't become a goonda like his father she insisted he should join the police. For the last seven years Eskimo had been working as an Inspector with Maharashtra Police.
Suddenly Eskimo said he was hungry and could I give him something to eat. I had rice, fish curry and some greens ready. He ate with great relish. I asked him,
"Have you got married? Is it a girl from Mumbai?"
He nodded,
"Yes, I married early, my wife and I were classmates in college and fell in love. We have a son of eight years, very mischievous, we have named him Sambhav Mohapatra but because he looks like me, his friends in school call him Nepali."
And he burst into a big laugh. I was amused.
Nepali? A Nepali as the son of an Eskimo? Wasn't that funny? I had a hearty laugh. He kept on telling me the pranks of his son, how he was a constant source of entertainment for his wife, mother and his friends in the school. I smiled, subconsciously he was probably describing himself as an eight years old! .
He suddenly looked at the watch. Time for him to go. He got up. I looked at him. I had a question for him,
"Do you remember the evening of the school function?"
He stood still for a moment. And nodded.
I wanted to ask something which had tormented me for twenty years,
"Are you still angry with me for those merciless slaps I had inflicted on you?"
For a moment a dark cloud descended on his face. He shook his head and whispered,
"How can I be angry with you?"
The way he said it moved me to tears, I broke into silent sobs.
His eyes brimming with tears, Eskimo came near me, bent and planted a soft, chaste kiss on my cheek.
He got into the car and left. I kept standing in the verandah looking at the receding car.
Somehow the hot summer air had gathered itself into a whirlwind, threatening to uproot me from where I stood and hurling me to the bottomless pit of time.
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
THE FRONTIER SCOUTS OF THE CHITRAL AND GILGIT REGION DURING THE DAYS OF THE RAJ
The Chitral and Gilgit regions during the Victorian era and pre-independence period spanning the former half of this century was perhaps fashioned by some obliging Gods for the inimitable romance of high adventure, set amides the wild, wonderful and awe inspiring landscape of the Himalayas.
As a young, just initiated in her cult of high beauty British Officer rhapsodized in one of his letters home,
“The green green grass, the white white sheep,
the blue blue snow fed rivers.”
This rugged mountainous country conjured up tales of high valour, of unflinching devotion to duty, absolute commitment to Queen and Country, of leading a charmed life with the extraordinary dash & devil of the Pathans of this fabulous lone, forlorn magical frontiers, of the exuberant exhilaration of gashing (Marching) for 30 add miles daily bracing the keen mountain air with excitement always thrown in by the way of a “Chapao’ (ambush) perhaps always lurking round the bend, or roaring and cracking capital campfires in the courtyard of messes with the merry men of Chitral scouts dancing and feasting after a successful and exhilaration expedition involving routing of recalcitrant tribesmen. Polo matches played with fiendish enthusiasm on Badakshani horses in grassy pastures with the high Himalayas as divine spectators. Soul uplifting sunrises that would dye the eternal snows a cerise, softly melancholy magical sunsets and twilight tip-toeing like a veiled eastern bride draped in diaphanous indeterminate indigoes, mauves, violets, lavenders draperies like the alluring colours of faded irises, lavenders and lilacs, Shikras with one’s ‘hamsayaas’ that is a faithful pathan orderly, of big game and small game, a ‘markhor’ (wild goat) or a ‘gud’ (wild sheep) and everything that flew-sand grouse, batter, titer or else falconing on a bracing day in autumn as the saying went, “Lend your rifle before your house, your house before your wife and your wife before your hawk’, which admittedly, manifested the priorities!
The Frontier Region that lay beyond the pale of the then undivided Punjab fashioned by nature in the likeness of an a\indomitable fortress was a stupendously fabulous region of high mountains. This wild, wonderful and rugged region was the home of the proud Pathans, who have cherished freedom more than anything else, a fact duly endorsed by history. The annexation of Punjab to British India, brought the ‘Sarkar’ perilously close to their bete-boire and implacably Imperialistic Czarist Russia. History had shown the utter folly and failure of the forward policy of rolling the British India frontiers up to the frontline state of Afghanistan as any attempt at subjugating, much less conquering, the proud Pathans have proved an unmitigated military and political disaster. The astute statesmen like mandarins devised a unique administrative arrangement of raising a local crack militia of the indomitable Pathans to assist, them in keeping peace in this volatile and geo-politically ultra-sensitive frontline region. As some one succinctly described the system as,
“The poachers becoming the game keeper.” So the raiders of the golden arc who at times were tempted to cross the frontier ro raid British India for the customary “Zan, Zard and Zamin (Women, gold and land) had to first encounter the stout opposition of their own tribesmen! The result was that over a period of time such heady excursions became less and the region became peaceful and thereby amendable to attempts at development. It was an arrangement that worked exceedingly well from it’s introduction in the high Victorian era till independence.
Taking into account the strong arrogant proclivities of the Pathans this unique system devised to ensure stability did not in any way circumspect much less compromise with the Pathan’s congenital nature to recognize no one as his master. It was as if for a certain period of time he had chosen of his own free accord to service in the militia as a ‘Scout’. After an exhilarating tenure as a ‘Scout’ keeping a hawk eye on his people’s proclivities to raid British India, he went back to his tribesmen and with equal case slipped in to the role of a raider! At times chafing under the enforced period of self-induced good conduct as comrade-in-arms with the ‘Firangi Sarkar’, he would, if prompted by his genuinely independent and indomitably irrepressible spirit play the rule of a ‘Poacher’ in sharp contrast to his tenure as a ‘game-keeper’. A charming side show was when in the poacher after an excursion against the ‘Sarkar’ became pals and over the jollities of a ‘tikala (feast) told them where they, the ‘firangi’, committed blunders in their military tactics and maneuvers against them! For isn’t just about every absolutely fair and as right as rain in love and war! They were quick-fix artists switching on and off their roles as comrade – in – arms and alternatively as foes!
‘Bhai’ came to this fabulous region like a bejeweled ravishing Eastern bride. To great her annual visit a bewildering variety of dew- pearled spring flowers were lavishly and lovingly strewn on her path – gentians, anemones, irises, stone caps…. The snow fed mountain streams overflowing their willow-lined grassy banks were an angler’s delight with a willow basket full of almonds, apricots and a bag full of rainbow salmons and trouts. The, apple, peach, almond, apricot, plum trees broke into a thousand and one flowers in pastel shades ranging from whites to pinkies! It was heady season when Cupid was at his playful and mischievous best reverentially and indiscriminately targeting the hearts of young men and women with his floral arrows! Astute civil servants and indomitable, army officers fell hopelessly in love with the political officers on the colonel’s pretty daughters and went off for a divine honeymoon in the playing grounds of a Murree on the picturesque Dir country side….
Oh yes, and no article on this God’s own country would be complete without mentioning the little people, for this fairy tallish land is virtually over run by them. They come in all shapes and sizes, and natures ranging from the good, the bad and the ugly. Some bring good luck, others are positively malevolent and make a ‘gud’ vanish into think air no sooner you press on the trigger. As for the vilest bad spirit, he is in the form of a gigantic frog a, ‘Boghazov’, and keeps house in a tarn (pool) and God forbid if he ever spots you in a bad mood well you are sure to kick the bucket!
The irrepressible Pathans were blessed with a unique wry and ironic sense of humour. One of the shiniest example of this genre that I have come across related to what a swashbuckling, strapping buccaneer Pathan chieftain, a veteran of countless skirmishes, ambushes and pitch-battles said to a newly posted British Political Officer words to the extent that they were so happy that he had taken over as sans them they felt like orphans s – lovable liar ! I am sure the British Political Officer to whom these apparently innocent and stupendously engaging sentiments were expressed with vulnerable charming childish candour and naivety would have cherished them and derived a subtle joy from their reminiscence. Another one that comes to my mind is that of a Pathan orderly who killed his British Officer in a fit of frenzy on finding him sleeping with his fee pointing to the Holy City of Mecca, explaining the delay in surrendering as trying to tidy and decorating himself to be presentable to the hurries of janaat!
I read some where that British Officers who had the great, grand, rare and unique fortune of having served in one of the crack ‘Scout’ militia still come to the misty, far pavilions of this ruggedly handsome country for their ‘reunions’. There is naturally much feasting and black-slapping epitomized in Regimental esprit decor. There is much going down memory lane a la, ‘those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end…..’.
Three chimes to the impossible, independent, indomitable, irrepressible, impudent, rambunctious Frontier Scouts. May their ebullient spirits as wild as the dust devils continue to inspire and sparkle our dour adventureless contemporary world’
Ranjana Chaudhury is a retired civil servant and a former judge in the Central Administrative Tribunal. She is a Nature lover, she loves all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small. She loves flowers and gardening and has very eclectic taste in reading from Leo Tolstoy to Dalphne du Maurier. She loves meeting like minded people. She writes by accident, not by design.
The doorbell had been ringing for quite a long time when I noticed it. I had gone to sleep, reading one of the page-turners that I borrowed from the lending library right across my apartment. The book gave me a wonderful dream. So, before I opened the door, I had decided what my tone of voice should be to this stranger who had come without any notice on such a drowsy afternoon.
It was a young man, maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. The first thing I noticed about him was his face. Such a sad one. I thought he would have come with a request for charity or something. All donations from our apartments were to be given only through the association which practically meant me.
“I heard there is an apartment available for rent on the seventh floor,” he said.
“Yes, but they won’t give it to bachelors.”
“I am married.” I wondered what made me think he was a bachelor. There was something about him that told me he was a loner, a gulf returnee who had forgotten to marry.
“OK, there are three available on the seventh floor. Which one are you interested in?”
His answer kind of shocked me. It was Sally’s apartment he had come for.
“How did you come to know about it?” I wanted to ask but kept quiet. That apartment was always known by her name, the hapless daughter of the last family which had occupied it. I had the key. The family had asked me to find a tenant. Now, they had gone away to settle down somewhere in north India. No one in fact knew where they were. Only Sally’s whereabouts were clearly known. She was buried in a cemetery nearby. She had committed suicide.
“A friend of mine told me about it recently.” I found the answer satisfactory. I remember having put an ad in OLX.
We walked up the stairs. The lift had been out of order for days. Twice I got caught in it. Once Sally was with me. It took some twenty minutes for someone to come and open it from the outside. Old lift. All the time Sally was humming songs. Some old and some new. I panicked. She didn’t.
“Are you planning to move in soon?”
“Yes. Actually no.” He seemed quite absent-minded and in deep thought.
I was almost sure that he was not going to take it. He didn’t seem to be a proper tenant. I had arranged several tenants for the other apartments in these twenty-five years. I knew the signs. Those who were eager to rent a house always came with their family or a friend. Coming to think of it, no one came alone to look for an apartment as far as I knew.
And that too a house in which a suicide had happened. And that too a beautiful, young lady. But, what had beauty to do with it? Or being young for that matter. It is one thing to feel bad about someone’s death. But it made no point to feel bad about death itself. It can come to anyone born, beautiful or ugly, wealthy or poor, sooner or later. In college, I had taken part in a debate about the phrase ‘Untimely Death’. I didn’t win it but I remember I had made a good impression on everyone by arguing that the phrase didn’t make sense. That was a full forty years ago.
I inserted the key and first turned it the wrong way. Then I realized my mistake and turned it the other way. The door resisted a little and then budged. We both got in. I looked around. The air was thick with the smell of dust and dampness. I felt really bad. The family had asked me to get someone to clean it. But even two years later, it was still left the way they had left it, except for the dust from two summers and dampness from three monsoons. Papers and rags lay everywhere. Only the noose which had been tied onto a hook in the ceiling was gone.
I hadn’t been able to find someone to clean it. No one liked to come to clean it.
I had taken it seriously in the first place. No prospective tenant yet. And not much hope of getting one. I always thought maybe it was not yet time to clean it.
And now all of a sudden, it was time.
I wanted to ask him whether he was aware of who had lived there and what had happened there. But I didn’t find any reason why I should rake over the ashes. Anyway, he was not going to take it. So, why?
The young man walked into every room as if looking for something. It was like he had a map or something about the place in his mind. He went into the room on the west side and opened the window.
Marvellous. There was nothing blocking the sight for miles. Sally had once told me that one could see all the way up to the beach from there. I looked over his shoulders to catch even a faint glimpse of the sea. I noticed that he was also trying to get a view of the sea.
A cold wind came in and went past us like a rude relative paying a visit after a long time.
The young man turned around, stood for a while, as if trying to figure out directions, and then went straight into Sally’s bedroom.
I hesitated for a while and followed him.
I tried to turn on the light. It took several tries to make it work. It was a reading lamp fixed on the wall near her bed. It lit up the bed rather brightly as if making a grim statement. The rest of the room was only dimly lit.
He walked towards the walls and stood close to them. I too followed him to see what had caught his attention.
Poetry.
There were poems written all over the wall with pencils, chalk, crayons, eyebrow pencils and whatnot. Some poems were on paper pasted on the wall. Some of them had partially come off the wall and were hanging there.
All upon a sudden he began to show signs of agitation. Before I knew what was happening, he was sitting on the floor, breathing heavily.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I am fine. But, I need some.. I need some water”
I didn’t know what was going on. He might pass out any time. He was drenched in sweat and wiping it off his face with his shirt sleeves.
Where could I find water, I wondered.
I didn’t want to leave him there all by himself. But there was no other option. The closest occupied apartments were one floor below us. There was another one on the floor above us too.
“I am all right. I need some water. That is all.” He reassured me and I went to one of the lower apartments to get some water.
I ran down, barged into one of the apartments there, panting and mumbling an excuse. I ran back, spiling the water in the jug all the way up.
He was still alive. Thank God. I would have been away for more than five or six minutes.
On the floor, where the water fell in drops, the dirt receded in small circles.
He took the bottle from me, threw his head back and carefully poured the water into his mouth. From the way he was drinking it, I doubted whether he was thirsty.
I noticed his eyes though. Bloodshot eyes. And it was not his sweat that he was wiping off his face now.
Tears.
“Let’s go down”
“So, are you taking it?”
“No, I am not taking it. I only wanted to see it. See it once.”
He was being honest now. He only wanted to see it. And he had seen it. Fine with me.
I had not told him anything. So, it was not proper to ask him anything now.
We walked down the stairs. He was in the front and I was following him. When we reached my floor, he turned around to thank me. He shook my hand.
I unknowingly put my hand on his shoulder as if we had known each other for years.
“Enjoy the rest of the day, goodbye.”
Back in my room, I took the novel up to resume my reading. I was in no mood to read.
No, not today. Maybe another day.
It was better to go for a walk.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
It was a cold winter morning of December. Icy cold breeze was blowing. Completing his usual morning walk, Dr Amitabh Chhotray was sitting on the oscillating swing, placed in his garden and was engrossed in sipping the cup of warm tea and enjoying simultaneously the warmth of the tea and the moving cool breeze. He was delighted and his joy was enhanced feeling the gentle touch of the golden rays of the morning sun. To his utter surprise, he did not know how and why his past memoirs were invading the screen of his mind one after another like the reels of a movie. Spontaneously his mind was drifting to the remote past to gather the unforgettable reminiscences of the irretrievable days.
Amitabh was residing in Kalinga Nagar area of Bhubaneswar, the capital metropolis. He possessed a two-storied palatial building surrounded by a lovely tiny garden in an ambit of around eight thousand square feet. But he was the lone occupant. One gardener, one cook, one servant, a driver and an elderly housekeeper constituted his family. He was staying in the entire first floor while the servant and the housekeeper were accommodated in the ground floor. The gardener and the cook with their family members were staying in employees’ quarters just behind the main building. The driver came everyday in the morning, took lunch in the household and remained till his work was finished. Dr. Chhotray was a Neurosurgeon by profession. Serving the ailing and the diseased was his addiction, occupation, life, livelihood and everything. He breathed and lived in his profession because he had perceived life from very close quarters since his childhood. He had deeply understood how bitter poverty was. His job starts from dawn and ends in dead of the night serving the suffering human beings. He becomes so engrossed in his work that he disregards everything. Most often there is no certainty of taking lunch or dinner. Many a times he had skipped lunch in his day today routine. He was a contented, resolute person being unattached in all circumstances. But why? Why the past memoirs were penetrating his mind? Was any untoward incidence going to happen? Why these thoughts were shaking his whole entity? Was it telepathy of the forthcoming event? Why his mind was so turbulent and unsteady? He had no clue to all these apprehensions. His mind drifted to unfold the landscape of the memorable days of the precious past, filled with both joy and sorrow.
He was the only child of a poverty stricken family. His father was a daily labourer. In spite of poverty, his father never defaulted in providing essential amenities to the only son. Although he had to starve on many occasions he did not retreat from providing basic education to him in the village school. He was a meritorious student and understanding his family position demanded very little. But the destiny thought otherwise. In the midst of his high school career his father left for heavenly abode. He was alone with his widowed mother who vowed to shoulder the responsibility of providing higher education to Amitabh at any cost. They had neither any landed property nor monetary savings. Their house was situated adjacent to the road leading to the village school complex. In their outer house she opened a shop and started selling powdered gram cakes, fried black gram cakes (Bada), sesame sweets (Rashi Ladu), groundnut sweets which were very much liked by the school going children. At first she had to labour hard and the income was very meagre. With her perseverance the shop flourished and his mother was able to gather enough resources to meet their day today expenditure as well as the cost of his higher education. In the initial stage she was managing the shop alone but as her business prospered she appointed an attendant to assist her.
Time rolled on and days passed by. He passed the matriculation examination occupying fifth position in the state, got admitted in Ravenshaw College, Cuttack. After the two year stint of undergraduate education he joined SCB Medical College, Cuttack and succeeded in acquiring MBBS, MS (Surgery) with flying colours. He joined the State Medical Service and after one year of serving in peripheral cadre he joined as faculty in MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. At this juncture he married Asima, a fair, good looking, sober girl of his mother’s choice. Although a post-graduate in Zoology she preferred to be a housewife and to look after his family. They were blessed with a beautiful girl child who was given the name ‘Ananya’. When the baby was one year old he went for higher study i.e. MCh Neurosurgery to the prestigious institution CMC Vellore. Completing the study he returned to Odisha and joined the department of Neurosurgery in SCB Medical College, Cuttack, where in course of time he became the departmental head and superannuated two years back. During his service period at Cuttack they were blessed with another girl child whom they named ‘Apurba’ and the age difference between the two sisters was five years.
Probably the destiny could not tolerate his joyous life and played another cruel game. When Ananya was twelve years old and Apurba seven, Asima succumbed to a road accident depriving both the kids their mother’s love and affection. Amitabh refrained from remarriage and brought up the two girls pouring upon them both father and mother’s affection with the help and of his aged mother. Ananya, the elder one had very much affinity for Dentistry and she was provided the education in the premier Dental Institutes abroad and acquired MDS degree in Orthodentistry. But misfortune was like hand and gloves with Amitabh and fate played another mischief. His mother passed away suffering a massive heart stroke. Apurba, the younger one was placed in a residential school and pursued her higher study. Later on she was admitted in IIT, Kharagpur and completed B-Tech in Computer Science.
To add to his misery, a new turn of events shattered his ambition. Ananya, while studying abroad had an affair, fell in love with a young Christian boy who was also pursuing higher study abroad with her and they decided to marry. Returning back to Odisha after successful completion of her study she appraised the situation to her father. Amitabh was dumbfounded. He felt as if the earth was slipping down under his feet. He could not relish the fact that Ananya for whom he had sacrificed so much could take such a step. It was quite unbearable that Ananya would marry a boy from another religion. He persuaded Ananya not to be hasty, to take her own time and to reconsider the matter. But she paid no heed to his advice, and was adamant. She took the extreme step, fled from the home, performed court marriage. The boy was from a renowned family of Cuttack. The marriage ceremony was held in a church as per the Christianity Protocol. Out of extreme anguish and despair he and Apurba did not attend the ceremony. In anger she cut off all relations with them and never attempted even telephonic conversation either with him or with her younger sister. Even when he tried to invite her for the Gruhaprabesh ceremony of his new house at Kalinga Nagar she did not pick up telephone in spite of several attempts. She and her husband Arun set up a high-tech dental clinic at Sector 6 of CDA Cuttack with all sophisticated modern instruments and their clinic was regarded the best dental clinic of Odisha.
In spite of the strained relations, Amitabh was quite happy that his daughter was leading a happy and elegant livelihood and he never dreamed of either cursing her or thinking ill of her because of his fathomless love towards her. His daughter might be unhappy with him but how could he forget her - a precious part of his heart? He had no companion to share his agony, as a result he was burning within himself constantly.
Apurba found a suitable match in Abhisek who was also an IIT B Tech and was serving in USA in an MNC. He was the second son of a middle class Odia family of Puri. Amitatabh happily approved the match and wedding ceremony was performed at Bhubaneswar with pomp and grandeur. He tried hard to contact Ananya but she never bothered to respond. Probably her anger had not abated. After her marriage Apurba shifted to USA, acquired a job there. She and her husband Abhishek permanently settled there and embraced the citizenship of USA. They purchased a tiny and beautiful duplex house and Amitabh provided all the resources. She was blessed with a son and he attended all the ceremonies of his grandson abroad.
He was alone, passing a forlorn life in a gigantic house. Only during the morning walk he came in contact with few friends of the locality. He was seventy two years old, had stopped his clinical practice since long and was not keeping well. During course of time he became absolutely bald. Diabetes made him thin and like a skeleton. To add to his misery he developed vitiligo on his face for which he raised a beard. He had some dental problem which might require Root Canal Treatment. His life was converted into hell and he had lost all desire to carry on with his life. His only desire was to meet Ananya at least once before he would close his eyes forever.
His chain of past reminiscences came to an end by the telephone call from Apurba from USA. She was very much worried about his health condition, was missing him and planning to visit him at any time. She was aware of the ultimate desire of his affectionate father and during her stay in Bhubaneswar she would leave no stone unturned for a family reunion. Amitabh assured her that he was perfectly well except some minor dental problems but she was always welcome if she turned up at Kalinga Nagar. He enquired regarding the wellbeing of Abhisek and Ahan, the grandson. He reminded Apurba to come with Abhisek and Ahan if she decided to visit him and ended the conversation.
After two to three days his dental condition became worse and necessitated consultation with a dentist. At this juncture he decided to undertake the most crucial step of his lifetime. Who could be a better choice than his talented dentist daughter? He was thrilled with the idea to meet Ananya who could alleviate his dental problem and also to fulfill his life’s desire to meet his long lost loving daughter. He did not bother for the consequences and made up his mind to start instantly. The driver was ill and he caught the local bus to CDA. He was so excited that he left his cell-phone and wallet in his residence and he could notice it in the bus while paying the bus fare to the conductor. Fortunately he had some seven hundred rupees and odd cash in his pocket. He thought that this amount would be enough for his to and fro bus fare and other expenses and for dentist consultation he had to pay nothing, the dentist being his daughter. He reached the dental clinic and met the young girl Samita at the reception counter.
Receptionist: Good morning Sir. What can I do for you?
Amitabh: I have some dental problem and in this connection I want to consult the Dentist.
Receptionist: Please pay five hundred rupees and fill up this form. You will be sent to the dentist when your turn arrives.
Amitabh: Why should I pay money and wait for my turn? She is my daughter. Just inform her that her father wants to meet her.
Receptionist: Why are you telling lies Sir? We know that madam has no relatives. I am managing the reception counter for the last five years and I had never seen you here. Moreever you could have met her in her residence if you claim yourself to be her father.
Amitabh: Behaving like this, you are inviting the wrath of my daughter. She will definitely not tolerate such type of conduct with her father by her receptionist.
Receptionist: I don’t bother for the consequences because I am acting as per the protocol of the clinic. Sir, do listen to me. You are a senior citizen and I have profound honour for you. I earnestly request you to follow my advice. Kindly pay the money and fill up the form. I can send you early on priority basis because of your age. Madam will definitely instruct me to refund the money if you are her father. I can’t venture to break the rule and I am ready to accept the pleasant rebuke from madam.
Amitabh had no way out. He deposited the amount, filled up the form and waited for his turn. He thought that the money left with him after the payment would suffice to meet the cost of his return journey in the worst circumstances. He was confident that such situation will not arise and the receptionist will be bound to return money tendering unconditional apology.
As promised by the receptionist he was sent in after half an hour. Alas. Heart breaking disaster was waiting for him. The assistant asked about his problem, took note in the case sheet, ushered him to the dental chair and provided Ananya a detailed statement of his illness. Before he could utter a word Ananya addressed; “Hello uncle. What is the problem? You look familiar to me. Probably I have seen you many times in the past. I do not recollect. Do you remember meeting me any time in past?”
Amitabh felt as if heaven had fallen on him. His heart was shattered into pieces. Blood is not recognizing blood! His own blood is addressing him as uncle! How a daughter can fail to recognize her beloved father even if few years have elapsed in between and there is some alteration in the figure of her father. He was speechless and tears rolled down from his eyes. Why should he announce his reality before his daughter who is acting like a stranger? With broken voice suffused with agony he answered; “Well daughter. I am an old man and in spite of ill memory, I am confident that I have not met this doctor in the recent past but I have long twenty five years association with my beloved daughter coincidentally whose name is also Ananya.”
Ananya was confused but without proceeding further on the conversation she paid attention to his ailment and told him that RCT would not be effective at this stage and she had to extract the affected tooth. He agreed and the tooth was extracted. She advised to consult her after a month on the mentioned date to perform RCT on the adjacent tooth. The entire cost of the procedure was one thousand rupees adjusting discount for a senior citizen. He was advised to deposit another five hundred rupees in the reception counter and collect the prescription paper.
He was in the most disastrous condition. He was not capable to pay the extra money. At the clinic no one seemed to know his real identity. He would have to face the hostile receptionist. He was in a fix. At last he decided to approach the receptionist to buy some time to pay the money. Looking at him the receptionist tauntingly told him; “You were boasting so many things and you claimed to be the father of madam and she would rebuke me." Her respect towards him had vanished and she was treating him as a deceitful person. "Now see what has happened. Instead of waiving the consultation fee madam had charged five hundred extra. How can a daughter charge his father her consultation fees? You are a fraud. For evading the fees you were enacting such drama. Pay the extra amount and take your prescription and vacate this place."
Again tears rolled down from his eyes. He had never been humiliated to this extent by anybody beforehand. He composed himself and told her; “I don’t grudge being dishonored by you when my own blood could not recognize her father. I beg apology if I have hurt you. At present I don’t have enough money to pay the extra amount. Please allow me some time. I am waiting here. Definitely I will locate an acquaintance of mine from whom I will borrow the amount to pay you. Please have some sympathy. Dr Amitabh Chhotray had dealt with so many critical patients, waived thousands of rupees to the needy but never encountered such a frightful situation of being unable to pay a paltry amount of five hundred rupees in his life. I will not run away without paying your dues.”
To his relief Sadasiba, a known patient of his, entered the reception lounge and appeared to him like a God-sent angel. Sadasiba greeted him by touching his feet and enquired; “It is a pleasure to meet you. Why are you here? Did you come to meet Dr Ananya, your daughter? Are you re-united? Are you pulling on well with her? Could you recognize the girl at the reception counter? She is my daughter whom you had given a new lease of life.”
Amitabh intervened; “I will answer all your questions in due course. At present I am in a precarious situation and I need your help. Please lend me five hundred rupees first and give your account number in a piece of paper so that I will be able to transfer the money to your account after I return to Bhubaneswar. Unfortunately I have left my mobile and mobile in my residence.”
Sadasiba handed him a five hundred rupee note. He received the money, paid the receptionist and collected his prescription paper and put his hand on her head bestowing his blessings and advising to take care of herself because she had been cured from a deadly trauma she encountered in her childhood. While he left the lobby Sadasiba came chatting with him till the exit door to wish him good-bye.
Samita was watching the episode with awe. That particular individual was so prominent and influential that his father touched his feet out of respect and went to the exit to bid him good-bye. After seeing off Dr Amitabh, Sadasiba came to the reception counter to have a chat with her. She could no longer suppress her curiosity and asked her father; “Who was that person, Papa? Do you know him? Is he such a renowned personality that you touched his feet? How could he know about my childhood accident? To me he is a fraud and a pauper and a good schemer too. With an intention of evading clinic payment he was introducing himself to be the father of Ananya madam. I admonished him rudely and vociferously”. She narrated the whole episode to her father.
Sadasiba was shocked. With profound grief he told his daughter; “What an unforgivable, heinous blunder you have committed. Any amount of praise will be insufficient to describe this godly person. He is Dr Amitabh Chhotray, the most renowned Neurosurgeon of international repute. He is pursuing a post-retirement life in Bhubaneswar. Disease and adverse stressful mental worries have put him in such state. Your Ananya madam is actually his elder daughter. The present strained relation between father and daughter is another sorrowful story. Moreover you owe your life to Dr Chhotray. Even if you wash his feet with water and put that water on your head, it will be inadequate to repay his debt. When you were a five year kid you fell down from the stairs of the first floor, became comatose and were in an almost hopeless condition. Dr. Chhotray took up the challenge, opened your skull bone and removed the large blood clot from your brain. You were completely cured without any post-operative problem. What you are today is the gift of this saint. I wonder how you could behave so nastily with a senior person even if you did not recognize him as Dr Chhotray. Heaven would not have fallen if you had waived the payment and informed your boss afterwards. What I understand, you became too much reactive and stern because you thought him to be an imposter. Really I am extremely hurt. Such type of misdeed is not at all expected from you dear. Be sympathetic and polite to seniors in future.”
Being reproached by her father Samita shed copious tears. Now she recollected the words of the victimized person “Dr Amitabh Chhotray had dealt with so many critical patients, waived thousands of rupees to the needy but never encountered such a frightful situation of being unable to pay a paltry amount of five hundred rupees in his life. I will not run away without paying your dues.” Even after her inhuman cruel dealings he did not reveal his identity and rather tendered apology for his shortcomings. Why it did not strike her mind why the person was uttering a doctor’s name. Why she could not recollect and recognize him as the name was very much familiar to her because many a times she had heard from her parents that Dr Amitabh Chhotray miraculously cured her during her childhood. She was probably blind with an arrogant attitude. She was cursing herself now. She had inflicted a grave wound in the soul of the saintly savior of her life. Even the Almighty won’t forgive her.
She sobbed impatiently. Her father consoled her saying “Don’t be restless and agitated. What has happened has happened. That can’t be retrieved. Let bygones be bygones. But, we can do one thing. We will proceed to his residence some day and fall at his feet, apologizing for your misconduct. I know him very well. He is a godly individual. I am pretty certain that he will forgive you. Without hiding anything reveal the entire incident to your madam.”
Her father left after she composed herself to some extent by her father’s assurance and solace. Still she was not able to compromise with the situation and managed her work absent mindedly with a grief stricken face as if she had lost a dear relative.
On the other hand Ananya was quite agitated and perturbed after the departure of Amitabh. Something was biting her within. Why the old man was looking so familiar to her? Someone within her was telling that he was very much precious to her and had relations with her ages after ages. Instead of addressing her as doctor why he told “Well daughter. I am an old man and in spite of ill memory, I am confident that I have not met this doctor in the recent past but I have long twenty five years association with my beloved daughter coincidentally whose name is also Ananya.” She could not concentrate on her work. Moreover she had to catch the 9.30 pm flight to Delhi to proceed to Germany and Singapore on a month long tour to attend a fellowship course and an international Dental Conference along with her only daughter, Anwesha and husband Arun. She packed for the day and entrusted her junior Dentist who would run the clinic in her absence to look after the waiting patients.
She came out of the clinic with Arun and was taken aback looking at the gloomy face of Samita, the receptionist. Seeing her boss, Samita let out a heart-rending inconsolable cry. Ananya consoled her and asked her the reason of the sorrow. With guilty, broken and grief-stricken voice she narrated the whole incident before her, "Madam; I have humiliated your father. I have demolished my own God, the protector. Certainly I don’t deserve a place even in hell. I am ready to accept any punishment from you.”
It was Ananya’s turn now. She felt as if she was thrown from the sky above. The world around her seemed vacant and nonexistent to her. She could decipher the real meaning hidden within her father’s statement on the Dental Chair. Forgetting the status between them, she embraced Samita tightly and both of them sobbed for a while to mitigate the grief of the wound caused by both of them. Arun separated the duo and consoled them. The information sheet was opened to trace his contact number or email id. Ananya could find the name of her father and late grandfather. She was well accustomed with her father’s habit of not adding the prefix “Dr” before his name unless absolutely required. Samita informed them that he had left his cell phone at his residence. Her father told that he looked deserted and heartbroken and lacked confidence to proceed to Bhubaneswar. He offered to accompany him to Bhubaneswar or he would be very much honoured if he agrees to come to their residence. But Dr. Chhotray thanked his father for his offer and politely told that he would meet his intimate college mate, take some rest in his residence and his friend will arrange to leave him at Bhubaneswar with his vehicle in the evening after dinner. All the possible means to contact her father was fruitless. They had to board the plane at night and final arrangement was yet to be made. It was found out from the case sheet that he had been allotted the follow up date at 12.15pm exactly on the first day of resuming clinic after her return from foreign tour. The flight from Singapore to Bhubaneswar via Chenai is expected at 10 pm at Bhubaneswar. There is every possibility that the flight might be delayed for few hours. So it may be practically impossible to meet her father at the dead hours of night after deplaning at Bhubaneswar. She knew the sense of punctuality of his father. He will certainly report at the designated hour for check up without fail. Samita was strictly instructed to receive her father in the most dignified way and immediately usher him to her chamber. Samita assured that she would not repeat the blunder and informed her that she and her father would be visiting Sir in the earliest opportune time for penance.
Ananya left for Germany without getting any opportunity to contact her father, never imagining that she would never meet his dear affectionate father again in her lifetime.
After dinner Amitabh took farewell from his bosom friend and reached his residence by his friend’s vehicle. The next day he transferred five hundred to the account of Sadasiba. He was now a down to ground broken creature abandoning his desire to linger his life further. He was burning within and to add salt to the injury his beloved daughter’s refusal to recognize him struck a nail on the coffin. His health worsened. He stopped all his activities, did not answer any telephone call and confined himself to his room only. Apprehending some grave things to happen the house keeper telephoned Apurba urging her to return immediately as her father’s health condition was fast worsening. Being panicked Apurba caught the next available flight to india along with Abhisek and Ahan. She reached Bhubaneswar within two days and her heart was filled with extreme sorrow. She could notice the appearance of a ray of joy on her father’s face after their arrival. But it was too late. She persuaded her father to consult the best doctors. Even she was prepared to take him to USA for sophisticated treatment. He refused vehemently. Rather he pleaded with Apurba to carry out his request thinking it to be the last wish of her ailing father. As per his wish, an advocate friend of his was called in, a will was prepared making Ananya the sole owner of the house. Both Apurba and Abhisek signed as witnesses. Two copies were prepared. One copy along with the Xerox copies of the document of the house was kept with the lawyer and the other one along with the original documents was kept with Apurba to be handed over personally to Ananya after her return to accept it to fulfill her father’s last wish. The servant, cook, gardener and the driver were given two lakh rupees each while the house keeper was given five lakhs. They were instructed to remain till Ananya took over. The balance savings were transferred to Apurba’s account and all his bank accounts were closed. He handed over the Insurance papers, fixed deposit and mutual fund documents to Apurba where she was the nominee and to hand over the papers to Ananya where she was the nominee. Having accomplished everything he told Apurba; “My dear daughter. I have not slept since long. I don’t know why I earnestly desire to day to have a sound sleep. Now when you are here to take care of me let me enjoy a peaceful sleep. Good night.” And he never returned from that unending sleep.
Apurba’s sorrow was beyond all limits. With the help of her father-in-law’s family the dead body was taken to Swargadwar at Puri for cremation. She had to perform all the last rites. She sent one black bordered condolence card to her elder sister’s clinic. All the rites were performed smoothly. Nothing was left in Bhubaneswar except handing over the documents and key of the house. She booked returned ticket on the date of resuming clinic by her elder sister. On the scheduled date she along with her husband and son reached her clinic at 10 am. But unfortunately she did not turn up till 11.30pm. Finding no way out she wrote a letter. She introduced herself as Apurba, the younger sister of Ananya, entrusted the letter and the sealed envelope containing the documents and the keys to the receptionist with a request to hand over to her boss. She told her that she could not afford more time lest they might miss the flight to USA and left for Puri.
Ananya’s flight was five hours delayed and she reached Bhubaneswar at 3 am. She took a good nap till 11 am. She had very well remembered that her father would visit the clinic at 12.15 pm. She tried to get ready to reach her clinic by 12pm and to wait in the reception lounge to receive her father personally. She was very much excited to meet her father and to beg forgiveness for the unpardonable crime she had committed. In fact she reached her clinic at 11.57 am and asked Samita whether her father had arrived. Samita cried again and handed over the black bordered condolence card and the letter from her younger sister. Going through the card Ananya felt as if the whole world was whirling before her. She lost her composure, fell upon the sofa and sat motionless. Samita sprinkled water on her face. She regained consciousness and sobbed with profound grief. With trembling hands she opened the letter from Apurba.
Dear Apa (Elder Sister),
With extreme agony I am jotting down probably the first and the last letter of my life to you. In the mean while you must have known that our dear Papa left us forever fifteen days back. It was his last desire to meet you in person, to tell you to forgive him for his sternness to you and to handover the documents and keys of the house at Kalinganagar. We are unfortunate that we could not meet you because I am to return to Puri and then catch the night flight for USA in the night. For God’s sake please accept his last gift so that his soul will remain in eternal peace in heaven. If you face any problem you can contact the advocate friend of Papa. His mobile number is mentioned in the document. God knows whether we can meet in future or not. Good bye. Stay blessed.
Apurba (Your unfortunate younger sister)
Now nothing was left for Ananya in this world. She had lost her dear father forever. Her sister had deserted her. Only she would be living a cursed life to burn within forever.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo,MD (Pediatrics) is a retired Joint Director Grade 1 of Health and Family Welfare Department of Government of Odisha and now a practicing Pediatrician at Vyasnagar, the Steel City of Odisha. Besides being an eminent Pediatrician of Odisha he is also a prolific writer in Odia. He pens down the real happenings around him and his characters are his patients, the parents and his colleagues. He has contributed a book in Odia " BABU SAHOO KALAMARU " which is an unique characterisation of human values and nature and is adored by one and all. He is also a Columnist in Health Problems and writing on different aspects of current health issues since last several years in a local monthly Newspaper " The Kalinga Nagara Bulletin". He has represented the state in several National Platforms. He has a record number of 24 Awards, Local, State and National, noteworthy being PURBANCHAL SISHU BISESANGYA SHIROMANI AWARD 2017 and MAHATMA GANDHI AWARD 1997 by Government of Odisha. He is Life member of many Organisations including Indian Medical Association, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and National Neonatology Forum. At present he is State President of both, Indian Academy of Pediatrics and Pediatrics Allergy and Applied Immunology Chapter.
It was a warm summer evening. As the waves rose to splash on the shore and recede, it sparkled in the last rays of the sunlight. Mayandi, as usual, was sitting on the raised bed of sand on the shores, with the waves washing his feet but leaving behind the particles of sand as it receded.
Mayandi was a frail old man with a wrinkled face. He had sharp piercing eyes that took in the vast expanse of the sea in front of him.
He wore a coloured lungi and a loose cotton full sleeved shirt which was rolled upto the elbows. Slowly, he rolled down the sleeve on this right hand and took out a beedi which he had saved. From his waist he drew out a match box and absent mindedly pulled out a match stick. He placed the beedi to his lips, struck the match and with effortless ease, lighted the beedi, even though there was good breeze. He deeply inhaled on the lighted beedi and let out the smoke that curled out of his lips.
He heard the rustling of the sand behind him and felt a pair of soft hands around his neck, warmly hugging him.
“Hi thatha. I have come to enjoy the evening with you”.
Mayandi put his hands across his grand daughter Chaya and affectionately caressed her head. “You are back from your office so early dear”?
“Yes thatha. I don’t intend going back to that blessed office again”.
“You mean, you have resigned your job? But tell me. Why”?
“I will explain it in detail when I join you for fishing to morrow”.
“You! Joining me for fishing? In our community women never venture into the sea. Your amma will really fume at me if you tell her.
“No thatha. Not at all. I know you are adventurous and you have also brought me up that way. You love me thatha and I know you will be able to convince my amma.
“OK. Let me try. I know for sure my little one will take a decision only after a proper evaluation”.
“Come Chaya kutty. Let us enjoy the evening sea” and Mayandi gave her a warm little hug.
“Now thatha you tell me your interesting experience in the sea in all these decades. I am never bored how many ever times you recount your stories”.
“I am the eldest of the seven siblings, being four sons and three daughters born to parents who were fisher folks for generations. My father had died when I was just into my teens. I had the responsibility of bringing up the family. Since all my life I have been at the sea side, I took to the sea with ease. My father had left behind a catamaran and other accessories, necessary for fishing. I had joined my father in fishing on many occasions and I became adept at it.
Mayandi suddenly turned quiet.
“Why thatha, just when I was eagerly waiting to hear more, you have stopped abruptly.
Mayandi gave an impish smile and said, “More of it when we go fishing to morrow”. He got up abruptly and holding Chaya fondly, he said “let’s go home for an early dinner and sleep as we have to start by 4 o’clock in the morning, before sun rise”.
After dinner, Chaya looked up at her thatha and gave him a wink with a smile.
Mayandi nodded his head in assent. He looked up at his daughter Kumudham, cleared his throat and slowly started, “Er.Chaya wants to come with me tomorrow for fishing”. And that was it.
“No. She cannot. In our family no one from the woman folk has gone for fishing. What will our neighbours speak about us?”
After heated exchanges, Mayandi was able to prevail upon Kumudham and convince her.
“Ok”, she reluctantly said. “But let this be the first and the last time”.
Chaya heaved a sigh of relief and hugged her amma and thatha with a beaming smile. All of them retired for the day.
Chaya got up very early in the morning, attended to her routine and slipped into her churidar, had a look at herself in the mirror, combed her hair, gave herself a smile and was ready for the day.
She found her thatha as usual was up and about. He was clad in a striped lungi that was folded till the knees and was neatly tucked between his loins. He had a towel across his shoulder. His hand gently moved to his waist to check if his packet of beedies and the match box were safe with him.
The previous evening itself, Mayandi had got his catamaran and the accessories consisting of the oars, the liner with the hook and the dried fish, sail, harpoon, scalpels, net and the like in place. He pushed the catamaran from the sand into the water all by himself. Since Chaya was accompanying him for fishing, he did not want his support team to go with him this morning. He halted for a few minutes near the shore, got his feet wet, looked towards the sea, closed his eyes and a silent prayer escaped his lips. He then bent down to take a palm-full of water and sprinkled it over his head and that of Chaya’s. He helped Chaya on to the catamaran, pushed it into the water and he also stretched himself to get into the catamaran. He then took the two oars and started to row. The land breeze was also favourable this morning and slowly the catamaran moved into the sea. Mayandi was totally focused to gauge the breeze, the waves and the current in the sea to plan for the navigation. Once into the sea and all was set, he relaxed a bit. The catamaran rose and fell with the flow of the waves. He raised the two oars and left them on the floor of the catamaran. He then got up to fix the sails on the catamaran.
Chaya all along watched her thatha deftly handling the catamaran and navigating it effectively with aplomb.
Once Mayandi was convinced he had his bearing right, he left the catamaran on auto pilot and relaxed. A gentle smile escaped his lips as his rough scarred hands gave Chaya a gentle hug.
“Now tell me Chaya dear,why did you quit your job all of a sudden”?
“It is not all of a sudden, thatha. This has been working on my mind for quite some time. And an opportune moment came yesterday.
“The next generation in our country, has been moving away from fishing, where the returns are dwindling and uncertain, to get educated and move to regular employment, where monthly income would be assured. We have been brought up to take pride in what we do and not be cowed down by vested interests, I had graduated as an engineer and come out with flying colours. I got my job in the company too on merit. However I found that because I belong to the fishing community, some of my colleagues in the office treated me with scorn, asking me to stand before them with folded arms and act submissively. I was sometimes given wrong directions which I could not carry out as the consequences were disastrous. Yesterday, one such incident occurred and I was belittled for no fault of mine and that was the last straw. My pride took the better of me and I put in my resignation. My superiors were taken aback and requested me to take back my resignation. But having taken a decision after much deliberation, I stuck to it”.
“Now that you are free, what are your plans”?
“Hmm. I have drawn out a whole lot of plans thatha. That is why I have joined you on the fishing trip to day. We need to change with the times. I would like to put to good use the technological advancement that is taking place around us at a rapid pace. I plan to act as a catalyst for the development and welfare of our community”.
“When you want to adapt and harness the current technology, how will you benefit by coming with me to learn about the old archaic methods that I follow”.
“Well. It would help me mainly on two counts. First I would like to know what methods are being currently followed in the fishing industry so that we could study and adopt suitable technology that would ease operations and improve productivity. We can thus reduce use of human resources wherever possible. You have always been telling me that very soon we will be out of fishing as majority of youngsters are getting educated so that they could get gainfully employed. This would result in shortage of manpower for fishing. This can be addressed by adopting technology to the fullest, wherever possible”.
“But technology is not always fail proof. If we are aware of how you had handled manually such situations earlier, we can adopt technology with more confidence. We can always switch over to manual process temporarily to tide over any eventuality”.
“I am now done thatha”. You have been patiently listening to me. At the same time you were busy in your own way. Tell me your plan for the day”.
“To day I have got the liners ready for fishing since we are not going to venture too deep into the sea. For deep sea fishing we need trawlers and fishing nets supported by a good team”.
“Liners are long plastic ropes and the thickness is dependent on the type of fish we are planning to target for the day. We tie hooks to the liners at a specific distance from each other and place dried fish as a bait for the fresh fish in the sea”.
“We old timers have been into the sea long enough to identify certain landmarks on the shore which provide us the direction we need to take to venture into the sea and also to return. Through experience, we also know where we have to drop anchor to get a crop of good fish”.
Chaya now looked across the sea and found that some fish had got hooked and were struggling to free themselves. Following her gaze, Mayandi said, “These are all small fish. We leave these in the hook to attract bigger fish”.
Chaya just smiled and said, “Why not we remove the small fish from the hook and replace them with these plastic colourful fish, which also has a bigger hook on them. These are available in the market for a price”.
Sensing her thatha’s reluctance, Chaya proceeded to attach the plastic fish she had got with her, to the liner. After some time, both of them noted more fish getting attracted towards the liner and biting the plastic fish to get hooked. Some of them were really bigger than the first catch. Mayandi let out a wry smile.
All along, Mayandi was holding tight to one end of the liner while the other end was free in the sea, while a portion of the line was still in the catamaran, to be released, if required. Suddenly Mayandi felt the liner getting taut. He realized that he has got a big catch and smiled knowingly at Chaya.
“You have made a good start Chaya. We have hooked a big catch just now. It is literally pulling me. If I am not careful, I might even fall into the sea and get dragged with it”.
“Why don’t you haul it into the catamaran, then”.
“Since it is fresh and lively, It will try hard to free itself from the hook. If I try to pull it close to the catamaran and haul it in, there is a possibility, the catamaran could capsize. What we instead do is, allow the fish to get tired and then work on it”.
After some time Mayandi started pulling the liner and arranging it in a roll in the catamaran. At the same time he told Chaya, “As I roll the liner, you remove the fish from the respective hooks and put them in the trays”. As she started on this exercise, she also saw the big fish being pulled towards the catamaran, even as it fought furiously to free itself from the hook and swim to safety. Mayandi leaned across the catamaran and took hold of the harpoon. He aimed at the gills and pushed it hard into the fish. Blood started to ooze out as the sea water turned red in patches and the fish went limp. This must weigh nothing less than 50 kgs, said Mayandi, as he hauled the fish into the catamaran. He then released it from the hook and started to roll the balance liner into the catamaran. Chaya religiously worked on releasing the fish from the hooks and placing it in the trays kept for the purpose.
Once Mayandi had rolled the liner neatly, he looked into the blood stained water. He noticed the water getting agitated. Immediately he stood up and began to remove the sails.
“Why are you removing the sails thatha. Don’t we need the breeze to take us to the shore”?
“The blood stains have attracted a shark and many more are bound to follow. If they see the shadow of the sail on the waters, all of them would move towards our catamaran, assuming it is a fish and we are doomed”.
“Oh my God”, blurted out Chaya and a shiver went up her spine.
Mayandi then started to inspect the fish. As he caressed the fish, he felt a hard lump near the gills. His face turned serious as he mumbled, “Yes, this is bound to be a bonanza”. He moved over quickly and pulled out the scalpel and started to cut open the fish. Chaya and he stood dumbfounded at what was before their eyes. Sticking out of the gills was a diamond studded gold necklace. Mayandi quickly recovered himself, lifted his right hand to the gills and slowly pulled out the blood stained chain. He washed it clean, looked at it and gave a gasp. He asked Chaya to open her palms and placed it gingerly on her hands.
Chaya looked at the chain intently for a few minutes, closed her palms, looked up at the sky and the sea as thanks giving.
“This will be my seed capital thatha to start my venture. The objective of my venture is 3i – Initiate, Innovate, Invigorate”.
“As my name suggests, I will provide hope and shade to our community in general. I will strive to ensure that we live with dignity with our heads held high. I solemnly take this pledge in the sea and I am bound to succeed with your blessings.
“Yes. I am convinced you are on the right direction. I am not able to fully relate to your venture. But my instinct tells me you will be the savior of our community. He could not hold back the tears of happiness that flowed out from his eyes.
“Shall we go back to the shore, thatha? I need to get started.”
Mayandi smiled and fondled Chaya affectionately. He took up the oars and started to row vigorously back to the shore, with a renewed strength that belied his age, as expectations soared.
S. Sundar Rajan is a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy. He is a published poet and writer. His collection of short stories in English has been translated into Tamil, Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada and Gujarati. His stories translated in Tamil have been broadcast in community radios. He is in the editorial team of three anthologies, 'Madras Hues Myriad Views, ' Green Awakenings' and ' Literary Vibes 100'. An avid photographer and nature lover, he is involved in tree planting initiatives in his neighbourhood. He lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon.
She was well known as Choudhurain of the village and people of all age groups respectfully called her Maa. But her physique did not match her title as Choudhurain, she had a frail body looking almost emaciated, her age marks prominent on her wrinkled skin. But her demeanor justified her status. With a large circular vermilion mark on forehead, two heavy gold bangles on her wrist, two traditional gold armlets called Anta and big size ear tops she looked dignified and impressive.
She was nearing seventy. Her husband Mr. Choudhury had been in civil service and held a high ranking position under central government. The title Choudhuri was bestowed upon his forefathers by British government for their loyalty and outstanding performance for the then government.
Her real name was Nalini Devi which was known to few people. She spent most of her life in the Iap of luxury. After retirement Mr.Choudhuri and Nalini Devi came to stay at their village in their ancestral house. Renovation was done for the entire house and premises, lying neglected for many years. A perfect blend of style and elegance shone from the newly designed house with strong paneled wooden doors, windows, and a splendid gate at the entrance of the huge compound. Mr. Choudhury was fond of dogs and he had one German Shepherd and one Alsatian. They were his only friends. But Nalini Devi was a completely different person. Though her gesture was domineering, in reality she was a demure lady inside. After settling down in the village, she could adjust herself to the village life so smugly that she forgot she was once the wife of a highly placed government officer. Within very short period she could win the heart of the people by her simplicity and generosity.
At this ripe age also she was as active as she was in her youth. She had a massive collection of varieties of seeds and breeds of fruits, nuts and plants brought from different places of postings of Mr. Choudhury. They were planted in the garden adjacent to her house. This was more like a mini farmhouse expanded over two acres of land which she bought after partitioning of the ancestral house. Many types of mangoes, starting from common ones to high breed types were planted. Many rare fruits like sapota, farsakoli, jamurola, cashew apple and many types of guavas added to the orchard's grandeur.They were not seen anywhere in that area except in Nalini Devi’s farmhouse. Onlookers were amazed to see the rows of pineapple shrubs arranged in geometrical fashion to enrich the beauty of the orchard. Many types of coconut trees were planted among which cylone coconut was of special attraction for its extra-large size. It was said to be a breed from Srilanka. Maa Nalini Devi would be delighted to distribute the coconuts jackfruit and amla to the villagers. Besides she had few collections of some herbal medicinal plants like pippali, tejpatta, ginger and many others, useful as instant home remedies of some ailments on which Nalini Devi had thorough knowledge.
There was a small pond at the center of the orchard and was unique in its magnificence. It was sand based, with least clay and contained crystal-clear water. The entire garden looked fresh and mesmerizing under her supervision. A small thatched house was built for a care taker for looking after the garden. She treated her plants like her own kids. Her priority was on neatness of the garden and its surrounding.
Nalini Devi had two obsessions - her garden and a morning bath in canal which was 200 to 300 meters away from her house. There she had the opportunity to join the assembly of the members of the huge Choudhury clan residing in the colony that stretched almost a kilometer from one end to other. She had the habit of getting up early in the morning and proceed to the canal to take bath. Her fascination was to chit chat with the family members and other near and dear ones, enquire about their well-being, their needs, their problems. She tried to solve them at her level. She was so much absorbed with the flow of life of the people and so involved in their happiness and sorrow that people had developed great reverence for her and called her Maa as a token of love and respect. The association was so exhilarating to her that she forgot she was the wife of a person who once held many prestigious posts in government service. The pleasure she imbibed from every body's company was intoxicating and she always found a way for joining the assembly in the pretext of taking bath in the canal.
After finishing her morning routine of puja and breakfast Maa spent most of her leisure time in the garden. It was her heart and soul. She was a giver. With the help of caretaker, she would manage to pluck tender coconut bunches and give coconut water and malai to the surrounding people. Children from the nearby school would rush at recess and stand near the gate in queue while Maa gave them juicy delicious fruits and enjoy their delightful expression.
She would sit for a long time at the bank of the pond enjoying the ecstatic beauty of the garden in solitude. It was so refreshing and rejuvenating. The blooming fruits, neat surrounding, endless chirping of birds and fishes swimming merrily were so enchanting that Maa was entranced by its serenity.
Anyone falling sick in the village would seek her assistance and Maa never hesitate to extend her helping hand. From innumerable herbs and shrubs from her mini farmhouse she would extract medicines as far as her knowledge went and used them for treating the sick. She was loved by all for her humility and kindheartedness and people were bowing down before her in gratitude.
Years passed by. Both Mr. Choudhury and Nalini Devi grew older. In the advanced stage of their life once a peculiar thought struck her mind. She wanted her mortal body to be cremated in that mini farmhouse after her death so that it would be the permanent abode for her and she would never be parted from her dearest garden even after her death. She expressed her wish before her loved ones. Though people were taken aback by her thoughts which was unusual in a real sense, they agreed to fulfill her wish at any cost. But not Mr. Choudhury, who opposed her and kept pleading with her to drop such absurd ideas from her mind. But Maa was determinant and tried to engrave her last wish in the mind of the villagers by repeatedly reminding them.
At last the time came when Nalini Devi left for her heavenly abode. All were in deep remorse at the sad demise of their dear Maa. After her death villagers urged for her cremation to be done in her farmhouse as per her last wish. Their heart was broken when Mr. Choudhury vehemently opposed it as he never wanted to convert the beautiful garden cum farmhouse to a crematory. Inspite of all attempts her last wish appeared to remain unfulfilled. After her cremation in the village crematory when her Asthi was brought, Mr. Choudhury allowed to bury it in the garden temporarily due to the fervent request of the villagers. It was secured as per Hindu rites infront of the thatched house at the root of the big jamurola tree for better identification so that it could be collected later for immersing in river Ganga. All precautionary measures were taken to preserve her Asthi from termites and insects.
Mr.Choudhuri expired two years after her death. After his first death anniversary their children wanted to take the bone remnants of their parents for immersing in river Ganga. Asthi of Mr. Choudhuri was collected with ease from their backyard where it was buried. But the remnants of Maa Nalini Devi could not be found. They tried their best to dig deeper, wider and in all directions surrounding the area where it was buried. But to their surprise they failed to get it. It had never happened before in that village. People never failed to get the bone remnants of the deceased even many years after their death. They were awestruck when they came to know about this.
People started saying that Maa had no mind to stay away from her farmhouse ever. Probably she didn't wish to get Mokhya. Even today the people of the village have a strong belief that Maa is residing in her favorite abode - her garden cum mini farmhouse - after her death. Their unending love for Maa makes them believe that her noble soul is resting there and showering her blessings on them for ever.
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.
In my varsity days, way back in 1975, I heard an enlightening talk by Dr.Krushna Prasad Mishra, on his award-winning book ‘Niagara and Devajani’ in the Vani Vihar University auditorium. I had cherished a desire to visit the famous Niagara Falls since then. In his keynote speech, in response to the felicitation and honour conferred by the University, Dr. Mishra spoke eloquently on the enchanting but fiercely beautiful – the deep blue Niagara, which had the shape of a crescent, leaping forward down her rocky bed with astounding glee into the Niagara escarpment on her serpentine way into Atlantic Ocean. Overwhelmed by the enthralling erudition of Dr. Mishra, I intensely longed to make it to the famed place. At that time, it seemed a distant dream. However, a ray of hope came when my daughter travelled to New England in the United States for her job in 2006. Again, my dormant dream whetted up when I had a chance to visit the Chitrakoot waterfalls on the Indravati River near Jagdalpur in Chatisgarh, in the year 2009. The Chitrakoot falls having a width of 980 ft and vertical dropping height of 95 ft, has been given the sobriquet ‘Mini Niagara of India’. By this time the enchanting Niagara had already cast a spell on my imagination. My cherished desire materialized in the year 2014 when we travelled to the United States as new grandparents.
On our arrival at Logan International Airport on 14thJanuary, we were greeted to the city of Boston which was under a thick blanket of snow. Consequently, we were holed up in the warmth of our cozy apartments, until snow melted around middle of March to facilitate our visit. It was a long drive of 455 miles, taking the Interstate-90 route to Buffalo on the fringe of Niagara in the last leg of winter on the third week of March. We started our journey on the interstate highway taking a short detour at Watkins Glen State Park, and Finger Lakes. It was evening by the time we arrived at our Hilton Hotel in Buffalo on the eastern end of Lake Erie, at the head of the Niagara River, and next to the Canadian border with Southern Ontario, for night halt. It was gathered that River Niagara is only 58 km in length, flowing from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario to the east and fall into Niagara escarpment and eventually going in to the Atlantic Ocean. Next morning,we had an early breakfast and drove to the Niagara State Park covering a distance of 20 miles on the Interstate 190 and crossing the American RapidsBridge to exit to the Goat Island parking lots. As we had booked entrance tickets online in advance to the Niagara State Park, we were offered a free ride in the Niagara Falls Scenic Trolley up to the visitors enter. This Scenic Trolley is an environment friendly trolley, for overview of the park with a knowledgeable guide to explore the Niagara Falls' attractions.
Niagara Falls is the collective name of the three waterfalls that straddle the international border between the State of Ontario of Canada and the State of New York of United States. They form the southern end of the Niagara Gorge. The awe-inspiring scenic beauty, the fastest moving water in rapids and vistas of Niagara Falls is unparalleled in the world. Niagara Falls (located on both sides of the Canada and United States borders) has been a popular honeymoon destination since the early nineteenth century. That romantic tradition continues today and New York state and Ontario proudly proclaim Niagara Falls the ‘Honeymoon Capital of the World’. During the early part of 20thcentury after the World War-I, tourism became popular with the introduction of automobiles in the developed world and particularly the United States and by mid-century, it was the area’s main industry. Theodosia Burr Alston, daughter of the third Vice President Aaron Burr and her husband Joseph Alston were the first recorded couple to honeymoon there in 1801. Napoleon Bonaparte’s brother Jerome Bonaparte visited with his bride Catharina in early 19th century. After the American civil war (1861-65), the New York Central Rail Road publicized Niagara Falls as a focus of pleasure and honeymoon visits.
One of the world’s greatest natural wonders, Niagara is America’s largest waterfall, which is shared by both Canada and U.S.A., throwing 1.5 million gallons of water off 173-foot ridge of the fall every second of every day, and leaving viewers awestruck. There are about 500 higher waterfalls in the world than Niagara, but the huge volume of water discharged from Lake Erie, its origin formed by the perennial source -Wisconsin Glaciers, keeps the fastest moving Niagara waterfalls at the top of the list. One of the most majestic wonders of the world, the namesake of Niagara is a must see. Home to the American Falls, Bridal Veil Falls and Horseshoe Falls, this is a once in a lifetime experience for the umpteen number of visitors drawn from far and near, across the world.
After enjoying the free scenic trolley ride from the parking at Goat Island, we got off at the visitor center and joined the queue to experience the adventurous cruise in the powerful churning waters under the Falls during the Maid of the Mist boat ride. We were ushered into the Observation Tower High - speed elevator provide access to the gorge and boarding area for Maid of the Mist cruise. This 230-foot overlook provides the only U.S. location to photograph both the American and Horseshoe Falls. Tourists enjoy the jaw-dropping views of the international Rainbow Bridge and Whirlpool Rapids Bridge from this Observation Tower. Before boarding the cruise, we put on the poncho supplied to keep us dry during the boat ride near the base of waterfalls shrouded with water mist. The Bridal Veil is the smallest falls among the three falls. The Bridal Veil fall is in the U.S side located right to the American falls separated by Luna Island. The Goat Island in the Canadian side separates it from the Horseshoe Falls. This water fall looks like a bridal veil due to the mist formed by waterfalls which usually blows sideways creating a bridal veil like appearance and thus the name bridal veil.
We were thrilled to enjoy the incredible boat ride that took us close and parallel with the falls located through the Niagara Falls state park. We were overwhelmed to observe the beauties in diversity from the roaring power of nature to the adventure waiting beyond the falls. The adventurous boat ride was the height of the awe-inspiring thrills and opportunity to explore the roar of the falls. Niagara Falls undoubtedly presents the best of the destination.
The Cave of the Winds, a wooden elevator, which takes the visitors across the falls, is a popular tourist attraction. The journey behind the falls on slippery steps on the wooden ladder descending into the depths of the Bridal Veil Falls, 175ft, into the crashing water and wind, is a very challenging job. We braved the tour up to the Hurricane Deck and experienced tropical storm conditions for our free poncho and sandals. The Cave of the Winds was an old natural cave which was closed due to rock fall in 1954. Now Cave of Winds, used as a tunnel, attracts visitors to go close to the base of Bridal Veil Falls. After a sensational and thrilling Maid of the Mist boat ride in the Niagara River gorge, we came back to the top of the observation tower by the high - speed elevator to overlook the U.S, and Canadian locations, the International Rainbow Bridge at a stone's throw to the east for our memorable photo shoots. As it was about lunch time, we took our lunch in an Indian home style hotel run by a Canadian Punjabi family.
Our final leg of Niagara visit culminated with a visit to Niagara Falls Aquarium in the afternoon. Niagara Falls Aquarium has been around since 1960’s. Home to more than 1500 aquatic animals that represent ecosystems from the Great Lakes to coral reefs. We experienced great feelings for the exciting exhibits featuring fresh and sea dwelling fish, invertebrates, Humboldt Penguins and marine mammals. Admittedly it is a perfect addition to an amazing experience for the visitors.
Our tryst with the enchantress Niagara came to an end as we embarked on our return trip utterly thrilled and hoping to repeat it once again. Admittedly, it’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting. It happened in my case when we revisited the captivating Niagara in 2017 to refresh our memory.
For over a century, Niagara Falls State Park has played host to visitors who have come from all over the World to watch water and gravity which inspires and amazes. Niagara Falls had been an all time cherished destination for holidaymakers, honeymooners and nature lovers. The experience is by far the most memorable ever – largely because of enhanced access to the history, geology and beauty of this special place. Perhaps, the advertised, much talked about tourist destination, variedly described by the bemused onlookers and visitors at the vastness of the falls and its rapids in travelogues after a mesmeric visit to the Niagara Falls State Park enchants the world. Admittedly, this state park occupies the top slot of the itinerary of the visitors drawn from all over the world. The surge of migratory parents of the expat software professionals, from the tropical regions, have become a seasonal phenomenon like the migration of Siberianavian flocks to warmer water bodies of the Indian subcontinent, like Chilika Lake, for nesting during the winter months.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
‘Shit has hit the ceiling,’ Natarajan Nambiar thought to himself. Before him was fresh copy of Deccan Tribune. On the top page, there was an article on shambolic gallantry award for encounter with Naxalites at Kodachadri Hills in Manglore forest.
The paper wrote clearly that police officers who didn’t participate in the encounter, who were staff officers and were attending parties in Banglore around the time the encounter took place have been awarded with gallantry award. The advantage of a gallantry award is it immediately differentiated an IPS officer from the motley crowd of other police officers. Police was a system gallantry was hardly rampant, rather it was a rarity. It also gave life time free railway pass and constantly to work at home, where gallantry was anything but rampant. Despite twisting moustaches everyone know most police men were busy politically navigating or running political agenda. It also gave life time free railway pass and two constables, a driver and steno to work at home for all time to come. Superannuation hardly made any difference for a decorated officer.
His name as Addl. DG of Intelligence was recommended for the gallantry award and was accepted by the Government. He had received hundreds of congratulatory messages and a thousand hundred odd telephone calls. He had received the messages politely and just brushed it aside as nothing great. Modestly he had explained it away as that it was a function of being at the right place and a professional stroke of good luck. He came out as a very self-effacing, modest and low key person. A personality which he had carefully groomed.
“Now the press would start digging it.” He thought every day the paper will carry something about it. His reputation so assiduously cultivated would be smeared. But he won’t give up so easily. He was laying out a battle plan for the days ahead.
What was bothering him was who would have given the tip-off to the Press. The article is so elaborate on details, pointing guns at plausible people unmistakably. Undoubtedly an insider’s job. But who was the insider who would have done it.
“That Saurav Kumar, who is a batchmate but a competitor must have something do with it.” He thought how the bonhomie of the batch amazingly acquires the rancid taste of competition as time passes and climb to the pyramid top becomes closer. Everyone wants to keep his powder dry before the final launch of assault for DGP’s selection.
‘But he is so suave to get directly involved.’ “There must be someone else.”
He racked his brain. Somehow it stopped with his deputy Chari. A completely lackluster officer whom he just about tolerated because his penmanship.
There is no law which Chari didn’t know when it came to himself not doing a job. The second part is honesty which he wore on the sleeve. It was his ammunition for not doing anything or rather avoiding doing any sensible work which is immediately required. When some work which breached legality on the table, he became Human Rights advocate. If Human Rights issues are discussed he used to become a super cop, making short work of rules and law. But to be fair to Natarajan he had recommended Chari’s name for the gallantry award too. But the DGP cut off the name as inappropriate for a person who spends so much time in Putaparthi. ‘Chari can’t hold it against me’. He mused. If he was not taken into the Intelligence wing, no one would have touched him with a barge pole. He only gave him a life line of respectability. Otherwise, he would have been posted in Logistics or something. Then finally the face of the crime reporter Anant Krishna who has got the by-line in the front page came up.
“The scorpion. Behaves so obsequiously, praises you on the face and writing such piece indicting a person shows his duplicity.” He thought “well he should be taken care of.”
“If at all anyone deserved the gallantry award if was me.” He thought to himself. He was the one who has strategized the anti-naxal operation, collected inputs from his sources. Shared them and made sure things happened.
“Only a gallantry award. A small thing for hours of hand work. Even people can’t tolerate that. Strange is the way of life.” He thought philosophically. This was something which was stuck in his throat like worm in a hook. He could not extricate it, nor point an accusing finger at others. Around the same time Chari was reading Deccan Herald.” He was smiling to himself. He ordered for another cup of black tea which the orderly brought.
“It was robbery in the broad day light. People holding staff position are claiming gallantry award. Gone are the principles. At least, people will be careful now rather than hijacking the system with impunity.” He thought.
“All the five naxals were arrested earlier and were in Black Cat office for 7 days, before they were taken to Kodachadri forest on the way to Mookambika temple and shot dead in cold blood,” he thought pursuing the thread.
“Are they sympathizers or real naxalites? That is question which always dogged Chari. A list is always drawn up with names which are aliases. No one gets to know the people, name and some people are arrested and brought in. They fill in the aliases lower down. Names are incorporated into aliases before they are exterminated. Mostly it happens for the lower down aliases for whom no photographs is available.
This time around their photographs were available. These guys were somewhere in the middle. They were caught with their weapons.
“At least 5 people killed this time are not innocent informers or sympathizers.” He felt his guilt of complicity is washed away this time.
“Nambiar is good guy. Professional and kind. He also is not stingy about the huge secret fund which he handled.” He thought Nambiar used to distribute his secret fund among his men and officers liberally. Even Chari had received Rs. 50,000/- the previous month.
“He is better than many who in the name of economy, try to appropriate most money for themselves.”
“But how could he commit such a blunder. Leaving his finger print when he knew it can be traced.” Chari bemused.
“Exactly at the same time of encounter, Nambiar was in a party in Banglore. I was in the same party too, so was the DGP. So it was known to DGP. How can a staff officer, who was present in a party in view of so many claim that he was part of the encounter in a place 350 kms. away? Ambition, I guess. The weakness for medals and perks.”
“This is the way guys get medals and become like Christmas trees. Nambiar has become the highest decorated officer. Any medal, you can think of. But all of them are for meritorious service or distinguished services, not for gallantry.”
But Chari knew they would suspect him. It is important that he conducts himself carefully so that the antenna would not be up.
The DGP read the news too. “Government has already approved the award and now this news has come out. This means trouble. Several questions will be asked.” He thought.
“Now the question is how a staff officer participated in an encounter 350 kms. away at the same time when he was attending a party where I was present.” His thought continued.
“The smoking gun makes it untenable. It is the reverse of alibi. It cannot be denied. How do we course correct?” He was thinking.
Of course the good part of it was deniability. This list came to the DGP from Addl. DG (Intelligence) so it was easy to shake off any personal complicity. It was quite a different matter that the DGP himself had suggested to Nambiar to include latter’s name.
“Well, these things happen. Important thing is the deniability and the ability to change the narrative. It can be fixed.” The DGP thought to himself.” He had a smile inside him.
Between 10 AM and 10.30 AM, three people entered the Chief Office. Two were thoughtful and a little stressed out and one looked his usual self, or at least tried to look.
Nambiar got a call from the DGP to go to his office room. DGP was very effusive to begin with and ordered for coffee. As expected he broached the subject after a while.
“These newspaper fellows have created a shindy”, the DGP broke the news which was known to everyone who read the morning papers that day.
“Yes, Sir.” Just then coffee arrived.
“No one deserved the award more than you. Last ten years who has strategized Black cat as much as you have done? Of course, there is an IG there. But the leadership matter and you have provided that.” DGP said.
“Nambiar, there is a problem but some insider has squealed the information that you were in a party in Banglore. Where I was also present at the time of the encounter and that is sticky,” the DGP continued.
“Yes, Sir. I just put my name in because you suggested.” Nambiar added.
“Yes. That’s my view. You deserve it the most. But given the mismatch of place, it is better to back out. Otherwise, this murky news reporting will go on for a while. I suggest you write to me a letter dated one month back when the Government cleared the file. You write that it would be inappropriate for a staff officer to receive the award and as the Chief you feel that it should go to someone junior. It was your call of duty and you are proud to contribute in the effort of quelling naxal movement.” DGP added.
“I would reveal that I have received the letter from you a month back and send it to the Government. People will talk about it in the department and you wil become a legend. When you come up for promotion to DGP, people will know that here is a man who cares for his juniors.” He continued.
“But Sir, this newspapers will write”, Nambiar said.
“No, when the fire is taken away, smoke dies. The smoke will die down sooner than you think.” I suspect some people’s connivance,” Nambiar added. “Yes, yes mark those people. A snake must be killed completely. Never leave a snake half dead”, was the thoughtful reply of the DGP.
That afternoon, Nambiar handed over the backdated letter to the DGP. Things settled down. The file was closed in the head office. The shorthand for the file became ‘Missing Encounter Man”.
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
On my way back to home while traversing through my picnic route, yes, that's how I name the Chandaka jungle route, shrill calls from 3 village urchins made me screech my car to a halt. They were selling these neem buds in bunches. We Indians and especially Odias do not leave any part of a plant and churn out some delicacy out of it unless and otherwise it is a poisonous plant.
Out of curiosity when asked my friends about a recipe of neem buds, not one or two but 5 different recipes popped up. Bingo! I made two out of them in two instalments. These budding neem flowers in this season are not just for titillating the taste buds but have their scientific significance as well. Known for their bitterness, it actually emanates a typical smell, for which many are mad after it.
In Odia it is said that "bujha na bujha padha GitA, ruchu na ruchu khaa pitA"-- whether you understand or not should read the Bhagwat GitA; slowly you may understand its meaning some or other day and would know its benefit. Similarly, whether you relish or not some bitter should be taken in meals, be it neem or bitter gourd and you'll be benefitted anyway.
If we study epidemiology, trend of diseases, January to March-April is the time for different viral epidemics. Earlier they created similar havoc as we are seeing now in Corona pandemic, in the society and were named as "Mahamaaris" i.e. killing many people at a certain period in good numbers. It was so much correlated with seasons that Small pox was named as "Basanta", the spring season. Hence these viral outbreaks are nothing new for us. Also this is the time period for chicken pox, measles epidemics. There are so many non-specific mild viral infections too that even Medical Science doesn’t bother to probe on as they make minor impact on life. And this is the time for budding season of neem. Soft leaves and buds and flowers of neem is consumed in many different ways in Odisha and also used as treatment, not sure about other states though.
But we had many means to tackle the situations. I clearly remember in my childhood when my elder siblings were affected by chicken pox or measles (I used to get away with subclinical infection, mild infection), my mother used to put neem leaves underneath bed sheet, give them bath with neem and haldi paste/water and gave simple food. We never heard of any anti-viral drugs or antibiotics coming to rescue of common people.
It is well-known fact that neem (Azadirachta indica) is an integral part of our life in India; a very good antiseptic, immunogenic, anthelmintic and now its anti-cancer property, detoxifying property etc are also being studied. Below are links to few research papers across the globe. Cutting long story short, Neem's preventive and therapeutic role is being re-established.
Neem is just one plant product that I mentioned here. With the advent of allopathic medicine and its immediate effect especially in relieving pain, it made us gradually forget our old values and practices. Some superstitions also devalued different practices and they were altogether rejected by the next generation who obtained modern education. A lack of research in Ayurveda also played a role.
People have started thinking they can buy health as long as they have good healthcare systems...but actually it has to be realised that hospitals are just like garages, they can rectify your problems, but can't give you perfect health. Unless until one disciplines his/her life, obeys food principles, doesn't nurture spiritual being, health is a far-cry for them.
This Corona lock-down might have brought a realisation that if we wish, we won't fall ill...with strong auto-suggestion we can prevent diseases even, otherwise how are we managing without hospitals in this lock-down period!
Hospitals are still operating, patients are coming, but the ones who really need help...of course digitalization has made many things easier and health professionals more accessible. But even then we must be careful about preventing diseases rather than getting treated in good healthcare set-ups.
Discussion will continue on recent advances on medicinal effects of Turmeric, herbal holi, different nutritional facts....
Till then bitter-sweet bye.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor in Biochemistry at KIMS, Bhubaneswar who has done some original research on different edible oils and also has done her PhD on Obesity in young adults. She is basically a doctor who specialises in Medical Biochemistry and her arena of research is metabolic diseases, nutrition and cancer.
Life is a teacher. Enriching experiences on the journey give a sense of fulfillment.
During my early childhood, I had wonderful feline experience in our quarter in CBI colony, Bhubaneswar. There was a huge backyard that had stretched towards the colony’s playground where regular sports activities like football, volley ball and cricket were part of regular games.
There was a cow-shed attached to our quarter on back side. Organic cow milk from the domestic cows was a daily blessing. There were few cats living inside the cow-shed. They used to live on food from our house and immediate neighborhood. During daytime they used to roam in our backyard and adjoining areas, retreating to the shed in the night. Overall cows and cats living on the backyard used to give a sense of complete and healthy ecosystem.
Cats were having a comfortable living in the shed and well protected from predators and harsh weather conditions. When there is a fish item in our food menu, they were the happiest and used to savor with ultimate satisfaction. Their chirps, meows and purrs would be at the peak creating a vibe of special occasion in the house.
Behind the cowshed there was a large neem tree offering shade to part of the backyard. An elder brother of mine used to sit there enjoying oxygen-rich open area with plants and trees spreading on a large patch of the backyard. Cats used to pass by him without any fear. He used to smile at them, enjoy their nimble activities and continual melodious meows.
One sunny day brought forth an unusual occurrence. My brother was sitting on a wooden chair in the backyard. Mentally and physically challenged since birth, he has the attitude like a one-year old child. Given an opportunity, he never likes to miss any chance for mischievous activities under his purview. A beautiful cat was standing beside him. With a roguish smile he looked at it. Slowly he stretched out his hand, picked rear half of its tail and lifted the cat up in the air. The cat was screaming helplessly, trying hard and making rotational movements for escape from firm clutches of my brother. As a primary school boy I was feeling powerless. No wonder I was afraid of any possible harm to the cat and brother thinking how I could help in that situation. It could not bite him because it was unable to move up. It was also difficult to release brother’s strong grip to rescue the cat. The screaming cat was almost a feet above the ground for few minutes. Then brother suddenly released his clasp and the cat ran away from him in desperate fear.
Those few minutes left me aghast and dumbfounded. Later I burst into laughter and was relieved that both the cat and my brother were left unharmed. Also the entire episode had brought forth immense dismay and wonders when I shared this later with the people around me.
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
Hetoni Petoni Bouncy!!,mommy Koli Koli(calling),where are you?I just can't find him anywhere inside the house, hope the entrance door is locked (i thought to myself),or else the other pets in the neighborhood are going to be mighty scared of him.Our search continues and finally i decided to open the washroom door and check and to my utmost horror,i found him hiding under the sink which is neatly placed on top of the granite slab.
What happened hatun?why you hiding here, what's been bothering you?we couldn't understand at first, what could have scared him so much,as he looked at me petrified.
After giving it a deep thought,i realised, Rahul had been pretty disturbed after his father was put in isolation due to COVID,all that I could explain to him was, he's running fever and so is sleeping, rest was beyond his comprehension.He was displaying wierd behaviours such as jumping across the swing which is in the main hall and this would result in an eerie creaking sound which was definitely not pleasant to the ears.I immediately put the fan in full speed and closed the bedroom door, this helped reduce the sound to quite an extent,in fact it was hardly audible much to our relief,but the incident warned us for the future.
Next morning, when I wake up, I'm unable to trace the man of the house ????, with Husky standing outside his door looking perplexed with an expression of disbelief on his face.
As i walked out of my room,i noticed the guest room was locked from inside, Rahul as usual was pestering me to pick up the TV remote and play his favourite song.
I could hear him sneezing and coughing,he came out of the room and muttered.... I'm running high fever, think it's covid.I missed a heart beat, Rahul too was running mild fever just two days ago,he stopped eating one full day completely,he would usually get a bout of fever during change of seasons, and i thought it so, during these entire two years i never succeded in masking him,it was a task next to impossible.
Climate has been wierd with winter rains,in mumbai you will never find a drop of rain apart from the monsoon months."Hatun come inside and sleep, now don't tell me it's snowing outside in the balcony.!!"i know its the perfect weather for you, but you need to stay indoors.,even though Papu is not playing with you, you know he needs rest, you can do solitary play meanwhile.
My entire routine had changed overnight,i double masked myself and instructed the helper too.We pumped up our vitamin c dosages to stay well protected.I had to stay safe in order to look after the three boys well.Gargling and steaming was a major activity for the day, apart from hand sanitising as instructed by the doctor.(i thought lucky are those who enjoy washing the dishes)
Hushkoo was bewildered and wondered why he was only visiting the washroom and then rushing back into his room,a table for serving food was placed outside his room,why he stopped playing with him,his saddness brought tears to my eyes.Probably there is a waterfall in the washroom,he never allows me though,wondered Hushkoo,who loves to wet himself, given the slightest opportunity.
Hushkoo:::::"Mommy what's that sound you making in the washroom?"
Mommy:::::"Hatun mommy needs to gargle to kill the virus."
Hushkoo::::: Hope mommy will be ok,her birthday is round the corner,i want to see her cutting the cake, after all she works so hard for all of us.,she barely has time for herself"!woofh!! woofh!!
Mommy:::: Hatun, I'm not sure if you can go for Zaras (another husky) birthday party this time,we all need to stay indoors and maintain Social Distancing.
Hushkoo:::::""Goodness Gracious!! Omicron has come!! Omicron has come!!
"Oh My ???? Crown!!Oh My Crown!! ????
So far all of us are safe, it's God's way of showering His Blessings----Miracles do happen, only if you believe in them.
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
A LEAF FROM HISTORY : LETTERS FROM A FATHER TO A SON
Letters from a Father to His Daughter is widely known as letters written by Jawaharlal Nehru to his daughter Indira Nehru. These letters were sent in the summer of 1928 when Indira was 10 years old. It is said to be originally published in 1929 by Allahabad Law Journal Press at Nehru's request. It consisted of only 30 letters. A second edition was arranged by the author in 1931. Subsequently, it has gone through so many reprints and editions.
The letters are admired by many as educative pieces, seeking to explain how the world came to be as it is. At the time of the writing of the letters, Nehru was in Allahabad, while Indira was in Mussoorie. Though original letters written by Nehru were in English, these have been translated into many other languages in course of time .The famous Hindi novelist Munshi Premchand had translated it into Hindi under the name Pita Ke Patra Putri Ke Naam. In 2018 Cuba published an amplified new edition to mark the 100th anniversary of the correspondence between Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira Gandhi. In that edition, 5 other letters were published.
While these letters cover everything from the Big Bang to the ancient civilizations to the rise of the division of labor and trade, we also see here a foundation of moral values for peace, justice, respect for those different from us, and immeasurable, indiscriminate kindness, as commented by some.
But the letters we are speaking of here are no less important though written in a different land, in different context and time with a different focus, by a father to his son – Mohan Das Karam Chand Gandhi to his his son Manilal- which have their perennial practical value. Here we get glimpses of the Mahatma, how human he was in nature, feeling for children as other human beings have, yet so humane in approach and forward looking . These letters speak for themselves; one may say these are self-explanatory. These may sound normative, ‘do’s and ‘don’t’s , but these are the alternatives—way of thinking and living- Gandhi is known for.
Volumes have been written on the Mahatma and are still being written, He has also written volumes – in terms of letters – answering questions and queries from every nook and corner of the world. But here we talk of his own communication with his alter ego – his other son, his other self. Again these were also many, but some excerpts are given below which are indicative of the man and his vision-his perception and perspectives. Could these become guides for our youth today? Will there be takers?
Mahatma Gandhi wrote a letter to Manilal on dated 27 September 1909 - "You got nervous at the question, 'What are you going to do?' If I were to answer on your behalf, I would say that you are going to do your duty. Your present duty is to serve your parents, to study as much as you can get the opportunity to do and to work in the fields. You need not worry about the future; your parents are doing that for you. You will take it upon yourself when they will be no more. You must be definite on this point at least that you are not going to practice law or medicine. We are poor and want to remain so. Money is required only for maintenance. He who works with his hands and feet gets his livelihood. Our mission is to elevate Phoenix; for through it we can find our soul and serve our country. Be sure that I am always thinking of you. The true occupation of man is to build his character. It is not quite necessary to learn something special for earning one’s livelihood. He who does not leave the path of morality never starves, and is not afraid if such a contingency arises.
Give up all worry; do whatever study you can there. While writing this I feel like meeting and embracing you; and tears come to my eyes as I am unable to do that. Be sure that Bapu will not be cruel to you. Whatever I do, I do it because I think it to be in your interest. You will never come to grief, for you are doing service to others."
In another letter dated 24 November 1909 Mahatma Gandhi wrote: "It was good you asked the question about Phoenix. First of all, we shall have to consider how we can realize the self and how serve our country. After we do this, we can explain what Phoenix is. For realizing the self, the first essential thing is to cultivate a strong moral sense. Morality means the acquisition of virtues such as fearlessness, truth, celibacy and so on. Service is automatically rendered to the country in this process of cultivating morality.
Phoenix is of great help in this process. I believe that it is very difficult to preserve morality in cities where people live in congestion and there are many temptations. That is why the wise have recommended solitary places like Phoenix. Experience is the real school. The experience you have had in Phoenix you could not have got elsewhere. Thoughts about realizing the self, again, could only occur to you there. The very fact that you have asked me such a profound question when you are a mere child shows your merit. The credit of your having been able to nurse Mr. West and others also goes to Phoenix. As most of the people in Phoenix are just beginners, you may find faults all round you. They may be there. Phoenix is not perfect but we wish it to become so."
In a letter dated 3 February 1914 Gandhiji had written to Manilal: “I have had two letters from you. I am also sorry I had no talk with you. No doubt, I was very much hurt that you ate chillies. It is possible that you will not feel the effects just now. But never forget that tamasic food cannot but have an evil effect. I am sure it will do you good in future if you discipline your senses.
I can see, there has been no spiritual gain to you through your experience of jail. You have great need to cultivate thoughtfulness. It is a rare gain to have come into contact with Mr. Andrews. I should like you to take the fullest advantage of the occasion by preserving the utmost purity. So far, Mr. Andrews has expressed himself perfectly satisfied about you.
Keep an account of every pie you spend. Have no shame about doing any work for Mr. Andrews. You may even massage his calves. Having done so once myself, I know that he probably finds it agreeable. Polish his shoes and tie up the laces. You must not forget to write to me every day. Maintain a diary of meetings with all persons and the developments from day to day."
One letter dated 4 March 1914 reads: “I have your letter. You ought not to have hidden from me the fact that you lost the tin of water. Just think how much care I take even in regard to such things and take a lesson from it. But that lesson you will take only if you lay open your heart before me. You will not be able to learn anything so long as you try to hide your mistakes from me, even for a moment. Be sure that hiding or secrecy is a form of untruth, which is like poison in the system. A poison turns other healthy substances also into poison. Even a grain of arsenic is enough to render milk unfit for drinking. Insist on getting up at 4 a.m. always. If it is very cold, sit in the house, cover yourself liberally but do get up early. You may go to bed as early as you like; I do not mind that.
As regards food, you may have three meals a day if you feel the necessity. You need not control yourself in the matter of taking food. It is enough if you observe some rules regarding the articles of food. Ba is somewhat better today; but still the crisis is not over. She is bed-ridden."
In one that is dated 19 March 1914 Gandhiji says, “I hope it was after careful thought that you made the changes in diet you have done. See that whatever you do is not done in a hurry to be given up afterwards, and remembered merely as a dream. Some of it at least must endure for the whole of your life. You have introduced so big a change that you may perhaps find yourself in the same state you were in at the end of chaturmas. There is only one way to guard oneself against excessive eating, viz., to serve out the full quantity for oneself in advance and put away the utensils containing the rest before sitting down for the meal. Ba is all right."
A letter to Manilal dated 28 May 1914 reads, “I have your letter. While you express your regret, you say in the selfsame letter that on that very day you had forgotten to serve so important an item as the vegetable. You say it was left out, without explaining how it happened. Who is to blame? Why did you entrust the task to anyone else? You should have yourself carried the vegetable you had lovingly cooked. You may as well take a lesson from this. There is no need to be sorry for what is past and over, but it is important that one should learn something from it. While there, learn from its reference to the publication of the Indians’ Relief Bill, which took place on Thursday, May 28, it is evident that the letter was written the same day.
Remain devoted to your duty and cultivate self-discipline. This cannot be achieved, however, unless one thinks. Have regard for everyone there, think of the good qualities in others, rather than their weaknesses, and be mindful of your own shortcomings. Instead of gossiping away your time, keep thinking. A single moment wasted is so much [time] lost from one’s life and so much stolen from God. Understand this and use every moment well. See that your body becomes tough.
The Bill has been published and is likely to come up next week. One does not know, though. There has been no meeting yet with General Smuts."
It may not be out of place to mention that Manilal Gandhi’s birth was in India, but his Karma Bhoomi was in South Africa. Born on 28 October 1892 in Rajkot, he was the second son of Kasturba and Mohandas Gandhi. Manilal first came to South Africa in early 1897 with his other three brothers when Gandhi's family joined him in Durban.
Mahatma Gandhiji did not believe in formal education. Manilal's schooling therefore took place at home. The senior Gandhi had two Ashram’s in South Africa - Phoenix Settlement (founded in 1904) and Tolstoy Farm (founded in 1910).These were important training centres and experimental schools. Manilal was one of the first experimental pupils at Phoenix.
Trained by Gandhiji, Manilal Gandhi , in 1910, then just seventeen years old, joined the satyagraha struggle in South Africa .He fought for not only just the Indians, but all non-whites who were struggling to improve their lives and secure their rights . Between 1910 and 1913 Manilal served four prison sentences. As a champion of human rights, Manilal Gandhi is a revered name in South African history in its anti-Apartheid struggle. Former South African President Nelson Mandela had commented that Manilal’s “gentle demeanour seemed the personification of non-violence”.
,
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore
She is neither Gandhari of the Mahabharata nor a citizen of the present day Bharat i.e. India. She has no proof of her identity. She may be an unknown person living in Mumbai deserving help from humanity. Her beauty, gentle behavior, sweet voice as well as her sincerity and dedication to duty were her identity.
One idle afternoon, while roaming in Mumbai, I came to a salon. A lady was waiting for customers therein. Her smiling lips were calling me and my long hair was also waiting for a cut. I went inside and sat on a chair in her cabin. She covered my body from shoulder to foot with a cloth. Her slim and soft fingers massaged my head and hair on it. She sought my permission - 'Sir, may I cut your long hair ?'
For some time now, Corona restrictions had closed the salons. My hair was wild and was badly in need of trimming. Without any delay, I agreed for a haircut.
Her scissors were waiting for the work. She went on cutting my hair. Of course, the skill of her fingers and scissors were amazing. Lest I would be bored, she was singing a song. Though it was sweet to my ears, but difficult for my mind to understand. I listened to it. But I could not comprehend. However, it was soothing to my heart, though sorrowful. I asked her - 'Don't you know Hindi songs ?'
She - 'No.'
Me - 'Are you not a Hindustani ?'
She -'No.'
Me - 'Are you a Pakistani or an extremist ?'
She - 'No.'
Me - 'Do you have any identity ?'
She - 'No.'
Me -'I think - except 'no', you have nothing to say. Have you come from a foreign country ?'
She - 'Yes.'
Me - 'Do you have anyone - whom you may call your own ?'
She said sorrowfully - 'None.'
I looked at her face. It was gloomy. She was on the verge of tears. But she was busy trimming my hair. I felt pity on her. I had never come across such a lady in my lifetime. Curiosity was arousing in me. The softcornor in my heart for her was impatient. I was eager to know about her.
I asked her - 'How did you come to Mumbai ?'
She - 'I do not know exactly. However, I reached here by flight.'
Me -'Do you have a passport and visa?'
She -'No.'
Me -'You don't know the legal complications you may face here. You may be arrested and imprisoned.'
She kept quiet. She was not unnerved and kept on trimming my hair. My falling hair was not making any noise. Calmness was prevailing.
Breaking the silence, She began the story of her life in a choked voice - 'Indian prison is far better than that hell. We had no freedom. Atrocities were suffocating us. Our lives were suffering. Bomb blasts were thundering. Hunger was killing us. We were trying to leave our native place. But there was no way out. The extremists were not leaving us. We were running to save our lives from their bombs and bullets. The roads, streets and Kabul Airport were crowded by people trying to leave the country. We were running to save our lives. No one was knowing - who were killed and whose lives would be finished when, where and how. We were coming nearer to Kabul Airport which was under the protection of American soldiers. But alas ! To my utter misfortune, my parents were shot dead in front of me for true and dissident journalism. I was a hapless and helpless spectator to my parents assassination.Their dying words were: 'Gandhari ! Escape to Hindustan.'
The situation was so grim and ferocious that I did not know how to save myself and my baby. An American soldier extended his helping hand to us. I handed over my son to him in Kabul Airport. As per my request and his generosity - he boarded me on a flight. My son was crying while leaving me. The mother in me was weeping for the separation from her child. But my only consolation was - my son's life would be saved at least.
The unknown soldier was saying - 'Gandhari ! Me and my military special training and skill will protect your son at any cost. Be assured - None can kill your child. Have faith in me. Go ahead. The flight is waiting for you. Save your life first.'
I ran and rushed into the American airplane. My flight took off. I was lost in the unending blue sky. Then what happened, I don't know - how I crossed the international borders, the deserted land, the high seas, the landmass. My aims and aspirations died in the endless sky. Everything went into oblivion.
And at last, I found myself in the International Airport, Mumbai. Hearing my plight, a kind-hearted security personnel helped me get out of the airport. While leaving the place, I heard him saying to me - 'Gandhari ! You will be one among the tens of thousands of refugees coming from Tibet, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Afghanistan, Balochistan, etc and you will be lost in them. One miserable woman will make no difference to the 130 crore Indian population. Why shall I kill my humanity ?'
Now, I have nothing to lose except my body. I have already lost my son, my parents, my native land - Kandahar in Afghanistan.
My dying father was calling me Gandhari so as to forget my Afghan name and Afghanistan. Once he was telling me - the erstwhile Gandhar was a part of undivided Bharat and people of Gandhar were called Gandhari. The story of Bharat was described in the Mahabharata. Do you know - Panini, Chanakya, Takshsila, Gandhar School of Art - whom India boasts for - belonged to the Kingdom of Gandhar once upon a time. Now that great land is the grooming ground of extremists. We are lamenting on our glorious past. Our civilization, culture, art and architecture, and wisdom are crumbling in the midst of extremism. People are begging for life, food and shelter.
Taliban barbarism made me barber at last by killing the journalist in me.
Now, I am at your disposal. You may arrest me and keep me in your Indian prison.
Of course, I am not your Gandhari of the Mahabharata, but a refugee from Kandahar, Afghanistan (erstwhile Gandhar) living in Mumbai seeking mercy for Indian asylum and cutting your hair for my livelihood.'
Gandhari's scissors were not cutting my hair, but her melancholic story was piercing into my heart.
Thank you Gandhari.
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.
MY FAMOUS DAD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Last Sunday evening, my husband Jayant and I were having coffee at the Sarina’s in Philipsburg, Pennsylvania. We came across a lovely story in a magazine at the restaurant. It is about an old American couple – Richard and Jenny, in their eighties. It seems Jenny suddenly started behaving in an odd manner – forgetting things, misplacing objects and walking out of the house to nowhere. They went to the doctor, who diagnosed the problem as Alzheimer. When it became acute, Richard had to admit her to an old age home for better attention.
One day Richard got severe toothache and called up the dentist for an appointment. He was asked if seven-thirty next morning will be suitable. Richard agreed, but requested the dentist to let him go at eight-thirty. He had to visit the dentist for four consecutive days. He would get up promptly at eight-thirty and leave. On the fourth day the dentist couldn’t contain his curiosity, “Richard, why are you in such tearing hurry to leave at eight-thirty? Where do you go?”
Richard explained to him about Jenny’s Alzheimer. Ever since she has been admitted in the old age home, Richard goes to visit her at nine in the morning every day with her favorite breakfast of waffles and honey. They sit together, he talks to her and makes sure she eats her full breakfast. He holds her hands, looks into her eyes and like the old days whispers endearments to her.
The dentist was surprised, “But Richard, you say, she has forgotten everything. Does she know who you are?” Richard smiled and said, “Doctor, she may not know who I am, but I know who she is. Jenny is my high school sweetheart, a part of my life for the past seventy years. Every moment spent with her is precious to me, glowing with the memory of bliss and fulfillment we have found in each other.”
The story had touched our heart. Everyone has seen young people in love. But old couples? It is rare to see such intimacy and devotion. We have been brought up in the American society which believes in unfettered independence. Often in a family dad has a separate bank account, mom has hers; each has an independent professional life, and guards his or her space with fierce zeal. Sometimes they fight with each other and live separately. A messy divorce, each goes his or her way. The son stays with dad; the mom takes care of the daughter. Dad starts dating a new girl, mom dates a new man. There are new marriages, new partners, damn the kids. It may sound incredible in India, but it does happen in many American families. My colleagues in the university ask me how I have stayed married to the same person for twenty years. Don’t I feel bored and stale? I tell them I have no time for boredom. Our son Tanmay (Tanny for his friends) and daughter Anamika (Ania in her school) keep us busy.
We have learnt from my parents how to take care of kids. As a child I often used to get sick. If I had fever, mom would stay up for the whole night, sitting by my side. Dad would come and ask her to go and sleep, offering to sit by my bed. Mom would say, “No, you sleep, you have to deliver a lecture tomorrow. Mine is a standing job in the lab, I will manage.” Her eyes swollen with lack of sleep, she would get ready in the morning, make lunch for us and leave for the lab. Dad would come home immediately after his lecture, to be near me. More than the medicine, their loving care would make me all right. They would heave a sigh of relief.
My brother Milan and I are really lucky to have parents who have never quarreled in their life. They are unbelievably sweet to us and to each other. Let alone fight, we have never seen them raise their voice against each other. On their fiftieth wedding anniversary, they were so sweet to each other at the evening party that their friends teased them saying, “Newly married couple?” Mom blushed a bright pink and Dad beamed with pleasure.
Dad had never met Mom before their marriage, but their parents were classmates and, while in college, they had pledged to accept each other’s children into the family in marriage. Dad gave respect to his father’s words and agreed to marry mom. She was in Carnegie Mellon University at the time, doing her MS in Chemistry; Dad was at Penn State for his Ph.D. in Molecular Engineering. Mom was an exceptionally sweet person, soft-spoken, ever-smiling and kind to everyone. Dad was extremely brilliant, with a razor-sharp mind, but mild-mannered, polite to everyone and utterly devoted to research.
Penn State has a tradition of not employing its students as Assistant Professor, but Dad’s professor and research guide convinced the Dean to make an exception in his case. Dad was popular as a teacher and diligent as a researcher, getting millions of dollars of research grant. Every time he got a big offer from another University, Penn State would raise his salary and induce him to stay. In due course, people at Penn State came to accept that there were two constants in Penn State, JoPa, the football coach and Jay (short for Jaydeb) Mishra, the Professor of Molecular Engineering.
By the age of fifty, dad had become an internationally recognized scholar of eminence, counted among the best five in the world in his field. In fact, his friends used to say that if he was in MIT or Stanford he would have got the Nobel. Dad laughs hearing all this and says, how can he ever leave Penn State? She is like a mother to him, adopting him as a son when he came there at the age of twenty-two, and nurturing him to a position of eminence. Can anyone abandon his mother, even for a Nobel?
State College is a real beauty, a small university town of about forty thousand students when the semesters are on. Week days are lively, students rushing from class to class, chatting, chirping like busy birds, their bright faces glowing with excitement, hopes, aspirations and dreams. The weekends are quieter.
Every season comes with a charm of its own. The fall season makes the town unbelievably beautiful, with leaves on the trees turning into a riot of colors. It is difficult to say if it is the setting sun or the colors of the leaves that sets the evening sky aglow.
At the end of the Fall, comes a lovely snowy evening gingerly tiptoeing in like a white angel against a yellowish brown sky. In the morning one wakes up to see a white blanket covering roofs, treetops and the demure hills surrounding the beautiful town. White globes of snow on the street-side poles stand proudly like nature’s flag posts. And the absolutely breath-taking feeling of getting showered with snow-flakes, like being blessed by white fairies! Nothing can beat that in the world.
Spring comes marching with a wink here, a smile there, when winter is in the process of bidding a quiet goodbye. The best thing about spring is the way leaves sprout on the trees all of a sudden. One gets up in the morning to a pleasant surprise and marvels how the barren treetops suddenly became green overnight! An absolutely fantastic piece of magic! One is lost in the joy of living, with picnics in the park, frolicking in the springs outside the town and relishing the sweet fragrance of romance in the air.
And in summer, amidst bright sunshine one can go to the Amish market to revel in rural beauty or to Bellefonte, the cute little town eleven miles away, with its majestic municipal building, the lovely town square and the small pond at the centre with swans swimming proudly displaying their impeccable whiteness. Looking at this picture-postcard of exquisite beauty, one is left to wonder if life imitates art or art imitates life.
For the past year or two, Dad has been showing signs of forgetfulness with the early onset of Alzheimer. He would forget what time of the day it is, or when he had his last meal. He would repeatedly ask for food with the insistence of a child. Mom would be amused but would try to humor him. Sometimes Dad would fail to recognize my kids and think they were his students. He would ask Tanmay, “So Danny, when are you going to defend your thesis?”- or ask Anamika, “Debbie, is your stem cell paper out in the journal?”. The children would laugh and gently remind him who they are, and he would be embarrassed. Often we would be having lunch, Dad’s head would slowly bend and he would go off to sleep.
These days, he often talks about his school days in Cuttack, his home town back in India, remembering his friends, and episodes involving them, which bring sweet memories to him. And it’s quite a sight to find him humming old, wonderful, melancholic songs in Oriya, his eyes closed and a blissful smile making his cute, clean-shaven face look amazingly bright.
At times, he would be talking to mom and suddenly his eyes would be fixed on her face. Mom would realize that he has forgotten her name. She would gently remind him and he would look cute with embarrassment.
Dad and Mom go for an evening walk everyday, holding hands. People passing by would greet them, ‘Hi Jay’, ‘Hi Nellie’ (my mom’s name is Neelima, every one calls her Nellie). Dad would nod his head, beaming with pleasure, although he would hardly remember anyone’s name. A lifetime’s devotion to his profession has earned him many friends and a lot of goodwill. He loves to be remembered and recognized.
After so many greetings, nods and smiles Dad would get carried away and like a small boy freeing himself from his mother, he will take away his hand from Mom’s and start walking fast. Mom would follow him, smiling indulgently. He would stop, after a few steps and look back bewildered. Mom would catch up with him, lovingly touch his face and ask him to slow down. Dad would break into an embarrassing smile. Then they would hold hands again and walk together.
Of late Dad has started wetting his trousers once in a while. When we suggest to Mom that she should buy some adult’s diapers for him, she gets upset, “What are you saying? How can I ask him to wear diapers? Let him live with dignity!” She washes all his clothes without a murmur. We have never found her complaining about anything in life, and she refuses to do that even now, even if she has to manage Dad entirely on her own.
Jayant and I live in the same town as Mom and Dad. And we have asked them so many times to move in with us. But Mom refuses, she wants to manage her home as long as she is able to do so. I remind her of my childhood, when Dad would often take me out for a walk in Maple Drive, where we had a cute little house till we moved to Waupelani Circle. He would tease me saying, “Now I am taking you for a walk, when I get old, you will hold my hand and take me for a walk.” Mom would gently remind him, “She will have her own kids, when will she have time for us?” I would get angry and tell them, “I won’t marry and I will have no kids. You two will always be with me.” Today they refuse to leave their home and live with me or my brother Milan who has bought a beautiful house in Maine and often pleads with them to relocate there.
I often visit my parents. During the weekend I spend the afternoons there. After Dad goes to sleep, Mom and I sip ginger-laced tea, Dad’s favorite drink, and chat for hours. Mom loves to reminisce about the old days, longingly remembering Cuttack, her and Dad’s home town where she grew up as a child and did her schooling.
I am also intensely nostalgic about Cuttack. When my grand parents were alive, we used to visit the place every year. After they passed away, we have not been to India. Dad and mom have no siblings and there is no other family link. Our grand parents used to pour all their love on me and Milan, feeding us with the juiciest mangoes, jackfruit, berries and all kinds of sweets. Sandesh, rasgollas and chhenapoda were our favorites. The fridge would be filled with varieties of fish, goat meat, crabmeat and shrimps.
We would march to the movie halls in the evenings to watch action-packed Hindi movies, or mushy, romantic Oriya block-busters on the giant screens. On the way back we would visit the lassiwala’s shop to savor the divine taste of the yogurt drink. Milan and I have never ever got so much pleasure from eating, like in those fun-filled days of annual sojourns to India when the grandparents used to treat us like a little prince and a charming princess! We ruled over their hearts with an authority born out of sheer love.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
A week back, Mom had gone with Dad to the Weis supermarket for groceries. These days she is afraid to leave him alone at home. When she was collecting the grocery items, Dad, like an unruly child, would be picking a packet here, a bottle there and putting them in the shopping cart. In US, the old are forgiven for everything. Mom wanted to indulge him, deciding to discard the unnecessary items at the payment counter. When she finished the purchases, she stopped at the counter and started arranging the items for payment. Quietly Dad slipped out of her attention and she suddenly found him near the exit. She wanted to call out and stop him, but thought that in a few minutes she would be out and take him to the car. When she finished payment, came out of the store and looked for him, her heart sank. Dad was not to be seen. She was shocked, where had he gone? In just five minutes, how did he disappear?
Mom ran with the grocery bags, started the car and went round the parking lot, hoping to catch Dad in some corner, behind a van, or near a telephone booth at the far end of the building. Not finding him anywhere, she panicked. It was a cold November evening. In another half an hour it would get dark. Where did he go, in just five minutes? She felt like crying, blaming herself for letting him out of her sight. She called me over phone and also informed the police.
I reached the parking lot of Weis in seven minutes flat, found Mom leaning on the car, sobbing. There were four police cars flashing their red and blue lights. The police had got the details from her. One cop came home with me to get a photograph of Dad. In a few minutes, an announcement was flashed in the local TV channels and the radio about the missing professor. Police kept scouring the area. Half a mile from the Weis store, there are thick forest areas. In case Dad has strayed into those areas it would be impossible to find him. I called Jayant who works in Altoona and he immediately left office. Many of our friends came over and joined the search.
Mom was speechless. She kept on blaming herself. We took her home and left her with some friends and returned to Weis market. The entire Penn State was in shock. People started wondering if something really serious has happened to Dr. Jay. It was clear that he was in trouble; he might have fallen into a ditch or possibly met with an accident.
The police used searchlight to look for him in the forests but found no trace of him. By eight-thirty in the evening they gave up the search. Mom was inconsolable, so were many friends, particularly some of Dad’s former colleagues. We gathered at the Weis parking lot and then everyone came to my parent’s home in Waupelani circle, deciding to wait, hoping against hope, that there will be some positive news.
Meanwhile, John Tavern, a young police officer was making enquiries at some of the hotels and lodges, half a mile from Weis. Around eight forty five, he entered the Eastern Court and showed Dad’s photograph to Beth, the girl at the desk and asked her if she had seen the man. She nodded and pointed to the lobby. John missed a heart beat. He went to the old man on the sofa watching American football from Chicago on the TV screen mounted on the wall. Lo and behold, Dr. Jay Mishra, the famous scientist of Penn State, once upon a time a potential Nobel winner, was engrossed in the match between the Chicago Bears and the Pittsburg Steelers and clapping like a child in excitement.
John came back to Beth and asked her how long he has been there. She replied, “For the last four hours! I thought he was a guest of the hotel. I offered him some coffee, he waved me away, saying, ‘don’t disturb me, teresting game, let me enjoy’.”
John went to Dad and said “Jay”
Dad looked up with a questioning look.
“Jay, let’s go home.”
Dad was annoyed, “Why don’t you leave me alone? I want to watch the game. Go away!”
John realized that Dad won’t budge. He came out of the hotel and saw my friend Ruchi Bhatia outside. She was also looking for Dad.
John saw the Indian lady, went to her, “Ma’m, do you know Dr. Jay?”
“Yes, I am looking for him. Do you have any news?”
“Please come in. He is here at the Eastern Court”.
Ruchi ran to the lobby, and seeing Dad, gasped in joy.
“Uncle! Jay Uncle, Namaskar!”
Dad understood the ‘Uncle’ part and from the ‘Namaskar’ knew that she is Indian and probably known to him. He is supposed to know her name but didn’t have the foggiest idea who she was! He gave her an apologetic smile and went back to the football game.
“Uncle, come with me, let’s go home!”
Dad showed his annoyance.
“Home? What home? Why is everyone after me to go home? I live here. This is my home.”
Dad gave a sweeping glance around the lobby and beyond, as if to tell her, ‘look how beautiful my home is!’
Ruchi looked at John Tavern. He shook his head to express his helplessness. Suddenly Ruchi had a brilliant idea.
“Uncle, Nellie! Nellie is waiting for you. Let’s go.”
Dad sat up, as if struck by a bolt!
“Nellie, where is Nellie? Nellie is waiting for me? Come, let’s go.”
Ruchi drove him home, where more than two dozen friends, relatives and well-wishers were waiting for him in breathless anxiety. Dad looked at the cars parked outside and entered the hallway. Seeing so many people, his face beamed with pleasure. Next moment he switched on an apologetic smile and with the mischievous gleam of a child caught stealing a cookie from a jar, he announced,
“Oh, how nice! Nellie is having another party! Sorry gentlemen, got delayed in the department. Had another defense. Come on, let’s enjoy the party!”
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.
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