Literary Vibes - Edition CXV (25-Mar-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

Title : Meditation (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the 115th edition of LiteraryVibes. We have some wonderful poems and intersting stories to offer you. Hope you will enjoy them. This time we are lucky to have with us a new poet, the young and talented Monika from Chennai, who writes absolutely brilliant poetry. She aspires to scale great literary heights and let's give her our very best wishes. We look forward to publishing more of her poems in our future editions.

As I write these lines, the mind is disturbed by the distant gunfire in Ukraine, falling bodies, ruined cities, houses, parks, monuments, churches, buildings reduced to rubble, skyline darkened with thick smoke and the horror of horrors, the threat of a nuclear devastation and possibly a Third World War staring at the face of a hapless mankind. One wonders how human beings degenerate into cruel monsters in this age of advanced civilisation, how men kill with impunity, how families are destroyed and humanity is trampled under ruthless feet.

During my official assignments I have seen many tragedies. The trauma of getting uprooted from one's home is probably the worst. The feeling of helplessness is one of the haunting fears I have carried in my heart ever since a cold winter evening in December 1977, when travelling by bus from Lucknow to Gorakhpur I got stranded on the wayside with the rickety bus breaking down. We had to spend a severely cold night shivering, without food and trembling with the prospect of getting robbed by heartless marauders. I can imagine a thousandfold trauma in a people whose only crime is their citizenship of a country which has incurred the wrath of a super power like Russia. The heart-wrenching photographs of soldiers taking leave from their children, kissing them goodbye, images of dead bodies piling up, unknown warriors gasping for their last breath on deserted roads and fields, have moved the world to tears, but left the invaders unmoved.

Recently I read an article giving the geo-political rationale for Russia's invasion of Ukraine. My immediate thought was, yeah, go and tell it to the small girl who lost her father, the young woman who would never see her husband again, or the old couple who have to bear the trauma of seeing their young ones die. I am reminded of a poignant poem by Charles Sorley, a British Army Officer and Scottish War Poet who had fought in the First World War and was killed in action during the Battle of Loos in October 1915. This last poem of the poet was recovered from his kit after his death.

WHEN YOU SEE MILLIONS OF THE MOUTHLESS DEAD

Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley

When you see millions of the mouthless dead

Across your dreams in pale battalions go,

Say not soft things as other men have said,

That you’ll remember. For you need not so.

Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know

It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?

Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.

Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.

Say only this, ‘They are dead.’ Then add thereto,

‘Yet many a better one has died before.’

Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.

Great death has made all his for evermore

I am also tempted to reproduce a couple of my own poems on the senselessness of war. My apologies to those who have already read them on the pages of LiteraryVibes earlier:

THE LAST JOURNEY

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

When you go home Buddy,

from this war field of Afghanistan,

this pool of blood and torn flesh,

tell my folks I am on my last journey,

not knowing why I started it in the first place,

whose war I was fighting, for whom I am dying.

Tell my Mom

I am carrying the sweet smell of her pancakes with me,

and the memory of my schoolbag,

the shoestrings she lovingly used to tie

before putting me in the school bus.

My Dad,

his endless trips to the mall with me,

the ice cream, pizzas and the movies.

My sister, the elder one,

I am carrying the broken mirrors of a thousand pranks,

tell her I always knew where she hid my crayons

I just wanted to make her happy pretending not to know,

To the younger one,

what can I give her except renewing a promise

that I will be there smiling in the crowd on her prom night,

clapping my heart out in my formless shadow.

And to my Sweetheart,

yes, to my sweetheart,

tell her I am carrying with me

all her whispers, the soft sighs

and the selfless surrender of her heart,

her being and her consciousness.

As life sips out of me drip by drip.

I wish she knew how heavy I feel in my short foot steps

carrying the sweet loads of her memory

on this journey,

my last journey.

SCARS

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

After this war is over

I shall go back to my mother's grave

and ask her,

why she brought me

into this grim battlefield,

this dust, the grime and the ruins.

Did she ever see this

desolate terrain

where flowers get crunched

under heavy feet and heavier boots,

the stones get a life

to smash a thousand heads

and lives turn to stones,

felled by unknown bullets.

Did my mother ever see

in her mind's eyes

the thousand scars I would carry

from lost battles

on my delicate body,

copious tears making

a feeble attempt

to wash away the blood

from numerous wounds.

Yet I will survive

and visit her grave

to tell her

all the sorrowful tales,

of us, the men and women

she fostered on her ample bosom,

only to fight among ourselves

and carry our own scars to our lonely tombs.

At LiteraryVibes let's pray that sanity returns to the crazy people who have launched the war and world breathes in peace again.

Hope you will enjoy the offerings in this 115th edition of LiteraryVibes. Please share it with your friends and contacts. The links are:

http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/428 (Poems, short stories and anecdotes)

http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/427 (Young magic).

There are also three interesting articles by the prolific Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/425 and http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/426

Take care and keep smiling. We will meet again on the 29th April.

With warm regards

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

A HAPPY AND PROUD MOMENT FOR LITERARY VIBES

IT WAS EXACTLY ONE YEAR BACK THE 100TH EDITION OF LITERARY VIBES WAS LAUNCHED.

Dear friends,

Two Collections of Short Stories of mine have just been published 1.The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali 2. A Train to Kolkata.

In November 2021 my wife and I tested positive for Covid19 and spent a week in hospital. Desperate to read a book at the hospital, I pledged to God that if I returned safe, I would convert all my short stories and poems into collections and make them accessible to as many readers as possible. The above two books are the beginning of a series of books I propose to publish.

I am a self-publisher and I have promised to myself that whatever number of copies I publish, half of it I will donate to hospitals, senior citizens' homes, public libraries and educational institutions. I have made a calculation that if I can sell the other fifty percent of the copies I will be able to break even, which will help me to publish more of my books. (I have more than 120 short stories and around twenty novellas written by me, mostly after my retirement, when I took to literature full time.)

I will be grateful if you could do the following:

If you like to read short stories, do buy a copy of my two books. Each book contains 15 stories and is priced at Rs. 225. As an introductory offer I offer them at 200 rupees each. The postage will be borne by me. You may make the payment through Google Pay at 9930739537
Please bear in mind, every book you buy, you will help me to donate a book to a deserving institution.
After you read the books, if you like them please recommend them to your friends and contacts. Let us bust the myth that short stories have no takers. Let us immortalise literature by sharing it with all those who love to read.
Please send me the names and contact details of some good hospitals, senior citizens' homes, public libraries and educational institutions where I can donate the books. Do keep in mind that the books are in English and the institutions should have the patronage of some readers who will relish them.
If you like my stories, please let me know the name of any good translator who can translate these stories into the local language. He/she, however, has to arrange a local publisher for publishing the book. So please suggest writers who are well known and already have arrangement with publishers.
You may share my contact details with those who want to order the books from me: mrutyunjays@gmail.com or 9930739537
Last but not the least, send your blessings and good wishes my way. Please remember that I am embarking on this wonderful journey, banking on the help and support of the readers. Together let us serve literature and celebrate life.

With warm regards

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Editor, LiteraryVibes

Table of Contents :: POEMS

01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
LONGING -1
02) Haraprasad Das
JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKHRISTA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
EGO DIETING
EGOSURFING
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE PLACE OF SLEEP
05) Ajay Upadhyaya
HARMONY
06) Sreekumar K
THE INTRUDERS
07) Abani Udgata
A DEATH SOMEWHERE
08) Repetend - Collaborative poem (8 Authors)
CLAMOURING CLOUDS!
09) Repetend - Collaborative poem (7 Authors)
SURGING SEA
10) K. Monika
SHE, THE RELENTLESS JOURNEY
SUMMER O SUMMER
11) Madhumathi. H
MEETING A PEARL, ON THE SHORE...
12) Sharanya Bee
APPRECIATION
13) Bichitra Kumar Behura
LOVE GROWS YOUNGER
14) Hema Ravi
MORNING AT THE MARSH
15) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
MY REFLECTION
16) Sheila Chacko Kallivayalil
SPRING AWAKENING
17) Dr. S. Padmapriya
MY PEOPLE, BE STRONG
18) Setaluri Padmavathi
COLOURFUL CLOUDS
19) Snehaprava Das
LETS WAIT FOR THE ANGELS
ONE DAY, HE MAY
20) Ravi Ranganathan
VISION
21) Asha Raj Gopakumar
FRUITFUL YOUR DREAMS
22) Sheena Rath
SPRING
23) Alexandra Psaropoulou
FLYING
24)Kabyatara Kar
VOLATILE LOVE
25) Sukanya.V. Kunju
BIRTH AND DEATH
26) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE SONGS LEFT BEHIND

Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
YEDU’S BEGGAR UNCLE
02) Chinmayee Barik
INTO THE DARK NIGHT
03) Meena Mishra
THE HAIRY TALE
04) Satya Narayan Mohanty
SIN-MOBILE
05) Ishwar Pati
JAGANNATH AT LARGE
06) Radharani Nanda
THE DEBT
07) Maj Antony Thomas
THE RAM GANGA DUCKS
08) Sundar Rajan
DRAUPADI
09) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY - SRI AUROBINDO
10) Gourang Charan Roul
AN EDUCATIONAL TRIP TO WASHINGTON, D.C.
11) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
HAPPY WOMEN'S DAY!
12) Ranjana Chowdhary
SUPER-HIT MUQUABLA’S - MADHU BALA SPECIAL
13) Ashok Kumar Ray
MAA GANGA IS CRYING
14) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WAADEY........

BOOK REVIEW

01) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI AND OTHER STORIES
A TRAIN TO KOLKATA

Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC

01) Trishna Sahoo.
HOLI
02) Mrinalini Mallick
STARS
03) Ritika Pradhan
HOW WONDERFUL IS THE NATURE

LONGING -1

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

The ripples rise to die,

this flesh nubile and live,

full of yearning would shrivel

into lethargic limbo, this breath...

Stop a minute my galloping heart,

rest a while, even death is welcome,

but leaving my partner on the wayside

is hell's fire and brimstone; this life...

The water waits calmly for the thirsty,

half its own thirst would go quiet

to see the ripples rise in giving a drink,

the other half would continue...

What I am yearning for might be

yearning for me somewhere, but

that is here in me, as I feel there

to be, a part of the whole, the grain of...

When I have spoken all, written

to the last ink mark, sung the last note,

or danced to the last beat, I would dip

my soul in tears, my liquid pleasure of...

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.

JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKHRISTA)

Haraprasad Das

(Translated by – Prabhanjan K. Mishra)

Where are you, little one?

I sense your footfalls

in the wind’s rustle

across our bereft courtyard.

Be happy, my child,

wherever you are.

Let my conscience,

that moved heaven and earth

to recover from you the cost

of my few drops of blood,

carry the burden of that cross

a while more, penance for my blunder.

I dream of the day

I may pass the litmus test

to stand neck to neck

with your moral benchmark.

You would be the chosen one, I know,

for the Lord’s Holy Shroud,

even if the history would lay Him

differently in His immortal coffin.

Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.

He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”

EGO DIETING

Dilip Mohapatra

Have you looked into the mirror

of late

and cared to see

how your head has swollen

out of proportion

how your quenchless desires

have snowballed

and your boundless doubts

have doubled and tripled?

How your envy anger

and arrogance

have spread like a cancer

and how your five senses

have sprung wings

to fly away any time?

Do you still crave to see

yourself on page three?

Do you still wait for the invite

for a TV interview?

Do you still demand

a red carpet

and someone to hold

the umbrella for you?

Do you still look for your name

somewhere in the front row

in an exclusive film preview

and do you still love

the cameras flashing around you

as you are ushered in?

A book dedicated to you

or perhaps a monument

in your honour?

Haven't you been basking

in borrowed light

all these years

and don't all things that you

call as your own

belong to someone else?

You are neither a concept

nor a form

you are not the result

nor the reason

you are not free

neither are you in bondage

you are simply

a reluctant recluse

an eternal bliss.

EGOSURFING

Dilip Mohapatra

As I stand in front

of the cyber magic mirror

trying to figure out

my outlines and contours

my profile emerges

and takes shape

as the world sees me

describes me

and defines me.

I discover

the online tattoos

that are engraved

on my skin

by others' attestations

and testimonials

which perhaps remove

my blind spots to some extent

sometimes making me

wonder if this is

what I really am

and if this is what

I really stand for.

As I follow

my own digital footprints

on the virtual wilderness

wary of the identity thieves

lurking in dark corners

I play Dumb Charade

with myself

while trading off

my safety for

others' opinions.

Let me assure you

it's not pure vanity

nor my self promotion

that eggs me on

to go on

but my attempt is

rather serendipitous

just to throw a little more light

on my blurred image

and I am not

the evil antagonist

of the tale of Snow White.

Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.

THE PLACE OF SLEEP

Bibhu Padhi

These days it gives back

the years of a slow decay,

even as night deepens into

itself over minutes and hours—

a circle of dark concentration

that ends here, at these

fingertips, these eyes and lips.

Lying here for a long while

to know if what I want is there

somewhere, within this closed-up dark,

I long to be where sleep stands

and waits, like a virgin princess

who has been looking for her lover

over the years, ready to take him in

when he arrives, and then end

the long fairy tale of waiting and sleep.

I rise from my place, looking around

find myself far within a dark

and smoky distance of place,

smelling of the years—

a familiar smell of dampness

and night, slowly stains my skin

with its own complacency.

Every attempt to escape ends here,

in the middle of the night, when

others are deep in sleep, perhaps

dreaming of the self-righteous call

of early morning birds, rousing

everyone out of their lengthy sleep.

Minute details show themselves up—

the smells within smells, the eyelids

straining under the dark, the as yet

unlocated modes of lying down to sleep.

I wait, watch every detail fall to its place,

hear the night-birds cry their last

worn-out cry, the first sun forthcoming—

its light subdued, its voice vague and thin.

A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.

HARMONY

Ajay Upadhyaya

(This photograph from one of my daily walks is a part of the poem; it provided the inspiration for the words.)

The setting sun

rests in cloud’s lap,

waiting for the day’s

fatigue to drain,

and whispers:

Let me renew my jaded spirit, take a nap,

get up refreshed for

welcoming the dawn,

eager to end the long night.

Sleep a while, sweetheart,

coos into the Sun’s ears,

the blushing cloud;

Let your colours seep into

my grey contours.

Nobody would give me a second look,

until you come into my bosom.

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.

THE INTRUDERS

Sreekumar K

Thought I heard their footsteps

Pulled down my skirt

In time to hide my thighs

No time to hide myself

Hardly a house

Hardly a door

Hardly a latch

Hardly did they knock

A full lollipop

For a fistful of silence

Hunger just got pleased

A peacock struts

On my young mother's old sari

Thinly blocking the window

And a storm waits

Outside that window

A tear on my skirt gapes

I sob through its mouth

They gave a new school uniform

Just in case, to dry my tears

They tasted the candy stain

Left on my lips

Unconscious, I lay

Silently, I screamed

What a strange way to swing

What a strange swing

what a swing

swinging

The sky said, “Cry out!”

The wind said, “Shout for help!”

It’s a kitchen

Not a fort

Blue sky.

Moon, a pale sliver

Many such on my inner thighs

SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

YEDU’S BEGGAR UNCLE

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

“Ust a mit Yeu”, the little boy heard his beggar uncle calling him aloud from behind. It was the loud indecipherable voice of a person whose tongue would not take his command. But the child deciphered it clearly as ‘Just a minute, Yedu.’ He, Yedu, stopped on his track, and turned to retrace his steps to reach the bearded, shabbily dressed old man sitting on the grass by the footpath. The man was a beggar, a begging bowl of discolored steel placed before him with a few coins and five and ten-rupee notes bore his beggar-identity.

The old beggar sat on a gunny sack spread like a rug under him and two bags lay by his side, one quite big containing almost his entire household belongings and a small bag, he used for begging. Both the bags had slings to carry them on shoulders. Whenever he went begging around the area, he carried both his bags on his shoulders, and left his gunny-rug, pressed to the ground at corners and middle with brick pieces, so, it would not be blown away by the wind. It was to reserve his ownership to the begging place that had also competitors to grab in his absence.

Yedu flashed a toothy smile in response to the beggar’s usual sad smile that was slowly breaking into a happy expression to receive Yedu. The beggar uncle calling him or talking to him was not unusual to the child. They were almost friends even with the age difference. The beggar by his unkempt look appeared to be in his sixties and Yedu, a student of Standard Two, was all of eight years. The beggar, Yedu considered, was one among his most favorite uncles.

Looking at the begging bowl, Yedu laughingly congratulated his beggar uncle, “Bah, good income so early in the morning!” The old man gave him a mischievous wink, “Nah, I have put them there. A trick of the trade, you know. I am learning a little more of this game every day, my Yedu.” Yedu squealed with delight, thinking, “Ah, the simple and plain beggar uncle is getting smatter!”

Yedu got attracted to the old beggar like a piece of nickel to a magnet. The fact was known to and was frowned upon by all in Yedu’s colony. Yedu now stood before the old beggar who was putting his hand into his big sling bag, searching for something. The bag that contained almost all his worldly possessions, his money out of begging, a few changes of clothes, and essential accessories for living like soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, medicines and other bits and ends.

He pulled out a small wrap of old newspaper that divulged a samosa. He hesitated over it, possibly thinking – “A samosa saved from yesterday’s begging in a shabby packet won’t suit my little Yedu. It may upset his stomach.” Visibly he shook his head to himself, wrapped it back, and put it inside for his lunch.

He then pulled out another wrap revealing an apple, pink-red, and succulent looking. He smelled it and his head moved in a gesture of approval, – “yes, fit for a prince, our little Yedu.” He blew air from his lips over it, rubbed the fruit with his palms and fingers to remove invisible dust. He was not satisfied.

He took his water bottle, washed his hands first, then washed the apple and gave it to Yedu. He gave it wet, without drying the fruit with his little towel he used for rubbing his hands and sweating face. It could make the fruit dirty again. Yedu took the apple with great joy and put his teeth into it immediately, taking a big bite and chewing happily, “Yummy. It is very good, beggar uncle.” He invited his uncle to take a bite from the other end of the fruit.

The beggar, now basking in the pleasure of Yedu enjoying the fruit, smiled and said, “No Yedu, it's all yours. I have many here.” He indicated by finger at his big sling-bag. Yedu knew, the beggar uncle was lying, there was no apple there, but he also knew, these little lies often kept big people happy if their little ones believed in those lies. He had learnt from his mother, Sumitra, that those lies had other names - ‘innocent lies, timid lies.’

He agreed with his beggar uncle, “Yes, you must eat at least one like this, very yummy.” He danced away to school, preening in his happiness over the innocent and timid lies of his beggar uncle as a sparrow would bathe happily in dust.

Yatharth Singh, the brilliant boy of Standard Two, was addressed as Yedu out of affection by his near and dear ones including a few of his teachers and the parents of many of his classmates. There was, however, this socially unacceptable exception, the beggar, who had given him an apple minutes ago. The beggar also addressed him as ‘Yedu’.

That early November morning, braced up by the slight chill in the air, Yedu had danced in his steps. He hummed a tune that his mother had been singing that morning ‘Suhana Safar Aur Yeh Mausam Haseen…’ he had overheard her when she had been preparing their breakfast and packing the lunch, for him and herself. He guessed, last night after he went to bed, his mother might have had a whispering session of sweet nothings with his father posted at Manipur. So, she had her rare buoyant mood that morning.

The beggar sat and begged on Yedu’s short walk from home to school. Yedu used to meet him on almost all weekday mornings at that spot around nine-thirty. Yedu’s colony in a suburb of Patna city consisted of high-ranking Government Officers of Income Tax Department. His mother taught in a different school, other than the school where Yedu studied. It was because of ethical reasons entirely.

Yedu was a bright student. Her mother was afraid that his shining career might be tarnished by the eclipse of blame-game of nepotism if she taught in Yedu’s school. But even after her taking the inconvenience and precaution of going to a different school than her son’s where she taught earlier, the neighborly tongues had not stopped wagging altogether.

Some gossip-loving mothers from her neighborhood would whisper within Sumitra’s earshot, “So, what? Being a teacher there earlier, she might have friends in Yedu’s school, and knowing question papers in advance and influencing the marking of exam-papers were not out of her reach. It would all be revealed in the Board Exam at her son’s Tenth Standard, unless, of course, she had connections there too.”

Yedu’s mother would burn a fuse while ruing, “What a logic! ‘Head I lose and tail you win’. O’ God, these gossips are double edged knives!” But she knew, it was a pastime for most women there, rich to poor, the educated to the illiterates. They pleasure themselves with cheap gossips, often malicious, even harmful at times. In a small city like Patna, tongues wag easily and they wag more easily for a young mother like Sumitra, staying away from her husband for family’s finances and job compulsions.

Yedu’s mother felt secure and safe in the government quarters inside the officers’ colony, in spite of those mildly acidic atmosphere of her neighborhood. It was better to be jeered for their poverty because of her husband’s impractical uprightness in his so called lucrative department, than unsavory catcalls by unknown teenagers, or moralizing remarks from men and women she could face if she had lived in a colony of unknown neighborhood.

Yedu calling a beggar as ‘beggar uncle’ had rankled with his mother initially, “Why shouldn’t my lad address the beggar simply as ‘Uncle’? Why to prefix it by an insulting term like ‘Beggar’?” But she held her tongue before being such a liberal thinker.

She and her son might be considered as too elitist in their neighborhood for that little act of politeness. Such little refined behavior would make them too visible. All her neighbors already resented Yedu’s liking for the old and dirty beggar who came every afternoon to beg around their colony and none would like if Yedu called him ‘uncle’ or treat him as an equal to any of his other neighboring ‘uncles’.

Sumitra with pains had noticed the colony people shouting at the poor fellow floating like a lost ghost along their colony lanes to collect his living form the alms, the small handouts of cooked food, fruits, rejected clothes etc. The colony people would call him aloud when he would be walking away forlorn, “O, hello Bhikhari (beggar), come here, take this.”

She had also noticed the silent hostility towards the feeble beggar when in a few occasions her son Yedu yelled out to the beggar, “Uncle, come here and take this”. Another thing Sumitra observed with interest. To Yedu’s loud call of ‘uncle’, the beggar would look around for an ‘uncle figure’ but when he would find none and catch Yedu’s signalling hand, he would know that he was the ‘uncle’, Yedu had called out to.

Then perhaps, Yedu got the right drift by instinct, that a child would automatically learn. He started addressing the beggar as ‘beggar uncle’. The prefix ‘beggar’ to ‘uncle’, like a magical word, removed the doubts from the minds of the often-confused beggar as well as reduced the hostility in the eyes of Yedu’s other uncles of his neighborhood. Sumitra sighed with relief, “Let him be the ‘beggar uncle’ if it makes all happy.”.

In afternoons on schooldays the beggar would come begging in the colony when Yedu and his mother would be in their schools. Sumitra’s neighbors would tease Yedu later, “Your beggar uncle was asking for you. He comes, you know, with an extra big bag on his shoulder, besides his small begging bag. The big bag is for you, to put you into it and carry you away.” Yedu would laugh at the joke and the speaker would join.

The beggar was a speech-challenged mute. He mumbled a little that with patience could be deciphered partly. But his hearing appeared sharp. Sumitra would be surprised how her son could converse with him for minutes with easy grace.

None in Yedu’s colony knew when the beggar came around there. It was a colony for high-positioned Central Government Officers of Income Tax Department who could stay posted for four years in a small city like Patna. Some officers overstayed a year or two on special grounds. The oldest stay of six years went to one Mr. Sharma, Yedu’s immediate neighbor. Sumitra learnt from Mrs. Sharma that the beggar had been there when Mr. Sharma’s family moved in there six years ago.

All had an impression that the beggar had no name, no family, and had no native origin. He had kind of come to exist there in that suburb of Patna city like the local flora and fauna, almost automatically. But the beggar had a soft corner for Yedu. He had met Yedu around three years ago, when Yedu had his admission to the co-ed Mission School and he went walking the short distance to his school every morning on weekdays.

After his posting to Patna, his home state, Sumitra’s husband, Anubhav, was transferred to Manipur, only after two years of stay there. The reason was administrative exigency. Most senior colleagues resented Anubhav’s presence because he had been honest and principled. Though he didn’t preach uprightness, yet, he was a pain in the ass for them. So, on the fall of a hat, they would conspire against him, that most probably had caused his premature posting to Manipur.

Once, the beggar showed two documents to Sumitra, a BP (Below Poverty-line) Ration Card and a Voter ID with his photograph. His name on both was encrypted as ‘Bhikhari, No.290’. Sumitra with his interpreter Yedu understood from his mumbling that the SP, police, had helped him getting the two documents during one of their Beggar-identification drives to identify and tag all beggars of Patna from the view point of terror-control.

The beggar had indicated that Sumitra could use the BP Ration Card, if she so wished. The card had facility of getting many household items like rice, wheat, sugar etc. at subsidized rates and the beggar had no use for those raw things as he survived on handouts of ready to eat items.

Sumitra had hesitated before accepting the card but she took it after Yedu’s insistence, “Beggar uncle would feel nice.” Yes, it helped her budgeting. She knew even two salaries, hers and her husband’s, put together, couldn’t give them a financial fluidity. There were financial obligations on both sides, hers and her husband’s, and that drained away their resources.

Her husband, a senior class one officer, couldn’t get promoted in last ten years for an affliction, called honesty, he suffered from. He had been posted to Manipur, that felt like further harassment, as it was a disturbed area of North-East Sector of Indian Union. But posting of Anubhav to the dark disturbed area Manipur had a silver lining for the family.

He was entitled to an accommodation at Manipur besides, if he wanted to keep his government accommodation where his family had been living as per rules. That way, Sumitra and Yedu could respectively carry on their teachership and study in their respective schools in Patna. Anubhav also got a good amount as disturbance allowance that helped the family finances.

When Sumitra used the BP Ration Card of the beggar for buying rice, wheat, sugar etc. at a much cheaper rate than the market’s, and whenever she prepared a sweet dish or chicken curry in her kitchen, she would send the beggar a small serving by the hand of Yedu.

After the Ration Card incident, one Sunday, the beggar appeared on the road as per his routine in front of Sumitra’s house at around lunch time. Both she and Yedu were home. She thought why shouldn’t not Yedu’s beggar uncle share their Sunday special lunch as he was there. She asked Yedu to call him inside to eat lunch with them.

When she brought out the food to the table, she found the beggar sitting on the uppermost step of the entrance into their drawing room. He refused to come inside and requested Sumitra to serve him his lunch there, everything in one plate. He ate with such relish as if he was eating Amrit from the hands of Maa Annapurna (Goddess of food). Sumitra had the feeling that she had served food to another son of her, could be her first child, grown untimely old by the disease called ‘Progeria’, as it had been shown in a movie called ‘Pa’, a teenager grown older by looks than his own father.

The beggar then noticed a photograph of Sumitra and Anubhav with Yedu hanging on the sitting-cum-dining room wall. Little four-year old Yedu sat on his father’s lap and Sumitra stood by the chair with her hands on Anubhav’s shoulder. The beggar asked for a piece of paper on which he scribbled in clear English, “I didn’t know you are Anubhav’s wife. Your husband worked with me around ten years ago as my subordinate. His shortfall was also honesty like mine. I loved him for his honesty and hard work.”

“Where is he posted now?” He asked after a pause. That little notepad, opened a new gate for communication between Yedu’s mother and the beggar. The beggar came closer to Anubhav’s family, but he avoided all extra care or interest shown by Sumitra for him.

Sumitra took a photo of him on her mobile phone camera and sent it to her husband Anubhav. Her husband informed her, “This fellow has a strong resemblance to my boss Bhikhari Balhabh Hazarika under whom I worked at Mumbai at the time the beggar has indicated. But Hajarike sahib was not speech-challenged. He was then transferred to Delhi, and vanished as if into thin air. Whoever I contacted at Delhi office had no information on him. He could be him, and something bizarre might have happened to him that turned him into a mute beggar.”

Anubhav, during his next visit, did some digging and what transpired was a chilling history. The beggar was indeed Bhikhari Balhabh Hazarika, his former boss, then a Joint Commissioner. He was from Guwahati, a bachelor. He had a surviving uncle who had brought him up and got him educated. Hazarika sahib had become speech-challenged by a brain seizure but his hearing, other body parts and eyesight had remained unharmed.

When the speech-challenged Hazarika joined at his post at Delhi after recovering from his illness, a few of his disgruntled colleagues and bosses, who were tired and jealous of his honesty and good name, hatched a plot. He was trapped in a false case of molestation of a young female-chartered accountant and attempted rape of the woman visiting his office-cabin for a tax related case.

He was arrested and put in a jail for two years until found innocent by the court. Court found the woman victim as a hired nameless prostitute planted as a C.A. to malign Mr. Hazarika. The departmental authorities responsible to malign Hajarika were only reprimanded but not punished as some witnesses turned hostile for mysterious reasons. Hazarika was allowed to file a damage suit asking for compensation from the department.

During his two years spent in jail, he was put under suspension, was dismissed without pension by the disciplinary authority after a fast-track inquiry. Generally, disciplinary cases would take minimum six to fifteen years to reach the finality, unless the accused officer goaded it with money and influence. But in Hazarika’s case the alacrity seemed spontaneous, as if the department was ensuring to make itself virus-free, a virus of honesty and hard work, the Hazarika had been infected with.

All his official documents including his departmental ID card, Aadhaar card, PAN card, educational certificates and degrees etc. were under CBI seizure. His quarters had been allocated to another officer, and none knew who had taken away his household things including utensils, furniture, TV, clocks, books etc.

Hazarika couldn’t pursue court’s order of filing a damage-cum-compensation suit because he had no money, no shelter, no documents and no friends who would help him. He was treated as a mangy pariah dog.

He went to Guwahati to live in his uncle’s house where he had been brought up after his parents’ death. But he was told, after his uncle’s death when he had been in jail, the uncle’s other nephews had sold the house and divided the sale proceeds among them. They refused to recognize Bhikhari Balhabh Hazarika, their cousin.

Hazarika went to Patna to seek an old friend’s help. The friend, he heard, had shifted to USA and settled there with family. Feeling exhausted, frustrated, the speech-challenged and bearded Hazarika just lying down by a footpath and woke up to find people having left some food, a water bottle, and someone coins near him, presuming him to be an educated derelict person from his clean looks. Someone had covered him with a thin blanket. Thus started his new life, identified as a beggar, later tagged as No.290 by government registration.

Anubhav visited Sumitra and Yedu after a few months. He under the pretext of a heart condition, got two more months leave. One day Anubhav and the beggar vanished from Patna for a week. The vanishing trick got repeated many times over. Yedu would notice, though his father would return after the absences of a few days every time, but his beggar uncle never returned. His parents told him, “Your beggar uncle found his lost family and left this place to live with them at Guwahati.”

After about a year, a nattily dressed, and cleanshaven senior officer, whom Anubhav and Mr. Sharma greeted as, “Good morning, Sir etc.”, came to live in an adjacent Type-V quarters and became their neighbor. His name plate read – Bhikhari Balhabh Hazarika, Commissioner, Income Tax. Mr. Hazarika, the commissioner, was speech-challenged.

Yedu got quickly attached to the new uncle like a fish to its lake. But he missed his beggar uncle all along. Hazarika uncle spoke a garbled voice, an exact duplication of his beggar uncle’s. Often, he would share episodes of beggar uncle from his past with Hazarika uncle, who would add some missing links. That would surprise Yedu. He would tell his mother, “This Hazarika uncle can’t speak, but he could see into the past.”

INTO THE DARK NIGHT
Chinmayee Barik
(Translated by Mrutyunjay Sarangi)

"Why do they do it? Why the heck they get their head censured? Tell me Maa'm, is it a normal behaviour for a beloved to get the head tonsured? One can put up with many tantrums of the beloved, but a tonsured head? Yuk!"
I looked at the young man, he seemed just grown out of his teens. An angry young man! I concentrated on the chicken leg piece on my plate. I felt like telling him, "Where is the rule that the girls have to keep their hair just to please their lovers? And you, are you in love with her or her hair?"
The words were eager to come out from me, but somehow I kept quiet. What was the point in arguing with him? After all we were co-travellers only for a few more hours. After that we will go our separate ways.
The man cut the omelette into four pieces and in a sudden fit of anger kept stabbing at them,
making small holes all over. I couldn't contain my surprise. My eyes were raised, as if asking him, why are you doing it, what anger are you taking out on the poor omelette?
He could understand the question hidden in my gaze,
"I want to end all my relationships, killing them with a knife. I can't take it anymore."
I smiled at the over-reaction,
"Why are you being so sensitive on such a small issue? The hair will grow back on the head of your beloved. Just a matter of few months. Learn to have patience!"
He shook his head,
"No, no, you don't understand. You think the tonsured head is the crux of the issue? Do you know, she has run off to Nepal to embrace Buddhism? She has left me in the lurch, and you say it's a small issue, Maa'm!"
I was shocked hearing it. I wanted to say something, but just then the waiter came to place the plates of food I had ordered. I pushed my plate of omelette to him,
"Eat this also, there will be no more stops in the night before the bus reaches the destination."

I was feeling distracted. Actually I had a terrible urge to go out and relieve myself. The restaurant had a ramshackle toilet at a corner near the wash basin, but half of the door was broken. It would be quite embarrassing for a decent lady like me to enter into such a place. The only other option was to go out into the open. I looked outside. Except the dhaba and the bus standing before it, the surrounding areas were dark and scary. I could see the outlines of a few bushes in the darkness. I looked at my watch, it was forty minutes past twelve in the night. I thought it was not safe for me to go alone into those bushes. I saw a lady sitting in the opposite row and attacking her tandoor chicken with great vigour. I slowly walked to her and asked her if she would accompany me outside. She didn't even look at me and kept on munching her chicken pieces.

I had reached the end of my wait, I had to go out. I hurried outside. But the moment I entered the area of darkness, my heart sank. I retraced my steps, walking backwards. Horror of horrors, I dashed against someone and was falling down when he caught hold of me. The hands were strong. I looked at him. It was the young man who had shared my table a couple of minutes back. I muttered an indistinct sorry. He stopped me,
"Sometimes you have to trust unknown people in your life Maa'm. You can trust me. I will wait here, please go and finish your job. Don't worry, there are lots of people in the bus. If anything happens to you we all will come to your rescue."
I returned in a few minutes, relieved, and at peace with myself. The young man was waiting for me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was the first time I was travelling in a night coach to Chhatisgarh. I had to come in a hurry and did not get a reserved berth in the train. The bus was comfortable, the pushback seats were with thick cushions. A few minutes after I boarded, the young man came in to take the seat next to me. I found him to be a restless person. Unable to sit and wait for the bus to start, he kept getting up, walk around the bus and talking to the conductor. Finally when the bus started he sat near me, and kept looking at me,
"Maa'm don't you feel auffocated in the bus?"
I was curious,
"Suffocated? Why?"
"Such a long journey and a non-talking neighbour! The long hours become unbearable, at least for me."
I smiled. Young men! I had also wanted to talk, but was a little nervous. Before I asked him his name, he introduced himself,
"I am Oliver."
I was amused. Oliver! What a name! And Oliver what? Was he a Christian?
"What's your surname?"
He laughed, it was an open, no-holds-barred laugh, the kind that goes up in the air like a bunch of balloons.
"So, you also want to know what is my religion! In the first interview I attended for a job, I was asked the same question. I looked at the interview board and put a counter-question, 'Can't you give me the job, irrespective of what religion I belong to?' They were shocked at my boldness, but gave me the job."
"What job are you in?"
"Oh, I am in the army, a soldier fighting for the country. And you? Maa'm, what job do you do?"
I felt a little reassured, the way everyone feels in the presence an army man.
"I am a lecturer. I teach in a private college."
He smiled,
"That's great! My girlfriend was also a lecturer in a college."
"Was? What do you mean was? She is not working any more?"
"No, actually she is absconding."
"What? Absconding? How can someone abscond, just like that?"
"I also don't know Maa'm. I am still looking for her, everywhere. If you meet her any time please tell her I am looking for her. Her name is Sophiya."
"But, why do you think I and your girl friend will ever meet? Such an absurd idea!"
"You never know Maa'm, anything may happen in life. Just tell her, at least she should not shed off her hair in the name of religion, like my beloved did."
I felt a bit disoriented. A girlfriend! A beloved! What kind of a young man was this?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The bus did not stop again after the night meal at dhaba. The light in the bus was dimmed and everyone fell off to sleep. I was tired and soon drifted into a deep sleep. Suddenly the bus braked. My eyes opened and I found my head resting on someone's chest. I woke up with a start. O my God, I had fallen off to sleep on Oliver's chest! I felt embarrassed and looked at him apologetically. He simply said, "Don't worry Ma'm, you can rest peacefully till the morning. It's a safe chest!"

I somehow felt the comment was quite inappropriate. It was not like I had deliberately tried to sleep on his chest. I moved a little close to the window, away from him. Suddenly Oliver switched on the overhead lamp. The light fell on his face and mine. I realised he was looking incredibly handsome and yes, quite dashing also. He was certainly looking different from what he was a little while ago. He leaned towards me, and whispered, "Somehow you are reminding me of Sophiya. The same looks, the same vibes!"

I felt scared. And very very uncomfortable. I didn't expect such comments from him. And he added to my discomfort, "For tonight, you can rely on this broad chest to give you shelter Ma'm. Don't worry."
My heart started pounding. I thought I would go to the conductor and ask him to shift me to a different seat. I was about to get up, when I found Oliver had put his legs on the back of the front seat and put up a sort of barrier. I was getting really nervous. I shrank further back on my seat and became conscious of where my hands were resting. I didn't want to touch him even by mistake. He had started humming a song and broke into slow, seductive whistling also. All this without looking at me, although I knew who the whistling was meant for.

"Oye Maa'm, have you ever fallen in love?"
The overhead lamp had been switched off again and in the darkness his question seemed eerie. My blood boiled within, 'Oye?' What kind of word was that? Was it the proper way to address an unknown lady? I felt like giving him two hard slaps on his cheek. He sensed my anger,
"Don't take it amiss Maa'm, when your head was resting on my chest I almost felt it was Sophiya lying in my arms! Your body also smells like Sophiya's. What an incredible coincidence! Can it really happen?"

I could not control my anger anymore,
"Hey, what do you think of me? Want to see what I am, my real self? Chhi, chhi, just because a lady is sitting by your side you think you can say anything, and do whatever you want? I had felt so safe, beacuse you are from the army, at least you should be knowing how to give respect to a woman! How wrong I was! You have such sick mentality! You are no better than the loafers from the gutter!....."
My words must have hurt Oliver. He quickly got up and walked away. I saw him leaning against a rod in the bus. He kept caressing his short hair and looking at me thoughtfully. I felt relieved. I gulped some water and tried to get back to some much needed sleep. But destiny had something else for me. The moment I closed my eyes, within a few seconds there was a deafening blast and all hell broke loose. Loud shrieks pierced the air, followed by cries of anguish. My head reeled and I fell unconscious.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time I could open my eyes, I saw a thick fog of darkness everywhere. I felt as if my eyes had closed forever, never to open again. There was an excruciating pain on the left side of my head, and I could not move my feet. They were stuck somewhere, I could not move my body. I could hear people wailing but didn't know why. I didn't understand why my body hurt so much. I was suddenly blinded by a flicker of light. Someone had turned on a lighter near my face. I realised it was Oliver, who was sitting near me and with great difficulty had held my body steady with both his hands. There was a big gash on his face and blood was dripping from it. I shrieked. He tried to console me, "Don't worry Maa'm, the bus has overturned." With a smile that looked grotesque, he whispered, "For tonight, you can rely on this broad chest to give you shelter Ma'm." I couldn't control myself and broke into loud sobs.

Oliver switched off the lighter and before leaving, told me, "Don't move till I come back and ask you to move." I found I was leaning on the side of the bus inside and my feet were trapped under a badly tweeted seat. Oliver was trying to break open a window with a piece of iron rod which must have got uprooted from the bus. I shivered and closed my eyes. My body was descending into a strange limpness I had never felt before.

Dawn was breaking when I came to sense again. Outside lots of people had gathered, there was terrible noise, men calling each other, shouting, vehicles blowing their horn. I had a splitting headache added to the terrible hurt in the body. Oliver appeared from somewhere and scooped me up in his broad arms. He ran outside and deposited me in the ambulance waiting outside. My eyes were closing again. I heard his faint voice, "Sorry Ma'm, I can't come with you. Lots of passengers are still trapped inside and under the bus. I promise I will come to you after the rescue operations are over. Don't worry. Take care."

Before I closed my eyes, I looked up to him. A faint smile was hovering on his lips, trying to tell me something. Or perhaps reminding me of something that had happened in the most eventful night of my life. I drifted into an unconsciousness punctuated by severe pain and trauma.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I was in Cabin number 37 of the hospital. My parents were sitting near my bed, all the relatives were waiting outside. One full day had passed since I came to the hospital. I could feel the heavy bandage on my head. My mother told me I had high blood pressure and very high diabetes. So the doctors had advised me to be in hospital for a few days to bring them under control. I suddenly remembered Oliver and asked if someone of that name had come to visit me. My parents shook their head, no, no one named Oliver had come calling.

I somehow felt Oliver would come. He didn't seem to be the type who would break a promise. Three days passed, I kept enquiring if anyone knew what happened to Oliver who was in the rescue team. One day a nurse told me that she had attended on a patient named Oliver in the ICU the previous day. My heart skipped a beat, I knew I had found Oliver. I wanted to go and see him. Everyone said No, I kept on insisting. Finally the doctor allowed me to go to ICU on a wheel chair.

My eyes were blurred with tears, standing outside the ICU, looking at the man on the bed through the glass. He was covered with the blue sheet of the hospital, tubes going into his body in looping mazes. Very little was visible of him, but I could clearly see Oliver, the soldier who had fought to rescue every single passenger, I could feel the young man who had found the fragrance of his Sophiya in me, I could hear the whispers, "For tonight, you can rely on this broad chest to give you shelter Ma'm. Don't worry."

I burst into tears. I knew I must see him, from close, and feel his presence. I kept pleading with everyone to let me in just for a couple of minutes. They said, no, I couldn't go, only close relatives were allowed. I couldn't explain to them that in the course of one night I had become close to him, closer than a close relative, he had found his Sophiya in me. I didn't give up, I almost fell at the feet of the attending nurse, a young girl who was probably some young man's Sophiya. She relented. I went in.

I was on a wheelchair, sitting very close to the ICU bed, so close that I could hear Oliver's heartbeats loud and clear, like the slow rhythmic chiming of a church bell. Despite the brain haemorrhage, his face had assumed a glow under the soft overhead lamp. I remembered the way he had suddenly turned on the overhead lamp in the bus, my heart burst into an unfathomable anguish. I put my hand on his chest and whispered, "Yes, Oliver, I trust you, I want to spend my life with you, wth my head on your chest, not for tonight only, for all nights to come. Just get well, come back to me from wherever you are. Come back Oliver, I have found your Sophiya, I am Sophiya, she is in me......"

I didn't know if Oliver heard me. He kept sleeping peacefully, his heartbeats reverberating in the quiet room. The monitor on the wall kept weaving steady zigzag patterns. I could feel Oliver everywhere, on the bed, on the walls, on the flowers on the window seal and in the soft fragrance pervading in the room - the fragrance of a young man, eager, playful, his smiling lips mouthing the words, "You can trust me Maa'm....."

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 HAIRY TALE
Meena Mishra

Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!

It was a misty, winter’s morning. As usual, the clicking of the typewriter woke Vidya from her slumber. Through sleep-encrusted eyes, she looked at her father, who was a blur of rapidly moving fingers on the typewriter. She sat up in bed, her eyes moist with tears of fondness. She loved her bedroom. Ever since Vidya had been a young girl, the one she looked at with absolute adulation and reverence, was her father! She would look up at him, just the way a sunflower looks up at the sun. For her, her father was her world and the epicentre of her Universe, her life revolved around him. He was the beginning and the end of her world, and it was an absolute pleasure for her to catch a glimpse of her world as soon as she woke up. She looked around at her surroundings and smiled at the way her bedroom extended into her father’s study. It was almost as though her bedroom was an arm, reaching out into her father’s study, just like her childish hands had quested the fullness of a ripe mango from the pedestal of her father’s shoulder.

It had a bold and dramatic room with dark hues and luxe materials. The curtains and valance were made of velvet. Extremely robust and sturdy king-sized bed was paired with a vintage bookshelf. Her granny’s armchair was lying in the corner where she would see her mother reading the English classics. But, for Vidya, the most significant part of the room was the fireplace. When winter nights would take the fiercest of avatars, she would cuddle into her father’s lap by the fireplace, and he would hum hymns to her, running his reassuring hands through her curly, fluffy hair. Unlike other girls who had long, silky ponytails, Vidya had a mess of angry, entangled hair. Her mother had attempted to disentangle her curls since time immemorial, using exotic hair oils and shampoos from Arabia and Persia. But all these attempts were in vain. So, Vidya’s mother had taken to tying her hair with tough rubber bands and hairnets. She would often call Vidya’s hair a wild beast and say that the reins and chains were important to hold this wild beast in place.

Vidya was born to highly educated and sophisticated parents. Her father Kabir Bedi worked as a correspondent with the leading local newspaper and mother Parminder Kaur was an author cum freelance journalist. Vidya had grown up, surrounded by books, and listening to the best literature narrated by her mother. They were a very respectable family of Chandigarh. She was raised like a modern princess with the best of privileges available in the town. But looks were never a priority for this family. They did wear the best of clothes, ate the richest food available but physical beauty was never a concern. They believed in looking naturally beautiful. They never became a part of the parlour culture.

When Vidya was doing her Masters in English literature from Chandigarh University (she had to pursue literature as she had grown up learning that there is a world of difference between a person studying literature and all others). She lost her father to an untimely heart attack. Her father’s sudden death devastated her mother mentally and emotionally. She withdrew from all activities. She went through severe depression. After Vidya completed her masters, her mother decided to send her away from the gloomy environment. Vidya took up a job as a content writer in a famous publishing house and shifted to Mumbai.

The family’s financial condition did not allow her to take a separate rental apartment, so she decided to share an apartment with Archie. Archie was working at the same office as the marketing manager. It was wonderful to have someone who knew the city and office. Settling down became a cake walk for Vidya as Archie helped her at every step. Almost everyone in the office knew what favours had been done to her. Archie would boast about her generosity.

Archie was impressed by the kind of books Vidya read. She borrowed a few books saying she would return them later but, did not. Vidya felt furious but kept mum. Archie’s help and favour was becoming a burden for Vidya. She started choking. Archie’s bossy and grumpy attitude was getting too much for her to handle. On the other hand, Vidya noticed that the colleague who would congratulate her on her small achievements in office had started showing signs of jealousy towards her. Vidya had a strong hold over language as writing was in her blood. She was slowly becoming a favourite of her boss.

One day Vidya accidentally had a shower without wearing a shower cap. She had no time to dry her hair, as she was getting late for her office. This was the first time she went to the office with wet hair. Her hair was curly and fluffy since childhood, and she would be very careful about tying them properly before leaving home. Vidya was busy eating her lunch in the office canteen, when she saw Archie and two of her colleagues looking at her and giggling. “Look at her hair. It’s looking like that famous Baba,” said Archana and the three of them burst out laughing. This was too embarrassing for her. She had tears in her eyes but tried her best to hide it from them. She excused herself from the office early and cried her heart out. She recalled all the moments when her parents treated her like a princess. She knew what she had to do. She had to take charge of her life.

When Archie returned from office Vidya did not let her know what she was going through. The next day she started searching for another house and changed her residence in a week’s time while maintaining distance from Archie. Archie was surprised at her behaviour.

“Vidya, let’s go to the canteen for lunch,” Archie said, moving towards her desk.

“I have stopped eating canteen food,” was the reply.

“You can carry your tiffin dear. I miss the Punjabi delicacies cooked by you,” Archie said, trying to convince Vidya, who flatly refused.

Something in her had changed forever. She was no longer a new girl in town looking out for favours. She was strong enough to handle her work and her emotions.

It was a bright spring evening. In an extraordinarily intuitive mood, Vidya found her steps leading her to the garden, where she would often go when her heart and soul were overwhelmed with thoughts. There was a brook there, and just like the Mirror of Fortune in Snow White, the brook would give her all the answers. As she entered the garden that evening, the fragrance of sweet peas filled her senses. A gentle breeze blew, softly ruffling her entangled and messy hair like a father’s loving hand. For once, she did not restrain her hair with harsh metal clips like she had always done. She did not strangle the wild, free spirit of her hair with a net or a hairband either. Suddenly, a light drizzle started to fall. But this drizzle was not like any other. It did not hold the rhythm of rainfall. Instead, it sounded like a typewriter. Vidya smiled. Her father was truly always around her.

Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!

Meena Mishra is the Founder & CEO of The Impish Lass Publishing House. An award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher, are just some of the words which describe Ms. Meena Mishra. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. . Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.

SIN-MOBILE
Satya Narayan Mohanty

It all happened in the afternoon when he was taking his customary siesta. He didn’t wake up. When the housemaid went in with a cup of tea, he didn’t respond to her call. Then she called Arjun and Surekha on the telephone, his son and daughter-in-law who were on doctor’s duty in the hospital.
Alok Mittal passed away unexpectedly. He exercised regularly in the gym, took his morning walk and was very disciplined in his habits and diet. Only flaw one could be point out was his regular two drinks in the evening. Even at sixty five he never looked a day older than fifty two or fifty three. His crop of hair was thick and dark. There were no deep furrows on his face. The creases were ever so light.
He didn’t have to die so soon. At least it looked he had a long time to go. As a former RAW officer, his training was not to speak much or to do anything to be noticed. He had stayed in his own four bedroom room flat in Greater Kailash. His son Arjun and daughter-in-law Surekha, both of whom were doctors, stayed with him in the house along with their daughter Neha. Alok was extremely fond of his granddaughter and Neha, a five year old had always clung to her indulgent grandpa, who was tolerant and full of stories. Alok was a widower, his wife having passed away ten years ago.
After the cremation, the guests dispersed and the family was left to themselves. Surekha put a garland in the photograph and placed it on a small stool with some flowers for the visiting guests to pay homage. Neha asked where Dada ji had left to. She was obviously disturbed by the going-ons. Surekha and Arjun tried to explain it away by saying he had gone to Mumbai but he would call. Surekha was trying to stack away the mobile. But Neha intervened to suggest that how would they know when he would call? Reluctantly, they left the mobile in silence there, but charging.
After Neha was put to sleep. Arjun and Surekha were chatting when Surekha spotted the light of the mobile on. She checked the missed calls. What got her attention was missed call from Rachel, Surabhi, Nazia and Priya. There were no relatives by those names, nor Alok ever talked about any. Surekha kept it all to herself. She didn’t get good sleep and around four a.m. got up and came to the drawing room where the photograph was placed.
Both husband and wife being doctors had busy and unpredictable schedules. Alok being around was a great boon. Neha was taken care of. Now they would have to figure out what kind of Nanny they would get.
The phone lit up again, showing missed calls and messages.
She started thinking about those four women. The name sounded young. What were they doing with an elderly man like Alok? Or what Alok was doing with them?Out of curiosity, she picked up the mobile and started checking everything. All apps were open. Actually, Alok had gone so suddenly that perhaps he had forgotten take the usual precautions of erasing traces of his connection. As a former spy it was his training. But this time it did not happen.There were Tinder, Hang-out, and a Hotmail account. She was surprised Alok had Tinder, and the fact he had a hot-mail account was unknown to anyone. He had a Gmail account. Lo and behold on the Hotmail account there were messages from Click and Flirt and Be Naughty.com. Did he have a secret life unknown to them? A person of his age had no business having these Apps unless his activities were creepy.
Suddenly her mind opened up. Well, the former spy had a colorful life on the sly. Who would have known about this? He was off to gym for a couple of hours, and he used to go to the park for morning walks. Sometimes in the evenings he used to go out for dinner or drink with friends. Gymkhana club was his favourite hangout. Every month he would go to Mumbai, Chennai or Bangalore on three occasions. May be had something going on there.
When Arjun woke up, she shared her new findings with him. These exceptions were easily smothering the rule that he was presumed to be a decent sixty five year old man.
“These young hookers are ringing him,” she said.
“How do you know they are young and how do you know they are women of easy virtues? You are getting ahead of yourself,”Arjun replied.
Surekha narrated how Shivali her friend had seen him on the park bench browsing the messages, surfing the net for an hour at least.
“Well, he was entitled to do his own thing, he had his life. Don’t jump to conclusions without evidence. All of us surf the net,” Arjun said with the slightest irritation.
“No, dirty old men are different. They are always on the lookout for fun. Looking for younger girls. Giving lecherous looks and leering from afar.”
“Have you ever seen Dad like that?” Arjun intervened.
“Dad’s son. Don’t you understand he led a double life?” Surekha said.
Meanwhile, the mobile lit up and the name that popped up was Priya. Arjun instinctively stretched his hand to pick up the telephone.
“Don’t touch it. Let Chautha be over, then you can check up. I don’t want his babes walking in when our relatives and friends are here. Don’t talk. Let the mobile remain here. This is a mobile of sin, let it be there.” Arjun now decided to let it pass and kept quiet.
“You don’t understand. If someone walks in with a fruit of his loin, even this apartment and the bank deposits will have to be divided. Very clumsy and messy,” Surekha kept on going.
“Where is the proof? And why should it happen?” Arjun protested.
“You do not know. He has been a widower for ten years, with a good bank deposit and a pension. These girls are too willing to spread their legs. And if the man is so active, imagination has no limits,” Surekha added sarcastically. She was already disturbed.
“Now on teachers, nannies, etc. would have started coming home for teaching Neha or to take care of her in a year or two. If they were ladies, a disaster was awaiting it. I shudder to think what leela would have happened in this house.”Arjun had switched off by now. He was thinking of how to send his leave letters, and how to organize the prayer meet, etc.
“I wish we had taken the cheque drawing power from him.” Surekha’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Whose?” he said.
“Dad’s, of course,” Surekha had to explain.
This irritated Arjun. “It was his money; he was only sixty five. He was financially independent. Why did you need his cheque, drawing power? Aren’t you happy that we stayed with him? Was Neha not taken care of?” Arjun said, clearly showing his annoyance.
“At least, he would not have got so much of money for his shenanigans.
“Let us make it very clear. Us staying here was a good turn to him. It was no favour from him. I would like to stay in the hospital accommodation. So much better for work. Now we drive eight kms. each way, with so much traffic and all of those problems,” Surekha said, not even trying to give up.
“What about Neha? And finally, don’t forget the House Rent Allowance which came for both of us got parked in the bank account,” Arjun added.
“Another five years, it would have been a problem for Neha’s friends, if they were to enter the household with a cradle snatcher,” Surekha continued.
“How was he a cradle snatcher?”
“Well. These young girls Nazia, Priya, Surabhi and Rachel, I bet they are not more than thirty, even younger than his own daughter.”
Arjun just wanted to check the mobile to silence the incessant blabbering. When she was not around Arjun was about to pull out the mobile from the charger. Right then Surekha entered. “Beware, don’t touch that sinful mobile. After Chautha, I would get it purified before use.”
The poor mobile remained like that because of Surekha’s insistence. Every time she saw the mobile she behaved as if it would pollute her.
Neha came in and wanted to touch Dada ji’s mobile to check whether he had called. Surekha dissuaded her.
Alok’s daughter Priyambada came from Mumbai along with her husband Mayank, who was an Associate Editor for a national newspaper. He had a formidable reputation as a news man and exposing corruption at the high places.
When Priyambada came, Surekha just gushed out her discovery, how that was something the family members should know. In the event a post Chautha claims surface from any of the women, how it was to be thwarted.
“Make no mistake, these are all young females. If perchance, anyone of them has a child from Daddy, they would compete with Dad’s children for a property share.”
Priyambada had a tense relationship with Alok as she had eloped with Mayank, then a struggling rookie journalist. Later on, Alok had reluctantly agreed to Priyambada and Mayank to enter into that charmed circle called family. For Priyambada the home was only a dark echo chambers, where no one had anytime for anyone else. Dad was busy with his RAW job. Arjun was busy with his MD course and his life. She often wondered whether she ever knew Dad or Dad ever knew her. So, things for her were just falling apart when she met Mayank and then the rest became history.
“Arjun came and saw all three immersed in conversation. Mayank said a small advertisement should be given for the prayer meeting which he would handle.
“I have already done that,” Arjun said.
Mayank felt a little disappointed and that he had been rendered jobless.
Next morning, the morning of Chautha, the advertisement came and so did a juicy story, without giving names but referring to a retired RAW officer and his love life with younger women. Arjun and Surekha were busy for the Chautha. After Chautha and lunch. When the family sat down, Arjun browsed through the paper and his eyes fell on a big piece on the page three.
“Secret love life of secret agent.” No byline was there. But it was in Mayank’s paper. There were canny similarities. Retired RAW officer, who recently expired. The same names Rachel, Nazia, Surabhi and Priya as young women. There was a spin too that one of them was pregnant and one of them had a love child. No direct reference, but inferences were easy. This was a dirty job. His face contorted. But after that he composed himself and asked Mayank what this piece was about .Surekha chipped in to say,“Truth is truth. You can’t hide it forever.”
“What truth? Who has found it? Who has investigated? Even if it was true, could we have not allowed the dead to rest?”Arjun said.
Then the mobile screen lit up. Rachel showed on the screen.
This time Arjun picked up the phone. “The worst has come out. What else is there?”Anyway Chautha was over. That was the deal. He thought.
“Hello.”
“Is Mr. Mittal there? Rachel Sebastian here.”
The lady sounded somewhat between fifty and fifty five. It was the verve of the tone, the playfulness in the cadence which gave that impression.
“No, Madam. He just passed away four days ago.
“Oh God. I am so sorry to hear that. How did it happen?”
“He was taking his afternoon nap and didn’t get up. The maid found him dead around 3.30 pm.”
“My condolences. Please accept them. May his soul rest in peace. I never thought it would happen so soon. He was such a disciplined and energetic person.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. But you wanted to tell something to him.”
“No that is not important now. I wanted to inform about the Stage II of Art of living being organized from the coming Saturday. He was active in the Art of living society and we were trying to reach him. I also called two or three times and left messages but never received a response.”
Then Arjun checked the messages. There were several. Among them, many were for the training session of stage II, Art of Living from Nazia, Surabhi and Priya.
He looked up and looked at their faces. It was difficult to say whether everyone was more stunned than crestfallen.

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

JAGANNATH AT LARGE
Ishwar Pati

All spiritual pathways lead to Lord Jagannath of Puri, winding their way through cities, villages, rivers, hills and across oceans. Such is the draw of the Lord that devotees throng to Puri throughout the year chanting ‘Jai Jagannath’! One look at His hypnotic eyes and they are transported to a world of peace and salvation. I know He is there to maintain order in the world and to save me from myself. Each time I visit Puri I find my faith in Him rejuvenated. In my job in the bank, I was lucky to be called to Puri many times to attend seminars, and each time I came back after His darshan. Combining business with pilgrimage! I would catch the overnight train to Puri and check into a star hotel at official expense. Since Puri boasts of a fine beach, I would plunge into the sea for a dip before getting ready for the seminar. There would be the usual blah, blah from senior officials, exhorting the field staff to boost business by putting in ‘110% of effort’! The real message that would percolate to the listeners would be ‘110% relaxation’, especially in the post-lunch session when they would doze off in their seats.

The seminar would close after the General Manager’s concluding remarks. Quickly changing my dress, I would rush to the temple for a rendezvous with Lord Jagannath before catching the late night express for my destination.
That day the temple was crowded as usual. But I managed to wriggle my way through the devotees, thanks to my contacts among the priests, and stood before Him with folded hands. “Oh Lord, please save the world,” I appealed to Him. When I looked up, the Lord was smiling with mischief.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to me. “Everything will be all right with the world.”

I shook my head. “Why are you pulling my leg, Kalia? You know even you cannot save the world now.”
While coming out of the temple, I remembered my wife’s instructions to buy a large image of Lord Jagannath for our drawing room. I chose an impressive piece that would also be alluring to children. A quick dinner and I was back at the station. As the train rolled out, I looked up at the temple with a prayer. Bye, bye, for now, I told the Lord, till the next time.

I wanted to take one more look at the idol I had brought before retiring for the night. I opened my bag and rummaged inside. But Lord Jagannath was missing! Was He playing hide and seek with me? I turned the bag inside out and upside down with a pounding heart, but found no Jagannath. Where could I have left Him, in my hotel room or in the restaurant where I had my dinner? Once more I scoured my hand bag, all to no avail.

As I sat dejected, here was a tap on my shoulder. “Have you lost something?” the man in the next seat asked.

“Yes, Uncle. I have misplaced an icon of Lord Jagannath. Certainly not a good omen, is it?”

“Don’t worry,” he answered calmly. I was baffled by his composure. How could losing an image of the Lord be a good thing? “Look at it this way,” he explained to me. “It may be a loss for you. But His blessings are now spread all over the world. In your possession it satisfies only your spiritual craving; while now the Lord is trying to save humanity!”

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.

THE DEBT.

Radharani Nanda

Sharmistha was resetting her new house to which she shifted few days back. While arranging the books and records, old and new, her eyes were fixed on a dusty practical record which was lying amid the heaps of books. She picked it up and started flipping the pages casually. At the glimpse of the name on cover page she was awestruck. Her eyes sparkled. Her face beamed as if she had found out something priceless. But in no time waves of thought blended with melancholy made her sad. Tears rolled down from her eyes making the letters indistinct.

She was priceless for her. She was her friend Anita, an Angel sent to her by Almighty as a savior from her suffering. A good heart rarely anybody encounters in life. She was an embodiment of affection, compassion and sympathy.

This practical record was the only remnant left with her to remind her of the event filled past and the deep camaraderie with Anita though for a short period. She tried to recapitulate the incidence which happened in her life twenty years back. After completing BSc she got a seat in BEd and took admission in Berhampur, the big town in Ganjam district. On her first day in class when she was looking for a place to sit, she was cordially greeted by a tall, thinly built girl named Anita who offered her a seat by her side and smilingly asked her name. Among so many girls in the class how this girl showed her goodness by offering her seat at the first glance - Sharmistha was amazed by her gesture. It lessened her initial uneasiness in a new environment. She told Anita her name and occupied the seat by her side. From that day they sat together and became friends.

For Sharmistha staying in the hostel was a first time. Anita by pursuading the Matron managed to accommodate Sharmistha with her in the double bedded room which she had occupied few days before.

Anita was a simple girl from a lower middle class family. Her father was a teacher with a meagre salary in a private school in a village in Nabrangpur, a remote district of Odisha. She had two brothers and she was the eldest among three. She was staying in hostel and within a short time she had made quite a few friends in the hostel. She was talkative, open minded and was always in a pleasant mood. Sharmistha was feeling comfortable with Anita and her desolateness arising out of staying away from her family was lessened.

Anita was a God-fearing girl.She would not eat anything in the morning before doing puja.She had kept photos of Lord Jagannath, Maa Laxmi, Saraswati and many other deities. After taking bath she would finish her rituals and get ready for the class. Sarmistha, however, was a constant sufferer of bronchial asthma since she was a 12 yrs old girl.

Her father had tried all possible remedies for her cure but to no avail. Frequent attacks of Asthma was hindering her study for which she could not get honors in Botany in BSc and hence could not get a seat in MSc. Many herbal, Ayurvedic and homeopathy medicines were tried, brought from renowned doctors but result was negative. She had to live on the medicines prescribed by Medicine specialists to aliviate the symptoms arising frequently.

At night it got worsen. She becoming dyspneic, was bound to take medicines. Although symptoms were subsiding she had to spend many sleepless nights in distress. Occasionally the disease was taking a severe form and she had to be admitted in hospital and got relief by intravenous injections and oxygen .

Her family was much perturbed for her suffering. Her mother tried all sorts of spiritual means by offering puja and obeisance before Gods, observing fast, doing whatever rites the pandits, astrologers were suggesting but nothing succeeded. When she joined BEd her parents were much apprehensive about her wellbeing and were denying her further study at a distance of about 200 kms from her native place at Cuttack. But Sarmistha was not ready to give up. She was determined to join BEd and aimed for continuing MEd to take up the job as a lecturer. She had aquaintance with the twists and turns of the disease and the medicines she was taking. She had a strong will power and her positive attitude towards life possibly supporting her to rejuvinate after each episode. She developed the confidence to manage her one year study at a distant place away from home.

Sharmistha was very much prone to cold. As time passed, Anita could know about her roommate's health issues. She became more concerned about her. She would restrict her from taking morning bath, remind her about the regular medicine intake and other triggering factors exciting Bronchial asthma. Sharmistha developed a special liking for Anita for her simplicity, her care and concern.Their magnanimity brought them closer and closer. In the off hours they would chit chat, enjoy mouth watering special mixture from the vendor allowed in campus. They enjoyed sharing tiffin and meal with each other. Many times they would think as if they were known to each other for ages or Anita was her sister in the previous life.

Time came when one day Sarmistha inspite of all precautionary measures had a violent attack of Asthma. Medicines didn't work at all. She was restless. Anita immediately informed the Matron of the hostel and urged her to call the Ambulance .

As it was night time there was no other way than to call for Ambulance and admit her in casualty of MKCG medical college Berhampur. Anita tried to contact over phone the number Sharmistha had given to her and informed her parents about her illness. She stood by her friend's side at this hour of crisis like a family member and gave her all possible assistance. Oxygen was given. Intravenous injection of antiasthmatic drug was administered. Anita was shocked to see Sarmistha in this dreadful condition which she had never come across before.

Anita stayed with her friend in hospital. God knows what bonding she had with Sarmistha within this short period, she didn't agree to leave her at this juncture though Matron of the hostel was there to look after her and insisted that she return back to hostel. The surrounding ambience in the midst of numerous patients with agony and immense suffering was quite scary for her but she was determined to stay.

Sarmistha's parents reached next day and were crestfallen to see her in such stressful condition. Sarmistha was saved by timely intervention of medicines and good treatment. Her parents were very much thankful to doctors for their prompt assistance and to Anita for her care and concern for Sarmistha. She was discharged from hospital on the third day with advice to continue medicine till she felt better. Sarmistha's parents stayed in a hotel till she recovered.

But she being daring and confident in her aim and objective for life did never loose heart. Her parents asked her to drop her study, pack up and return home permanently. But Sarmistha was not in a mind to leave her training half way. It was a course of only one year and six months had already passed. She tried to convince her parents that she can well manage such crisis and she will not neglect her regular medicine. By this time Anita was also well versed with her disease and its management. She assured Sahrmistha's parents to go without any worry and not to force Sharmistha to discontinue her study. Parents were overwhelmed with Anita's behaviour, her love and care for their daughter. They bowed before Almighty for His blessings on them and left for Cuttack.

Sharmistha was feeling indebted to her friend. In Xmas vacation the students staying in hostel went home for a week. Sharmistha requested Anita to accompany her to her house at Cuttack. Anita's parents were staying in a remote area and it was troublesome for her to go home and come back in such a short period. She accepted Sahrmistha's request and thought it wise to spend the free time joyfully with Sharmitha. Sharmistha's family was very happy to see her .She had a good time with them. They were touched by her simplicity and openheartedness. After returning from home both of them concentrated on their study.

Sharmistha was aware that slight alteration to her strict schedule would land her in acuteness. But to err is human. Adding to it, examination was nearing. Preparation was in full swing. As stress was a precipitating factor Sharmistha got frequent attacks of asthma worsening almost every night. Delay in taking medicine would tax her a double dose of it for symptoms to be alleviated. She was getting relief from her day to day distress to a great extent by Anita's care. Anita was worried to see her terrible suffering and praying before the photo of Deities for her smooth recovery. She was stunned to notice tremendous stamina that Sharmistha held to overcome such critical condition.

Finally, the BEd examination was over. The next day it was time to bid goodbye. Students were euphoric to leave for their home and meet their dear ones. Anita and Sharmistha bade farewell to each other with tearful eyes. Their destination was far apart and there was little chance that they would again meet each other. They promised to communicate through letters as telephone facility to a remote village in Nabrangpur was not so much accessible at that time. Anita adviced her to take utmost care of her health.

After one month the results came out and both Anita and Sharmistha passed BEd in first division. Everybody in Sharmistha's family was grateful to Anita whose invaluable support helped their daughter to fight and come out successful. Sharmistha wanted to continue MEd but her parents were not willing. She applied for it only on one condition that she will join MEd if she got a seat at Cuttack. As luck was in her favour she got a seat in Cuttack and took admission. Anita was trying for a job as a teacher in Government as well as private school and didn't continue further study. She was in frequent touch with Sharmistha and worrying for her illness. She was consoling her that one day she will surely get rid of her illness by the grace of Almighty.

Everybody became busy in their life and the span of communication was increasing. In course of time they drifted apart and lost touch with each other. Almost after a year one day Sharmistha was bewildered to get a letter from Anita. The letter was to her mother informing her that she was observing Santoshi Maa brata and fasting on Fridays for Sharmistha since her hostel days to get the blessings from Matarani to free Sharmistha from her suffering from Bronchial asthma. She was still continuing it and because of her ill health and continued fever since many days it was becoming impossible for her to continue it further. She had earnestly requested, "Mausi, I don't want this fasting to be discontinued. I request you to please start doing this Brata and I am sure Ma will bless my friend and free her from the illness permanently".

Sharmistha had no word to speak. She was spellbound at Anita's compassionate and amiable personality. Sharmistha had many times seen her in hostel sitting before the photos of her deities offering prayer and whisphering something. But she did never imagine, she was doing fasting to cure her friend's illness. People like her were real Angels sent by Almighty from heaven to alleviate sorrow and agony of others. Her heart was filled with gratitude. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She told everything to her mom who also could not believe that such people existed in this materialistic world who within few days or months of association became a part of your life and sacrifice a lot for you.

Her mom started Santoshi Maa brata as an honour to Anita's devotion, belief and penance she was undertaking for Sharmistha. She observed it for 4 months and after completion of 16 Fridays she ended it with proper rituals. But there was no improvement in her daughter's suffering. Wveryone lost hope. Her marriage was postponed for indefinite period because of her chronic illness.

Sharmistha did not receive any letter from Anita for months though she wrote to her many times. She was much worried but was helpless. With progress of time Sharmistha could notice her Asthmatic attack was becoming less frequent, less severe and four years later to her utter surprise she found that she had been completely cured from her most distressing disease having no further recurrence.

Anita's continued silence was troubling her mind.She thought of going to her place and find out how she was doing but it was not possible on her part to go to such a remote place and search for her. Though she completed MEd she could not get a government job because of huge number of applicants and competition was tough. She had been offered the job of a lecturer in private colleges but they were at far off areas with meagre salary. Her family was not in favour of her doing such a job. Everybody was happy and relaxed for her complete recovery from Asthma. Sharmistha had no regret for not getting a job. She was happy that she had been freed from the terrible suffering .

She got married and became busy with her life. She knew that the miraculous recovery from such a chronic disease was possible only because of Anita's sincere prayers for her. It was hard to believe that such good souls did exist in this materialistic world. The peaceful life that she was leading was gifted by Anita and she could never repay that debt. What had happened to her? Was she in good health? Was she doing a job? Why did she stop responding to her letters all on a sudden? Had she got married? So many questions were unnerving her.

As if Anita had disappeared into oblivion.One day while getting down from bus in Badambadi bus stop she met one of her classmates who was studying with her in BEd. From her she could know about Anita that she was suffering from TB many years back and was under treatment at a Govt hospital. She could not give any additional information about her. Sharmistha was shocked. The news deeply saddened her. So that was the cause of her fever and illnes for which she abandoned her fasting! Why she could not assess from the letter that her friend was suffering from such serious illness? She held herself responsible for it. Probably Anita had to bear the trouble in exchange to Sharmistha's suffering. She returned back home. She could not think of anything else.Though she kept herself busy in her household work it was too difficult for her to concentrate on anything. The heartbreaking news about Anita weighed her down.

Today the practical record of Anita made her cry. She was cursing herself for overlooking the gravity of her illness from the hint Anita had given in her letter many years ago. Where was she now? What was her health status? Many questions tormented her .

Her husband was flabbergasted to see her crying like a child. He tried to console her that TB is not so dreadful. Its remedy has been found years back and it is fully curable with medicines which is available in all District HQ hospitals as well as primary health centers. By this time she might have been okey and leading a peaceful life .But Sharmistha was not content with these words. She steadied herself. Twenty years had passed when she last met Anita. She was now matured enough and could try to find out whereabouts of Anita. She got everything ready and one Sunday morning set out for Nabrangpur with her husband to look for Anita. She knew she could never repay her debt. But at least she would console herself and unburden her soul from the sense of guilt, if she met her and expressed her gratitude to her.

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.

THE RAM GANGA DUCKS

Maj Antony Thomas

The day of the duck shoot promised to be a good one. The weather was cool, a typical Bareilly November morning in 1983. The Siberian ducks had started their migration towards the warmer climes of the central plains of India. My course mate, classmate and buddy Charlie Weir and I looked l ongingly at them as they flew by in tight formation every day. We imagined how they would taste and the sight of them flying by so near… and yet so far, only strengthened our resolve to have a go at them. After all, such plans could only emanate from the brains of the illustrious class of 48/5.

Charlie was a young flamboyant Flt Lt and I was a hot blooded young Capt, both of us posted at the same Air Force station at Bareilly. A lot of my local flying training was done over the Ram Ganga River, and with the climate getting cooler, I could see the ducks swimming in the river on many an occasion while flying overhead. The ducks looked calm, and did not appear to be in any way frightened or perturbed by the helicopter flying above them. Little did they realize that plans were forming in which they would eventually end up in a cooking pot. Needless to say, the ducks became an obsession with us during our sojourns at the bar and the idea of going on a duck shoot began to materialize and take shape.

It was easy for me to plan our route for the shoot from the air. The bird’s eye view makes things look relatively simple from above.

The river always looked calm, and the water appeared shallow enough to wade through. It did not seem to be more than two hundred meters wide. The aerial reconnaissance of the planned route took barely 10 minutes from a height of 1000 feet above ground from my Cheetah helicopter. It was a clincher, and we surmised that we could be back with a couple of decent Siberian ducks by lunchtime, have them cooked in the evening and party that night on wild, tender duck. It was a simple, foolproof plan, the type made by someone who really has no idea of what he was getting into.

Charlie and I started early that morning, perhaps a bit too early for breakfast. We rode away on my Bullet motorbike, wearing flamboyant jackets to keep us warm against the cool, crisp air. We had a good stock of 12 gauge cartridges, and were well prepared to shoot a whole flock of ducks. My aerial reconnaissance gave us a starting point as a prominent but isolated temple, which was about a km away from the village. The temple seemed quite deserted, not even the poojari was around. We parked my motorbike near the temple, placed our jackets and crash helmets on the seat and assumed that we were in a holy place, and our belongings would be safe. We planned to be back pretty quick, probably by noon. We also realized that it was a good omen and anticipated a fruitful shoot, as we had parked at a holy place. After all, we were out to get some “sitting ducks.”

The path along the river was sandy, and the tall reeds which appeared to be like a carpet on the banks from the air began to appear like an impenetrable wall in front of us. No problem, we were tough, and from 48th course. We had our fair share of pangas. We would surely find a way to get to the ducks. We walked for what seemed like a couple of km and saw a gap in the reeds on the bank and decided to cross over to the edge of the water and take a good look. There was not a single duck in sight.

“Hey Tony, where the heck are the darn ducks?” Charlie asked me.

“Hmmm, should be over there somewhere,” I mumbled, as we peered across the river.

What was so clearly visible from the air was now an impenetrable wall of reeds and brown, dirty water with a fairly strong current. The far bank was nowhere in sight.

“Maybe we should go a bit further”, I suggested.

Charlie seemed doubtful. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah man, they are there alright. I saw a whole lot of them yesterday when I flew over this area,” I replied with the confidence of one who has seen a vision.

So we trudged on another km or so. It was beginning to seem like a route march now. The sun was bearing straight down upon us from above, and we were beginning to be drenched in sweat.

“I think I know where the damn ducks are”, I told Charlie with a feeling of false confidence. I had a strange feeling that he was beginning to have doubts about me and the trip. “There is a small island in the middle of the river about half a km further, and I swear they are on the island. They were there yesterday for sure.” My spirits began to rise a bit in anticipation.

We trudged on through the sand. All of a sudden, we heard the magical sound. “Quack, quack, quack,” and two magnificent Siberian ducks materialized from nowhere and flew by and disappeared beyond the reeds. They were really big birds.

“Shoot, man, shoot”, I hissed at Charlie. The hot sun and the long, fruitless walk were beginning to play on our nerves, I suppose.

“Are you crazy?” he replied. “They are too far away and out of range.”

“Okay then, let us creep up on them.” I suggested.

We soon found another gap in the tall wall of reeds and sure enough, we also spotted the island in the distance. The only problem was, it seemed about half a km away. And sure enough, there were the two ducks, about a couple of hundred meters away, placidly swimming in the water, near the island. Should not be any problem for two NDA trained tough guys, I thought. We tried to take cover of the reeds and get closer, but the ducks seemed to sense our presence and swam further away.

“I think we need to creep up on them for sure”, affirmed Charlie, with the wisdom that comes with the hot sun mercilessly beating down on our backs. “The water looks quite deep”, he said. “Didn’t you tell me that it was only a couple of feet deep?” he asked me with a tinge of sarcasm and exasperation.

“Well, that is what it looked like from a thousand feet up in the air,” I replied smugly.

“Well then, good luck Tony. I think you should be the one who needs to creep up on them. After all, you are the one who was so sure about the route and everything else. Two feet deep water should be a piece of cake for you,” replied Charlie.

Reluctantly, I took the shotgun from him and began to wade in the river towards the ducks. Before I realized it, the water was beginning to tug at me, and I was already waist deep in the water. I realized then that no matter how far I crawled along, the distance between the ducks did not seem to close in. They were always out of range for a shot. It was as if they knew exactly what I was trying to do. I began to get desperate. This was not turning out the way we had expected. I watched the ducks longingly, and from the corner of my eye I saw something drifting towards me with the current. I took my eyes off the ducks momentarily, and was horrified to see that it was the half burned body of an incompletely cremated person. I was totally freaked out by now. I looked around for Charlie, but could not see him due to the tall reeds.

I had enough. The next thing I knew, I was neck deep in the brown, swirling water and almost being swept away by the current. It was all I could do to keep my hands with the gun above the water. And the body was getting closer. On the verge of panic, I began to struggle back to the bank. Just then, the ducks majestically and gracefully got airborne, and very deliberately circled around me once, all the while crying, “Quack, quack, quack” and finally took off and were swallowed up in the distance, and that was the last that I saw of them. I finally got back to the bank, after what seemed like an eternity. Charlie was anxiously waiting for me. “What the hell happened, man? Why didn’t you get the ducks?”

“Are you kidding me? Looked like they were out to get me,” I retorted. “Look Charlie, I think I’ve had enough. Did you see that body float by?” I asked.

“Body, what body? I thought that there was driftwood floating by,” he replied.

I then explained what had happened, and he seemed to pale a bit. With the wisdom that comes from spending three years at NDA, we knew that the ducks had really pulled a number on us, and that there was going to be no duck roast that night. We were silent for the most part, because it seemed like an eternity to walk back along the sands of the river bank to our bike at the temple. And we were hungry.

The setting sun was nearing the horizon, and we could see the bike in the distance. Something looked amiss as we neared the bike and we hastened our walk, and then began running. Our jackets and helmets had disappeared, and that was the last straw. We looked everywhere. Charlie and I began to rant and rave and we wholeheartedly swore at the ducks, the river and anything we could think of. We would have shot at anything in our frustration. I even thought that the next time I flew over the village, that I would throw empty beer bottles at the villagers. The ride back to the mess was a silent one. We were each wrapped up in our own thoughts. We got together at the bar later and as the drinks began to hit us, we began our crazy laughter. The other officers at the bar thought that we were out of our minds.

I recently spoke to Charlie Weir after 27 years. To this day, Charlie and I agree that every time we see a duck, it has a strange look in its eyes as if laughing at us.

Maj Antony Thomas, (Retd), SM is a veteran of the Indian Army, with 14 years of distinguished service as a Gunner and Helicopter pilot. He is a graduate from the NDA and IMA and was commissioned in 1976. He immigrated to the USA in 1991. He is a Physical Therapist and practices independently. He is also currently a Flight Instructor on Gyroplanes, and continues to pursue his passion in both Healthcare and

Aviation. In his spare time he indulges in writing.

DRAUPADI

Sundar Rajan

Arjun was up early and was deep in thought as he sipped his hot coffee, sitting in the balcony. Once done, he left the cup and saucer in the kitchen sink, dried his hands and silently sauntered into his mother’s bedroom. He surveyed the various accessories that were neatly arranged on the dressing table. The array of lip sticks and lip gloss drew his attention. He picked up the maroon coloured shiny lipstick and carefully applied it on his lips. He then pursed his lips to ensure that the lip stick was evenly spread across his lips. He glanced at the mirror and gave a satisfied grin. He wiped out the lipstick. He then picked up the new lip stick and curiously looked at it. He was so engrossed that he did not notice his mother silently enter the room.

His mother walked into the room just as he was about to apply the new lipstick. She was startled. “What are you doing with my lipstick? It’s new. I haven’t used it so far. Couldn’t you have waited?”

He smiled and handed it back to her. I forgot to tell you . . . . I am playing Draupadi in our college production . . . rehearsals start this evening.”He turned round to look at his mother, who stood there with an astonished look on her face on seeing Arjun.

“I for a moment thought you were looking for a sex change” , she laughed. She came close to Arjun and affectionately removed the lip stick that was smeared above his lips.

“No Maa”, murmured Arjun. “I wanted to give you a surprise but now the cat is out of the bag. Yes. You guessed it right. I am for a sex change but for a short duration only”.

Maa looked incredulously at Arjun. “What”? she reacted.

“Chill Maa”. As I told you, “We have a drama next week in our college and I am playing the character of Draupadi. So I was trying your make up accessories”.

“All the best child. I will be there for sure”, she said and left the room.

Arjun too followed her, took his bath, dressed up, had his breakfast and was off to college.

The whole of that week Arjun was busy preparing for the drama rehearsal

* * * * *

It was a Saturday evening and a good crowd had gathered at the auditorium for the drama. After a brief welcome address by the Principal of the college, all was set for the drama

Scene 1: In the Class Room

All students get up as the Professor Dushasana comes into the class.

Students: Good Morning Sir

Dushasana: Good Morning students . Take your seats. (All the students sit down). After the roll call, today I will be taking a class on Environmental degradation and its effect on the changing climatic conditions, like global warming.

Draupadi: Sir, two years ago, we had severe floods in Chennai followed by Cyclone Vardha last year. Would your topic cover the causes and effect of these also, sir?

Dushasana : If you are interested in specific instances, meet me in my room, after the class is over. ( He smiled at her condescendingly and continued with the lecture. The students disperse at the end of the lecture)

Scene 2: In Dushasana’s room

Draupadi: Good Evening , sir.

Dushasana: Yes, Draupadi. Come in and take your seat.

( Draupadi takes her seat while Dushyanth starts pacing the floor)

Dushasana: Global warming and environmental degradation are the topics of heated discussions world over, across all forums. All countries across the world have taken this up seriously. The unprecedented floods in Chennai and the Cyclone Vardha, in the following year, were driven by Global warming.

Draupadi: Yes sir.

(Dushyanth slowly loosenes his top shirt button as though the room was stuffy.Draupadi notices it but ignored it).

Dushasana: Cyclone Vardha starts off with heavy drizzles and a mild breeze that blows the leaves or ruffles the hair

(While talking, Dushyanth walks behind Draupadi and rufffles her hair, saying “Like this”. Draupadi was startled but keeps quiet.)

Dushasana: As time passes, the intensity of the winds and rains becomes very fierce with wind speeds at a velocity of over 150 kms per hour. It just uproots trees and blows away everything in its path.

(With that, Dushasana’s hand takes hold of the saree pleats and throws it across Draupadi’s shoulder. She is startled, gives a cry , pushes the chair back and rushes out of the room with a terrified look on her face.)

Scene 3: Canteen

(Draupadi, sitting sullenly in the canteen with her friends)

Friends: What happened, Draupadi?. Why are you not your usual bubbly self?. How was your discussion on Vardha with our Professor?

Draupadi: Oh this creature, Dushasana tried to molest me in his room, but luckily I had the presence of mind to bolt out of the room. I am now wondering whether I just allow the matter to pass or to report it to the Principal.

Friends: (In a Chorus) . For heaven’s sake dude don’t leave it at that. Please take up the issue with the management under “Sexual Harassment”. We are with you .Come let us draft out a written complaint.

(All the students put their heads together and draft the written complaint and Draupadi signs it)

Scene 4: The Principal’s room the next morning

Draupadi: Good Morning sir, may I come in please.?

Principal: Yes. Good Morning . Come in.

( Draupadi quietly enters the room and hands over the cover with the written complaint. The Principal pores over the complaint and his forehead creases. He then looks up at Draupadi)

Principal: My sincere apologies that this has happened in our college of repute and that too for a person like you. These complaints are handled by the Disciplinary Committee (DC). I will convene a meeting and address this issue immediately. I would request you to keep this under wraps, considering what is at stake , till it is resolved amicably.

Draupadi: OK sir, but my request is, it should not be delayed (and walks out of the room)

Scene 5: Disciplinary Committee Meeting

( The Disciplinary Committee (DC)constitutes 5 members represented by two male members and 3 female members with the Principal being the defacto member. The Committee members register their presence and the meeting is called to order

Present: 5 DC members, Dushasana & Draupadi.

The Chairman of the DC reads out the complaint to Dushasana h in the presence of Draupadi )

DC: Mr. Dushasana, do you have anything to say?,

Dushasana: In all earnestness, I tried to explain the effects of Global warming and Cyclone Vardha, with no ulterior motive. I have been with the institution for over a decade and I would never do anything to tarnish the image of our prestigious institute. Draupadi is such a nice student. I am at a loss to understand how she has misinterpreted my action and equated it to sexual harassment.

DC: Draupadi, do you have anything to say?

Draupadi: Respected committee members, I hold this institution in high esteem and I am sure you will support me, since I do not want things like this to take place that spoil the image of our institution. I am sure you will agree with me that actions like what I have experienced, if done without our consent, is classified as sexual harassment. If I had stayed longer in the room, things could have gone worse. So I humbly request you to take appropriate action against the erring professor .This would be a deterrent for the others also.

DC: This is a serious matter. We would request both of you to wait outside for some time. We would like to internally discuss on the appropriate course of action.

(Dushasana and Draupadi leave the scene while the DC members discuss the issue in right earnest. Having come to an agreement among themselves, they call Draupadi)

DC: Come Draupadi. We have internally discussed your issue and we can visualize the mental trauma you are undergoing. You had the courage to nip this in the buditself. We will call Dushasana and give him a stern warning not to repeat such outrageous acts. Could you please take this “cover” and withdraw your compliant so that we can close the issue.? Do you, for a moment realize, if this goes to the media, it would make it unpleasant for all of us.

Draupadi: I am sorry. If you do not have the security of students in mind and would like the offenders to go scot free, I would like to take it up further till I get justice and the offender is brought to book.

(With that a downcast Draupadi walks away and the Committee members disperse)

Scene 6 – Canteen

Friends: What happened at the DC meeting, Draupadi?.

Draupadi: The Committee members want to play it safe. They tried to hush up the issue and even went to the extent of buying me out with a token amount.

Friends : Oh Gosh!. Never expected this from our management. What the hell!

Friends: Let’s look at the next course of action. Let’s file an FIR with the police station.

Draupadi: Yes. Let me do it. Will you guys draft one for me?. I will sign. I am really pissed off with the attitude of the Disciplinary Committee. (All the students get together and draft the FIR. Draupadi signs it)

Scene 7 – Police Station

Draupadi: (She approaches the Head constable) Good Morning sir, “Is there a woman constable here. I want to file an FIR.”

Head Constable:( Looking at Draupadi, up and down with a sneer). Is it a rape case?

Draupadi: No

Head Constable: Dowry Harassment?

Draupadi: No. Sexual Harassment.( Head constable calls out to the woman constable)

Head Constable: (to the woman constable). Take the FIR, read it and explain to madam the “conditions” for registration of FIR. (he winks at the woman constable who suppresses a grin and nods her head). You can also ask her to enact the incident with me.

Woman Constable: (Collects the FIR and reads it) Why do you create a scene for such a small matter? If you still want to file this FIR _ _ _ _

(The woman constable comes close to Draupadi and whispers something in her ear, while the Head constable smiles wickedly)

Draupadi: Enough! Give me back my FIR.

(She snatches the FIR, shreds it into pieces and walks out of the police Station in a huff.)

Scene 8 Hostel Room

(A dejected group of friends join Draupadi in a hostel room to mull over the event and to find a way out).

Draupadi: I am like the Draupadi of the Mahabaratha, being disrobed but no one comes to my rescue. Where do I find my Krishna? I have three other avenues –Human Rights Activists, Media and proceeding Legally. But with the clout the management wields, I feel these avenues also will meet the same fate as the others.

Friends : Don’t lose hope, Draupadi. We will find a way out. If we do not find a solution, we will all become sitting ducks.

Friends. Yesss!!. We have a solution. Why not we try “MeToo”

Draupadi: But what is MeToo and where do I start?

Friends: MeToo is a hashtag or title that sees people sharing stories of sexual harassment and assault. It is a social media campaign where women in numbers are sharing personal stories of sexual harassment under the hashtag or title MeToo You can do it on Facebook

A Facebook hashtag ties the conversations of different users into one stream and most people's Facebook posts and accounts are private It is worth a try.

Draupadi: Friends, I have been pushed too far. I wouldn’t like to step back and give up now. I have declared an all out war against the likes of Dushasana

Let’s go ahead.

(With the help of her friends, Draupadi recounts her experience on Metoo through Facebook. Days pass and response, which started in a trickle began “trending” on Facebook. In fact other students who had similar experiences at the hands of Dushyanth but had remained silent and passive got the confidence to share their experience as well. On going viral, the students following this on Facebook , are thrilled)

Friends: ( Greet each other with high fives and there is lot of loud chattering in the group.)

Friends: Let’s all join for a silent march to the Principal’s office, to seek an enquiry against Dushasana.

Draupadi: (heaves a sigh of relief). The message going viral and the response from the students, for me, resembles the vast lengths of saree that Lord Krishna wrapped around Draupadi when all the others were silent.

Scene 9: College Campus

( A large number of students assemble in the college campus)

Draupadi: I am overwhelmed with the support all of you are giving me on this issue. May I request we make a peaceful march to the Principal’s office as a protest against “Sexual Harassment”. This clarion call would surely wake up the management and ensure that we students are well protected

Students: Yehh. We all agree with you. Tell us what you want. (The students march to the Principal’s office in silence)

Principal: (Comes out of his room and sees the silent group in front of his office.He signals to Draupadi to come over and stand by his side)

Principal: Dear Students. My apologies to all of you on allowing this matter of Sexual Harassment, to slip out of my hands in the first meeting with the Disciplinary committee. I can understand your feelings and I for one really sympathize with you. I will immediately call for a meeting of the Disciplinary Committee and address this issue on a priority. This is a promise.

Principal: I now request you all to go back to your classes.

Scene 10 Disciplinary Committee Meeting

DC: Dushasana. In the initial meeting we felt we could give you a warning and be done with it. But the students have become vociferous. We also come to know that it is not an isolated instance of Draupadi alone. Other students have also faced similar harassment in your hands but they had remained passive. So we have decided unanimously that we are going to set up an enquiry committee for this purpose.Till such time the issue is resolved we would like to place you under suspension.

Dushasana: Respected members I can only say the students have blown this out of proportions and I am innocent.

DC; We have only your word for it but your actions, as stated by the students, do not support you. Here’s is your suspension order.

As the curtains come down, there is thunderous applause for the drama.

* * * * * *

Arjun’s Maa was quite ecstatic at her son’s performance and she slowly waded through the crowd to the back of the stage, to see her son at close quarters as Draupadi.

She waved to Arjun and her face lit up on seeing the crowd that had surrounded Arjun, congratulating him on his fine performance. Suddenly that smile turned into a frown. She came close to Arjun and said “ I don’t understand. You told me that you are using my lipstick for your drama. But your lips are free. With a mischievous smile she said “How’s it I find the lipstick on your cheeks”?

Now Arjun’s face turned into a frown for a minute. He then recollected his senses, gave his Maa an impish smile and said “ Oh. That is from Draupadi, the girl I am in love with and going to marry, Maa. Let me introduce her to you”.

Arjun’s Maa gave an understanding smile and said in passing, “I am happy I have only you, Arjun and not four more of the Pandava brothers”. There was a burst of laughter all around.

* * * * *

S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.

A LEAF FROM HISTORY : SRI AUROBINDO , THE GREAT NATIONALIST AND THE LOVER OF HUMANITY.
Nitish Nivedan Barik

Thanks to the Ministry of Culture, Government of India , that it presented a tableau on Sri Aurobindo's life, works in the 73rd Republic Day parade that drew not only the attention of the nation on him ,but that of the world . As it is now widely known, the grateful nation is celebrating his 150th birth anniversary.

Sri Aurobindo does not belong to the past ,but to the future, so had said Shreemaa (The Mother), his collaborator , in what one may call his Supramental Enterprise on Earth . Chitaranjan Das in Allipore Bomb case had described him in prophetic words that “ he will be looked upon as the poet of patriotism, as the prophet of nationalism and the lover of humanity.” “ Long after he is dead and gone, his words will be echoed and re-echoed not only in India, but across distant seas and lands,” Chittaranjan had added in his pleading in prophetic words .’
“It is a fact that I was hearing constantly the voice of Vivekananda speaking to me for a fortnight in the jail in my solitary meditation and felt his presence,” he wrote in his autobiography. While in the confinement in Alipore Jail, in that gloomy and solitary cell where, as he recollected in his Tales of Prison Life, he had indescribable realizations of Godhead ,the Basudev (Krishna) being everywhere and in everything ,It was the total and intimate identification with the Divine. As Manoj Das writes ,”…in other words he woke up to his own identity, his swarupa — that would ultimately lead him to give us a glimpse of the evolutionary future of man, the message of the Life Divine.”

The Mother seeing Sri Aurobindo for the first time in 1914 wrote in her dairy , “"It matters not if there are hundreds of beings plunged on the densest ignorance .He whom we saw yesterday is on earth ;his presence is enough to prove that a day will come when darkness shall be transformed into light . "

The Prime Minister, Shri Narendra Modi while chairing the first meeting of a High Level Committee (HLC) for the commemoration on 20th December, 2021 had underlined that it is the responsibility of India as a spiritual leader of the world to contribute in terms of spiritualism to nations across the globe. He suggested that 150 universities across the country should be involved in writing 150 papers on different aspects of Sri Aurobindo’s life and philosophy.
The role of Aurobindo , the mystic Mahayogi , in the independence movement goes almost unnoticed by today’s youth. Although he withdrew from the freedom struggle, the active politics, early in prime of his career, was on account of higher command , Aurobindo played a stellar role in India’s march to independence . He galvanized the youth in the initial part of the struggle through his writings in “Bandematarm”.He was central to the passing the revolutionary resolution in the Calcutta session of Congress in 1906 which comprised universal boycott of British products, extension of the Swadeshi campaign to all of India, Swaraj and national education . It is rarely mentioned in Indian history books that the concepts of Swadeshi, boycott and non-cooperation were given by him long before Gandiji appeared on India’s political horizion. For his fiery writings inspiring the youth in the nationalist cause ,he had been described by the Governor General Lord Minto as the most dangerous man ” in the country for the British rulers. The first-ever long debate on any Indian statesman in the House of Commons related to Sri Aurobindo.

His refuge in the French enclave Pondicherry was on a Divine mission .In reply to C. R Das who had urged him back to politics, Aurobindo had said: " Man can never get out of the futile circle the race is always treading, until he has raised himself on to a new foundation… The true basis of work and life is the spiritual. I am determined not to work in the external world till I have the sure and complete possession of this new power of action not to build except on a perfect foundation....I may also say that I did not leave polities because l felt I could not do anything anymore there. Such an idea was very far from me. I came away because I got a very distinct adesh in the matter.”

Manoj Das ,the great writer explains how two phases of his life are connected : “The first phase of his life was devoted to the liberation of the motherland. India for him was not simply a stretch of inanimate earth, but a consciousness, a living heritage of human aspiration through the ages, towards liberation of human souls from their bondage to ignorance. At Pondicherry began the second phase of his struggle for liberation — the emancipation of man from that primeval bondage.”
We may do well to remember Sri Aurobindo’s ideas (five dreams) in his message to the All India Radio on the eve of India’s independence. The first of these was his vision of a “free and united India”. But on the division of the country as it happened about he had said, “… the old communal division into Hindus and Muslims seems now to have hardened into a permanent political division of the country. But by whatever means, in whatever way, the division must go; For without it the destiny of India might be seriously impaired and even frustrated. But that must not be."
Next ,(second ) India’s freedom would lead to the resurgence and liberation of the peoples of Asia and India playing a great role in it . The third dream of Sri Aurobindo was “ world unity” which he felt was underway. Here too India had a role to play through its right leadership and larger statesmanship . His fourth dream was the ‘spiritual gift of India to the world’ , i.e. an increasing resort not only to her teachings, but to her psychic and spiritual practice.
The fifth dream was a new step in the evolution of human consciousness (mind and man ,not being the last summit in the evolutionary process ) which will realize individual perfection and a perfect society. “Here too, the initiative can come from India and, although the scope must be universal, the central movement may be hers.”
One thing that connects all his dreams is “Spirituaism” and centrality of India . “Spiritualism as an imperative that takes precedence over all other claims, intellectual, ethical, social that belong to the domain of ignorance....Nothing can be sufficient substitute for the spiritual change that can realize the true and integral good because through the spirit we come to the root of action and existence" the master had said . However perhaps a distinction needs to be made between Religion and Spiritualism. As the Mother said, Religions belong to the past. Spiritual teaching is above religions and strives towards a global Truth. Sri Aurobindo stands for something new and different .As one commentator has said “He was a philosopher for whom all religions were areas of enquiry..His political ideology was far more inclusive than the existing political ideologies in the world.” Hope, his writings like The Life Divine, The Human Cycle, The Synthesis of Yoga , Foundations of Indian Culture and Savatri etc would show the way to the sunlit path Sri Aurobindo has indicated.
Way back in 1972, N.A.Palkhivala had commented in his radio broadcast, “It is a measure of distressing apathy of our nation that the works of Sri Aurobindo are not studied throughout the length and breadth of India.The words of wisdom from the writings of this great spirit deserve to be taught in every school and college.( AIR Bombay talk on Aug 14,1972).It is essential that India and the world awake to his writings !

Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore

AN EDUCATIONAL TRIP TO WASHINGTON, D.C.

Gourang Charan Roul

We were in the Boston area visiting my daughter in 2014 and had a full itinerary of places to visit since that was our first time in US. Generally, for anyone visiting the US, a trip is incomplete without visiting Washington, D.C. because of its rich history. However, for people interested in world history like me, it is almost a crime! In addition to my interest in history, Hollywood’s portrayal of D.C. had made the visit even more imperative.

We broad brushed our plan for a three-day visit to the iconic city. We took the I-95 through Providence (Rhode Island), New Haven (Connecticut), and New York, Newark (NewJersey), Philadelphia (Pennsylvania), Baltimore (Maryland),and after about a 10-hour drive, arrived at D.C. in the evening. We checked into our hotel (Marriot in the neighboring city Fairfax, Virginia) which was a short drive from downtown Washington, D.C.

Owing to my interest to know the details and significance of the places we visit, we took the help of a tour guide. The guide unraveled fascinating stories about Presidents and senators, duels and debates bringing into life buildings and sights we would have just walked by. As expected, the guide was thoroughly knowledgeable and made the facts more interesting. His knowledge not only helped us improve the planning of our visit but also made the monuments seem almost personable. The guide was a history buff and knowledgeable and welcomed our questions. We were introduced to the nation’s capital - its fascinating past and present. We learnt about history, art, politics and much more.

Washington D.C. is the capital city of United States, located between Virginia and Maryland. The District of Columbia on Potomac River between Maryland and Virginia was set aside as the nation’s Capital so that the Federal Government would not be in any single state. The city is home to all three branches of the Federal Government as well as the White House, the Supreme Court, and the Capitol Building. The city is named after the first President of the U.S., who picked the location.

WHITE HOUSE

To start with our itinerary, we began our tour from the White House located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The most important of the avenues in the capital city is Pennsylvania Avenue that connects two iconic buildings: the White House and the impressive domed Capitol Building. As we were unable to get the requisite pass for inside visit unlike few privileged visitors, we were satisfied with the walk way, viewing the iconic building from the outside fence. Inside visits are scheduled through a first come, first serve basis provided one has submitted the request 6 months prior to the visit to white house and not less than 21 days in advance. The white House and its surrounding grounds serve as the official residence and workplace of the president of the United States. It’s also a museum of American history, and a place where that history continues to unfold every day.

The declaration of independence by the second continental congress, on 4th July, 1776 was made at Philadelphia’s State House and the capital was temporarily held at nine places, the last one being the Federal Hall, New York until permanent capital was established in Washington, D.C. in November, 1800. On July 16, 1790, a compromise between Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, and James Madison - known as the Resident Act - was passed, declaring George Washington’s selection of a site on the Potomac River as Nation’s new capital. Though Washington oversaw construction of the White House, he never lived in it. His successor John Adams and Abigail Adams became the first occupants of the Presidential Manson on November 1, 1800, although only for last 4 months of his presidency. Interestingly, John Adams’s blessings were carved after 145 years into the state dining room mantel in 1945 - “Blessings on this house and all that shall hereafter inhabit it, may none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof -” during the administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt-the 32nd president of United State of America as a mark of gratitude to the 2nd President.

WASHINGTON MONUMENT

Our next visit was to the adjacent Washington Monument that stands tall at 555- feet within the National Mall. We walked the distance across a patch of green grass viewing the fabulous white House in the left side corner and the Tall Washington Monument ahead of us on the middle of the mall. The National Mall, with its museum and monuments, is the most visited place. The historic Washington Monument is a marble obelisk tower over Washington, D.C., honoring George Washington, the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army in the American Revolutionary War and the first president of the United States of America (1789-97). Strategically located almost due east of the Reflecting Pool and Lincoln Memorial, the monument, made of marble, granite, and blue stone, is both the world’s tallest stone structure and the world’s tallest obelisk standing 555 feet 5 inches,according to the U.S. National Geodetic Survey.

WAR MEMORIAL

The World War II Memorial located between the Washington Monument in the background and the Lincoln Memorial in the right-side foreground is a memorial of national significance dedicated to Americans, who served in the armed forces and as civilians during World War II. Consisting of 56 pillars, representing U.S. States and territories, and a pair of small triumphal arches for the Atlantic and Pacific theaters, surrounding an oval plaza and fountain, it sits on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., on the former site of the Rainbow Pool at the eastern end of the Reflecting Pool, between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. This War Memorial was opened on April 29, 2004 and dedicated by President George W. Bush on May 29, 2004.

LINCOLN MEMORIAL

After a thought-provoking visit to the war memorial which enliven the holocaust and catastrophe inflicted on humanity by the Nazis under Hitler, we walked a few steps to reach the steps of Lincoln Memorial, the most loved of all Washington’s memorials at the far end of the mall, separated from Washington Monument by the Reflecting Pool. We approached from the front, gazing at the handsome marble columns surrounded by greenery, part of a design inspired by ancient Greek temples. There are 36 columns, each representing one state in the U.S. at the time of President Lincoln’s death. The memorial itself is 190 feet long and 119 feet wide and reaches a height of almost 100 feet. We climbed the stairs leading to the interior. There, etched into the wall, is a memorable quote: “In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.” Below the quote sits a 19-foot marble statue of President Lincoln, himself looking pensively over the mall of the country that he fought so hard to preserve and unite.

NATIONAL MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

The Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum, situated at Madison drive on the Constitution Avenue via the National Mall is one of the most visited museums in the world. We had a wonderful experience viewing the items on display. It houses 145 million items, across 1.32 million square feet of public galleries and storage space. A record visits of tourists numbers 7.2 million yearly. The museum includes an award winning Hall of Oceans, as well as a Hall of Human Origins, a Hall of Mammals, and a Hall of Dinosaurs. Its most famous item is undoubtedly the Hope Diamond, and the dazzling collection of gems and minerals around it. The largest blue diamond in the world – Hope, weighing in at 45.52 carats is renamed for its clarity as well as its purported curse; several of its owners have met terrible fates after taking possession.

CAPITOL HILL

The Capitol Hill is located in the eastern end of National Mall in Washington D.C., across the Washington Monument just 2 miles from the foot of the Lincoln Memorial on the western end of the Mall, and we were inspired to stroll the walkway viewing the captivating landmarks - Korean War Memorial, Vietnam War Memorial, Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, FDR Memorial, Jefferson Memorial on the way.

The Capitol Hill ground stands on the east end of National Mall just opposite the Lincoln memorial in the west, with the Washington Monument dividing the area slightly west of its middle point. Capitol Hill is the seat of the U.S. Government, home to the domed U.S. Capitol, Senate, House of Representatives, and the neoclassical Supreme Court. Capitol Hill is of vast importance to American democracy. Thomas Jefferson while serving as the first secretary of President George Washington in 1793, named Capitol Hill, invoking the famous temples of Jupiter Optimums Maximums on the Capitoline Hill, one of the Seven Hills of Rome.

After a day long walk in the National Mall viewing the landmarks located near it, we felt dog tired late in the evening and retreated to our hotel. We had a plan to resume our quest the next day for the marvels of science and technology at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, famous for documenting the history of aviation and space.

SMITHSONIAN NATIONAL AIR AND SPACE MUSEUM

This humongous space museum operates at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, at Dulles International Airport, Virginia since 2003, is a 2nd campus of the one in Washington (opened in 1976), encompassing 760,000 square feet with a mission: “Commemorate, Educate, Inspire.” The Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum collects preserves, studies, and exhibits artifacts, archival materials, and works of art related to the history, culture, and science of aviation and spaceflight and study of the universe. Almost all space aircraft on display are originals or the original backup crafts.

The Museum houses a large number of artifacts on open hangers - like the original one invented by Wright Brothers in1903 to the contemporary Aerial age. The remarkable exhibits include a Lockheed SR-11 Blackbird, Apollo Lunar Module, B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber, and the Space Shuttle Discovery. We strode in the expansive floor watching the Discovery launch as explained by an expert guide, touching a piece of moon, reading about what happened to our body when we go to the space, seeing the space toilets and different countries astronaut gear - really a thrilling experience. We saw the exhibits closely and watched from observation walkways through the hangers where experts had restored historic aircraft. We were flabbergasted at the huge collection of flying machines designed and invented to cause annihilation of humanity, plant and animal kingdom. We had a mixed feeling of amusement and dismay after hour long educative tour in the vast enclosure of this Air and Space Museum, calling it a day and drove back to Boston in the afternoon.

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.

HAPPY WOMEN'S DAY!

Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya

Really, is it an occasion to celebrate? Why there's no Men's day? When we consider male and female as complementary to each other and each have equal roles to play in the nature why special attention to women? Even if Men's day exists, it is not celebrated with equal fervour.

We give special attention to our special children who are weaker as compared to the other ones, physically or mentally. Doesn't this celebration show that we are weak? “Shakti” (Women are considered the driving force of the Universe in Indian scripture), the energy source is being celebrated for being weak!! Today we are asking for gender equality!!

Definitely with increasing crime rates against women, daily news of rapes and molestations, honour killings etc have made us to do so. But the root cause is somewhere else.

Women suffer due to women in most of the cases. In most of the Dowry killings first the names of MIL and SIL is raised...so are the cases of other crimes.

Then what about rapes and molestations? Women are definitely not involved in that. Correct..but had the mothers taught their sons to respect women from the childhood, rectified their lewd deviations at the first instance, world would have been a better place to stay.

However strong may be the judiciaries, however much women quotas may we generate, unless until women stand for themselves as well as for other women, simultaneously rectifying the grassroot level problems, no celebration is going to work.

Mitochondria, "the power house of cell" is totally contributed by the mother. Need we produce more evidence that we are the Shakti, we are the POWER!!!

Days will be observed, stories will be published, awards will be given away, women-centric movies will be made....yet it is for a short-while. It is upon the women who can uplift themselves and each other and make a conducive environment for everyone to live in.

As natural attributes women are conferred with vices like jealousy, selfishness, ego, self-centeredness...which they have to recognise themselves and transcend beyond manifesting their good attributes like kindness, compassion, sacrificing attitude.

Let gender equality be not misunderstood for doing everything that males do....rather it should be maintaining feminism with power, equal rights, taking equal responsibilities as well.

Happy International Women's Day to all.

Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.

SUPER-HIT MUQUABLA’S MADHU BALA SPECIAL, 9 P.M. ON 31-3-96 ON DD2- A RAPSODY
Ranjana Chowdhary

Like a cat with her proverbial nine lives, I will have to be born nine times over, only then perhaps, can I thank my daughter enough for informing me about the captioned programme.

My children know with partly empirical and partly intuitive knowledge that for me, melody in music, soul in lyrics, sensitivity in handling fragile human emotions, romance in picturization, a certain zest in comedy, spiritual sublimity in tragedy, social message in strong story-line, inspiration in acting that went beyond the script, consummate artistic craftsmanship in direction et al was perhaps born, when I was born in the early fifties and died when I attained the age of perhaps eight in the late fifties! For me the decade of the fifties has been, is and will always be the Golden Age of the Good, Bad, Ugly National Obsession which goes under the 70 MM – banner headlines of ‘The Great Hindi – Film Industry”. Those were the days of the Great Masters, a Guru Dutt, a Bimal Roy, a Mehboob, who were not merely Great Directors, but, more importantly Good Human Beings, which made them Great Directors, Great Music Composers and lyricists born with moonlight and roses, Salil Chowdhury, Shakeel Badyuni, Naushad, Majrooh, Raja Mendi Ali Khan, Great Singers, Lata, Geeta Dutt, Asha, Kishore, Talat, Mana Dey, Hemant Kumar – of course Great Actors and Great Actress, a Dilip Kumar, a Raj Kapoor, a Devanand, a Bharat Bhushan, a Sunil Dutt and Great Actress the tragedy Queen Meena Kumari, the statuesque swan like Nargis, the chiselled Beauty Madhu Bala….

   So reader, I don’t think I’ve waited so anxiously for any TV programme as for the Madhu Bala Special. Nine O’Clock on 31-3-96 found me before the TV. The perky Renuka Sahane was the hostess of the show. The first song, a great favourite of mine was ‘Aaiyee Mehraban, Baithey Janeja’, from Howrah Bridge. The one and the only Madhu Bala stood centre stage of a art deco restaurant in front of a mike and sang with a gay abandonment, over which perhaps it was ordained by God himself that she have the exclusive copy-right. There she stood like a Divine Live, with her finely chiselled features, her complexion made from frozen moonlight, her smile made from liquefied, playful moonbeams…… Her wavy shoulder length hair seductively clouding her Chand Ka Mukhara! What I found, particularly, alluring about her was her fulsome, feminine figure, unlike the bean-pole figures of today’s synthetic heroines! Like a coquettish night-club singer, she had singled out the most handsome occupant of the restaurant, an impeciably turned out Ashok Kumar, for special favour, much to the visible annoyance of the villain; Swaying seductively to the ‘Come Hither’ theme of the song, she gracefully swam up to the shore of Ashok Kumar’s table. Ashok Kumar, the great sporting hero, with a stylish shrug off the elegant shoulder-cut of his dinner jacket and with a knowing smile, was quite willing to play the role of the besotted lover-boy. So there we had a seductive Madhu Bala literary and figuratively sweping an-obliging-to-a-charming-lady –Ashok Kumar off his feet and the two romantically foxtrotting to the soft, slow, seductive cadence of this lilting song! The villain was left high and dry like a male-wall flower and the gallant –winner-take all Ashok Kumar had a divine Madhu Bala melting in his broad shoulders, dancing through the night….. This was Magic & Romance for you!
   “Do Ghari who jo pas aa baithey” from ‘Gateway of India’ came next. This had the quintessential tragic-hero cast in the heroic mould, Bharat Bhushan, in the male lead role. And there she was looking like an Indo-Aryan verson of Venus with her hour glass figure, her flawless complexion, aristocratic arched eyebrows, Roman nose, eyes as big as a fragile China dish, and of course her trademark, the partly sadly seductive, partly mischievously playful and charmingly coquettish lopsided whisper of a smile…… They seemed the classical star- crossed lovers, he a poor young man she condemned as the daughter of a rich man.
   In the next song- picturisation we saw her in one of the roles that jailed so well with her exuberance, charm, joie de vivre and playfulness, in the so called, ‘Comedy’ roles of light, frothy and rollicking comedies in which she was paired off frequently with Comedy King, The Great Kishore Kumar. The film, the unforgettable, ‘Chalti ka naam Gari’. The song that was a run away success (unlike the dilapidated having-grown-roots-gari) and sent the entire Bharat of the Great Nehruvian Era, singing in bathrooms, offices, schools, trains, planes was ‘Hal Kaisa hai janab ka’? The Hindi film industry has perhaps never had a comedy team to beat the winsome-twosome comedy team of Kishore Kumar and Madhu Bala….. Each was a perfect foil for the other, which perhaps accounted why the repartees of songs of the genre of ‘Hal Kaisa hai Janab Ka” were so incredibly popular. Kishore Kumar, he with his maasti, his joie de vivre, his yoodling, his baggy upturned trousers, his equally baggy bush shirts, his straw hats and she with her mischievous smile, her prancing like a moon beam, her mimicking and her adas! It was the Great Tease. They are both prancing and pirouetting in a boat, afloat on a shimmering lake with the hills in the backdrop. Then pristine lake perhaps is the Powai lake of Bombay of fifties!

Just move over Marilyn Monroe, our very own Madhubala is here to stay in our psyche for ever!

Next come the song with wide mood swings from the movie ‘Pach Rupaiya Barah Anna’, in which she says with an insouciant arrogance so becoming her infuriatingly good looks, ‘Mai Sitaro Ka Tarana, Mai Baharo Ka Afsana’. How very true the lyrics ring! For wasn’t her beauty the stuff star – song and spring are made of. In this song she is yet again teamed with Kishore Kumar. They are perhaps doing a theatrical song and drama sequence on stage. She like a self-respecting Hindi phillum heroine changes her costume with every couplet. In some scene she wears a evening gown a-la-the one Cindrella wore to the Prince’s ball, while in another she is dressed in a houri-fashion in a scene straight from the Arabian Night Fantasy, with a peaked cap sprouting a solitary white plume from which drops a diaphanous veil covering her fabulous face guaranteed to launch a 1,000 caravans!

Years later in K. Asif’s magnus opus, Mughai-Azam when she finds that Salim is falling in love with her, she says that she would like to see how true life stories are made into legends. She could have said this about her, as she became a legend, a cult in her own time. Part of the reason lay in the fact, that the heroines of those days acted as princesses in their reel as well as real lives. They selected only a handful of movies and had all the time and energy to put their heart and soul in their roles. Not like the heroines of today who were always on a frenetic film signing spree and like the fast, instant culture of today, daily act in multiple roles in many shifts! Kalidas opined that for a king to remain popular with his subject he should have a magnetic personality and should present himself before his subjects in all his glorious royal regalia only once in a blue moon, so that the effect on his subject is dazzling and they, keep dying to see the vision of their King.. This was so true of the heroines of those days. Like the phenomenaly elusive Greta Garbo, they were like some exotic, endangered species whose rare sightings itself was a cause for celebration. They therefore become legends in their own times and were treated like icons’ by their fans and a cult grew around them. It was very much like the ethereal will o’wispy beauty of Madhu Bala in the haunting mystique of ‘Mahal’. Bagehot said that Royalty should not expose itself and that Let day light not steal the magic of royalty. This was very true of the heroines of those days. Unlike, the heroines of today who look like stereotyped products off an assembly line production, the heroines of those days were very individualistic and each had her own patent stock-in-trade. This was partly due to the fact that they were all born stars and were not made synthetically by the so called acting acamedies or else by seeing videos of their favourate stars. I for one, feel beaux arts etc. is mainly due to some incredible creative gene. One can try very hard and become an actress, but never a star, as that goes well beyond, the pale of endeavour and strife and lies in the inexplicable realm of inspiration and creativity.

To come back to the twists and turns of the song “ Mai Sitrar Ka tarana”, to her singing that she is the song of stars, the down to the earth Kishore Kumar in a pedestrian pathos rudely retorts, ‘Panch Rupaiya Bairah anna, mare ka bhaiya na, na, na,” And yes, I recall my 12 year old Big Brother with his horrible friends riding down Thorn Hill Road, Allahabad, in their hercules cycles, crowing ‘Panch Rupaiya, Barah anna, Marey ga Bhaiya, na, na, na”, like a litany! I suppose part of the reason for each generation feeling that the films, music and stars of their days were par-excellence, lies in the fact that they form such a magical part of their childhood psyche and are so deeply associated with memories of yester years that they get gilted by the star dust of ‘Nostalgia’ that makes even the common-place magical! The hostess of the show informs that Madhu Bala was very fond of seeing movies, but, because of her massive star following she could not venture forth as M.B.and so she once went to see a movie incognito in a burqua at Bandra. But much of her bewilderment found that she had been recognised by her exposed feet. The Manager told her that only M.B. could have such a divine pair of feet and that they gave her away. Yes, she was moulded in the cast of an Aphrodite and her sculptured beauty was such that likes in the realm of an artist’s dreams…. We were told by the hostess that she was not at all ambitious. And then it suddenly struck me that if God himself has ordained a person to be great by bestowing gifts of charism, and a star is born, ambition perhaps is rendered superfluous and irrelevant. I feel that ambition like patrictism, although, not exactly the last refuge of the scoundrel, is the crutch of mediocres and plodders!

The next number was a magical one from ‘Jaali Note’ in which M.B., is paired with a debonair, stylish, moustachioed, youthful Dev Anand donning a Nepali ‘topi’ with a modified peak at a rakish angle, in alignment, perhaps, with the way he always spoke with his head inclined. It’s a moonlit night on the seashore. A scene made for romance and everything conspiring towards weaving a idyllic setting for the lovers. A full moon pouring bucketfuls of moonlight, electro-plating everything. The shimmering sea, a sheet of pounded silver, reaching out slowly and seductively towards the glistering sands of the rapturous sea shores. The graceful coconuts palms with their sinuous, supple trunks reaching out towards the enchanted waves, their liluer streaked palm fronds, gently caressing the wanton breezes…… And the two lovers singing the melodious song,

‘Chand jard jard hai’

They are teamed yet again in Kala Pani and the mood here is of a penitant, yet playful, Madhu Bala ‘ mongoing’ her lover-boy Dev Anand whom she has obviously annoyed by apologisingly saying,

‘Accha Ji Mai Hari
Chalo Maan Javo Na’

And a-not-to-be-so easily pataoed and so soon manaded Dev Anand retorting,

‘Dekhi sab ki yaari
Mera dil Jalao Na’
This song was a great favourite of mine as a 7-8 year old and to get into the mood I would greatly exaggerate the line.

‘Diiil Jaaalaavo naaa’
and whenever my father would hear me sing this song he would render these lines in an even more exaggerated manner and we would burst out laughing! Madhu Bala is seductively draped in the mystique of yards of freely swaying sequined sari made of a hateau neck blouse with piping, with back open and that too stylishly off-centre. With their looks and talents they sure did have it in them to carry off any sartorial style, with effortless ease and a certain pannche! The pallav of her sari is demurely bunched together on her regal shoulder by a jewel of a broach, if you please, after the fashion of the day….
They then showed the soulful number

“Udhar tum haseen ho
Idhar mai jawan hu”
From Mr. And Mrs. 55.

She is looked glamourous in a shimmering sequined sari with sparkling heavy jewellery, swaning down the sweeping grand staircase of her mansion and an intense Guru Dutt, as intense as only Guru Dutt could be, out in the cold beyond the pale the dazzling mansion and its cased golden bird.

The last song was from Mughal-I-Azam with her in a white, swirly ‘kurta’ dancing like a person possessed and singing in defrasic of the establishment, personified in the Royal Imperial Persona of Emperor Akbar,
‘Pyar kiya to darana kya’

Like an iconoclast, so committed is she to her ‘cause’ of being hopelessly in love with Prince Salim, that she becomes a kafir when she says with the fanaticism of a heretic,

‘Parada nahi jab koi khuda si
Bando si parda karna kya’

And the enclasping of the idea by the refrain, ‘Jab pyar kiya to darna kya’

But, no, I suppose I will have to play the heretic by saying that romance should always be packaged in a certain mystique and no part of that mystique was lost with the introduction of ‘colour’ in films. Guru Dutt’s classics like ‘Pyaasa’, Raj Kapoor’s ‘Jagte Raho’ and sublimo films of this genre would have lost part of their charm if they had been in colour.

A star was born in 1933. It shone with dazzling brilliance and its sparkle and shine, brought light and laughter in our lives. Like the born star that she was, she did not fade away. She just burst forth in a grande finale of her dazzling effulgence at the young age of thirty six. After all whom the Gods love, die young. She personified the 3 Rs’ without which we are emotionally illiterate, Romance, Rapsody and Rapture.

I do not have a VCR and perhaps the only occasion I missed it was on not being able to record the “Madhu Bala Special”, of Super Hit Muquabala.

If God, Goddess, wood nymphs and fairies were to ask me what I felt when I saw ‘Madhu Bala Special’, aired by S.H.M. I’d say:-

   A taste of Paradise,
   Of tangible moonlight and lavender Roses,
   Of a million flowers bursting forth
   A lakh of stars being born in the milky way
   A million setting suns,
   Setting the infirmament aflame
   Of a Redefinition of Nostalgia and Romance.

Thank you S.H.M. and thank you for playing the soulfully nostalgic number at the end,

   “Guzara hua Zamana
   Atta nahi dubara
   Hafiz Khuda Tumhara”.

Yes, alvida Madhubala, Indian Cinema has never been and will never be the same without you. But your memory is like the eternal flame that lights the temples of our souls where you dwell forever like an Icon.

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.

MAA GANGA IS CRYING

Ashok Kumar Ray

It was Corona time. Its restriction on free movement was killing the mind. Home imprisonment was killing the body. There was no way out. Life was locked. Sentiment was blocked.

To get out of boredom and monotony, Ram and Sam were walking on the bank of Ganges one evening. They were busy in idle talks till night.

Ram said - 'Don't you feel - Ganga is smelling.'

Sam told him - ' If you throw COVID dead bodies, sewage, garbage, medical wastes, industrial wastes, funeral wastes, etc in Ganga, will she give you sweet perfume ?'

Ram - 'Of course, my grandma was coming to this place every sunrise and sunset to worship Ganga Maiyaa in spite of its bad smell.'

Sam - 'You people do all the mischief in the name of politics, economics, commerce, industries, ethics and false idealism devoid of wisdom and practicability. You may call me anything, but I do no harm to anyone. You people say 'Ganga smelling', what have you done except worshiping 'Ganga Maiyaa' in live telecast ? In spite of your tall talk, is Ganga cleaned so far ? Do you know - my grandma died clamouring for 'Ganga Bachao' (Save Ganga). None listened to her. She is no more now. But her sayings are echoing in mind and reverberating in the air. Ganga is not merely a river. She is a Goddess on Earth. She is the embodiment of Indian sentiment, culture, tradition, heritage and legacy. Gangajal sustains our body and mind as food and drink. Saints, hermits (Sanyasis) were worshiping God on her bank drinking her holy water and inhaling her pure air. They were living for centuries. Gangajal was Amrit (nectar ).'

Ram - 'Please drink some bottles of Gangajal at Varanasi or Howrah for some days and say whether it is Amrit (nectar) or Bish (poison)? If you survive for a month without medicine, medication or hospitalization I will send you to Heaven. Otherwise, I will send you to Hell.'

Sam - 'You have imprisoned her by making various dams, barrages on her body, sold her water and electricity produced from her water. Her free flow is restricted. Dams and barrages have made her water stagnant and her sacred water is flowing through tunnels, turbines, channels. Your science and technology have choked her throat and polluted her water and air. The ecosystem is dying. She is dying. The ecosystem is dying and so you are also dying of COVID or Corona.'

Ram - 'What's the relation between Corona / COVID and Gangajal ? Is there any rationale in such a reference?'

Sam - ' Do you know - 1100 bacteriophages were there in Gangajal to make it 'Amrit' so as to kill all harmful bacteria and viruses like Corona?'

Ram - 'What are bacteriophages?'

Sam - ' They are bacteria created in the River Ganga to kill pathogens ( harmful microorganisms, bacteria viruses, etc).'

Ram - ' Shall I drink Gangajal instead of taking Corona vaccine?'

Sam - 'You people have killed Ganga and finished the unique antiviral qualities and nutritional properties of Gangajal by producing electricity from it, discharging all your wastes: industrial, commercial, biological, etc. in it. The amount of bacteriophages, dissolved oxygen, minerals such as sodium, calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, iodine, zinc, etc. have been decreased to a great extent nowadays. Ganga is now one of the most polluted rivers of the World. Its water is poisonous. If you drink Gangajal, you will die. Did you know - what happened in the Kumbh Melas in the past? How many people were affected? I am speaking of Maa Ganga when she was sacred and pure, but not polluted.'

Ram - 'Of course, my grandma was telling - the British were taking Gangajal in their ships to England not because of religion (Christianity), but because of its medicinal, antiviral, nutritional properties and qualities. Maa Ganga was pious, sacred, helping, loving and nourishing. But we killed her for our individual benefit, greed, politics and economics.'

Sam - 'It is high time to make Gangajal clean, pure, sacred and potable. Like the Seine River in Paris, after proper treatment, cleaning and purification in treatment plants, the waste water should be discharged into Ganga. Dead bodies or any type of waste material must not be thrown into the river. If you don't make it polluted, it cannot be polluted, since 1100 bacteriophages are there in Gangajal to finish outside pathogens. Bacteriophages are the natural immunities of Maa Ganga. Normally Gangajal cannot be polluted. Development in science and technology not only spoiled Ganga, but also finished the entire ecosystem of the Indian Subcontinent. Unusual heavy rains, floods, earthquakes, diseases like COVID are new normals nowadays killing millions of innocent people.'

Ram - 'I am confused about so many names of Ganga, Bhagirathi, Alaknanda, Mandakini, Hooghly.'

Sam - ' Ganga is not a single river. It's a system of rivers coming from different glaciers and rainwaters of the Himalayas (Kailash) in the shape and form of underground channels, waterfalls, streams, tributaries, rivers, etc. Alaknanda flows via Badrinath and Mandakini comes via Kedarnath and they meet each other at Rudraprayag and flow together in the name of Alaknanda. Bhagirathi flows from Gangotri glacier via Gaumukh and meets Alaknanda at Devprayag. Alaknanda, Mandakini, Bhagirathi flow together in the name of Ganga from the confluence at Devprayag. The name Ganga starts from Devprayag and downstream she meets Yamuna and Saraswati (invisible) at Prayagraj (Allahabad). In Bangladesh she (called as Padma) meets Brahmaputra, coming from China via Assam and they flow down to the Bay of Bengal at Sundarbans. Her branch river, Hooghly flows to sea via Kolkata. The area of Ganga basin is not less than 12 lakh square kilometers.'

Ram - 'Please tell me about its nutritional value. What is the special importance of Gangajal ? Is it shrouded in myth, mystery, religious false faiths and blind beliefs?'

Sam - 'There is no myth, mystery, misinformation, blind beliefs behind Gangajal. It's pure science. Whoever, however, whenever created Ganga - made it foolproof, pure , potable, nutritional, medicinal and antiviral. So Gangajal was enhancing our immunity and vitality, which are dreams now. My Maa (Mom) often says in pride - I had given you a spoonful of Gangajal at your birth and then given you my breastfeeding; but never given you any medicine. After your father's demise, poverty was killing us; sometimes Gangajal was our source of survival for days. Are you not healthy with vitality and immunity ? We have not taken the Corona vaccine so far. Future will tell us about our fate. But I can certainly say - Gangajal is fighting with Coronavirus in our body and it is increasing our immune system.'

Ram - 'Please tell me the science behind the so-called Amrit (Gangajal).'

Sam - 'I am not a scientist nor a doctor but a layman. Adequate research has not been done on the issue so far. As I understand, Gangajal was the purest form of water beyond any infection and contamination, due to its bacteriophages and it remained fresh for years together without decay and decomposition. From some research, it came to our knowledge that it contains dissolved oxygen, minerals, and bacteriophages as per our requirements. Ganga and its tributaries have mostly originated from the glaciers and terrains of the Himalayas. Their paths are unknown and inaccessible for us. Where they go underground or overground is beyond our comprehension. When they pass through thousands of kilometers they gather and dissolve in them oxygen and minerals. When we drink Gangajal, we get oxygen, minerals and bacteriophages which strengthen our immune system. It may be worthwhile to say that nowadays in COVID time, rich people of cities drinking RO water, aquaguard water drawn from deep underground sources are vulnerable to short supply of oxygen in their body. The amount of dissolved oxygen in free flowing river water like Ganga is much more pure and anti viral than the aforesaid purified water.'

Ram - 'Who will do research? Who will give patronage to Research and Development (R&D)? Political willpower is spent in electioneering. It is Immaterial for them - whether people are dying of COVID or living with the mercy of Yama Deva (God of death). Whatever research was done on Gangajal, was in the British period for their own benefit of getting pure water. The elite is busy in their professional careers and aloof from politics. The less talented are in business. The least talented is doing politics and through it controlling all : economics, commerce, healthcare, etc. Consequently, all sewage, garbage, medical / hospital wastes, factory and industrial wastes, dead bodies, etc. are going to Ganga, making it polluted and contaminated with virus like Corona.'

Sam - 'The ecosystem is destroyed. Everyone disowns responsibility, although people suffer from so many diseases including COVID. It is now shameful for us to call her Maa Ganga. However, none can deny that once upon a time Maa Ganga was a life system that was maintaining, sustaining, immunizing life of people in Indian Subcontinent directly or indirectly without any discrimination.'

Ram - 'It is late at night. In the darkness, it seems a weeping lady ghost is coming out of a dead body floating in Ganga. Let us go home soon. She will kill us.'

Sam - 'The weeping lady is Maa Ganga. Don't be afraid of her. She is busy in sending the souls of the dead bodies to Heaven. They will get salvation soon. Of course, Maa Ganga is crying for her dead children.'

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.

WAADEY........

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

"Mummy...Mummy....Mummy......"
Sujata looked up, her heartbeats going up rapidly.
It was Chini, her three year old daughter, excited, breathless, with some new mischief she was about to unleash. As if she would climb the roof and jump down, or dip her hand in a bucket of ice, or run on a path of thorns and at the end of it smile and say, see Mummy, nothing happened to me - you and Papa worry without any reason!

Everyone who knew Chini had no doubt that God wanted to make a small Ferris wheel, moving all the time spreading joy and terror in equal proportion, but by mistake He fitted a heart and a body to it and lo and behold, Chini came out as a piece of rare wonder. She slept for five hours a day and the rest of the time, it was her permanent mission to keep everyone running around her. She moved from point to point with the finesse of jumping pop corns on a hot plate and expected everyone to keep pace with her. Way past midnight she would drag her tired Papa to the floor to ride on him, 'be my horse', she would say, and he had no option but doing that. She would ask her Mummy to make a glass of Bournvita and when it would be brought by an obedient Mummy she would have chenged her mind, switching her preference to orange juice. When Mummy got angry she would clap and say, 'See, see Papa, you say Mummy looks more beautiful when she is angry! Look at her she has become like a big red tomato!"

Yet Chini was the heart throb of her parents. She took care of them like a guardian, way past midnight she would keep patting them on the head urging them to sleep, she would tell them stories and sing her own lullabies, till the tired parents lose themselves in sleep around one o' clock in the night. In fact Ranjan, her Papa, would often tell her, "My baby, you are such a darling, if you were there when you were not there, you would not have been here!' Chini would take it as a compliment and clap.

It was as much an ordeal to feed the hyperactive Chini as to make her go to sleep. She was thin like a reed, fussy about eating and would reject every item of food with equal disdain. Sujata and Ranjan would try different tricks to urge her to eat or sit still at a place or go to sleep. Sometimes it would be a cat, or a dog, or a tiger; some days it will be a minor demon, an Asura, some other days it will be a big demon, a Rakshyasa, who would be used to create a scare in her mind. There were also benign characters like a fairy from heaven, a Pari, or a Santaclaus, who would bring special goodies for her if she finished the food in her plate or went to sleep early. But the one who had a special place in her heart was the 'Paagal Baba', a crazy man who was accidentally sighted on a street in Indore, the town where they had lived for a few years. An unkempt man with long hair, tattered clothes and a ferocious face, his name spread terror in Chini's heart like no other instrumentalities of terror could do. A mere mention of Paagal Baba would make her close the eyes and gulp down whatever food or drinks were offered to her.

And one day suddenly Ranjan got transferred to Delhi on promotion in his government job. From an apartment they came to live in an independent house at Pandara Road in Delhi. There was a large open space in the compound and a servant's quarter attached to it. Chini spread herself liberally everywhere, playing outside home, running to the block of servants' quarters and playing with the kids there. Everywhere she reigned supreme with her non-stop talk and loud laughter, her tricks and tantrums. She was everyone's darling, wherever she went.

Unfortunately for the parents the Paagal Baba did not get a transfer to Delhi along with them. The Asuras and Rakhshas had gradually lost their sheen, being invisible non-entities. Sujata and Ranjan were nonplussed for a few days. However, on the fourth day of their stay at Pandara Road the problem was solved like a miracle. Around noon Sujata was busy folding Chini's clothes when there was a big sound like a thunder outside - Waadey.....She was startled. Chini, playing in the courtyard stopped in her track, stunned. Within a minute there was another thunder, close to the compound of the house, loud and fierce - WAADEY.......Chini who was playing in the courtyard, dropped the toy she was holding and ran to her Mummy, scared like a rabbit. Eyes closed in fear, she jumped into her mother's arms and hid her face on her shoulder. When the thunder was repeated after a couple of minutes, there was no doubt life had taken a new turn for the family.

Tulasi, the maid who was washing clothes in the courtyard near the tap, was amused. She tried to cheer up Chini, "Arey Gudiya, why are you scared, this is......." Sujata quickly gestured to her to keep quiet. She knew the Delhi avtar of Paagal Baba had been found. Chini stayed with her Mummy for full half an hour - a sort of records and her day was spent with some trepidation. No doubt the 'Waadey Baba' had made a profound impact on her.

Later in the day when Sujata found Tulasi alone, she asked her what was the noise. Tulasi smiled and replied,
"It is the Kawadiwallah Madam, he makes a round twice a week to pick up junk and scrap from the households in this colony. Sometimes he stops at my house to drink water."
"But why was he shouting Waadey? What does it mean?"
"Arey Memsahab, it is not Waadey, it is Kawadey, meaning junk and scrap. He a carries a big bag with him to take away the scrap. Why was Gudiya so scared of him?"
Sujata explained to her the future importance of 'Waadey Baba' in their life - his stellar role in making Chini eat and listen to her parents. Tulasi understood and smiled.

Ranjan and Sujata wanted to make the best use of the latest instrumentality of terror. They added new colour and dimension to the strange persona of Waadey Baba, how he had long whiskers from where he dangled two ferocious Alsatian dogs, how he carried a bag as big as their bedroom and caught unruly kids and put them in the bag, to take them away and drop them in the deep jungle. With big, round eyes Chini would ask who were the unruly kids? The parents would deliver the punch line in gusto "Unruly kids are those who do not eat what is offered to them by their Mummies and those who do not go to sleep early......" Chini would look at them innocently and promise she would eat and sleep properly, she didn't want to be taken to the jungle and left there. For the past six months Chini had given the respect that is due to a supreme being called Waadey Baba - an entity fiercer than an Asura and mightier than a Rakhyasa. But it was obvious she was getting bored of someone who she could only hear but could never see. Unlike the Paagal Baba who she had seen many times in the Indore market, Waadey Baba was gradually losing a part of the scaring mystery.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Today when Chini came running, shouting Mummy.....Mummy..., Sujata, who had just come out after a long bath looked at Tulasi, to ask her what happened. The maid smiled,
"Gudiya finally met Waadey Baba, I am sorry I could not stop the meeting. The Rakshyasa did not announce his arrival because his bag was already full."
Chini gave a stern look to Tulasi,
"No Mummy, he is not a Rakshyasa, he is just like you and Papa. Promise, Mummy, I will take you to meet him when he comes tomorrow. We are good friends Mummy. He is not a Rakshyasa." Her excitement was overflowing, she ran to her Mummy and gave a kiss on her hand.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Tulasi made a detailed presentation on what had happened an hour back. It seemed Waadey Baba had stopped at her place to drink a glass of water. He had no space left in his bag so he didn't call out 'Waadey' the way he usually did. He was sitting on the small cement platform in front of Tulasi's house, when Chini spotted him. She climbed onto the platform and it took her exactly thirty seconds to strike a friendship. Bowled by her winning smile he asked her,
"What is your name Gudiya?"
"Chini. What is your name?"
"Ram Lal"
Chini laughed, one of her trademark loud laughs,
"How is your name Lal? You are so dark!"
Ram Lal could not control his mirth,
"Is everyone lucky like you, to have a matching name to the person? Your name is Chini, you are also sweet like Chini!"
"Who gave you the name Lal?"
"No one, my father's name was Lal, so my name is also Lal,"
"And your daughter? Her name is also Lal?"
"No, no, her name is Ram Dulari. She is Ram's dulari, so her name is Ram Dulari."
"Dulari means daughter?"
"Yes."
"Then my name is Mummy Dulari, I am my Mummy's daughter."
Ram Lal burst into laughter. He didn't remember when he had laughed so happily in the heartless concrete jungle of Delhi. Chini wanted to probe,
"Where is your daughter?"
"She is in my village."
"Your village? Is it in Indore?"
"No, no, not Indore, it is in Etawah."
"Etawah? My Papa had once shown me a place where lot of 'eet' was lying in a heap. Is it there?"
"Eet? You mean bricks? No, no, my house is not in this town, it is in Etawah, a thousand miles away."
"So far?"
"Yes, very far."
"Do you go to your village in aeroplane? Like we came to Delhi from Indore?"
"Aeroplane? Meaning hawaijahaz? No, no, I go to my village by train. My daughter has not yet travelled by train."
"But aeroplane? She must have travelled by aeroplane?"
Ram Lal laughed again,
"Her father has not travelled by aeroplane, how can she travel?"
"Why you are not going to your village by aeroplane?"
Ram Lal looked at the sky - a vacant, pitiful look. May be in his next birth he would be born into a rich family and travel by Hawaijahaz! But he managed a smile,
"It's a lot of fun travelling by train. The music of the running train - chhuk, chhuk, chhuk, - is quite exciting. There are hawkers who come and sell chanachur and peanuts in the compartment, boys come singing, asking for money. Do you get all this in aeroplane?"
Chini shook her head,
"No, no, I had to sit, tied to a belt for two hours inside the aeroplane. I didn't like it. Next time you go to your village, I will come with you, to travel in the train. Will you take me with you? I will play with your daughter, we will be good friends."
"Yes, yes, I will take you with me"
"And my Mummy and Papa? Can they come with you also?"
"Yes, I will take them also. We will have lots of fun."
Chini suddenly became aware of Ram Lal's beard,
"You have such a long beard! Doesn't it get wet when you drink water from a glass?"
Ram Lal smiled, it's as if he also became aware of this phenomenon for the first time.
"Yes, it gets wet."
"And while taking tea?"
"No, that time I am careful. I don't want to get scalded with hot tea, you know."
"Do you sometimes dangle two Alsatian dogs from your long moustache?"
"Alsatian dogs? No, no, I don't have such long moustache."
"Waadey Baba has, he always moves with two big dogs hanging from his moustache. You know what the two dogs do? They pick up those kids who are unruly and bring them to Waadey Baba. He puts those kids in his big bag and takes them to the jungle. Arey, what is there in your bag? It looks full?"
"I have lots of scrap collected from different houses."
"Scrap? What is scrap?"
"Unusable things. When things become old, people give them away. Like papers, utensils, other small small things."
Chini's eyes sparkled,
"Do you have toys there? Lots of toys? Can you give them to me?"
Ram Lal shook his head,
"No Gudiys, they are old, not fit for your use."
"Your bag is so small. You know how big is Waadey Baba's bag? It's as big as our bedroom. There are always eight, nine kids inside the bag."
"How cruel of him! Who puts small kids in a bag?"
"Waadey Baba does. He takes all those naughty, unruly kids in that bag and leaves them in the jungle. It's very painful to be in jungle. You have to live on only fruits and leaves. There is no ice cream, no pizza there. Does your daughter like ice cream? Which flavour? Vanilla or Mango?"

The laughter inside Ram Lal died, his eyes brimmed with tears. For a daughter who struggles to get two meals a day, ice cream is a big, unreachable dream. He wanted to hide the tears from the sweet girl and looked at Tulasi,
"Can you lend me a big bag? Let me see if I can collect some more scrap from the rest of the houses. I am going away to my village for a month in a few days. Let me make some more money."
Tulasi nodded and went inside. Chini kept talking,
"Will you give me ice cream when you take me to your village? Does your daughter have lots of toys to play with? Does she have a Barbie Doll? Or a Mickey Mouse?"
Ram Lal's face was breaking into a thousand griefs. But he didn't want to show it to the small girl. He kept entertaining her by making sounds of a train's whistle, and the chhuk, chhuk sound. He also knew how to imitate the sound of birds - a papiha, a maina, a crow and a koel. Chini was enjoying and clapping all the time in appreciation.

Tulasi came with the bag. Ram Lal took it from her and got up to leave. He hugged the small girl and blessed her. For a moment he felt as if it was Ram Dulari looking up to him and asking him, "Where were you all these days Babuji, why did you leave me and go away?". He started walking. A few metres away, at the intersection he thundered WAADEY........Chini who had started playing, stopped and looked at him, stunned. As if it was necessary to reaffirm the reality, Ram Lal again thundered, this time a bit more loudly, WAADEY.....Chini asked Tulasi, "This is Waadey Baba?" Tulasi smiled and nodded.

Chini took hold of Tulasi's hand and dragged her inside,
"Mummy.....Mummy....Mummy....."

xxxxxxxxxxx

Tulasi looked at Sujata and shook her head,
"Sorry Memsahab, I couldn't lie to her. And I didn't have the heart to ask Ram Lal to leave. He also has a daughter the same age as our Gudiya. Her name is Ram Dulari. Our Gudiya says she will go to his village and play with her new friend Ram Dulari."
Sujata scooped up her cute little daughter and hugged her. She knew today they lost the demon named Wadey Baba, but a new fairy - Ram Dulari - descended from heaven to fill Chini's heart with joy and dreams. She looked up, folded her hand and prayed to God to keep the Chinis and Ram Dularis of the world innocent and happy for ever.

BOOK REVIEW

THE JASMINE GIRL AT HAJI ALI AND OTHER STORIES
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi

** Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a masterly storyteller whose writing is illumined with delightful humour, subdued satire and pungent social criticism. There is an appeal in his work that goes beyond entertainment. His stories make us reflect on and consider solutions to that perennial problem - "how to live".

Geetha Nair, G. (Poet, Writer and Editor, Trivandrum)

** Who says short stories are out of trend? Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s stories are a pleasure to read, with themes ranging from the whimsical to poignant, from ones conveying a moral to ones that make the reader wonder! Delightfully written, some with a tongue-in-cheek sense of humour, Mrutyunjay, with these stories, is India’s new find, a Prem Chand and Ruskin Bond rolled into one. Read his stories, and you’ll know.

Jairam Seshadri. (Founder, India Poetry Circle. Author of ‘Mantra Yoga: How To Increase Your Inner Power and Potential’, ‘Woof Songs & The Eternal Saboteur: Reflective Poems and Essays on Dogs’, and ‘Jesus Sahasranama: The 1008 Names of Jesus Christ’, Chennai)

** Mrutyunjay Sarangi spins stories with deceptive ease and admirable flair; his loom is the drama, conjured out of daily events from ordinary lives. The characters in his stories magically spring to life by the deft touch of his eloquence and imagination. Portrayal of their emotional encounters, framed in an array of settings, leaves you enthralled and buoyant. This collection of stories is a delectable sample of his prolific creativity.

Dr. Ajay Kumar Upadhyay (Writer, Psychiatrist, Hertfordshire, England)

A TRAIN TO KOLKATA
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi

*** Here is an eclectic short story collection, with the right mix of humour, suspense, love, sarcasm, imagery, vocabulary and more! Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a natural storyteller; his stories with twists and turns will leave you asking for more, and more…..

Hema Ravi (Writer, Poet, Reviewer, Editor, ‘Efflorescence’, Secretary, Chennai Poets’ Circle)

*** A smooth-flowing river with an estuary of lovely birds and bees, or whirlpools and crocodiles at unknown nooks, depending on whether it hides joy or shocking surprises, that's a typical story by MS; measured, controlled, balanced. Jolly or courageous, sad or tear-jerking, from the start his stories hide a surprising climax.

Prabhanjan K. Mishra (Poet and Writer, Editor ‘POIESIS’, the literary journal of The Poetry Circle, Mumbai)

*** Mrutyunjay Sarangi’s stories span a very wide spectrum of themes narrated with his unique and inimitable storytelling style. Not only he paints the scenarios articulately and with minute details, he embeds life’s simple philosophies through dialogues and conversations elegantly. The characterisations are realistic and events appear to be slices from real life.

Dilip Mahapatra (Indian Navy Veteran, Award Winning Poet and Writer, Mumbai)

*** Mostly rooted in past memories, the stories of Mrutyunjay Sarangi move spontaneously and flawlessly, defining human relations, unraveling mysteries and singing a long-lost song. Reading his stories is like embarking on an incredible journey.

Minakshi Padhi (Writer, Critic, Bhubaneswar)

Viewers Comments

Dr.Avarani Nanda,Rtd.Reader,

The story "The debt" written by Dr Radharani Nanda is a masterpiece of emotional touch.The priceless deed of Anita is beyond imagination.Indeed True friends stay forever, Beyond words,Beyond distance, Beyond time.I wish many more master pieces further.

Apr, 10, 2022
Dr.Avarani Nanda,Rtd.Reader,

The story "The debt" written by Dr Radharani Nanda is a masterpiece of emotional touch.The priceless deed of Anita is beyond imagination.Indeed True friends stay forever, Beyond words,Beyond distance, Beyond time.I wish many more master pieces further.

Apr, 10, 2022
Muralidhar Panigrahi

An educational trip to Washington,D.C. by Sri G.C.Roul is a nice article worth reading like his earlier ones.He has vividly narrated about the capital city, it's history about the majestic monuments, excellent architecture and superb scene.Infact, his excellent narration about the White House, Washington Monument,War Memorial,Lincoln Memorial, National Museum of National History,Capitol Hill and Smithsonian National,Air and Space Museum gives an unique feelings to the readers. Presented very nicely, hugely delighted to go through the article. Hope, to see more such articles in future.

Mar, 31, 2022
Bhabesh Chandra Mohanty

"An educational trip to Washington DC" by G C Roul gives details of the historical monuments in and around Washington DC. As usual the article by G C Roul is informative & interesting. Hope, he will continue in his endeavour to present such type of articles to entertain the readers.

Mar, 30, 2022
Rama Shankar patnaik

While submitting my comments on the article an educational trip to Washington D.C.written by Sri Gourang ch.Roul,later it's noticed some typographical errors have been occurred which is regretted,hope the readers will bear with me for the errors.

Mar, 29, 2022
Rama Shankar patnaik

Happy to read the article an educational trip to Washington DC by Your any chance.Roul is very much informative,the picturesque description of the famous city Washington DC visualise the entire picture sitting in our room in India,deep exposure,lucid language of the story writer is commendable,most of the embassies head quarter n many international organizations are located in the compact city having a population of around seven lakhs,the city was founded in 1790 july which was named for George Washington..Sri Foul has narrated his travel epilogue in this short story.I convey my thanks and appreciation for his contribution to the periodical journal.

Mar, 28, 2022
Narottam Rath

The article of Sri G.C.Roul on Washington DC is worth reading. Millions of tourists visit the capital city but very few like Sri Roul go through the hidden history of the monuments. The description is so lucid that the reader feels being a part of the visit of the author. The name itself speaks of two great personalities like Washington and Columbus. Like his earlier articles,here the author has taken lots of pain in knowing about the space mission and space ships. The article is very absorbing and we expect some more from his pen.

Mar, 26, 2022
Sarada Prasad Mishra

I have gone through the topic at sl no 10 the picture of the national capital of America,its globally famous monuments given in a stylist language by Mr G C Roul.The statues of world famous leaders who decorated the highest chair of the white House.Thanks for enlighting the picture of the capital of the world 's richest and most powerful country for information of common readers.

Mar, 25, 2022
Sonali

“An educational trip to Washington “ by Shri. Gouranga Charan Roul is an well written and well researched article. This article depicts the rich heritage behind the monuments located in the vicinity of White house in a very nicely manner.

Mar, 25, 2022

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Literary Vibes - Edition CXV (25-Mar-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

A HAPPY AND PROUD MOMENT FOR LITERARY VIBES

Table of Contents :: POEMS

Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

BOOK REVIEW

Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC

SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

BOOK REVIEW

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Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - POEMS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES

Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - YOUNG MAGIC

THIS CAN HAPPEN: VOLUME XXX & XXXI

Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXIX (29-Mar-2024 - POEMS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - POEMS

Literary Vibes - Edition CXL (26-Apr-2024) - SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES