Literary Vibes - Edition CXVII (27-May-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Miriam (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 117th edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes with some excellent poems and enchanting short stories. A wonderful article on Kashmir, the "Paradise on Earth", is the jewel in the crown in today's offerings. You may find all of them at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/437 (Poems, Short Stories, Anecdotes, Travelogues) and http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/436 (Young Magic)
There are also two articles by the prolific Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/434 and http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/435
I am happy to welcome two brilliant poets into the family of LiteraryVibes this time. Ms. Namita Rani Panda, Vice Principal of Navodaya Vidyalaya at Cuttack, Odisha, is a passionate lover of literature and is a talented bilingual poet, churning out soulful poetry in Odia and English. Ms. Antara Kunwar, a Student at Sum Institute of Medical Sciences, Bhubaneswar, has deep feelings for persons with mental disorder. Out of her concern for patients of Schizophrenia she has penned a stunning poem which should stir the emotions of the readers. Let us wish them a bright literary and professional future and hope we will have their contributions in our forthcoming editions also.
In the past few weeks circumstances have played some unforeseen tricks on me, forcing me to introspect on life. My journey of close to seventy years has been of kaleidoscopic variety, combining the highs and lows in almost equal measure. Yet, the elusive self-fulfilment has always remained a dream. Recently I came across a beautiful story entitltled 'The Missing Goat'. It is about a clever psychologist who conducted an experiment in a school. He caught hold of three goats, wrote the numbers 1, 2, and 4 on them, and left them in the premises of a high school on a dark night. The next morning the faculty, staff and students of the school went into a tizzy, looking for the Goat number 3. Every nook and corner of the school was searched and places hitherto unknown were turned upside down. Yet the elusive third goat was never found. It is possible that the school authorities are still looking for the missing goat.
The psychologist went ahead to explain that most of our lives is spent on looking for the elusive third goat. We have a lurking suspicion that what we missed was what really mattered and what we got was inconsequential. In fact, the lesson in the experiment has an universal truth - in life we keep struggling to achieve things, without really knowing where fulfilment lies. We build a big house, yet a bigger house of a neighbour makes us unhappy, we buy the best car and next year the arrival of a better car leaves us unsatisfied.
I reflected, may be the missing third goat in life is our search for perfection in everything around us - a perfect world, where no Russia will invade a hapless Ukraine, no insane teen will shoot down innocent children in a faraway land, a perfect country where there will be no corruption, no mayhem in the name of religion, caste or politics, a perfect neighbourhood where cars will not honk unnecessarily, loud music from some house will not murder our sleep in the night, a perfect family where love and understanding will bind everyone......loyal friends, honest shops, unpolluted air and unsullied camaraderie........
Tormented by a sense of non-fulfilment of desired goals, I asked myself what would make me happy. For two days I stopped watching TV, checking messages in eMail and WhatsApp, I shut myself in a self-made cocoon of absolute privacy. I found when I confined myself to my exclusive world in isolation I experienced inner peace. Then the bubble burst, I was drawn into the external world again and the torment started.
I concluded that unhindered inner peace is not possible unless one loses himself in the wilderness of the Himalayas. A comment here, a jibe there, pierced my heart. The dwindling readership of LiteraryVibes, the tepid response to my two books, a fading friendship, barking dogs in the night, leaking taps, malfunctioning air-conditioners - everything came back to torment me, the many frustrations in life returned to haunt me like a nagging pain. I am still looking for the 'Third Goat', knowing fully well that there is no such goat. Yet, as thinking animals we have no choice except to be tormented by self-inflicted wounds.
I am tempted to quote a few lines from my own poem 'End of the Journey' published in the April edition of LiteraryVibes:
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As I crawl through the remnants
of what were once my dreams
I wonder where I left those footsteps
of someone who never came,
but for whom I spent a lifetime waiting.
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As I chased the elusive happiness
always wishing to be someone else,
trying to be somewhere I knew didn't exist,
my shadows mocked at me,
they always did, but I never noticed.
As I lie here tired and crumpled,
shedding endless tears at the end of my story
I think of all those who walked with me
trying to cheer me up, whispering little songs,
while I kept waiting for someone who never came.
Dear Readers, here is to wish you a lot of inner peace, may your lives shine with a sense of fulfilment, let the shadow of the Missing Goat not torment you.
Please do share the links of LV117 with all your friends and contacts, let literature act as a balm to troubled, restless minds.
Enjoy and be at peace with yourself. We will meet again in the last week of June with the 118th edition of LiteraryVibes.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A DEAD EYE’S WAR DIARY
02) Haraprasad Das
A LOVE SONG
03) Dilip Mohapatra
CONTINUUM
THE MISSING PIECE
04) Bibhu Padhi
RITES FOR THE DEAD
05) Abani Udgata
PILLOW-TALKS
06) Col ( Dr) Rekha Mohanty
A FLASH BACK
07) Namita Rani Panda
DEATH OF FAITH
MY ECHO
08) Dr Antara Kunwar
CHAOS IN MY MIND
09) Binsha Anas
ODE TO MY PRETTY PLANT
10) Sundar Rajan & Team
RUMINATIONS OF RAINDROPS
JEWEL OF THE SKY
SUNNY TALES
11) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS :: MY HOME
12) Sharanya Bee
FREEDOM
13) Hema Ravi
TREE REVEALS…
OUT OF THE FLOWER-BEDS
14) Setaluri Padmavathi
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
15) Pradeep Rath
LABYRINTHS
16) Dr. Aparna Ajith
AN ODE TO MOBILITY
17) Alexandra Books
FLYING 10
18) Sheena Rath
SUMMER BLOOMS
19) N Rangamani
TRYST WITH DESTINY?
20) Sreedharan Parokode
WEEPING VICTORY..
21) Twinkle Sasmal
ANXIETY
22) Professor Niranjan Barik
TO SUN THE SOBER, I SAY MY NAMASKAR
23) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE ONE-NIGHT STAND
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE THIRTEEN ANGELS
02) Ishwar Pati
DEAR DEPARTED
03) Dr.Radharani Nanda
MARRIAGE ANNIVERSARY
04) Chinmayee Barik
SALVATION
05) Meena Mishra
TORMENTOR, NO MORE!
06) Satish Pashine
PARADISE ON EARTH -“KASHMIR”
07) Sunil Kumar Biswal
COWMINICATION
08) Snehaprava Das
MOON IN MUMMY'S FACE
09) Prof. (Dr.) Viyatprajna Acharya
STRUGGLE FOR STORING MEMORIES
10) Satya Narayan Mohanty
THE STRANGE CASE OF HELENIA MIGUEL
11) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
12) Pradeep Biswal
Prof. P. LAL AND WRITERS WORKSHOP
13) Asha Raj Gopakumar
BOUNDLESS LOVE OF GOD
14) Dr. Aparna Ajith
ONE-YEAR-OLD MOTHER
15) Ashok Kumar Ray
SOUL OF SITA
16) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
DECENTRALISATION
BOOK REVIEW:
01) Ravi Ranganathan
THE CUCKOO SINGS AGAIN BY HEMA RAVI
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo.
SUMMER VACATION
02) Ritika Pradhan
THE GHOST
POEMS
Had seen the war of words
among TV panellists,
bitter words hurled at each other
by my parents, then this war –
saw violent and vitriolic,
the powder billowing
brown and pungent;
smelling of death and blood,
like dozens of swamps
breathing foul effluvium;
bullets whizzing, grenades bursting,
bodies disintegrating.
Brave hearts wearing brave faces,
crinkled with icy hatred,
bayonets raised to stab
before getting stabbed;
…but their insides turning pulp
facing the enemy bullets, bayonets,
and bodies collapsing
like crumpled beanbags.
No joke, the dance
of macabre: spilled brain,
ripped-open rib-cages
baring red pulsating hibiscus;
I, the left eye, intact and open,
of a dead soldier, that I saw,
unbelievable from
my calm perspective –
Two confronting soldiers,
enemies by uniform, but cousins
by their looks, if one ignored 1947 Partition,
eyes cocked, each deep in thought -
‘Do I know you buddy?
Have we met before?
You look like a brother,
not an enemy at all.
Do I hate you? No.
Do I fear you? Yes.
Our commanders teach us -
Kill the enemy before he kills you.’
Before each finished thinking
his fair-play reasonings,
the coward of the two blinked first,
pulled the trigger, shooting the brave one.
The killer would carry home
his gallantry-medal, also his guilt
of the cowardly shot, a Cross
weighing him down his entire life.
The brave one would die
on a desolate war front, might be
unsung and unheard; perhaps
declared, ‘lost, not found’.
And I, the dead eye, to you
like Sanjay to Dhritarashtra,
would speak of the truth behind a lie
what you never would see –
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.
May I remind you, what all
you have lost in life and love –
while playing pubescent games,
you lost the pendant of your forehead,
all searched for it
but in vain,
including your father
taking leave from his school
for his beloved daughter,
missing his teaching assignments.
Followed suit one of your anklets
of the lovely pair,
it was lost in bed,
but your friends teased,
“Good omen!
Your prince charming
is on his way
riding his winged-horse.”
You frowned at them,
“Superstitious.”
But, deep down your heart
you were tickled to attend puberty.
You stopped looking for your anklet,
let it remain lost
as the messenger of good omen
(and lo!),
your bridegroom
arrived with pomp
exploding fireworks
riding a stately mare.
Your favorite silver dining dish
resembling the moon
was lost amid the heap of utensils
at the wash basin,
but you enjoyed the loss
when your husband teased you,
cupping your face between palms,
“Are you looking for this, honey?”
You lost your gold necklace,
you couldn’t blame anyone,
not even the Myna
who claimed to have stolen it,
for you knew,
the little Myna was lying,
just to tease you.
Did it vanish into thin air?
List of your lost articles,
like a river trying to string
the ripples along its course
end to end,
jangle into distant memory;
lapsing from the present
to the past like the raga Hansanarayani
on Sarod to welcome a new dawn;
letting the lady luck
twiddle her thumbs.
You call the losses passé
and spin new webs of trust,
push away the prejudices
into the receding dark
from the sandy shores
to reveal a blessed sea
beyond and ahead, rippling with
bounties of life’s sweet and sour joy
to your eyes’ reach,
inviting you to join.
(From ‘GODS IN FILIGREE’, the forthcoming book of poems by Haraprasad Das, rendered into English by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
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)”
Every dusk the curtain drops
And the crimson dissolves
Into the blackness that spreads
Over the azure expanse
With weak occasional dazzles
Of the sprinkling of sparklers
And from somewhere beyond the
Distant horizon the dogs' wails
Waft in through your windows
That you shut in haste
Hoping to insulate yourself.
Every evening the contagious shadows
Lose their individuality
Having merged with the infinity
And no longer taunt you
About your stolid opacity.
You don't blow soap bubbles
Under the street light
Neither do you colour
Your dreams with brush strokes
Of the cosmic chaos.
Every little death you die every day
Comes alive in the dark
To engulf you
To spread over you like a quilt
Getting thicker every passing day
Till it smothers you
And takes your last breath away.
You don't see the fading dawn
Ever again
And lose your identity in the
No man's land.
It can't be a simple comma or a colon
nor even a complete word
or phrase that may fill up
the void or the vacuum.
It's a formless link between the pieces
of the conundrum
your power to connect and connote
and to build bridges
between the disparate
and the dispersed.
It's the key to an indivisible whole
and to the singular unity
the bond that binds together
the loose pieces of the jigsaw puzzle
around you
both real and surreal
and is as elusive as ever
deeply embedded within your soul
wrapped in the five sheaths of sustenance
like the Matryoshka dolls
nesting in layers
food, air, mind, intellect and bliss…
from the gross to the subtle
from the stout to the sublime.
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 bones I had gathered two years ago
are preserved in two earthen urns that lie
deep under our backyard’s fertility—
six bones, femoral, stronger than
the ones which at one time had held me
to the stars and begged for their blessing;
six bones, grey with the years,
rough at places, like fine sand,
brittle to my tentative fingers.
Six bones waiting
for their turn at Benaras, where
the holy find their way to
moksha in Ganga’s sacred waters.
I wait for that auspicious hour
when I would start my journey
to the holy city in the north,
with the urns with six bones
suspended from a sling that is
supported by my Brahmin neck.
Weeks and months pass;
the dream of grandmother leaving
us gathers force. I know, I have
let her bones stay for fear of
losing yet another part
of my past in my effort
to make the present safer through
rites that belong only to the dead,
forever renewing themselves.
Moksha: liberation
A two times Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published seventeen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the world, such as Contemporary Review, The London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, Wasafiri, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poet Lore, Poetry, Rosebud, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, Xavier Review, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Dalhousie Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Bombay Review, and Indian Literature.
They have been included in several anthologies and textbooks. Six of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poet s, Language for a New Century ( New York: Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins),The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry, Converse: Contemporary English Poems by Indians ( London: Pippa Rann Books), and The Penguin Book of Indian Poets.
she asked are you sure
that all the doors are shut?
i was a silent face in darkness.
a quiet ache hangs in the air,
the ceiling descends a few steps below.
doors are shut tight like eyes
looking inwards away from light and
listening to faint ripples trying to clasp
the sandy limbs of the shore, to hear
the whispers of the night all around .
night stretched its limbs all over
every little pore of our breaths.
our pillow-talks are drowned by
the burning smells of wood covered
with moss and grime, unwanted creepers.
she mumbles before drifting in to sleep
something about distances between
two perfect strangers on a rail platform .
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) retired as a Principal Chief General Manager of the Reserve Bank of India. in December 2016. Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in All India Poetry Competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English. He can be contacted at his email address abaniudgata@gmail.com
The grand house amidst the lush green swinging paddy fields
and coconut trees around,
The mango groves smiling
in spring with yellow hues all over
fascinated a lot
as and when found.....1
The slender bright
orange yellow rays
of rising and setting sun
piercing through
thick hanging roots
and branches
of old baniyan tree,
The sweet fragrance
of blooming fresh white flowers dash and mingles in
the night air to
a mighty glory......2
The ringing of bells
at neck of homebound cattles
and the charming sound of the temple gong reverberate at dusk
Then the dim light simmer
at all house front doors
glorifying the evening
with the sacred earthen lamps,
The serenity and sanctity
spreads all over
and the day
folds to a wrap........3
I long to be there standing
in same house and court yard
that is now abandoned
and empty
which was once upon a time
very alive with activities
of many kinds
Oh God !
Let me be there
to feel the past
atleast once in my lifetime
by any chance,
For I remember being tendered
as a little baby and
loved everything there
in that little remote village
where only bullock carts could go
Now the vivid picture
coming as a flashback
and I again long
to drench in rain
play jump and dance.........4
I dream often sleeping in laps of my granny and walking
around as a toddler
holding old hands,
And I want to feel
the charm of everything once again as I remember
since then and believe
today also it stands...........5
Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College.She worked in Himachal Pradesh State Govt as a medical Officer and in unit of Para military Assam Rifles before joining Army Medical Corps.She worked in various Peace locations all over India and Field formations in High Altitudes.She was awarded service medal for her participation in Op Vijay in Kargil.She is post graduate in Hospital Management and has done commendable job in inventory management of busy 1030 bedded Army Base Hospital ,Delhi Cantonment for six years and offered Sena Medal and selected for UN Mission in Africa.After the service in uniform she worked in Ex Service Men Polyclinic in Delhi NCR till 2021.She writes short stories and poems both in English and Odia as a hobby and mostly on nature.Being a frequent traveler,she writes on places.She helps in educating on health matters in a NGO that works for women upliftment.As an animal lover she is involved in rehabilitation of injured stray dogs.
She lives mostly outside the state and visits Bhubaneswar very often after retirement.She likes to read non political articles of interest.She does honorary service for poor patients.
The little girl shook her mother
Who was lying lifeless beside her,
Stained with gushing red blood
At a little distance was lying a shattered photo frame,
Perhaps the picture of her God
That's the only treasure she had fetched
While hurriedly leaving for a safe shelter
With the hope that it would protect them ever
from all kinds of deadly dangers
But war spares none!
Rewards everyone either with death or mutilation,
And untellable perennial poignant pain!
She looked around with her blurry vision
Mounds of corpses blurred with fumes of abomination
The frame to her is now a mere piece of paper
Her faith turned to a corpse like her lifeless mother
A soldier rushed towards her to rescue her
But with her single mutilated hand she failed to embrace her saviour
When I clap my hands
On the shore
You clap there
Behind the mountain
When I shout at you
You shout back louder
To prove your power
And to me you overshadow
When I cry out my victory
You cheer me aloud
To go ahead
And unravel the mystery
When I break down in sadness
You sob like my close friend
To bring my sorrow an end
By giving me comforting solace
My echo you teach a great lesson
Our dignity we have to up keep
As you sow, so you reap
And to be ever polite to everyone.
Namita Rani Panda is a multilingual poet, story writer, editor and translator from Sambalpur, Odisha. She has five anthologies of poems to her credit: Blue Butterflies, Rippling Feelings, A Slice of Sky and A Song for Myself and Colours of Love. She is co-translator of Rivulets of Reflections, a book of translated stories from Odia to English. She has co-authored Radical Rhythm Volume I to IV with the credit of editorship of Radical Rhythm II. She is co-editor of Resplendent Rainbow and Durga the Invincible, both being collection of poems. Her signature words are love, optimism and self-confidence. Presently she is working as Vice Principal of Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya Cuttack, Odisha.
As I walk by, with the sound of silent echoes
Every moment comes so fast
Yet fades so slow.
I loose the grip of my thoughts
Trying to make sense of it all
But still getting lost.
As I attend to the worldly affairs
Minute details interests me
Often so bizzare and silly
That I spend hours looking into it, keenly.
Sometimes, I am a stranger to myself
An external observer of my deeds
And becoming a whole new personality, to oneself.
My words often do not make sense to this world
I hear voices calling me “ illogical and insane”
But all I am trying is
To fit into this paradoxical game.
I didn’t choose this life for me
And alone ,I find it difficult to cope
Let’s stop secluding people with
schizophrenia
And CONNECT WITH HOPE!!
Antara, a final year postgraduate student of PSYCHIATRY in IMS AND SUM HOSPITAL, BHUBANESWAR hails from Madhubani, Bihar . She is an athlete and has the honor of representing the state in basketball. Her hobbies are athletics, playing basketball, yoga, painting and writing poems. Her aim is to work in the field of mental health as psychiatrist and try to reduce the stigma and create awareness as well.
(Picture credit :: Sundar Rajan)
Am I just a drop of water in the sea,
Quenching the thirst of smiling Sun in glee?
Evaporating on a journey, wholesome,
To embrace the clouds with a warm welcome?
Am I just a child of thunder and lightning?
Or am I the tears of heavy clouds lightening?
Who willingly births all rivers, ponds and streams?
Who nurtures flora and fauna with their dreams!
Am I just the harbinger of life on earth
So that green grass, flowers and gold grains take birth?
I descend as raindrops that dance in delight
Painting an arch In the sky, with split sunlight.
Am I just pitter patter little raindrops,
Forming tiny puddles for children to stop,
Splash , float paper boats, happily have good fun,
Then dry up again in the heat of the sun?
Am I just just an annoying passing shower?
From cloud to cloud through the earth I meander
Falls, streams, lakes, rivers, sea and subterrain too
Enabling life everywhere that I pass through.
Am I just another seasonal downpour
Accompanied by a thundering uproar
Or the one to leave a dewy petrichor
That breathes life into your monotonous chore.
Am I just turning parched lands into pastures,
Sending Mother Earth fauna into raptures?
Spreading a silent message so obvious,
Save the environment that is so precious.
(Picture credit :: Sundar Rajan)
Am I just a friend of the lonely night sky
Or the one who follows you through your night ride
Do they still tell you I make the old wolves cry
Or you have grown wise enough to know it's lie!
Am I just a beauty spot on the night sky,
adorned by the stars beside and the sun's light !
Sometimes I hide behind the clouds coz I shy,
Still you see my many faces through fortnight!
Am I just a pendant of star necklace, bright?
I wax and wane Hiding behind Earth's mane!
Am I a mirror mellowing the sunlight?
wax poems on me , yet, set to conquer me, Man!
AmI just, in the sky, master of the troupe,
For the neap and ebb tides to dance in a group?
Waxing and waning pleasures the sky gazers,
I turn out then, to be a true trail blazer.
Am I just the reflection of the bright sun?
Softening his blaze, brightening the night sky
A never failing trigger for muse and gyan
Always your true friend whether you smile or sigh.
Am I just there to make love lorn damsels swoon,
And the deeply dejected Romeos sigh.
Or am I a radiant and beautiful moon
Spreading joy and happiness from above, so high?
Am I just a shape- shifter, heedless, fickle,
Or steady, firm, in my orbital ellipse?
Waxing and waning from circle to sickle
But keeping my date with the solar eclipse.
(Picture credit Subha Bhardwaj)
Am I just a cheery face in children's art?
I sustain life with my warmth, heat I impart !
Make rain clouds, cook, sterilise the planet ,
Day dawns when across sky glides my chariot !
Am I just your wakeup call every morning?
A time keeper to watch your day progressing
in tune with my travel from the East to West?
You sure know I'm the life sprout for all on earth
Am I just another bright star in your sky
Or the creator of an endless supply
Of heat and light, birthing fauna and flora
Hailed by men as Helios, Surya and Ra.
Am I just that large orange ball in the sky,
If you want to live life without me, just try!
High in the sky I may be a ball of fire,
Nurture each living being, my heart's desire!
Am I just a golden ball up in the sky?
I can make you warm, but also leave you dry!
You know I am up there but you dare not see!
But I like to smile at you with glee, you see!
Am I just a sphere that is hibernating,
Half the year in Arctic so fascinating,
Or am I the God, most people venerate?
Whatever be, I do strongly resonate!
Am I just giver of warmth during cold days,
I skim across water glinting diamond trace!
My rays peek through your windows doors and hallways!
I dance with dust, cosmic or earthly always!
The Refrain form, also called 'Repetend ' is adopted for these poems, where the words 'Am I just' is repeated in every verse.
My homeland in the hills for twenty five years!
Life was, innocence wrapped around
A loving home- a farm and a wild untamed terrain.
Where life bloomed into excitement and adventure
The days ruled by angst and pain, fun and laughter,
Taught us resilience to face the world with a smile.
Now thirty seven years have flown by
Yet I am enamoured of those days.
Life, in her spate had taught me many things
When simplicity reigned with nature’s harmony.
Back home now, watching my Amma’s happiness
The naughty childishness, glittering in her faded eyes
Awakened memories galore stored in golden caskets.
Later sleeping in my tiny cottage, on the hillock
I was woken up by the wild laughter of the foxes
Followed by the yelping of dogs, I sat up breathless.
The same feeling of yore enveloped me,
I shivered, excitement sandwiched with fear.
Have they come back? Will they come down?
Once our farm was a favourite haunt for them
Where they could grab a truant rabbit or a lone hen
Accidentally left out, while closing the hutch and the coop.
My mind once more swung back to those days.
Invasion of people into the idyllic wildness
Had driven them away, but now nature was regaining.
The new laws to preserve nature brought them back.
I felt joy seeping over me as memories tumbled out
Making me listen with bated breath, yearning.
But Sleep lulled me and took me to her dream world.
Where I saw a slice of night activity on our farm.
Our family was preparing to retire for the night,
A loud cackle, frightened quacking and excited barking;
Broke the stillness of the serene night.
Appa jumped up from his armchair,
Grabbed the solid cane and rushed out
Followed by the boys, equally armed
I, then a girl could not be contained in,
I ran after Appa and the boys chasing the fox
That ran for its life, dropping the frightened fowl.
Picking up the injured fowl we hand it to Amma
Awaiting us, tending gently to its wound
She put it under the basket safe for the night,
Praying she would find it revived in the morning...
I chuckled in my sleep, as I saw and heard my brothers
Regaling in detail the chase, where Appa was our hero.
(Yes, these are things that pull me home. Things that prodded us to build a single room cottage where we could hear the wild night sounds, to create an orchard so we could roam about eating all kinds of wild fruits. And as in the past, to laugh loud, unrestrained, to howl like the wolves that came prowling in the night once upon a time, to shiver in fright listening to the Jackal's laughter, to hear the thuds of the Pazhaunnis( palm civets) as they fall down after eating their fill of fruits, as they don't know to climb down a tree, and listen to the yelping of the dogs, to hear the cackling of hens as the sly fox comes prowling and listen to the general commotion, chasing the fox, what excitement!
What an adventure it was for us on the lonely hill top, surrounded by jackfruit trees, mango trees, cashews, sapotas, guavas, butter fruit, rose apple and so many other fruits trees my greenfingered Appa, crazy about farming, planted. That era was long back in the 70ies and the 80 ies. Now there is nothing there, "Gone with the Wind," along with my Appa.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
True passion is yet unpeeled
My map of worries boxed and framed
The compliments are a podium
As I stand doubtful on them
The joker becomes the joke when
No seat is taken
'Fearless' stays a metaphor
Yet to be morphed into a hammer
I can grab by its heavy handle
Shatter the glass box
Levitate off the podium
All curtains drawn away
And speak my mind
As the mind speaks beautiful truths
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
Until yesterday it was brown and bleak
The barren tree is in full bloom again
This Spring morn, I managed to get a peek.
It brought back memories of house at creek
Where birds chirped all day long and pecked at grain
Until yesterday it was brown and bleak.
The time when the little lass gave a shriek
Startled by the horn of the long goods train
This Spring morn, I managed to get a peek.
Morning sun shines on the hands green and sleek-
bunch of bananas glistening in rain
Until yesterday it was brown and bleak.
I recall the black cat that tried to sneak
in; red, with blood of creature it had slain
This Spring morn, I managed to get a peek.
With me, was the tree attempting to speak?
To reveal that endurance brings the gain!
Until yesterday it was brown and bleak
This Spring morn, I managed to get a peek.
Companions still in winter sleep…
Bulbs buried in the soil deep
came out noiselessly
on a cool morning in shades
of red, yellow, white and orange
held upright by the long striped leaves –
Incredible magnificence
swaying in the gentle breeze
unfazed by the passerby
who hurried on without a glance
and a green-thumb who stood awhile
in astonishment and delight.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’
She was a guest faculty trainer in the Virtual Communication Skills Program for the Undergraduate Students of IIT Madras in July 2021, also resource person in the National workshop 'English Language Skills for Academic Purposes at Sastra University, Kumbakonam (2019).
She was the Guest of Honor and esteemed panel member for a panel discussion with faculty members and children on the topic of Creative Writing in the Virtual U R A Writer Award Panel Discussion (Gear International School, Bengaluru in Feb. 2021)
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021)
She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020)
She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
As event organizer of Connecting Across Borders (CAB), she has played a predominant role in organizing the International Poetry Conference on March 8, 2021, in collaboration with the CTTE College, Chennai. Earlier, in July 2020, she organized an international poetry webinar ‘Connecting Across Borders, featuring women poets from India and overseas.
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort.
As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
The face is the index of the human mind
Sad and joyful emotions, it does bind
A happy feeling is seen on a lovely face
While an achievement takes place.
People love our smiling expression
They care about our inner perception
A smile begins a pleasant conversation
It often covers the inner contradiction
Facial expression informs innate speech
It explains correlation and has a global reach
Gestures of facial parts reveal the truth
In a discussion, they cannot tell the untruth.
The eyes are our face’s real interpreter
that plays a role and acts as a messenger
The physical organs inform all feelings
They guide us in all kinds of dealings.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com
To your eyes
translucent clouds float in,
rest there for a while
and descend
to the labyrinths of your soul
and as I search for hours
at a stretch,
find there shattered dreams.
I couldn't catch the clouds
when I was young and fit,
mists conspired
and I didn't search enough,
I had to catch a bus you know,
I ran and ran, the bus didn't stop for me,
I fell flat on my knees
there are sands everywhere.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
The quaint verities of this ongoing phase
reverberates in me a glee to gaze
Am I surreal than the surrealistic world?
In the daily eddies of emoticons, my cadence gets whirled
I try hard to fling my words
As I am scared of the responses worse.
Life indeed carries a wile and wicked profile
as alluring as a newgen mobile
Screen locks and savers are the new norms
trying not to create familial storms
Humans talk in the language of passwords
oblivious of the language and lacunae of words.
The worldly rapture is alien to the power of words;
a palimpsest that knows not to be worse
The interconnected network of relationship turns out to be a panopticon
All set for a Derridean deconstruction anytime, anywhere with a scorn
Even a cute tiny tot here stoops to conquer the nuances of a mobile;
An 24*7 online friend who can never be febrile
My tormented love laden heart craves for my baby
As I am uncertain what his innards be!
I must evolve to a smart high five mobile mother
For lavishing him an unadulterated love rather!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
Alexandra was born in the year of the horse of fire, in Greece, where she spent many years living in the wild mountains of the island of Hydra. Later, she attended St. Mary's in Wiltshire and studied European Thought & Literature at Anglia Ruskin in Cambridge. She lived in Paris and New York, before returning to Greece to settle. Her father was a renowned poet and author and had a successful publishing company in Greece. Her mother was a ballet dancer as well as president of the Dance Union in Greece. Her family social circles, ever since a little girl, were rich with artists, writers, and academics. She lives with her husband, a classical guitar soloist and four children near the Temple of Poseidon, Sounio, by the sea and publishes her own visual poems on Amazon.
Summer Blooms
Washing away our glooms
With a tapestry of rainbow colours
The flamboyant fiery orange red Gulmohar
Stands tall like a bride
Smeared with red vermilion
While the yellow Leburnum flowers
Hang like lit chandeliers, spreading sunshine, hope and positivity
White Champa shows its purity and spreads its fragrance to a beautiful start in the morning.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
She has been writing articles for LV for the past one and half years. Recently she has published her first book.. "Reflections Of My Mind",an ode to the children and families challenged by Autism
"Nothing is written unless we write"
Or, is that what we may feel sometimes right?
Alas, a note writ out of frustration becoming a written destiny!
The horror to which the angry mob bearing testimony?
Whose raucous, senseless and shameless action
That put the doctor mother under severe mental aberration.
Unpredictable and unpreventable maternal mortality .....
How could that become the charge for murder with all brutality?
Known for bringing children safe to this Mother Earth...
The medical pro, wounded beyond endurance, putting herself to death!!
The Almighty being the only hapless witness....
Did HE flip her off to extreme and eternal darkness?
If all the white coats thus made to turn red
None would dare to tread
On this motherland that may soon become a grave ....!
Oh......When will we all learn to behave??
'Don't torment my family' read the note of the deceased doctor....
Is that her last prescription, or be treated as 'Caveat Emptor'?
The above had ref to news item and comments I read recently....
Dr Archana Sharma of Rajasthan, a gold medallist Gynaecologist known to be a triumphant doctor ,with lot of resilience, commitment and grit and determination, couldn't save the life of a particular patient. It was known to be a complicated case with mortality rate high.....but the relatives, local people, indulged in arson and looting the clinic, run by her and her Dr husband; filed a criminal case against her. Buckling under pressure, she committed suicide....leaving a note in which she pleaded to leave the family in peace, not to harass her two children and the father....and that she was innocent.
And around the same time our servant maid's d-i-l lost her life and the child,due to similar/ same complication.
This disturbed me quite a bit; felt I could write a few lines on the same.
N. Rangamani, a resident of Chennai, graduated from IIT Madras; superannuated after more than thirty-five years of service in (Aircraft Maintenance) Aviation. He has revived his writing passion post retirement. He likes to write and puts it to action, sometimes. He writes in Tamil and English. Contact: rangkrish@gmail.com
Clad in dark green,
rooted with little soil ,
guarded by yellow plastic,
Sits this little thorny plant
in a corner of the room,unacknowledged.
First rain of the season touch the grounds,
Everything green and colorful,
all cheered up
In this night,cold and breezy
Dancing in happiness.
You poor thing, confined to the four walls
Dont you want to feel the rain or the sun,
Dont you miss your real life?
Dont you miss whats out there?
Let this be your spot now,
Near the well,among your fellows.
For you belong to this green
You belong to the sky and the moon and the wind and the birds.
Binsha P A is a postgraduate in English Literature and is an aspiring poet. Her poems have been a part of antholgy 'The Unsung Thoughts' in 2020.She is a passionate reader and loves penning down about what she reads. She writes book reviews and poems in her blog literarydrops.blogspot.com and in social media.
WEEPING VICTORY..
Sreedharan Parokode
Shall I remember
The date
We met first
With bowed head
Controlled smile
Calculated words with
Cups of emotions,
Still...
Shall I Iike to
have the moment
We spoke unbridled
The alphabet
Prevented you
From curly dreams
Still...
Do you see the
Tears' flow from the
Conditional Clause of
Parents' grammar
Though the rains took many droplets...
Still...
P.L.Sreedharan Parokode is a bi-lingual poet and lyricist from Malappuram district, Kerala. He has a Master's degree in English literature and Population Studies and a Post Graduate Diploma in Parental Education. Sreedharan has thirty books of poetry to his credit, including 'Weeping Womb', 'Slum Flowers,'Mahatma Gandhi' 'Nelson Mandela',Poems', 'Don't mum Please' etc. He has also written songs for professional dramas, for albums, songs for competitions, devotional songs etc. He has written songs for animation film also.
Sreedharan has attended various literary conferences in India and abroad. He presented his poems at World Congress of Poets, in Taiwan, 2015, China, 2018, and literary conference in Serbia, 2007.
He has received awards and honours from various organisations, such as, Sahitya shree Award, Sahitya Shiromani Award, Shan E Adab Award etc. He has also received an Hony.Doctorate from the World Academy of Art and Culture
Sreedharan is currently engaged in Doctoral Research in Population Studies from Annamalai University. Earlier he was working in the Administrative wing of the University of Calicut.
Just a night full of anxiety
Enough to ruin my week, lose my sanity
Days with embarrassment, night with guilt trips
Tangled thoughts, tired of thought grips
Holding one hand with other
Sitting in balcony with unkempt hair
Staring at stars, trying to share
But couldn't
Tried to scream
But couldn't
Physically, mentally I was in mess
Screaming between life and death.
And I didn't pick this card
Throwing out everything
I don't do it on purpose
But did you hear it ?
This is all in me,
This is me.
I am beyond physical sickness
It's not on me, it's in me .
Ms. Twinkle Sasmal is a graduate and a professional web designer, based near Konarak in Odisha. She works for the Reliance Retail Company and also free lances for Mosahay Techstsin Pvt. Ltd. She is a Director of Mosahay Art and Crafts Academy. She is passionate about literature and writes poetry both in Odia and English.
TO SUN THE SOBER, I SAY MY NAMASKAR
Professor Niranjan Barik
The Sun in the early morning sober and silent
A little charming child with soft smiles on rosy lips.
The Sun in the setting mode, is a lovely one
Satisfaction written on its face
A happy glowing face, a radiating senior
Happy for having done a day' s work ,
Discharged duties, fulfilled commitments
Its positive vibes vibrate and snowball in the cosmos .
The mid-day Sun looks down upon you ,
In glaze and brightness,
You see as a warning as half a day gone,
Morning, Evening or Midday, the Sun is but one ,
I don't want a million Suns in a day,
Nor an untimely midday,
Let the breeze blow normal, not fume fire
Though like everybody ,
It can remain silent and unmoved for a moment
Or put up a frown, have a bad mood.
I am happy with One Sun, one Moon and One Earth!
The midday sun may be colourless or of just of one colour;
Let it not radiate multi colour in the noon ,
Let the sun rise, set and do its normal duty morning to evening,
Let it not be a Sun ultra hyper!
Let it be a Sober one, so that I can say my Surya Namaskar!
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
THE ONE-NIGHT STAND
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I was born with the first light of the evening,
When the dying rays of the sun shed farewell tears
I was born to perish in a night,
The departing stars carrying my desolate coffin.
I was born to pine for the empty chair
Sitting on your green lawn,
All alone, rocking to the gentle wind,
Dew drops rolling down from it as trembling tears.
I came with shining smiles,
Hoping you and I will have long chats
About the languid shores and the coral reefs,
The snow-clad mountains and the luscious berries.
I came dressed in colourful costume,
Waiting to take you around
And show you life's multiple joys,
The roaring laughters, the midnight songs.
But you spent the evening in morose isolation
And the night in restless tossing,
Every time I tried to soothe you down
You pushed me away in despair.
I was but one night's guest,
Tomorrow there will be another one,
I will be forgotten when the day breaks,
Consigned to the dustbin of your memory.
I was told not to ask what I will get in return
When it was over I was meant to soar to the sky,
And quietly climb into my coffin,
After all, I am just a one night's dream!
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . He has published nine books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Our evening walk gave us a shock that day. We had just reached the terminal point of our daily walking of about two kilometers from our colony. We would retrace our steps back home from there unless we stopped on the way to buy the tidbits, as the road passed through a small stretch of the market area.
We terminated our daily evening walk near a gate, usually kept locked, that led into a huge playground, surrounded by a boundary wall. The ground, as far as we knew, was never used for any sort of games or sports activity and had gone to weeds. To its right there was a teashop and beyond the shop, stood a group of high rises, a few of them complete and occupied, and the others still under construction.
The teashop provided the hot beverage to the workers who gathered at it and also sent a tea boy with a kettle-full of tea and disposable paper cups to work sites. By the teashop, a few tea imbibers could be seen all the time, having tea or savories like fries and biscuits. Expecting bites of leftover food, a few stray dogs loitered there now and then.
There was a grassland of around half a kilometer leading to that gate. It lay empty, presenting a serene stretch for walkers and joggers in the mornings and evenings. The grass land had the boundary wall of the colony of high rises on one side, and the railway’s boundary wall on the other. Nobody was sure to whom the grass land belonged to.
What we saw that evening took us by surprise. A little away from the gate as well as the teashop, there was a small shallow depression on the grassy ground that seemed to contain a little piece of tapestry, some sort of a thickish piece of mottled textile with white, black and brown patch work, that appeared moving and shifting.
My wife suggested, “Let’s take a closer look.” We walked there and a real surprise was awaiting us. The shallow depression contained newborn puppies, podgy fur balls, cute and colored black, white, and brown, bleary eyed. The puppies were apparently trying to be cozy to go to sleep in a huddle to keep themselves warm against the winter wind. Each one was trying to burrow deeper into the mass of huddling puppies.
They seemed to form a litter of around fifteen puppies, much larger than normal litters. A bitch generally would deliver three to four puppies from one pregnancy. It was a miracle for a mother bitch to deliver so many puppies at one go. But where was that miracle mother? The absence of the miracle mother was conspicuous. But we sensed a third presence by our side as someone gave a half-cough.
It was the teashop owner who had walked quietly to us. He informed, “Sir, last evening, around seven-thirty, a car came with a husband-wife team. They stopped here, opened their car’s boot and dumped down these puppies here and left in a hurry by the car before I understood what was happening. From then, these helpless and motherless puppies have taken shelter in this shallow dry ditch. I can’t help them much as I am poor. Also, I have to run this wretched teashop all day."
I found the yelping little babies, perhaps crying for their mother. Their voices were thin and weak. I counted, there were thirteen of them. Must be from three or four litters put together. The couple who dumped them here might have considered them a nuisance in their colony. I didn’t know what to do about those helpless little ones. I couldn’t hazard who would feed them, look after them.
By then one of the puppies, dark brown in color, had crept out of the group and was nibbling and playing with my wife’s toes. Other puppies were stirring to join it. From their low yelps, they seemed to summon their mother. Also, they had apparently sensed our presence and kind bearing towards them. We knew animals inherited a vast stock of instincts and sixth sense.
I told my wife, “Let’s give them a feed.” She smiled mockingly, “I know for sure, I can’t give them a feed, only their mother-bitch can. If you wish to do that on behalf of the mother bitch, you jolly well go ahead.” “Don’t be funny.” I replied, “I mean, we have to feed them. You keep them company and play with them. I will run back and buy a little milk for them from the market. They seem to be very hungry, possibly having nothing since they had been dumped here.”
I walked back, bought a few packets of milk and a big steel dish to serve as the saucer for the puppies. The little animals came to the dish of milk and surrounded it. A low slurping sound made us happy.
After having their fill, the puppies tamely walked back to their shallow depression to sleep, except one, the dark brown one that had crept up first to my wife to play with her toes. It started playing a little more to the joy of my wife. Wife fondled it, and kept calling it ‘Gundie, my Gundie’. ‘Gundie’ was the feminine counterpart of ‘Gunda’ or a strong man. Wife gushed, “This puppy is a girl-child definitely. See how proudly she moves like a leader.”
We both, myself and my wife, remained absorbed in our own thoughts while walking back home. As if a looming collective guilt was haunting our conscience on behalf of the society who mistreated animals.
At home we agreed, “We can’t be as cruel and ditch the puppies as the couple in the car did. Let’s adopt them. We will not crowd our little two-room flat by bringing them here, but will look after them in their present habitat.” That decided, we felt better.
We gave the puppies a visit the next morning with milk and again in the evening with milk and a blanket. We spread the blanket in the shallow depression in the grassy ground, and the puppies huddled together at a corner. It was their cozy nest. We visited and fed them every morning and evening during our constitutional walks there.
Within a week, our two visits got reduced to one during the evening walk only, as the little cuddly fur balls were gathering more admirers from among the scores of evening and morning walkers. Many of them had accepted the helpless babies as their responsibilities just like us.
By and by, we, their adopted parents, met others who had taken interest in those puppies, in the course of our walking. We had a common topic to share, our thirteen angels, the lovable puppies. It served as the common glue to bind unknown walkers with friendship. Some of us remained friends even after the passage of many years and talked of those puppies fondly.
There was an unspoken slotting of timing for all those who helped the puppies. During their appointed time they would bring food, toys, saucers, and medicines for the puppies. Milk being their main diet, we kept that part of the provision for us. We would carry milk packets daily by the evening without fail. Others brought dog food like pedigree chunks. Rice in fish or meat curry, biscuits etc.
We learnt from the tea shop owner, the little puppies looking so innocuous were however alert sentient beings. They knew, the cue perhaps given by their animal instinct, that we were the first pair of humans who came to their rescue and fed them with milk twice a week, keeping them alive until others started chipping in. So, according to the tea vendor, the puppies were more attached to us than others.
They were growing quickly. Gundie, however, was growing the fastest. She appeared to have taken others under her protection like a mother. My wife’s words seemed prophetic. Gundie appeared to be a born leader. The slightly grown puppies were fanning out over the entire grassy land, even straying into the unused weedy playground by crawling under the iron gate.
As if on cue, they would unfailingly know the time of our arrival with milk by six in the evening. The gang of thirteen angels, with Gundie at the vanguard, would collect together and wait to welcome us. As soon as they saw us from a distance, they would run to us with pleasure-yelps. We would meet midway and proceed together to their large pail into which milk would be poured. All along they would express their love and gratitude with little licks, nibbles and low yelps.
They would show as if they were hungrier for our half-an-hour loving presence there than the milk we brought. They would not take a single slurp, but keep playing with us. When we returned, they would come quite some distance to see us off. There was an invisible limit that they would not cross. My wife, experienced in domestication of dogs, would explain that dogs learn by instinct to know and respect their own territory. It was like the motherland of humans.
They grew bigger, smarter, more outgoing by weeks. In two months, winter was still a nip in the air, they were no more puppies, but almost adult dogs. During our walks we couldn’t meet everyone every day. The tea vendor advised us to wean them of milk, as they were spreading out to the nearby colony to forage for food and let them learn to be self-dependent. We carried milk for them on alternate days, then once in three days, followed by once in a week, and then stopped altogether.
The summer passed and we had given a few of them for adoption. As their courage and potential were legend by word of mouth of their umpteen caretakers, they were picked up by factory owners, landlords and even households as hounds for guarding their premises. One day, Gundie was adopted by a factory owner as the hound for their factory premises. My wife was heartbroken like her own daughter had gone away to her in-laws.
One day the teashop owner reported over mobile, Gundie was back to her original grass land by the teashop. The factory owner had explained, “Gundie was repeatedly trying to escape as if in search of her relatives or her native land. She was losing health. So, I thought let her be happy at her own home.”
We went to meet Gundie with some goodies she loved. The meeting was emotional between Gundie and my wife – lots of cuddling, licking, nibbling and soft cries of pleasure and complaints spread over an hour (Where had you sent me, my maa?). The union was simply poetry.
Those days I had got infected in an endocrine gland of mine and suffered for months in bed. My debility was not allowing me daily walks to Gundie’s territory. Also, on days we visited there, it was not every time we met Gundie. The teashop owner would commiserate on her behalf, “She was around here just half-an-hour back. Must have gone foraging for food.” But we were delighted to know she was happy and healthy.
Then came July and heavy monsoon rain. Once in a fortnight we would visit the beloved ground with parasols and if we were lucky, Gundie and a few others of her gang of thirteen angels would come running to crowd around us. They would treat us like their gods. Their love would shame us for we couldn’t return their love in equal measures like rolling on the ground at our feet, licking them, cuddling them all over as they did.
I got transferred and went to another city. After a year we, my wife and I, with our daughter, went visiting our city of thirteen angels. When we approached the teashop, we recognized Gundie from a distance, lying languidly in the winter sun by the feet of the teashop’s owner. Perhaps, our scent alerted her. She perked up, looked in our direction and locked eyes with us.
But she didn’t come bouncing and yelping to us as we had expected. Rather, she yelped and ran away from the sight. The teashop owner welcomed us with cups of tea and expressed surprise, “Gundie appears upset with you. You didn’t come to see her for almost a year. What would she, a doggie, know of the hazards of a transferable job? Poor Gundie!”
After a pause, he informed us, “By the way, you have become grandparents. Your Gundie has given birth to three cute puppies.” Our joy knew no bounds. We were eager to meet our grandchildren. “Where are the puppies?”
The teashop owner shook his head, “She has kept her litter hidden somewhere. She brings them out for short intervals, and then hides them away in some safe retreat. Perhaps she has the fear of her childhood when a cruel couple dumped her along with other puppies to die here, away from their mothers.” We agreed.
But, lo! Gundie was trooping towards us with a little herd of three healthy and podgy puppies. She presented them to us, sort of, with joyous yelps. Probably she was saying, “My children, meet your grandpa and grandma.” We had tears in our eyes. Our little Gundie was finally coming of age. She was not only a leader but a mother.
Our daughter explained, “Papa, Gundie had not run away from you out of anger, but she went to gather her prized trophies, her first litter of three lovely puppies, to parade them proudly before you. She was sort of proclaiming – see mama and papa, you have made a mother out of me, a helpless abandoned puppy.”
The teashop owner was furtively wiping away a tear. We, the husband -wife-daughter team, were openly shedding tears, cuddling Gundie and her prized trophies, the three lovely puppies.
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.
A close friend’s father passed away recently at a ripe old age. His will left his children flummoxed, not due to his property but in carrying out his funeral. He had clearly willed not to conduct ‘mindless’ rituals on his behalf for twelve days, including a dip in a cesspool at the crack of dawn. Most damning of all, his ashes were not to be gathered from the funeral pyre for immersion in a holy river!
He had been something of an avant-garde in his religious outlook. But his relatives were not prepared to accept the diktats of this ‘pseudo-Hindu’. They contended that their bodies, had been ‘defiled’ by the death in the family and their souls would rot in hell unless the stipulated rituals were held to propitiate the Gods. On the other hand, the children of the deceased felt they had to respect his last wish. Faced with a choice between the devil and the deep sea, the sons closed ranks behind their late father’s desire, even though they invited the wrath of many, including the priest at the cremation ground, as a consequence. What was needed to expedite the departure of their father from this earth was not the chanting of mantras by a priest, but an adequate supply of firewood! The ‘holy’ man, denied his legitimate wages, unleashed a terrible curse. When their time came, he thundered, they would burn in fire and brimstone like their infidel father!
After the ashes had settled on the funeral, my friend told me that he received an e-mail from his nephew in the USA. The latter had been devastated by the death of his grandfather, to whom he had been close, more so because he could not come to India to pay his last respects. His email contained an odd request. “Dear Uncle,” he asked, “can I bring back a bit of grandfather’s ashes next time I’m in India? I want to disburse them over the Mississippi River. It may not be as holy as our Ganga, but it’s a mighty river. I’d feel grandfather to be still by my side.”
My friend said he smiled ruefully as he looked again at the e-mail. How was his nephew to know that his dear departed grandfather had departed from accepted tradition and left no ashes behind? “What an irony!” he remarked. “I was thinking of following in my father’s footsteps and debunking meaningless rites. But now I’m not so sure. Who am I to deprive my children of their ‘hereditary rights’ to my dust and ashes?”
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.
Anirudh was scrolling down the posts shared by his friends in the WhatsApp group to which he had newly joined. He was amazed to see the greetings and good wishes showered by the friends to those who had marriage anniversary today. Ah ! So many people got married on this day, he mumbled. Asit, Barun, Chandan and many others have been greeted for this auspicious day of their life. Anirudh was a professor in Economics and retired few years back from his Government job. It was absolutely a new experience for Anirudh. He didn't have the least idea that such a beautiful world existed beyond his study, work and earn circle where communication, sharing and interacting with near and dear ones was actually like reliving your life with the same hustle-bustle and rejoice as if you were living in your early days.
In their WhatsApp group friends were mentioning their own date of birthday and marriage anniversary as it was not possible for the admin to remember from the list and post for all. However nobody could deny that friends' greetings and good wishes on these special occasions were so overwhelming and invigorating to one's soul.
Anirudh didn't hesitate to convey to his friends his hearty greetings and wished them a long, happy togetherness with spouses on their marriage anniverdary. The video clipping of observing this special occasion by blowing candles, cutting cakes and offering bouquet amid the family members and relatives were so enthralling. Anirudh was enjoying the glimpses to his heart's content and appreciated this modern trend of observing such gala events by children for their parents at their advanced age, staying away from their loving children and feeling desolate.
Not only in old couples but such occasions instil real pleasure and delight in people of all age groups. For a while Anirudh was entranced in the beautiful smile of his cute grand children in his mind's eye and felt as if he was embracing them close to his heart.
Anirudh's only son is settled in USA with his wife and two beautiful children, a son, 6 years old and the daughter 3 years old. He is lucky to have a loving and caring family. Though they stay far away, distance never hindered their children's care and concern for them. The vacuum created in their day to day life because of the absence of children sometimes dispirited them but they are otherwise happy, contented and thankful to God for blessing them with such wonderful family.
Khat, khat, khat. Somebody was knocking at the door. Anirudh came to his sense but had no desire to leave the WhatsApp chat and open the door. Some more friends were to be wished. He was engrossed in interacting with his friends. Very often he is confused at the change in his nature within these few months. He was a person who had no passion for social media and to him remaining glued to such activity was nothing but absolute absurdity. Few days back his son had come from US and was very much flustered to see his father leading a mundane life after his retirement. He knew his father was a workaholic and after retirement he had nothing to do. Because of his reticent nature he didn't have communication with any of his closed ones. He opened a Facebook account and What'sApp in Anirudh's name and taught the technique to his father - how to operate in social media and communicate with others. Inspite of his father's reluctance he updated internet connections and persuaded him to see movies and serials in Netflix to cut down his boredom and remain lively.
In the beginning Anirudh was disinterested towards all these stuffs. He tried to recapitulate how introvert and shy he was in his young days. Except his study he would never indulge in any outdoor activity like sports and drama in college functions. Though a bright student he was reluctant to participate in debates or deliver a talk in inaugural functions in his school, college and university. Dancing, singing, merrymaking was not his cup of tea and friends used to call him a dry drumstick. He was astonished how Smruti was busy in her mobile for quite a long time in her off hours. Smruti is his wife, six years younger to him. They had an arranged marriage after Smruti completed her PG in history in Utkal University. Smruti was not interested to marry a lecturer and was opposed to this proposal. To her lecturers are lazy, unromantic and live in a humdrum world. But she had to give in to her family pressure and got married to Anirudh. In her new life she was allured to the modest personality of Anirudh who never tried to hurt or put a restraint on her in any matter. His respect was high among his neighbours and colleagues as a good human being. Smruti felt ashamed for the inference she had drawn about the persons who are lecturer by profession and she started weaving dreams of a life with a plethora of colour and elegance. But soon Smruti had to withdraw herself from her illusory hope and accept the bitter truth of an insipid existence of Anirudh far away from worldly glamour and grandeur.
Smruti's efforts to mould her husband to transcend the boundary of a monotonous and apathetic life were in vain. Smruti was trying hard to accommodate herself to the new environment but somewhere in her inner recess a young mind was fluttering to set herself free from a cocoon to soar like a butterfly to enjoy the fragrance of a life that she once dreamt of. The euphoria of a newly married life was declining, giving way to a strong, determined Smruti who didn't want to make a mess of it and steadied herself to steer her journey in the way as it was.
After decades Anirudh was feeling elated and amused at the events in social media. It was so fascinating to spend time in chatting with friends, relatives and become a part of multifarious activities which relieves the day to day monotony and keep you rejuvenated and buyant.
Anirudh was musing about his first anniversary. Smruti was too much excited to celebrate it in a grand manner. Three to four days prior to the date of Anniversary Smruti was crazy in arranging for her auspicious day all those stuffs which a girl cherishes in his mind. She read out the list before Anirudh which included list of buying nice dresses for Anirudh, beautiful saree for herself, arranging a Brahmin for puja and invite her close neighbours for a party at home with delicious dishes. But all her fervour dampened down. Anirudh didn't have least interest towards such activities and expressed his discontentment towards Smruti's frivolousness. After Anirudh left for college she tore the list and sobbed silently. Anirudh never enquired about the list nor he brought a gift for her on the day of their first anniversary.
More than three decades have passed. Smruti had never uttered a single word about their Anniversary nor about their birthday celebrations. She locked her feelings within her soul. Probably Anirudh was also happy Smruti had freed him from such mindless activities.
I
But why he is so much delighted when such events are displayed in social media. Why it instilled happiness and solace in his mind. Why he felt so much fulfilled when children and grandchildren of the old couple wish them with much pump and show? Why such outword pleasure is so intoxicating. Anirudh was flummoxed. Is he a real mundane, lazy apathetic, dry drumstick? Has he blundered overlooking such enrapturing moments in their life. His heart was weighing down for all his view of life he had nurtured all these years, to walk and work relentlessly like a lifeless machine .
Khat ..khat ..khat
Again the door was knocked. Anirudh came back to his senses. He could not think of anything more and walked to the door to open it. What surprise was waiting for him! With one large bouquet of red roses and another big packet, the courier man carrying a paper waiting for him to sign. He almost snatched the bouquet and packet from him. He glimpsed at the sticker on the bouquet .. "Happy 40th Anniversary to dear Mummy and Papa". From Suhana. Suhana was his daughter-in-law's name.
He hurriedly opened the packet. It was a lavish cake with candles and iced with letters "Happy 40th Anniversary". Anirudh was spellbound. Today is their 40th Anniversary? Ignorant about his own marriage anniversary, he was going on wishing to his friends happy anniversary from morning to midday.
He looked around, but could not find Smruti. Cook told that memsab has gone to the temple. He became sure that Smruti had definitely remembered this day and gone to temple for asking blessings of the Almighty. His heart got heavy with sense of guilt. Smruti had never forgiven his indifference even after so many years. His eyes were brimming with tears, his throat choked up. He almost ran to pick up his mobile and wrote on the comment box, "Happy Anniversary to me and my wife Smruti. Sorry friends, to remind of this auspicious occasion so late". Greetings and good wishes were showered with immediate effect. One of the friends commented "How can it be possible that one forgets his own 40th Anniversary"?
"Yes, it is possible for a man whose name is Mr. Anirudh Mapapatra." A soft mellifluous voice resonated from behind. Anirudh turned to his back and found Smruti bending down behind his shoulder trying to read the comment and reply in a loud voice letting Anirudh hear it.
It was 12 noon. The messenger call was reverberating in the room. Son, daughter-in-law and two grand children were in line wishing them Happy Anniversary. Anirudh was bewildered. He was speechless and in tears. Smruti could notice that all his emotions and the sense of repentance was streaming down from his eyes after so many years.
Smruti blew the candles and gave the knife to Anirudh to cut the cake. Anirudh fed a chunk to Smruti and getting cozy to her whispered, "Happy 40th Anniversary Smruti. Please forgive me for everything ". Smruti could not hear anything except feeling the wormth of love of her soulmate that was so fulfilling.
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.
SALVATION
Chinmayee Barik
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
If regret were a rodent, free to rummage in the attic of our minds, imagine the havoc it can cause. You can hear it, however faint, nibbling away everything it finds on its way. In the darkness of night, it does not care where its teeth land. It chips away at your past actions, as if to destroy all remnants of your mistakes but in its blind pursuit does not spare your dreams either. Everything is reduced to a rubble, leaving your peace of mind in tatters.
She was like a portrait, I had begun painting on my mind’s canvas. I simply can’t work out, what happened to it. It is in a state of limbo; it is somewhere deep inside me, not easy to access but equally hard to erase. The faded picture comes alive, in the dead of the night. From the walls of my dreams, she initially smiles at me. Then her eyes blink, her face turns sad and tear starts to roll. Exactly, at this time, the rodent of regret goes on its nibbling spree. Now, it targets my heart, at its most tender spot. It uncannily finds the corner of my heart, which does not bleed but is left heavily sore. The pain is severe enough to rattle the painter in me. The painting brush starts to shake and my fingers go into a cramp. I soldier on; attempt to prepare the colours on the easel and finish her portrait, only to fail miserably. All my attempts end in a frustrating scene of painter’s paralysis: the picture is vivid in my mind’s eyes but hopelessly beyond the grasp of my brush. It drives me crazy; and I wish, I could just disappear into thin air!
The name of the lass was Yaana. I first saw her on the banks of River Dauki, during my photography trip to Meghalaya. While I was engrossed in photographing the enchanting natural beauty, her sweet voice brought me back into reality. “Sir, would you care for some berries?” She asked in Hindi. When I turned round, she came into my view, facing me with a plastic box full of berries. The box was rather tiny, for which she was asking a princely sum of two hundred rupees. “It is worth no more than thirty rupees,” I chuckled to myself. As if she could read my mind, she quickly added, “Sir, these berries are specially pickled to give them a long life, up to two years.” I, however, shook my head, indicating my disinterest in her berries.
She was of medium height. Her face radiated with a glow of ripe guavas, with twinkling eyes and rosy lips. The rest of her body was covered, the head hidden by a scarf and her delicate frame fully wrapped up in clothes, making it hard to make out the configuration of her dress. All I could see was the bottom part of a sky blue skirt, just above her ankles. She had carefully draped her entire torso with a long piece of cloth, securely tied into a knot near her shoulder.
The young woman walked off and seated herself on the smooth rock , dangling her feet in the flowing water of Dauki. Her eyes were darting, perhaps scanning for prospective customers. Suddenly, two young men, vendor of fruits and berries, approached her, talking in a language, which sounded like a mixture of Hindi and the local dialects. They were also laughing, which had a malevolent ring to it. She kept looking around, turning her gaze to me a few times. Watching their interactions, I felt, they were probably harassing her. I approached her to ask in Hindi, if she would sell me her berries. The male vendors saw me approaching her and quietly left the scene. She appeared grateful at my intervention, handing me the berries.
I enquired about the men, who had just departed.
“They are from Bangladesh”
I know Dauki River marks the border between India and Bangladesh. I thought permission was mandatory for all to cross the border. “Have they got the official permission to cross the border and enter India?” I asked.
“Unlike tourists, local people are free to cross the border; they don’t need a permit. It is a special allowance, granted for purpose of selling their merchandise to tourists”
“What were they saying to you?”
“Something too vulgar for words, Sir,” she lowered her face and her voice.
“What do you mean?” I wanted to pursue this conversation, but was interrupted by the boatmen, who were selling their service, offering to give a half kilometre boat ride for up to four people in the river, for a sum of seven hundred rupees.
I wanted to go for the boat ride; the opportunity to photograph the beauty of the river life was beckoning. Dauki River was enchanting, its clear water and the serene ambience had cast a spell on me. While walking behind the boat men, I turned round to find that she was following me. Behind her were the same two men, who were now pestering her, perhaps with obscene proposals. This made me angry, but I was not sure if and how I could reprimand them. When I asked her if she was interested in a boat ride with me, she promptly agreed and jumped into the boat after me. The boat plied on, tearing through the clear river. The air was crisp and the scenery was captivating. The intoxicating atmosphere brought out the poet in me.
She had reclined herself on the edge of the boat, hanging her hand down to ruffle the water. She was smiling to herself, as if she had been transported to her private paradise. With the slim contour of her wrapped up torso and her inclined posture, she was the perfect image of a mermaid, who had emerged from the water to keep me company. It was a scene from the fairytales, I never dreamt of experiencing in real life. The white pebbles from the river bed, shining through the transparent water, looked like the glistening teeth of Dauki, who had broken out in a rapturous laughter, taken in by the mermaid’s charm. She was so engrossed in her own world that she was barely aware of my snapping her away in different poses from a number of angles.
I was full of glee, imagining her wonderful photos as my prize entries in next month’s photography exhibition. Soon, the boat trip came to an end. After paying to the boatman for the boat ride, I turned towards her. By now, my curiosity about her had grown and I wanted to know her better. She also took me for a gentleman and handed over her remaining berries to me before parting my company. I was not prepared for such an abrupt departure and wanted to call her to stay back. But, all I could utter was, “Hey, what is your name?” She briefly turned her smiling face to give her name, “Yaana” while continuing her walk. Her gait was so graceful, I could not help clicking some more photos of her while she was walking away.
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Over those few days, I could sense a closeness creeping into our relationship, creating a bond between us. She had a cheerful disposition, with a smile on her face almost all the time. The calls of Dauki were irresistible, making us to return to her bank again and again for a meet or a boat ride. That the sight of our boating together was an eye sore to the local vendors, did not matter to me.
One day, all of a sudden, Yaana appeared at my hotel, unannounced. I could catch from the corner of my eyes, a knowing glance, the hotel manager threw at me. Unperturbed, I invited her to my room, to show her the pictures, I had taken of her, without her knowledge. After we shared the photos, when I commented on how pretty she was, a flicker of delight flashed on her face, quickly replaced by a sombre look. That day, she departed as abruptly as she had arrived at the hotel.
Following this incident, we did not meet for a number of days. I was curious about her no-show, but there was no easy way of enquiring into her whereabouts. So, I was left with no choice but to wait for her to appear. But there was no sign of her for several days in a row. One day, the weather turned chilly, as if the sky was getting ready for a snow fall. Soon, dark clouds hovered over the fields, giving way to a gentle shower. The weather was enticing enough for a motor-bike ride. I took off on a bike aimlessly and after driving quite some distance, I landed in a totally unfamiliar area. I stopped by a bridge, when the enchanting view of the mountains across the bridge caught my attention. Partly hidden by the cloud and the mist, the distant mountains looked as if they were hanging in the air. I took out my camera to capture the ethereal beauty of what was a photographer’s paradise. Then, I spotted some tents in the field, across the bridge. There were some young children, busy selling roasted sweet-corn to tourists, probably at inflated prices. That was another opportunity for a session of candid photography, catching all the scenes and actions in their natural setting. As I approached the tent, I could see a number of children huddled inside and I spotted Yaana in their midst. With the excitement of sighting her after the long wait, I found myself rushing towards her, but was struck by the look of indifference on her face.
“What are you doing here? I have been looking for you by the river.”
Her silence surprised me, making me repeat my question.
“I have been selling roasted sweetcorn.”
“Have you stopped selling picked berries?”
“No, the berries season is over. I managed to sell off my entire stock of berries”
“I see, let me have some sweetcorn then”
“ Sorry, I have none left for you. The roasting is also finished”
I looked at the bed of burnt charcoal, used for roasting sweetcorn. The fire had already gone out. Switching subject, I enquired if she would like to look at some of the photos I had taken, since our last meeting. This brought a glimmer of interest to her face and she moved closer to share the photos with me. She next asked to be photographed with the children and showed genuine pleasure at posing for photos with the children. I was delighted to see her so happy, for a change.
I wanted to prolong our chatting. But dusk was setting in and she indicated, it was time to leave.
“Where is your home?”
“About five kilo meters from here.”
“How would you get there?”
“We rely on timbre-carrying trucks here, they regularly ply on this road.”
“What about a change today? Let me drop you off on my bike.”
She hesitated, saying, “No, Sir, leave it.”
“What are you scared of?”
She let out a guffaw in response to my question and immediately perched herself on my bike. Of course, she had to dismount for the bike to be started, and when she sat back on it she kept a distance from me. The bike kept rolling ahead under her direction. The clouds in the sky hang over us like a canopy. The jaunty bike ride with Yaana sitting behind me created an enjoyable experience, new for me. Her humming of songs in a language, unknown to me, added to the pleasure of the journey. Suddenly, she indicated by extending her arm over my shoulder to stop near a hut, which was her home. She invited me inside and I went in without hesitation. There were two rooms, one had a wood burning cooker, with some food stuff, and the other room had a small bed. Yaana lit a fire to roast some sweetcorn for both of us. “That’s all for tonight”, she said, which was an indication for me to leave. But a downpour had started by then and Yaana pleaded with me to delay my departure until the rain stopped, as the roads would be too muddy for a safe bike ride back. I had no choice but to oblige.
We resumed our chatting. In the process, I volunteered details of my small family, consisting of my wife and daughter . I learnt of her tragic circumstances, that she had lost both her parents long ago. Intriguingly, she somehow manages to get by with the paltry sums, she earned from selling small items, like berries and sweetcorn. I was surprised all the more when she told me that she was, nevertheless, content with her life. The story somehow did not sound entirely plausible. I wondered what part of her life she was hiding from me, as it somehow did not all add up. At the same time, I was struck by her youthful face, which had an innocent glow, while she was talking. “She is probably telling the truth,” I told to myself, “if not the whole truth.”
“I have to relate her sad but sweet story to my family upon returning home,” I said to myself, “And if I ever visited Meghalaya with my family, I must introduce her to them.”
Yaana had gone quiet, in the meantime, with her gaze fixed at the rain outside, which had gathered pace.
My next question was, “Have you given some thought to your marriage?”
This sparked off a dramatic response in her; she moved really close and thrusting herself on me she looked straight into my eyes, asking flirtatiously “Do you fancy me?”
Her voice had turned serious, making me wonder if my question was somehow inappropriate. In absence of a response from me, she asked, “What do I make of your silence?” Her tone was now stern.
Her question had obviously flustered me, as I had no easy answer for her. “You are a nice person and pretty too. I have obviously grown quite fond of you,” was my reply.
I was not sure how she interpreted my answer but she immediately clasped my hand. In the heat of her hands, I could feel the seduction in her advance. I was convinced that it was best for me to leave her place. As I tried to get up to leave, she tightened her grip on my hand. I had to push her away hard, to release myself, for my difficult journey back to my hotel in heavy rain.
Upon reaching the hotel, I breathed a sigh of relief. But my heart was heavy; I felt so sorry for Yaana. I was in no doubt, by then, that she was a sex worker. It neatly explained why the Bangladeshi vendors were making such indecent gestures towards her. The scenes from last few days kept flashing in my mind, the whole night. I kept tossing and turning in my bed for a long time before I eventually dozed off. But it was a restless night. My sleep was broken by Yaana’s tearful face, appearing in my dream. I felt an urge to paint her sad face, as if to assuage my guilt and atone for the grief I had caused her. I picked up the brush several times to make a start but it was all in vain. My heart ached with feelings for her but it was hard to tell what I felt, loathing on account of her trade or pity for her predicament. I was lost in my thoughts until next morning.
For the next two days, I lost all interest in going out. I finally decided to return back to my home town. It was troubling me that I could not find Yaana during these two days. I desperately longed to meet her at least once before departing. I visited Dauki River repeatedly, hoping to find her there. I also returned to the site where I had seen her selling sweetcorn but everything drew a blank. Finally, I was compelled to visit her hut to find it locked; she was nowhere to be seen.
While I had given up all hopes of finding her, I noticed two human feet, visible through the dense shrubs beside her hut. I wondered if they belonged to Yaana and on moving closer, my guess was proved right. She was sitting on a rock, with her legs stretched out, gazing at the sky. She showed little reaction to my approach. Her gloomy look came as no surprise; I knew, how deeply I had hurt her by rejecting her amorous advances. But, alas, I was in a bind, that day. For some inexplicable reason, I was simply incapable of marshalling a justification of my actions, that would satisfy her. It would have been futile anyway, I surmised. Now, all I could hope for was to placate her.
On moving close to her and looking around, I saw that we were all alone. I told her about my plans of my imminent departure. I was returning to my family and I could not leave without bidding good bye to her. Life had been obviously too cruel to her. I had plenty of contacts in the town; through them, I could arrange some respectable work for her, if she wanted I also offered her modest financial help to tide her over the transition to town life. In my monologue, it was impossible to hide my abhorrence for prostitution as a profession; my disapproval of her choice of sex work for subsistence was loud and clear.
She listened intently and turned towards me with an ironic smirk her face, “Sir, sex trade is not the only service bodies are meant for. Nor every body hankers for money in exchange for sex. I can easily manage my meagre needs, without resorting to prostitution for my upkeep.”
I looked at her quizzically.
“Perhaps, I was not sufficiently clear, Sir.”
“No,” I shook my head.
What Yaana did next, in order to make her point, rather graphically, was bold beyond all imagination. Casting away her last shred of shame, she undid the knot on her shoulder and flung open her draping, to expose the front of her body.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked at the sight of her heavily scarred belly and chest, my entire being shaking in horror. I was expecting to see a smooth, flat abdomen and shapely breasts of a young woman. But her front resembled a patch of mud, left to dry after a vigorous trampling by wild boars. Staring at me were glistening ridges of scars, with frowning furrows to accompany them, interspersed with uneven patches of skin, whose form defied description. A shocking scene so grotesque that it would haunt me for ever. Its sheer savagery forced my eyes shut.
Yaana calmly rearranged her clothes and went on to narrate how she sustained this horrific scarring in the hands of her lover. A young and handsome music scholar from the city had travelled to Meghalaya for studying folk music of North East. Yaana was assisting him in his research into the music of Meghalaya. They spent a lot of time together, singing and talking about music. He, in turn, rewarded Yaana with money, for the time and effort, she put into his research. But their intimacy raised her lover’s suspicion that their relationship went far beyond their mutual interest in music. Eventually a sense of sexual jealousy grew in him, culminating in a heated incident when he flew into a rage. He threw a bottle of acid at her, which burnt the entire front of her body. He fled the scene, immediately, evading the police. Fearing for the worst legal fallout from his barbaric assault, he has been absconding since, without a trace, leaving Yaana, to fend for herself, all alone. Miraculously she survived with her life, but was left with her savagely scarred body. She also lost her precious feminine attributes; the scars decimated her nubile allure and from the medical complications, she became unable to bear children.
After listening to Yaana’s story, I realised how gravely mistaken I was about her. How wrong were my assumptions about all her activities! She was frozen, like a statue and I was totally at a loss for words. My curiosity about this barbaric episode of her life raised too many questions in my mind but I didn’t have the courage to even broach the topic. I was paralysed into inaction, totally unsure of my next move.
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Next day, Yaana arrived at my hotel to bid good-bye. She had brought some pickled berries and fruits for me, insisting that they were gifts. There was hardly a trace of resentment or bitterness over the recent events. My taxi was ready to take off. Yaana again surprised me by suddenly moving close to me. Tenderly pressing herself against me, she said, in a teasing voice, “What you considered a sin that day, would have been my salvation.”
Yaana’s words stabbed me with pangs of guilt; it jarred against her cheerful demeanour while she was waving me good-bye.
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
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
TORMENTOR, NO MORE!
Meena Mishra
Sharing a true incident from TIL’s life. But this is not only her story. This is the story of millions of girls who are independent and try to live their life on their terms. TIL happened to meet this fellow Prabhakar (name changed), who worked as the Vice President in an MNC. She met him during one of her book launches as he was a contributing writer in one of her anthologies.
He asked for her phone number and started sending her good-morning messages for eight months. She was fine with that since many writers and poets do that. At times he would like her WhatsApp status and at times the interaction was a bit more friendly-familiar than that of an acquaintance. Perhaps that encouraged him to propose that they meet over coffee after the lockdown. TIL agreed.
It was a harmless suggestion coming from an educated working professional. But little did she know, this was the first step towards trouble. Then it began. He started sending messages telling her that he liked her very much and would like to talk to her over the phone. Naturally, she explicitly explained to him that she was not interested and blocked him. She thought that was it.
No sir, there was more in store! The previous night TIL’s security guard informed her that there was a man with a pizza, who wanted to deliver to her place, personally. Now, these days due to the pandemic-lockdown no outsider was allowed inside the premises and all the deliveries were collected by the security personnel. TIL told him it must be a mistake as she had not ordered anything. Immediately after that she received a call from an unknown number. On picking up the phone she got to know it was Prabhakar on the line. TIL was shocked. “Please come down near the watchman’s cabin. I just want to see you. We will not exchange words since you don’t want to. I am madly in love with you. I want to see you once, that’s all,” he said. This was unexpected and uncalled for. It left her scandalised. She immediately disconnected the phone and was about to block him when a thought flashed in her mind.
“Why am I afraid of him? What have I done?” She composed herself and called him back, “Prabhakar, are you still there? “Yes,” he replied perkily. “Please don’t disconnect the phone till you hear me out till the end. Also, don’t speak in between. Just listen to me. Ok?” “I would do anything to hear your voice,” Prabhakar replied cockily. TIL had already planned to speak point wise; she started. “I am a broad - minded woman living in this dream city. What makes you think that I am fine with boys visiting me? Did I ever send you any such message that gave you this indication?” She continued, “I wear short dresses, party with my friends and click selfies. How does this interfere with your day-to-day activities?” TIL then told him about the 500 contacts she had blocked, till date as all of them had claimed love for her. She also stated firmly that she was an independent lady, who enjoyed her freedom, leading a life that she had chosen for herself. Then she demanded to know, who had given him the right to encroach upon her life.
Thereafter TIL was a bit harsh when she suggested that if he felt he was a handsome, eligible bachelor drawing a fat salary every month, he needed a reality check. She told him about her successful business house and added, “100 MBAs like you run their houses on the salary I pay them. I just need to shoot one mail to your company, and you will become jobless. My success-story has been covered by Times of India and Mid-Day; I advise you to read those newspapers. The Police Commissioner of Mumbai and the Cyber Security Director are my friends. I am sending you their contact details if you wish to verify it yourself.
Last but not the least, Mister, I am unblocking your number. I am unblocking all the 500 blocked numbers now. You have taught me a lesson for a lifetime. People like you should be scared of me, not the other way round!” And with this closing statement, TIL disconnected the phone. And that my dear readers put paid to the unsolicited affection being showered upon her. TIL felt so much better, after this simple but machoism-crushing act. It also made her think about the girls in our society, especially the independent kind. Why do we always begin by blaming ourselves?
Probably because our society is not supportive. That is so wrong! Wrong is still understandable but that should not become a deterrent. All one has to do is to identify one’s individual strength and Punch in the Gut (figuratively) would be ideal. It is high time girls stop being defensive. I guess whenever these hecklers are ‘only’ blocked they continue bullying other girls. But when the bothered become brave and call their bluff, they know the time is up for them! It does not matter whether you are a boy or girl. It does not matter whether you are 13 or 35. Do not allow anyone to bully you. You do not deserve it. Only when confronted with a problem do we realise our capacity to handle it. I guess we should be thankful to the people who create them because they teach us the skills that our friends cannot. Avoid overreacting to the problem. Think, plan, and tackle it successfully. Then it becomes a lifelong lesson
Meena Mishra is the Founder & CEO of The Impish Lass Publishing House. An award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, educator and a publisher, are some of the words which describe Ms. Meena Mishra to whom The Impish Lass Publishing House owes its existence. Her poems, stories, and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and she is a recipient of several prestigious awards as well. Besides being an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team, in accordance to the request of the Education Department of Maharashtra she is also a part of The Review Committee for their new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 11 years.
Meena Mishra has judged several illustrious and popular literary competitions and festivals notably the Lit fest. of IIT Bombay and the NM college fest., of which she is one of the sponsors now. She is also a regular panelist for various literary and educational platforms like the Asian Literary Society. Her poems are published in several magazines including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. They have been translated and published in Spanish magazines as well. She has been a contributing autho r and poet for more than 200 books. Her books include The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas, Within the Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2. Her latest book – The Impish Lass Book 2 (TIL Stories and More) has received rave reviews from its readers including the highly distinguished Indian nuclear scientist Padma Vibhushan Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has achieved a remarkable five-star rating on Amazon. Ms. Mishra has received high acclaim from esteemed newspapers like The Times of India and Mid-Day. Her articles have been featured in The Times of India ‘NIE’ and in ‘Brainfeed Higher Education Plus’ a leading educational magazine of the country.
She has been a guest speaker on ‘Sony TV’ for their first episode of ‘Zindagi Ke Crossroads,’ based on the needs of differently abled children. She was invited to express her views on the special episode of ‘AajTak’ featuring the PMC Bank scam victims. Ms. Meena Mishra is the proud recipient of multitudinous awards in 2020-21 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. Some of them are the ‘Vishwa Shikshavid Samman 2020,’ Appreciation Certificate for Support Covid-19 challenges in education by Government of Maharashtra, ‘Regional Academic Authority Mumbai,’ ‘Pathbreaker of the Year Award,’ by Harper Collins, ‘Acharya Chanakya Shikshavid Samman 2020,’ for valuable contribution to empower the society, ‘Nation Builder Award,’ Super 30 Teacher nomination by IB Hub, ‘Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year’ award during World Education Summit in February 2021. She is the winner of the ‘Womennovator Award’ as well as ‘1000 Women of Asia Award,’ given in association with the Indian Ministry of Electronics and Information technology. She has been nominated for the ‘2021 ELTons Outstanding Achievement Award,’ by the British Council. Ms. Mishra is currently a member of the Maharashtra Women’s Indian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (Special Needs). Her poem ‘Smile a Lot’ has been chosen as an unseen poem for the LL student’s workbook by State Council of Educational Research & Training (SCERT), Maharashtra. ‘The Impish Lass’ SSC EDU Warriors,’ is her latest initiative for improving the standard of English in SSC schools across Maharashtra. Her book “The Impish Lass -Book 2,” was published as a research paper in American Research Journal of English and Literature under the title- Meena Mishra’s The Impish Lass Book 2 – A Study of Socio- Cultural Issues in India. She has been awarded ‘ Marathi Bhasha Rajya Shikshak Puraskar 2022’ for her contribution towards education and promotion of literature in Maharashtra.
She has been nominated for ‘ Cambridge Dedicated Teacher Awards 2022. She has also ventured into Marathi writing for an educational magazine . She has been recently invited by IIT – Banaras Hindu University as a judge for their International Lit – Fest. She has been shortlisted for Maharashtra Times’ – Maharashtra Gaurav Award 2022.
After marriage in 1977, we were to go to Kashmir for honeymoon but couldn’t do it for some out-of-control reasons and then life got complicated. Also, there was a turbulent atmosphere there too and we couldn’t plan. Last year in 2021, we decided that we should celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary which falls on 14th May in Gulmarg-Kashmir. For the fortieth we had been to Niagara and that was so wonderful. We thought that it is “now or never” and so that the resolve does not change booked non-refundable air tickets . Also circulated our resolve in our close relative and friend circle as well. I do this often so that the set program is not changed. Archana doesn’t subscribe to this idea and never wants anyone to know about our programs until we return.
After booking the tickets, two or three well-known travel sites were asked to give their best offers. The offers were received, and we scrutinised them for the itinerary, inclusions/exclusions and what would be the savings if we do it ourselves. We also saw a lot of YouTube videos for other travellers’ experience. Ultimately, it was settled that we would make the program ourselves because though the group tours looked economical, but when customised to our specific needs, they were becoming rather expensive. Also, most programmes were ex Delhi or Mumbai. That added to the cost further because we are in Bhubaneswar and flight timings asked for overnight stays in those cities both ways. Now that the tickets were made, a taxi (Etios are popular in Kashmir for two travellers )was booked for 8 nights from Srinagar airport back to the same airport because in Kashmir that's the best option unless you want to use inconvenient state transport buses. All the hotels were also pre-booked to get the best prices. We later discovered that the hotel tariffs doubled or even tripled during the period we were there due to impromptu travellers.
Srinagar (12/5/22)
From Bhubaneswar via Delhi, we reached Srinagar at 9 am on May 12. We had reached Delhi the previous night around 12 o’clock, stayed in the lounge and had left for Srinagar by Air-India morning flight. Both the flights were of Air-India, yet we had to check out the luggage and re-deposit it again in Delhi. That happened on the way back also. We had assumed that having a single airline would make the checked-in luggage go through to Srinagar. On enquiry we were told that had we not done the web check-in this would have been the scenario. But we had received a message from “MakeMyTrip” that web check-in was mandatory as per the government regulations. The girl at the check-in said Air India doesn’t make it mandatory. This was confusing.
Our taxi driver, “Aijaz”-a tall handsome Kashmiri youth, was already at the airport with the car (Etios). Arrival area of the airport looked dull, shabby, and rather crowded. I took a photo of Aijaz with the number plate of his car. I do this often so that the identity of the car and the driver stays in my phone just in case. The check-in time at the houseboat was 12 o’clock, but manager Latif agreed for an early check-in. The houseboat was in the Dal Lake at jetty number-12. Latif sent a Shikara to fetch us which was free of cost to us. There are about 1200-1300 houseboats on the lake at the fringes all around. We were booked in an “Independent Goona Palace Group Houseboat”. We had booked it 6 months in advance like all other accommodations. Later, about two months before our trip, a message came from this property offering us an upgrade to a balcony attached room and half board for about 40% higher tariff. We agreed to this offer thinking about the pleasure of sitting in the balcony sipping a leisurely tea while the sun set into the lake. But when we reached the property, we found that all the rooms were the same without any balconies and there was little point in the upgrade. We felt cheated and complained to the manager which yielded no result. Rather Latif rudely demanded 40% of the rent and asked us to cancel the room. This season looked very busy, and he would have sold the room at double the tariff. We couldn’t do anything but feel bad and decided to stay put there. Later we heard noises suggesting similar altercations.
The bathroom was very small and congested with vinyl flooring. There was a bathtub but not enough water to use it. One had to stand in it and use bucket and mug. Latif had not allowed us shoes inside and instructed us to use the flip-flops kept in the room. Archana fell due to a loose flip-flop while leaving the tub and got a severe soft tissue injury from which she has not yet fully recovered even after 12 days today. I'm writing all this so that readers are careful. The bathroom in the houseboat is congested and flip-flops are unsafe being loose and worn-out.
After the bath and after eating our rather expensive lunch at this ordinary looking houseboat with very high on-line reviews, we went to see the Shalimar Garden. On the way, we bought painkillers and a bottle of water for Archana. She was given a dose there itself. This continued for the next one week there two times a day and continues even now. She must have been in a lot of pain but in none of the photos did she exhibit this and continued cheerily with all the activities. She is a Leo and truly a brave lioness. Later our doctor friend who saw her injuries called her “Jhansi ki Rani”.
Srinagar is a modern water world, dominated by Dal Lake and its twisting waterways, tree-lined Nagin Lake, and the Jhelum River. This year there were a lot of tourists in Kashmir, and we were greeted with a crowd everywhere. Many locals were also out there identifiable readily with beards and hijabs(veil).
Srinagar was a busy city that day. Although tourists came from almost all states, majority of the groups apparently came from Bengal, Maharashtra, and Orissa with mostly MakeMyTrip, Kesari and Thomas Cook travel agencies which made the packages attractively economical yet highly tiring for the travellers.
Shalimar Bagh (12/5/22)
Shalimar Bagh is a Mughal Garden in Srinagar, connected through a channel to the north-east of the Dal Lake. It is also known as Shalimar Garden, Farah Bakhsh, and Faiz Bakhsh. It was built in 1619 AD by Jahangir over an area of 12.4 ha (31 acres). The garden is very beautiful - full of flowers especially roses of all kinds and colours. Here we met Mohammed Younus and his begum(wife) who took a fancy to us. We too liked them instantaneously. They took our photos at our request and heard our story about 45th wedding anniversary. Younus Bhai invited us to their home. “ Come spend a few moments with us tomorrow. We are on your way”. I said janab (sir) don’t invite us or we'll come to trouble you! With a smile he sent the Google map of the way to his home to my phone, and we decided that the next morning while going to Gulmarg it would be their home for a while. It’s a good idea to visit locals to understand the culture of a place.
Floating Market -Dal Lake (13/5/22)
The next day we woke up at 4 am in the houseboat and went for the Shikara ride in the Dal Lake from 5-7 am in which we visited the floating market also which is a unique experience. It was a really a very beautiful experience. We sipped Kahwa and bought some flowers because the following day was 45th anniversary of our wedding. We had fixed the shikara for ?1500 for two hours but gave the shikara driver a good tip because we believe that we must take care of these people who go out of the way to please us and because we can afford it. The manager of the houseboat may have been rude, but the two boys who were taking care of us, served us well and so we also made them happy with a good bakhshish( tip). By the way, our experience in Kashmir was that these people openly asked for tips just like in Europe and America, irrespective of the service quality. But the services in Kashmir were a tad better than that generally received abroad.
Gulmarg (13-14/5/22)
On the thirteenth, we left Dal Lake from Ghat(jetty) No.12 in the morning around 9-30 and after about 50 minutes we reached the home of Younus Bhai which was a triple storied structure. His older brother lived in the side building. He too came out to greet us. The news had spread. Younus introduced us to his family and warmly welcomed us with sherbet, dry fruits, short breads and Kahwa. He also showed us his house which has been built complying with the Shariah law. Younus bhai also designs houses for others as a hobby. In both the sitting and the dining rooms, there were wall to wall carpeting with no other furniture in sight. Everyone sits down on the carpet to eat, socialise, and relax. The kitchen had physically demarcated areas within it for cooking, storage and washing the dishes. The house was immaculately clean and well organised. Ladies of the family used hijab and Younus sported a beard which looked good on him. Kashmiris like Kashmir are very good-looking people. We read somewhere in Kashmir, “Boys with beards and girls with hijab are the best combination ever.”
After staying there for 15-20 minutes, we left for Gulmarg with Aijaz and reached “Hotel Shaw-inn” perched among the pines and Chinar trees at about 12-30 PM. On the way we had stopped at Noor Mohammed Bhat’s shop in Lethpora to buy kesar, spices and Mamra almonds. Aijaz told us that Pulwama attack site was just on the opposite side of the shop. That brought bad memories and we silently said our prayers for the martyrs. The check-in at the hotel was at 12 as per the booking but at the reception they told us that the check-in was at 2 PM. Apparently the aggregator’s website was not properly updated. This is an issue throughout the valley. They tried their best and gave us our room at 1-15 PM. After taking a quick bath and change of clothes, we ate a late lonely lunch at 3 PM as all the tourists were out for activities. They served a rice which they said was Basmati. It was very coarse and flavourless and could be anything but Basmati. The portion size of dal was rather small with thin consistency inadequate for the two of us. As if to top it all they served lathery tawa rotis made from all-purpose flour (Maida). Shaw-inn is a good 4-star property and the room rent for that day was ?18,000 per night double occupancy. We had paid half of that having booked six months in advance. In such a place, the coarsest possible Basmati and leathery rotis made little sense. But later we experienced that Basmati rice and Rotis same stories in Kashmir in all the properties that we stayed in. Next time we asked for short and thick local rice which tasted better.
After the lunch, we made the most of the day by taking an ATV (All-Terrain Vehicle) ride. You sit astride like on a bike without much to hold on to behind the driver and he takes you for a 13 KM roller- coaster ride of Gulmarg often turning at sharp angles which adds to the thrill. The ride takes about 45-50 minutes. Only one person can go on an ATV. They charge ?2,000 per head. The ATV was arranged by the hotel. The money had to be paid in cash before the ride. In Kashmir, you should take a lot of cash with you because digital payments are not so popular here except in hotels.
During this ride we visited very old and famous Shiv Mandir known as the Rani Mandir which is situated on a hillock with 35 steps to go. It was here that second part of the song “Jai-Jai Shivashankar" from Rajesh Khanna's film “Ram ki Kassam” was shot with Mumtaz in the lead. In this song Rajesh Khanna runs down the steps of a temple which is the famous 1500-year-old Shankaracharya temple in Srinagar and then is seen dancing on the lawns of another temple. That other temple is this one. We had seen it from a distance on the way to our hotel and now during the ride we took a break to climb up the steps and offer prayer to lord Shiva. ATV drivers were very reluctant to let us stop anywhere and cut short our ride to the extent of the time spent at the temple. Time is money for them in this heightened tourist season.
The next morning, after breakfast, we walked to the Gondola station 10 minutes away. The ticket had already been booked so we stood in the line at about 8-50 AM for the ride. The line was very long, and the agents were making the situation worst by making their clients encroach it for money. Much later, CRPF men came in to keep the order but not before people took-over. At about 12-30 PM, we reached Phase-1 after nearly 4 hors in the sun. That left us with a bad sun burn which is still there. Do use sunscreen and coloured glasses. After that, the line for Phase-2 was rather short . There was no snow at all on Phase-1 and even in Phase-2, it was seen far away from the landing point . We somehow walked on the rocky terrain and reached the snow because we had to take photos. Phase-2 was at an altitude of 13,500 feet . The cold here was not much even near the snow. We could manage just in a jacket.
We returned to the hotel around 3:30 PM and sat outside for a long time till the shadows darkened. In the Gondola line , a young couple Deepthi and Dipesh Jayaprakash had become friendly. They had a sweet six-year-old daughter Dhvani who endured the hardship without as much as a frown which was amazing. On our request they came to our hotel and joined us over tea. “Dhvani doesn’t eat at all” complained Deepthi- like all young mothers. We got them an ATV from here. At the hotel, we came across elderly looking very smart Mr Faiz who wasn’t so old and young Danish. They appeared to us as the hotel's most helpful staff members. Faiz advised us to visit again in Dec-Feb period for the best of Gulmarg.
The next morning, we left for Pahalgam with driver Aijaz who had gone back to Tang Marg for staying. Taxi unions in Gulmarg and Pahalgam do not allow your driver from Srinagar to take you locally anywhere and hotels do not provide lodge and board to drivers. You must take a union taxi here. Most of the vehicles looked dusty in Gulmarg. On enquiry it was informed that vehicle washing is discouraged to save the environment.
Pahalgam (15-16/5/22)
On the way to Pahalgam we had apple juice on the way near an apple orchid and purchased cherries. There were no apples on trees having been harvested already. Juice was squeezed from sub-standard fruits from the cold storage. Prime fruits were sold at 200-220 per kilo not much different than back home-effect of globalisation we guessed. In Pahalgam, we stayed at Hotel Heevan. Located on the banks of river Lidder, Hotel Heevan Pahalgam provides you the right ambiance to spend your holiday in the "Valley of Shepherds” ( Pahalgam). The hotel has the most pristine view in Pahalgam. It’s by the water and ambience is gorgeous. For the entry to this hotel, there is a narrow iron bridge from underneath of which the Lidder flows coming down the Lidder Valley which is a Himalayan sub-valley that forms the south-eastern corner of the Kashmir Valley.
The sight and sound created by the flowing clear water hitting the rocky debris at the sides and the bottom and the resulting aerated foaming mix coming up in white and blue was like a giant animated moving painting-a feast to our senses. The weather was very pleasant. This river adjacent to the hotel and the huge green manicured lawn on which there were several sets of white painted wrought iron tables and chairs with several guests of the hotel enjoying the tea and a late snack seemed to re-kindle our hunger though we had eaten our vegetarian lunch on the way already. Setting was just perfect .We hurriedly kept the luggage in the room took bath and then after resting a little came outside for the tea with a view .At the dinner we had tandoori river trout fish which reminded us of the fish served back home at the Lotus Resort at Ramchandi- Konark.
The next morning, we went to Aru and Betaab valley with “Farooq” from the taxi union booked through the hotel .The road was narrow and hilly, but the driver was an expert. The view of the Aru valley is excellent and despite the narrow road the ride to the Aru valley was very enjoyable. Our escort Farooq, was good in communication and was giving us all details about the valley. One can see the snow-capped mountains everywhere and a small rivulet flowing through. Pahalgam is a heavenly abode which has to be visited once in a lifetime. The mist and fog around the snow made us feel like to come again and spend some leisurely time in Pahalgam for an extended period renting an affordable homestay.
From Aru valley, we returned to Heevan resorts and proceeded toward Betaab valley.
Earlier known as Hajan valley, Betaab was the name given after the movie of the same name and the beauty today of this valley is as it was seen in the movie. The valley has a river flowing around and one can see snow on the distant mountain peaks. The scenic beauty was a treat to our eyes and has left us with sweet memories.
Returned at lunchtime and ordered mutton Rogan josh -a dish from the wajwan menu. They made it very good, and it tasted so different from the Rogan Joshes we have had numerous times before . Before coming here, we had tried the gushtaba and Rishta in Gulmarg which were also good, but we had no point of comparison as we had never had these before.
After some rest after lunch, we reached the designated place for white water rafting. The ticket per person was ?660 for a roller- coaster ride of about 2.5 KM meter in Lidder. There was a very long que. Being senior citizens, we influenced the organisers to give us fast forward treatment. They quietly adjusted us with a family from the USA with kids. At that time, we were the only senior couple there and were hugely admired for our guts. The ride was quite exciting, and we had a lot of fun. All of us were completely drenched with ice-cold water. Went back to the hotel with shoes in hand and took a quick hot shower. That night for dinner we just had cream of chicken soup because of the heavy lunch of mutton Rogan josh.
Srinagar revisited(17-18/5/22)
Later, after completing the trip to Gulmarg and Pahalgam, we returned to Srinagar on the 17th because the return flight to Bhubaneswar was to be taken from there on 19th. We had also planned our shopping in Srinagar. The hotel was on the other side of the city. The driver proposed to show us Chashme- Shahi and then the Pari Mahal on the way to the hotel. We accepted the idea after verifying on the Google Map as logistically it was a good idea.
Chashme Shahi (17/5/22)
Chashme Shahi (Translation: Shahi Waterfall), also known as Chashma Shahi, was built in 1632 AD, around a waterfall by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan's Governor Ali Mardan Khan. There is a Mughal Garden built according to the emperor's order around the water source. He built it as a gift for his eldest son Prince Dara Shikoh.The park is in the Zabarwan range near Raj Bhavan ( Governor's House) opposite the Dal Lake in Srinagar. It is a beautiful Mughal Garden which has been beautifully kept as well. Many colours of roses and other flowers bloom here . The water is cold, sweet, and very clean. The locals consider it to be digestive and endowed with many qualities. We saw some CISF personnel collecting this water in their jerrycans for drinking purposes. We also emptied our bottle and filled it with this soothing water.
Pari Mahal(17/5/22)
The Pari Mahal ( palace of the fairies) also known as the Pir Mahal, is a seven-terraced garden located at the top of the Zabarwan mountain range, to the south-west of Dal Lake in Srinagar city . This is a fine example of the preservation of Islamic architecture and art during the reign of the then Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. We spent some time here, met a fled pandit family visiting Srinagar after decades.
Srinagar - Wajwan and Pashmina (18/5/22)
Wajwan is a multi-course meal in Kashmiri cuisine which is regarded as an art form and a matter of pride in Kashmiri culture and identity. Almost all dishes are meat based using lamb, beef, or chicken along with some vegetarian dishes. It is popular all over Kashmir.
Some of the dishes of Wajwan:
1-Rista (meatball in bright red gravy)
2-Lahbi Kebab or Mochi Kebab (Flattened Mutton Kebab cooked in curd)
3-Aab Gosht (Kashmiri Mutton Curry)(mutton cooked in milk gravy)
4-Rogan Josh (lamb cooked with Kashmiri spices)
5-Gushtab -soft meatballs with apricots cooked in curd.
6-tabak mans (lamb's ribs are boiled in yogurt until they are soft, then fried)
7-Dhania lamb Korma (Mutton curry with coriander)
8-waza palak (Green spinach is cooked with small mutton balls)
9-kebabs (roasted minced meat on the dagger on top of hot coal)
10-Gushtaba (meatball with a velvety texture in white yogurt gravy)
11-phirni (a condensed milk pudding with semolina or crushed rice, with cardamom flavours and alternatively saffron)
And many more...
In Srinagar, our daughter Neha's Kashmiri friend Shamiyah’s Abbu(father) Muzaffar Khan Saheb lives. In our bid to meet locals, we contacted him. He not only invited us to his friend Latif Bhai’s 45-year-old restaurant but also took us downtown to a whole-seller friend Firdous Baba. Baba showed us real Pashmina ranging from ?15000 to 250000.Tourists are often duped into buying fake pashmina he said. The Kashmiri traders like most in India and world over do not miss out on duping gullible tourists which is a very bad thing. We gratefully accepted Khan Saheb's invitation and enjoyed the wajwan at Latif Bhai's Grand Hotel on the residency road after some shopping with Baba. We purchased a pashmina shawl and a stole at very reasonable prices as asserted by Khan Saheb. Shawl was for Rs15,000 and stole was for ?5000.Khan Saheb said, and I quote, “in less than that, you will be buying something else in the name of Pashmina”, unquote. Khan Saheb then showed us carved furniture and rugs being made by artisans by hand in manufacturing facilities. A rug of the size 8’x5’ costs ?9000-10000. A King size bed would be ?55000-60000, and a six-seat dining set would put you down by ?150000. Add to this races and transport. Khan Saheb offered his services should any of our family or friends wanted anything.
At the Grand Hotel Five dishes were served in Wajwan only for ?666 per person which was less than 30% of the menu card rate of our hotel and at the end there was Kahwa as well which we didn't take due to getting late. Kahwa alone cost ?100 in our hotels. If you go to Srinagar, you must visit here. They also have rooms.
Adieu Srinagar (19/5/22)
On 19 th we ate an early breakfast and checked out at 8:30 AM from our hotel Opera-Inn though the flight was at 12:20. The early check out was suggested due to strict security at the airport and luggage scanning 1 KM before the airport which might take a lot of time due to several groups checking out. Luckily, we didn't find any groups (they were late) and reached the airport at about 9:30 AM.
Srinagar has a poorly maintained yet heavily guarded airport. The lounge chairs aren't secured to the floor. Passengers we're moving then around at their ease. Cats and birds were spotted moving about. Passengers were littering the floor with polythene etc. No ongoing cleaning was seen during our rather long waiting there. Washrooms were poorly maintained.
Finally, our flight took-off from Srinagar in time. Changed plane in Delhi for Bhubaneswar. At the airport in Delhi in terminal T-3 we met a fellow resident couple from Z-1 apartments who had also visited Kashmir but on return had stayed back in Delhi on some important errand and were joining us in the same Air-India flight. We met again at the Bhubaneswar airport and came back home in the same Innova-Crystal together. Our Kashmir trip ended thus. I asked Archana to describe the experience in one sentence and she said it was fabulous, but Kashmir needs to strengthen its tourism infrastructure. I couldn’t agree more.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
‘”Hello Purnendu, your father has agreed to go and live with you. Please come and take them with you”. Purnendu’s uncle said this and hung the phone.
Purnendu lived in the state capital, now a bustling city with all modern amenities, in stark contrast to his native village, a victim of under development till this date.
For last several years Purnendu has been trying unsuccessfully to make his parents leave their ancestral village and come stay with him at his Bhubaneswar apartment. His village was one of last patches of land to see the signs of development. The biggest stumbling block was a small but perennial river that strategically cut off his village from the limits of district it belonged to and put it in confines of adjacent district. This peculiar position delayed every developmental effort by eternity. Even till few tears back, when Purnendu visited his village, he had to roll up his pants, step into the muddy river bank and walk good 20 meters till he reached water’s edge where the boat waited. Same routine repeated at the river bank on the side of his village. Purnendu didn’t mind going through all this to reach his village and be at the feet of his parents. But now a pucca road led right into his village and passed in front of his house.
Purnendu had spent all his childhood and youth in this village. He was so enamoured of the way of life at the village that when he joined government service in state capital, he longed for the weekends to rush back to his village. To be in the midst of his childhood friends, to sit on the riverbank doing nothing till late evenings, to listen to the songs from radio that blended into the rural backdrop so well. The songs sang virtues of living in a village, the songs celebrated tales of the river, the starry nights, the beautiful damsels who lived on other side of the river. The village life was so fulfilling, so intrinsic to his being.
The whole countryside functioned like a clockwork precision. At crack of dawn, the villagers started their day’s activity. The cattle were freed from their cowshed and tied to anchors in front of the house, fed for the morning, milked and then sent off to the grazing field under custody of the village cow boy. The animals were emotionally bonded with the members of the house. Purnendu’s family had about half a dozen cows and equal number of calves. His parents called each cow by a name that matched the cow’s personality. His father often could be seen mumbling something while serving, bathing, caressing the cows as if he was engaged in a talk with them. The milk was boiled in a earthen pot and stirred in a bamboo stick having a scoop of coconut shell at one end and the fire was from straw or cake of cow dung. This way of boiling the milk gave it a flavor that was hard to describe but easy to gulp down glass after glass. Adding jagery was considered icing on the cake. Purnendu’s family had regular menu of rice cake made on an earthen pan and dipped in boiled bilk mixed with jiggery. Purnendu was very fond of this.
As time passed, Purnendu found it difficult to come to his village. Like his urban friends he too bought a two bed room apartment and gave it on rent as he was living in a government quarter allotted to him.
The weekly visits gradually stretched to monthly and quickly became twice a year visit. His wife and children were averse to go to the village and often Purnendu made the visits alone.
Every time his father wrote a letter to him, half of it was about the different cows. Which one has borne a calf, which one is giving more milk, and which one was caught trespassing into the kitchen garden of their neighbor causing a bitter fight between the ladies of the house. The cows were as much a part of the household as he himself was in his ancestral house. He could relate fully and joined in the discussion through letters.
Slowly the letters became infrequent and his parents were now talking to him over his uncle’s mobile phone. The first video call was partly dominated by ample visuals of the favorite cows, munching grass in front of the house, oblivious of the world around them.
Purnendu had loads of problems. He was constantly criticized by his wife as he could not buy a three bed room apartment like many of his office friends. He did not buy few plots around Bhuabaneswar with a plan to sell them at a premium price later on. In fact the list of his failings diligently maintained by his wife grew geometrically; his wife’s bitter prodding grew exponentially.
Many a times Purnendu wished he lived in his village rather than in Bhubaneswar. In deepest corner of his being, he longed to go back to his village. This could be a reason for not insisting too much for his parents to move in with him to their Bhubaneswar home.
Purnendu planned to take leave for a week and go to his village. Now his father and mother were old and weak. They have been dilly-dallying over issue of moving into son’s house in Bhubaneswar as they could not part with their cows. To them, it seemed like betraying the trust the cows had reposed on them as their custodian, their father and mother.
As Purnendu reached his village, he was greeted at the village entrance by many of his childhood friends. Purnendu got down from his car.
His cousin brother informed him that arrangement to sell the cows had been made. He also narrated how his father was moved to tears upon seeing the prospective buyers coming to check the cows and settle the price. That night, no food was cooked in Purnendu’s house. Ever since, both of them looked very depressed and rarely spoke to anyone. His father was seen sitting on the veranda and look on remorsefully at the animals tied in front of the house.
Purnendu found his parent’s face lit up with happiness only for a fraction of second, seeing him. Neta, the most favourite cow of his mother looked at Purnendu and extended its neck at him as if suggesting “Come, embrace me, cuddle me." Purnendu put his bag down and embraced Neta knowing that Neta already had a buyer who will take him away soon. As he embraced the cow, he felt warmth of the cow engulf him. He remembered his childhood days when he used to join his mother tend to the sundry jobs at the cowshed, feeding the cows, washing them and caressing, cuddling them from time to time. They too reciprocated by rubbing their neck against him and licking him on cheek.
Now too, Neta was doing same, licking him on the bald patch of his head, rubbing her neck against him and as if saying, "Where have you been all these days my child, not only your parents, I too was missing you." Purnendu remained locked in embrace with Neta as he forgot his worries, the bitter jibes his wife threw at him all the time, his disillusionment of not being at par with others in a city life where he found himself quickly becoming a misfit. The blissful moments could have lasted longer but for his mother who called him to go into the house.
Later, as he sat to take the lunch cooked specifically for him by his mother, Purnendu had the second blissful moment of that day. He looked at his father who was sitting by his side taking bites of the food with indifference and his mother who sat beside him nudging him to eat this, and eat that. It was quite unlike his wife who never bothered what Purnendu ate.
Purnendu looked at pale faces of his parents and said “It took me only one hour to drive from the city; the roads are of such good quality. So, I will visit you every Saturday evening and be here till Monday morning. That way, we do not have to sell Neta and other cows, you need not go and stay in a mad place like Bhubaneswar. That way I also will get to be in my favorite place happily”.
"As you wish”, said Purnendu’s mother with her face beaming with happiness.
“Why don't you give him the kheer you made for him with Neta's milk?," Purnendu’s father nudged his wife, with a warmth that was missing since Purnendu had arrived.
Sunil Kumar Biswal is a Chartered Engineer, Town Planner, Energy Auditor, Renewable Energy Consultant & Zero Defect Zero Effect Consultant for MSMEs. He is based in Sunabeda in Koraput District of Odisha and is an Entrepreneur. His other interests are HAM Radio (Callsign VU2MBS), Amateur Astronomy (he conducts sky watching programs for interested persons/groups), Photography and has a passion for writing on diverse topics including fiction (in both English & Odia). He loves communicating science to common man in simple language and often gives talks in Electronic media including All India Radio, Radio Koraput. He can be reached at sunilbiswal@hotmail.com and Cell No.7008580528
She was getting late for the school. There was a staff council meeting to discuss the preparation for the annual examination of different classes. Eva was in a hurry. She prepared a sandwich breakfast for her six year old son Anshu and warmed the milk. She looked at the table clock for the third time that sat wirh an annoying nonchalance on the top of the cupboard. On other days she went to her school after leaving Anshu at his school which was only a few hurdles meters away from her house. Then Jamuna the babysitter-cum- cook, would bring him back home at twelve o'clock. She would give him a bath and feed him. But there was a problem now. Some rennovation work was going on in Anshu' s class room. And the classes were dropped for a week. Eva had asked Jamuna to come a little early in the morning. But she had not turned up yet.
Where was she ? She should have been here by now. Eva was getting worried. She tried her number on the mobile phone but it said the no.was switched off.
Jamuna was a plump, middle aged and an affectionate woman who took good care of the boy. Anshu too was very fond of her. Jamuna has never given her any cause to get angry or disappointed in her. In fact Eva felt relaxed when Anshu was with Jamuna. Eva's husband was a marketing manager in a private company and had to do a lot of travelling. Eva taught in an Upper Primary School . She had to discharge the duty of a responsible teacher and take care of the house hold affairs at the same time. The burden of the dual responsibility exercised a heavy pressure on her. But there was no other alternative.
Jamuna was a godsend who relieved her from this difficult situation. Not only that she took good care of Anshu but she helped Eva a lot in other matters like cleaning the house and keeping things in order. She could trust Jamuna with many of the household responsibilities without any hesitation.
Eva walked to the grill gate and looked out. There was no sign of Jamuna.
She came inside and looked at her son, trying to take a decision.
'Anshu, my darling,' she coaxed her son. 'Jamuna aunty is late today. But she must be on her way. Can you manage alone for a few minutes? I will lock the grill gate from out side and give you the key. Jamuna aunty has a key too. If by any chance she has forgotten the key you give it to her and she would open the grill gate. Mummy has to attend an important meeting in the school. Mummy would be back as soon as the meeting is over. Are you afraid to stay alone for a while, son?'
Little Anshu looked up from the sandwich plate and gave a broad smile to his mother. 'Why should I be afraid, mummy? I am a big boy now. You go to your school.'
Eve's eyes watered. She ran her fingers through her son's hair and muttering curses on Jamuna she tried her mobile number once again. 'The number you are trying to connect is currently switched off,' the mechanical voice repeated.
'Where the hell is she?'
There was no time to speculate things. She wiped Anshu's face, switched on the cartoon channel on the TV, slung her handbag over her shoulder and rushed out. She latched the gate and turned the key in the padlock . She pulled the padlock twice to be sure, and gave the key to Anshu who stood behind the grill gate waving at her.
'Bye, Mummy'
Bye, son, be careful. Do not give the key to anyone except Jamuna aunty. I ll be back as soon as possible.
Eva started off on her scootty.
Anshu came back to take his seat before the TV set leaving the front door open. He kept the key carefully by his side.
'He is not afraid', he assured himself. 'It is a question of a few minutes. Jamuna aunty would be here soon.'
But as time moved on he began to feel a little uncomfortable. Why was Jamuna aunty taking so much time? Suddenly he felt irritated with the noises the cartoon characters were making. He got up and switched the TV off. The house was plunged into silence. Anshu sat quietly for sometime on the sofa listening to the sound of the occasional vehicles that passed by bringing in a short relief. The house was situated away from the main road in a residential area and so there was not much traffic on the road. He walked to the front door and stood waiting for a motor vehicle to pass by. One motor bike vroomed past. Anshu kept standing by the door till the noise died away. The silence returned, in rushing waves, now more intense, more heavy.
Then he heard it!
Tick.. tick ...tick...
Gentle, but persistent. What is the sound? A bird? Rat?
In the oppressive silence the soft, constant tick-tick sounded like the ticking of a bomb. Summoning up his courage he walked in to discover the source of the sound. Then he saw it. The tick-tick came from the table clock that was on the cupboard. He looked at the clock closely. The three luminous hands were moving following a steady pattern behind its glossy shiny glass surface. Anshu knew the clock was an expensive one. His grandfather had gifted it to his mother and mummy cherished it as something very close to her heart. She kept it on the top of the cupboard out of Anshu's reach. But the clock looked strange now.
Even as Anshu watched the it seemed to assume a face, a weird looking face that was neither human nor animal. And it seemed to be teasing him. 'Stop me if you can....tick..tick...tick...stop me if you can ..tick..tick..'
With every ticking sound it made it inched forward to the edge of the cupboard. Any moment now it could lunge at him and its hands would take his throat in their sharp, biting clutch. Anshu turned his eyes around frantically in search of a stick to counter the attack. He ran to the utility space and picked up the broom. Holding the broom handle in the tight grip of his small hand he raised it and swept a blow at the clock. Down came the clock with a loud crash scattering smithereens of glass on the floor.
What happened Anshu baba?
Jamuna cried from the front door. She rushed into the dining space and took Anshu in her strong arms before he stepped on the broken pieces of glass. She carried him to the drawing room and put him on the sofa.
Now sit here quietly and do not get down until I say so.
She went back and cleaned the floor with meticulous care. After cleaning the place she returned to the drawing room and called Eva. ' I am so sorry Didi. I had some unexpected guests this morning. My phone too had some problem so I could not contact you. Nor could I receive your call. But I am here now. Anshu baba is all right but... ' She stopped and looked at the boy.
'But... but what? Any problem?'
'Not exactly. The clock is broken. '
' Broken..? The clock? How?'
Eve's anxious voice crackled from the speaker of the phone.
'Seems Anshu baba was trying to bring it down and it fell ..' Jamuna said haltingly.
'O my God! My father's gift! Anshu has become so unruly. Where is he now?
He is now studying. Jamuna replied looking at Anshu who sat watching her, listening to the conversation.
'Ok . Let him have his lunch in time. I will be back by two O clock. Tell him that he would be punished if he did not behave,'
Eva said and broke the connection.
Anshu took his bath and ate his lunch which Jamuna had cooked without any complaint.
'Now be a good boy and go to sleep...Anshu baba. I will finish the cleaning up.and then come to you.'
Anshu lay quietly in the bed. Time and again his gaze travelled to the big silver framed photo of his father and mother that stood on the bedside table. His mother wore a big sweet smile. Her face was round and fair .. like the moon. Anshu thought as she looked at the photo. Then her mother's face changed. It no longer looked like the moon. It resembled the face of the clock. 'Wait, I am coming. I will.see that you are duly punished for the damage you have done. You have hurt me, destroyed me. I will not spare you.' Anshu closed his eyes tightly.
A few minutes passed. He opened his eyes with utmost care as if the clock in his mother's face would pounce upon him the moment it saw him opening his eyes. He cast a guarded look at the photo. Mummy smiled at him from it. 'The clock is perhaps hiding somewhere behind the photo stalking..' Anshu thought.
Jamuna came in after finishing the clean up of the kitchen, spread out a mat on the floor and lay down. Soon the sound of her gentle snoring filled the room. Mother would be arriving any time now. He had to escape or else she would punish him for breaking her favorite clock.
He slid off the bed, careful not to make any noise, walked up to the door and opened it. He went to the front veranda. Jamuna aunty had not put a lock on the grill gate. Anshu opened the gate and walked out into the scorching sun. The road was deserted. Motorbikes plied in ones and twos. He kept walking straight. Anshu was not much acquainted with the road because he had never come that far alone. But he was not afraid. He was only afraid of the clock, and
the way it could persuade his mother to exact revenge on him. Somehow the clock and his mother seemed to be partners in a conspiracy to inflict pain upon him, Anshu thought bitterly. He had walked far away from home. His legs began to ache and he was feeling terribly tired. His eyes searched an unfrequented solitary spot to sit down and rest. There was small temple that stood under a Banyan tree. The place was well shaded and cool. A stack of bricks that had formed a small wall stood by the tree. Anshu squeezed his small body into the narrow space between the tree and the brick wall. He was sure that his.mother or Jamuna aunty could not find him now. The soft breeze caressed his exhausted limbs.He closed his eyes and fell asleep. He slept for a long time. It was dark when he woke up. He was feeling hungry. A big round moon looked at him from a cloudless sky. The moon smiled at him. Anshu looked at the moon intently, and his heart skipped a beat. The clock, god knows how had gone up to the sky and merged into the moon. The moon-clock jeered at him from above. 'You can't escape now,' it said and leaned out, ready to jump at him. Anshu snapped his eyes shut, pressed his ears with his hands and began to scream,
' No....Don't hit me. I am sorry. Don't hit me.. I will never touch you. Please..spare me..!!
He was still screaming at the top of his voice when a frantic and dishevelled Eva followed by an equally dishevelled Jamuna and the police inspector and two constables reached the spot. Eva, tears streaming down her eyes gathered him up and held him tight. She began to kiss her son all over. ' Anshu, my darling!! My baby...she kept mumbling amidst sobs.
Anshu opened his eyes and looked at his mother's tear washed face. The clock was not there. He saw the police inspector who was looking anxiously at him. He turned his eyes up to look at the moon. The moon smiled sweetly. The clock was not there, too. Perhaps the clock has got frightened of his mother and these police men and had gone away for good. He sighed with relief and clung closer to his mother.
Once again he looked at his mother's face. Yes, the clock was not there. In stead the moon smiled at him from his mother's face. He buried his head in his mother's comforting lap and closed his eyes.
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Prof. (Dr.) Viyatprajna Acharya
“What is life? It is nothing but a bundle of memories and a bouquet of dreams.”
And hard we strive to be in other people's memories forever. We treasure our memories too and try to store them in different forms. The struggle is between technologies and our strong desire to preserve our memories but there is a constant race between us, who are hell bent upon our memories and "Time" which tries to wipe out everything.
We wrote on palm leaves, diaries, books so as to make the world remember us. Then came the modern technologies...we stored in audio cassettes, video cassettes, floppy discs, CDs, pen drives, hard disks and cloud.....
But half of the technologies are already lost and we do not know what is next ??? We keep on changing the storage mode from one to the other and always think that, finally we have done it.
But hardly we know that "Kaalo jagadbhakshakam" Time will devour on everything.
Yet another story is how much history actually should be believed? In just half a decade, Father of nation becomes a villain, a demon is deified..."jo jeeta wohi sikandar"-- He who wins becomes a demigod.
Over 70 years we, Indians, as a supreme race have been made to believe in terms of our history books that Aryans are invaders, there was no prowess in Indian Kings...many gaps where true leadership lacked, we do not know the real heroes who actually helped in building the nation!
Today too whatever is published in different media is going to become history for our future generation...but alas! Who'll know what the true story was!
Yet, every day we strive to preserve our memories....our pictures, videos, achievements....when gallery of mobile becomes full, transfer it to laptop/ desktop...from there to pen drive/ hard drive...when tired and exhausted of all these, search for cloud storage....and we live on with a falsity that we have secured our memories!!
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.
THE STRANGE CASE OF HELENIA MIGUEL
Satya Narayan Mohanty
Helenia! The name appeared to be a name from the hell. The cuss word was like a shadow spreading and enveloping you finally to devour everything in front. The name ,of course, was the Spanish Variation of the name Helen.
The proceedings of the day has been tumultuous. At 11.30, there was a call from the Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport. It was from the outfit of Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Helenia, who was visiting Delhi through Mumbai, had to go through the Customs and Immigration. The officer said Helenia was carrying eighty thousand dollars in travelers cheques for her use. Because the amount was too high, a payment of fifty two thousand rupees was to be made before she was allowed to travel any further. The telephone was handed over to her. She said she would settle it at Delhi when she cashed her travelers’ cheque. The officer assured that the amount was to be refunded to her when she embarked on the flight home.
Aanish Pandey wanted the details on SMS, informed the account to which it was to be paid by net banking, and the email to which the confirmation message was to be sent etc. The officer assured that she would board the 3p.m. flight. Aanish got the net transfer done, sent the email and reverted back. The desk rang back again and confirmed the receipt of the amount.
At 2.30 p.m., the officer rang again and informed that for certificate confirming no slush money is involved, another eighty thousand rupees to be paid and for certificate for non-carrying of narcotics another sixty thousand rupees was to be paid. This was strange. Aanish said he didn’t have this much in his account. The lady officer informed him that at least sixty thousand rupees could be paid. All along the airport announcements of arrival and departure were going on in the background of his telephone call.
This time he wanted to talk to Helenia, who said, “Darling, I do not know what is happening?”
He had sent a WhatsApp message and he looked to see if she had checked it. It was imperative to draw her attention to it and he exactly did that.
“OK, OK I will see.”
That answer appeared a little strange.
“Did she have her mobile? All calls appeared to have come from the officer’s mobile,” Aanish thought, while giving instructions to the friendly banker to transfer the amount. After that he got in touch with the Customs officers in Delhi.
“Is there any bank account with Mohammed, where the official amount can go? Everyone was surprised that a passenger had been stopped. They promised to check.”
No calls came from Mumbai, which he took as a good sign. He was getting perturbed about Helenia being caught by a fraud racket.
He wanted clarity. He went to the club and ordered a large drink.
Somehow his mind cleared, and the fog disappeared. He considered the events of the day in his mind.
He was expecting Helenia to reach by 9.30 a.m. at Delhi. He received the call at 11.00 from Mumbai. For the last three days he was asking for the Hotel address. There was no reply. The answer was that the agent was showing all four star hotels and she would move into a five star hotel after she reached New Delhi.
“With your help there, I can choose the right one,” she had answered. That was strange. She had given her email, and Aanish sent a test mail but it bounced. He had sent a WhatsApp message. The second time around the mail to the old email ID also bounced back.
It all started with a,“Hi,” on WhatsApp. When he checked the profile photo, he liked it. A widower for ten years, there was some spice all of a sudden. They chatted on WhatsApp every night, around noon time almost every day for 3/4 days. The messages were about what they were doing , what they like and what they would like to do. The photographs gave a measure of their personalities to begin with. They fell into a complacent feeling of compatibility. She identified herself as Helenia, resident of Indianapolis, thirty nine years old, single, with a child from a previous marriage. Photographs were exchanged, as were short, charming messages.
Once she declared she would like to invest in India in a restaurant and hotel and asked whether Aanish could help. He checked up the budget. The budget of half a million dollars was hardly adequate for a hotel. She had a joint venture in Australia, shares in Pharma and real estate in Indianapolis. She carried a Spanish passport as her dad was Spanish, but her mother was an American from Indianapolis.
The tango went on for a month before she declared she would come to India in the following week as the winter break was there. Aanish tried to dissuade her by saying he would not be free. She insisted and said she would come regardless. They had clearly already moved into romantic territory.
On the preceding Sunday, around 10 a.m. she sent a message on the way to the Airport. She informed him that she was carrying some single malt, an iPhone and a smart watch for him. There was no information regarding her hotel, flight number, Airline etc. Aanish went to the sky scanner and checked up all flights from Indianapolis reaching Delhi at 9.30 a.m. She found a Lufthansa flight at 9.45 a.m.
In the morning he got ready and waited for the call to come. It arrived but in a strange manner. The officer had said Ministry of Foreign Affairs. There was no such Ministry in India. It was the Ministry of External Affairs. Why should custom related deposits be taken by such an outfit which clearly appeared personal? The demand for money was strange. He received an SMS.
“Madame is safe. We have put her in the airport hotel. She will take the morning flight.”
Aanish started wondering whether Helenia was under the control of a local racket. The details didn’t stack up and there were contradictions.
When he had talked to her, she had a clear continental or Latin voice. He knew she had Spanish blood but no touch of American accent which was bound to come in if someone had spent years in the mid-east. No, the voice was empathetically continental, soft and feminine. They had never talked to each other on WhatsApp. Whenever he tried, there was no response, but within two hours there were return messages.
Now with the drink, he wondered whether she was also part of the racket. They never spoke to each other on telephone. Some photos were shared, but in a long distance relationship, real photos could be very different from the photos posted. It was a matter of foot in the door, once you had put your foot in, it would be too late to react to the real person appearing very different. He had not seen her; he had not spoken to her and where was the guarantee that she was not part of the racket? Anyway, WhatsApp conversations could give you the complacent feeling of knowing a person well but there was no face to face contact, no facial clues. One could put one’s best foot forward at best. The way things had gone during the day, one could not put her beyond suspicion.
The behavior of the officer was a little doubtful. Ministry of Foreign Affairs did not exist. The desk doing the customs kind of job was not credible. To the best of his knowledge, there was no such outfit under MEA. Asking money in different tranches was another foot in the door tactic. He had already spent Rs. 1.12 lakh. Where was the guarantee that it ended here? There could be fresh demand on some pretext or other.
If Helenia was real and she was under the control of the racket, the best way she would be freed was if the local contact moved away. They would have to leave her alone as no person was there to be milked. Her dollars were in Traveller Cheques, so she would be safe. If she was part of the racket, the best way to disable the group was not taking the call. In any case, he had given his second mobile number, not so frequently used Gmail ID which did not give his identity away.
As a mid-level officer of Government of India, he had stakes in future advancement to reach the top job. Assuming she reached Delhi airport, what if someone was required to stand surety? He would have to. That’s a risk. A clear paper trail will be left. Was he prepared for this ordeal? Probably not. He decided he would not take any call. Even if Helenia reached Delhi airport, he would not receive her. That was the best for both of them. Given the risk involved in the whole thing, it was better to be driven by cold calculation.
He slept well that night. Next day he saw a call from the officer on his mobile. He did not respond. After trying two or three times, there was an SMS on WhatsApp. The message read: “Darling. Pick up your mobile. The officer is trying to reach you. I am so tired.” The last sentence was clearly touchy and credible. Twenty odd hours of travel, the connected jet lag seven to eight hours in the air-port, sleep in the airport hotel would tire anyone. Particularly when a new set of rigmarole started. He quelled his curiosity and didn’t pick up the mobile or didn’t respond to WhatsApp.
He was wondering why they were trying to contact him. She had the ticket, everything had been paid, so she would have to board the plane and come to Delhi. Unless of course, if there was another demand for payment or some underwriting was necessary as a procedure. Aanish didn’t want to reveal anything more than he was meant to. It would compromise his position. Why another payment? Why other documentation or underwriting? He thought his fears were coming true. It was either a racket which preyed on unsuspecting first time travelers or ran a racket where the woman traveler was a lynch-pin. He eschewed all his temptation to send WhatsApp messages. Where was the guarantee that those guys were not reading his messages. He just ignored the messages and phones and after fifteen minutes switched off the mobile.
At least he didn’t have the curiosity to check what was happening. This allowed him to concentrate on his job. What would happen if Helenia landed up in New Delhi? She would obviously try to ring him up because she was new. Every two or three hours he used to switch on his mobile to check and that went up to 2 p.m. There were no further messages. Thereafter, he was relieved and he implicitly congratulated himself for his clarity of thought and on his ability to think and segregate. He had taken the right decision at last.
What would he been done, if more money was demanded? He would have perforce given it. Aanish was already feeling like a sucker after giving so much of money when he had doubts about Ministry of Foreign Affairs handling these issues.
At 5.45 p.m. – he switched on his mobile.
There was a WhatsApp message from Helenia, which read:“I am just boarding the flight now. You foreshook me here.”.A clear reference to not helping her all through and leaving her to her own devices midstream.
It occurred to Aanish that what if Helenia was real and a victim of the racket?He would not be able to know it ever. Whether she was a victim or part of the racket, that question would linger always. If she was real, the loss was palpable. He sent a message saying he had to do it for her interest explaining in a para. The message didn’t go through. He checked up after an hour. The profile photo was removed. Maybe Aanish’s WhatsApp number was removed.
He pondered. Was she real? Was she the girl who professed love and companionship? Why did she carry so much money? Was it to give it to him as the seed money for investment?
Those questions would always remain.
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
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A HISTORICAL MAN AND A HISTORICAL CITY
Nitish Nivedan Barik
The man about whom we are talking here is another great historical figure, Ho Chi Minh and the city, named after him, is the Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) , formerly called Saigon. Ho Chi Minh , the former President of North Vietnam was one of the most influential Communist leaders of the 20th century, though he himself had once declared that he was a ‘nationalist’ not a ‘communist’. He led the Vietnamese nationalist movement for more than three decades, fighting first against the Japanese, then the French colonial power and then the US-backed South Vietnamese. He was President of North Vietnam from 1954 until his death (September 2, 1969). He is also called the father of Vietnam.
Original name of Ho Chi Minh was Nguyen That Than and he was born on 19 May 1890 in Hoang Tru , a place in central Vietnam. Vietnam was then a French colony, known as French Indo-China, but under the nominal rule of an emperor. Ho's father worked at the imperial court but is said to have been dismissed for criticizing the French colonial power.
In 1911, Ho worked as a cook on a French steamer and travelled widely across various ports and cities. He lived in London and Paris, where he worked, in turn, as a gardener, sweeper, waiter, photo retoucher, and oven stoker. He was a founding member of the French communist party.
In 1919 Ho Chi Minh had submitted an eight-point petition to the great powers at the Versailles Peace Conference (that concluded the World War I), seeking self determination and independence for the Vietnamese people. In the petition, Ho demanded that the French colonial power grants its subjects in Indochina basic freedoms and equal rights as French people enjoyed.
This act of petitioning did not get a favourable response from the peacemakers, but it made him a hero overnight before many politically conscious Vietnamese. In 1923, he visited Moscow for training at Comintern, an organisation created by Lenin to promote worldwide worker’s revolution. He travelled to southern China to organise a revolutionary movement among Vietnamese exiles, and in 1930 founded the Indo-Chinese Communist Party (ICP). He spent the 1930s in the Soviet Union and China.
After the Japanese invasion of Indo-China in 1941, Ho returned home and founded the Viet Minh, a communist-dominated independence movement, to fight the Japanese. He adopted the name Ho Chi Minh, meaning 'Bringer of Light'.
At the end of World War Two the Viet Minh announced Vietnamese independence. The French refused to give up their colony and in 1946, war broke out. After eight years of war, the French were forced to agree to peace talks in Geneva. The country was split into a communist north and non-communist south and Ho became president of North Vietnam. As a nationalist ,he was determined to reunite two parts of Vietnam –North and the South.
By the early 1960s, North Vietnamese-backed guerrillas, the Vietcong, were attacking the South Vietnamese government. In its designed policy of containing the spread of Communism, the United States provided increasing levels of support to South Vietnam. By 1965, large numbers of American troops were arriving and the fighting escalated into a major conflict.
Ho Chi Minh was in poor health from the mid-1960s and died on 2 September 1969. When the North Vietnamese forces took the South Vietnamese capital Saigon in 1975 they renamed it Ho Chi Minh City in his honour.
“All men are created equal; they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights; among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”—The first lines of the Vietnamese Declaration of Independence, Ho Chi Minh had issued on September 2, 1945, quoting the American Declaration of Independence. Ironically, it was American forces the Vietnamese would be fighting after two decades that would stretch nearly 10 long years.
The Vietnam War,also called American War in Vietnam ,one of the bloodiest war in the Cold War period involved US, the Superpower from 1965 to 1975 in a poor country ,in a war in the “jungle rice-paddies” of Vietnam. Yet ‘a little fourth-rate power’ like North Vietnam to use Henry Kissinger’s words could humble the mightiest power on earth, of course at a huge cost. The human costs of the long protracted conflict were too harsh to describe with a toll of more than two million civilians on both the sides and more than 1 million North Vietnamese and Viet Cong fighters and some 58,000 US soldiers. The U.S. military's use of horrific napalm bombs in Vietnam triggered widespread student protests in American University campuses. It is meaningfully said that every body should know and learn about Vietnam war.
It is of interest to know that Ho Chi Minh had visited India thrice, first in 1911, then in 1946 as the head of state making New Deli his stopover while on way to France for peace meeting. He also paid an official visit to this country in 1958 as the president of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh had also participated in the Bandung conference in 1955.
In an interview in 1955, Ho had said that he honoured the spiritual leader of the Indian people, Mahatma Gandhi as his master while he struggled against imperialism in Asia.
Vietnam Ambassador Pham Sanh Chau on the occasion of unveiling ceremony of the Bust of Ho at the Kautilya Marg Park in Chanakyapuri, Delhi in 2021 had said ,"Uncle Ho wrote over 60 articles, research papers, poems, letters, telegraph messages & speeches about India and his experience with Indian leaders. His in-depth knowledge about India and its people and his close association with the then Indian PM Jawaharlal Nehru has helped cement Vietnam-India relationship." (By the way , this is the second bust of Ho Chi Minh to be installed in India; the first one being located in Kolkata , installed in 1990 )
Pham while recalling support of Indians for the Vietnamese independence movement, had said , “India supported Vietnam's independence from France, opposed American involvement in the Vietnam War, and supported the unification of Vietnam.”
Paying tribute to the late Vietnam National Movement campaigner, Chief Guest of the above mentioned Bust Unveiling Ceremony ,India’s Minister of State for External Affairs Meenakashi Lekhi had remarked ,"I'm happy to be here to pay my respect to President Ho Chi Minh whose love for our country lay the foundation of Vietnam- India relations on politics, diplomacy, economics, defence-security, education-training, science and technology and people to people relations. The present political structure of both counties may be different, but we share a strong historical and cultural bond."
India and Vietnam are celebrating their 50 years of their diplomatic ties in 2022. PM Modi has described Vietnam as a pillar in India’s Look East Policy and an important strategic partner in India's Indo-Pacific vision.
Answering a question Indian Ambassador to Vietnam Pranay Verma, had remarked , “Diplomatic relations between India and Vietnam were established in 1972. However, our friendship and close relations predate that milestone. We have millennia old civilizational connection, which are manifest in our shared Buddhist and Cham heritage.xxx The depth of our ties has been affirmed frequently in our relations, most recently when we elevated our relations to a “Comprehensive Strategic Partnership” during the visit of Prime Minister Modi to Vietnam in September 2016.”
Vietnam in general and HCMC in particular have many sites of historical and cultural importance to visit. In HCMC among others the must-see attractions for outside visitors are Cu Chi Tunnel , War Remnants Museum , Notre Dame Cathedral Basilica of Saigon and the Post Office, and most significantly the Independence Palace.
I had the privilege of visiting the Independence Palace (also known as Reunification Palace ) in Ho Chi Minh city and standing before the two tanks whose gate-crashing into the precinct signaled the fall of Saigon in 1975 and liberation of South Vietnam ,leading to its unification with the North.
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore
Prof. P. LAL AND WRITERS WORKSHOP
Pradeep Biswal
In our younger days we used to hear about Prof. P. Lal , who was a pioneer in Indian English poetry as well as self publishing industry in India. He established Writers Workshop in 1958 in Kolkota which not only served the aspiring young writers to get published but also enticed many senior writers for publishing their works under this banner.Even the first books of authors like Vikram Seth , Pritish Nandy and others were published by Writers Workshop. The Writers Workshop publications bear a distinct identity and can be easily spotted in a bookshelf. These are unique in printing and binding being hand-typeset in local presses and bound in hand loomed saree cloth. Prof. Lal was the editor and publisher of about 3000 titles published by Writers Workshop and it included poetry, fiction, drama and children’s literature too.
The life and legacy of Prof Lal can inspire many generations of writers and publishers in our country. Born in Kapurthala in Punjab on 28 August, 1929 he studied English literature in St Xavier’s College, Kolkota and Kolkota University. After post graduation he taught English literature in St Xavier’s for about four decades. Later he taught in many prestigious institutes in USA. In 1955 he married Shyamasree Devi and was blessed with two children, namely, son Anand Lal and daughter Srimati Lal. He was not only a poet of repute but also an erudite scholar and translator. His trans creation of Mahabharata in English is an acknowledged work of scholarship. He had eight poetry collections , a dozen of literary criticism and several story books for children. He had translated many of the Upanishads from Sanskrit and some of the works in Hindi literature including stories of Premchand. He is credited to have edited a number of literary anthologies. He was a recipient of the prestigious Jawaharlal Nehru Fellowship in 1969. He also received Padmashri from Government of India for his outstanding contributions in literature.
At the age of 81 he breathed his last on 3rd November, 2010 in Kolkata and an era ended with his demise. The Writers Workshop still continues as a family business although it has lost the glamour under its mentor and founder Prof. Lal. In 2011 her illustrious daughter Srimati Lal brought out a book titled Flowers For My Father in the memory of Prof. Lal and it contains contributions from many leading writers and intellectuals from India and abroad paying rich tributes to the grand old man of Indian literature.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologised. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Shri Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar.
Hari Priya: Do you still go to Guruvayoor every year?
Mary: Of course, whenever we go on vacation, we go with our family to take darshan from Guruvayoorappan.
Okay dear, we are leaving for the time being.
Haripriya was jubilant that day. It was by chance that Mary, Haripriya’s childhood friend, got her phone number from an old student's WhatsApp group and realized that they were both staying in the same place in the Gulf. After so many years, they met and spent a lot of time happily sharing their childhood memories. Whenever Priya thought of Mary, the first thing that came to her mind was the experience that Priya had of seeing Guruvayoorappan for the first time.
Haripriya’s adoration for Guruvayoorappan (Lord Krishna) grew through the stories she heard from her dearest paternal grandmother Saraswathi Amma. Saraswathi Amma has been a widow since she was 23 years old. She was a pure believer of Krishna. Her faith in God was the only strong force behind her struggle with life alone and educating her two children. Priya loved going to her father’s house near Manimala River and staying there with Achamma (father's Mother). So even for short vacations she would go with her father to stay with Achamma.
Haripriya’s presence was a great joy and consolation for Saraswathi Amma in her lonely life. Priya was a good listener, she loved to listen to all the stories told by her Achamma which might often be about her own life experiences, or stories from the book she read, above all lots and lots about Sree Guruvayoorappan. As a small girl, Priya’s mind was always intrigued to hear the fascinating stories of little Krishna.
The desire to see Guruvayoor and Guruvayoorappan, whom she knew through the stories told by her Achamma increased day by day. One day she told her parents about this subject. But they didn’t take it seriously. By showing their busy schedules and various other reasons they always succeeded in evading it. She never expected such an indifferent response from them. All her hope turned into despair. But whenever she got a chance, Priya would remind her mother about it.
One day when she asked about this, her mother replied angrily “your father will not come with us and I don’t know the way correctly, then how we can go so far alone?” This answer hurt her a lot. She went to school that day without eating or saying anything to anyone. Priya’s mother was aware of her grief. Even after reaching school, she neither spoke a word to anyone nor played with her friends.
Priya’s strange silence was noticed by her close friend Mary. As a good friend Mary enquired about her plight. Priya told Mary everything, especially about her desire to go to Guruvayoor and her parent’s disappointing reply. But Mary’s reply was a big shock to Priya. Mary said she and her family visited the temple every year.
Priya had often heard from her Achamma that non-Hindus have no access to Guruvayoor and despite being a great devotee, the renowned singer Yesudas was not allowed to enter the temple just because of his religion (Christian). When Priya mentioned this anxiously, Mary told her that everyone knew Yesudas, but no one there knew them except Guruvayoorappan. " Oh, He is so kind and you will soon get an opportunity to go there," she concluded.
Even after School, Priya was silent. After her bath she took her little idol of Krishna and started talking to it. She had to say to her Krishna that day her woes and complaints.
"Oh, Krishna! Why don’t you allow me to come and see you there?
Krishna, why are you reluctant to show mercy to me and the singer Yesudas?
Even though my friend Mary is a Christian you allow her to visit You every year.
More than anything else I love you Krishna, please be kind to me. Today, she had teamed up with Yesudas to complain to Lord Krishna that as God, He was also showing discrimination towards His devotees.
Tears rolled down her eyes, and suddenly that miracle happened. Priya heard her mother’s voice:
Indira Rani: Priya, tomorrow we are going to Guruvayoor
Priya (surprised): Really….? Amma, are you making fun of me or telling the truth
(Priya could not believe her ears)
Indira Rani: No dear, we will definitely go tomorrow.
Priya: How can we go? Amma, do you know the way?
Indira Rani: Guruvayoorappan will lead us dear. I confirmed the bus route and time from Shanta Teacher.
She had no words to express her ecstasy. Finally, God showed mercy to her. God had given her the permission to visit Him at Guruvayoor. Little Priya held the small idol in her hand, thanked and kissed Him a lot.
Whenever she recollected all these incidents, she thanked Krishna for taking care of her all through her life.
Asha Raj Gopakumar, a postgraduate in English Literature and a novice in writing. She has been living in the Middle East with her family for more than a decade. She is an ardent lover of music, nature and spirituality. She is an active bajan singer in many devotional groups. Presently she focuses on reading, writing and is very much busy with her personal vlog for Krishna lovers as a spiritual service. She had been a teacher for almost six years and gave it up for family matters.
In my creative smithy, there lie the soft shadows of a zillion stories. Some stories do serve as the guideposts to my heart as well as my amygdala. Let me take you all to one such story that has transformed the elixir of my life into a new empire.
My marital life has translated me to an alternative realm of realities. I have created the faint footprints I have already traversed through the pages and stages of my life. The story of mine needs no filter, especially while I was sensing the euphoria of creation within me. Putting an end to all speculations, the much-awaited day to welcome the new love of my life has reached the doorsteps. Aah, it was a C- section delivery and everything befell in a few minutes’ hurry burry. In the shades of that anaesthetic instant, I heard the doctor’s announcement, “It’s a baby boy, dear”. In that moment of cloud nine, the nurse presented my baby for a moment. For me, the first vision of mine to him appeared faint as I was in the frenzy of the surgical unit. Just one minute and my baby had gone. I had to wait one day and night to see, touch and sense him. The day began crawling and I was counting the hours and persistently asking the nurse to show the baby. They did it twice for a few minutes and he was taken away from me. I was desperately waiting for the dawn of the next day. To my utter dismay, I was discharged from the ICU only by noon after the doctor’s checkup, nurse’s advice, and kinds of stuff. Even in those moments of sheer exhaustion, I could heave a sigh of relief thinking my mother is there to take care of him. The one who has showered her unfaltering love and care ever since my birth is there for my baby too. Her sanguine presence will bestow an alluring welcome to my baby who is no more comfortably chilling inside my tummy clinging to the umbilical cord. When it’s time for me to be in my mother’s shoes, I began craving for the auspicious vision of my little wonder. The agony and pangs of the C- section has vanished just by a glimpse of my little marvel. Here begins a fresh chapter of my life with my cutie pie.
Days and months passed liked a smooth breeze. Anvik aka Kunjapp, the spring of my life has bestowed a new world of happiness and happenings to me. The mother in me started weaving the tapestries of life embellished by his hearty arrival. Every day with him seemed to be a novel experience. I am always a mother in making as I have a better role model of my mother in front of me to learn, sense, and feel the verities of motherhood. To make matters worse, she fainted all of a sudden and we had to rush to the hospital. As she felt better after a few hours of drip, the doctor suggested coming the next day for a checkup including the COVID test. Kunjapp who is so fond of his grandma wanted to be in his arms and began screaming. Amma tried to evade his presence and his prattling voice beckoned her calling Ammamma. Amma slept off within no time after having a bowl of rice soup. The next day approached within a wink and Amma went to the hospital with Achan. As Kunjapp and I usually get up after 9o’ clock, they locked the door and left for the hospital. Around 09:30, I received a call from Achan saying Amma tested COVID positive and they may take some time to reach home. I could hear Amma’s voice saying she wanted to talk to me desperately. Over the phone, she told me: “Apu, baby’s banana’s stew is there in his bowl and try to make him eat it fully. Take great care of him. Before I reach, both of you move to the upstairs room”. The call got disconnected. Amma’s unflinching and unwavering support has impelled me all these years. The one-year-old mother in me is yet to travel and unravel the serene patterns of motherhood painted by a thirty-one-year-old mother. Nothing can parallel the unfaltering love and selfless sacrifice of a mother. How can I not adore her for what she is and the way she is? Get well soon! Kunjapp yearns for a nap in your lap, Amma!
Ammamma – Grandmother in Malayalam language
Amma – Mother in Malayalam language
Achan – Father in Malayalam language
This story is taken from my scribblings revolving in, around and within the universe of my darling baby Anvik’s milestones. Now, Ammamma is counting down days to meet and treat her Goan baby!
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
It was the dead of night. Darkness was roaring. The sky was thundering in lightning. Rain was pouring. The wind was blowing at high speed. Light had gone out.
Manav was in a guest house in the woods on the hills - away from the hustles and bustle of city life.
The door was closed. He was alone. No one was there. Other suites were vacant. The watchman had gone home to see his ailing wife.The ambience was lonely and fearful.
After dinner, Manav slept. But his loneliness and dreams were breaking his sound sleep. He was under the spell of unknown apprehensions. But whom to call or where to go in the dreadful night?
However, he was under the spell of sleep and dreams.
He heard knocking sounds at the door. He did not open the door in fear. Who would come on such a frightening night ?
He tried to sleep. But a sorrowful weeping sound disturbed him. Knocking sound was repeated. He could not sleep.
Someone was calling him - 'Manav ! Your Sima is waiting outside. Won't you open?'
He opened the door and was astonished to see Sima alone. His sleepy mind was asking him - did she come in his dreams ?
She was tall, slim, fair and beautiful. Her hair was cascading. Her eyes were full of tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. Her nose was long and sharp. Her lips were sorrowful. Her body was covered in drenched clothes.
He did not expect Sima to be in such a pitiable condition.
However, he greeted her - 'Sima ! Welcome. Did you face any difficulty? You are looking gloomy. Your clothes are completely drenched.'
She told him- 'Due to some mechanical problems in the engine, my car did not start. For the rain, wind, thunder and lightning or technical glitch, a network was not available in this locality. I couldn't call you over my smartphone. I came here walking.'
He couldn't disbelieve his own eyes. Of course, it was his pleasure to have her sweet company.
He said - 'Sima ! Change your wet clothes first. If you don't mind, please use my towel, clothing, bathroom, etc. and be comfortable and eat whatever is available with me.'
She - 'I am happy for your hospitality. Thank you. I will manage everything. Don't worry for me.'
He - 'Of course, you come to me in dreams, but never ever come physically. This is the most auspicious time to get your pleasant company.'
He was gazing at her from head to toe. Such a piece of beauty was incredible to his senses. He was spellbound.
She - 'Why are you staring at me with your dreamy eyes ?
He - 'Is it a sin to look at a beautiful girl? Why don't you meet me frequently in the daytime?'
She - 'You are over-busy and you have no time for me.'
He - 'Don't you feel my love for you?'
She - 'Yes. I have been to you a lot of times. But I can't get love as I expect from you!'
He - 'Won't you give all your love tonight? I have been waiting for it for a long time.'
She - 'You have not yet married me. Please sleep and dream again.'
Manav slept again on that rainy dark night.
She touched his body. She was closer to him. He woke up
He - 'Night should be pleasant and we should enjoy each other.'
She -'We shall sleep together so closely that one will be mingled in the other.'
They hugged and loved each other.
He - 'We are not yet married. What others will think about us?'
She - 'They will think nothing. Who is here to see us in an embracing position?'
In her romantic lap Manav got a blissful time and slept.
At dawn, he woke up. But he couldn't find her.
In the twilight he was searching for her in his room, in the guesthouse from top to bottom, in the campus and also in the woods. But nowhere she was available. He was perplexed.
At 10 am, he went to the office and remained busy with work. Sima came with her smiling rosy lips.
Manav asked Sima -'Why are you late today ?'
Sima - 'For the last three days I was in another city. My flight arrived in the morning. So I am late.'
He -'Last night, did you not come to me in drenched clothes at midnight ?'
Sima - 'No.'
He - 'Last night, You were physically with me. Who came to me in your appearance ?'
She - 'Maybe some lady ghost. She can take any shape and size.'
Manav was stunned. He told Sima everything. All of a sudden he fainted and lost consciousness.
She took him to the hospital.
After treatment, his senses returned. But his voice was changed.
He was saying in a female tone - 'Sima ! Why are you stealing my Manav from me? Why did you come in our way ?? His parents and your family members persuaded him to leave me and to marry you. After your negotiation, I was begging for love from my beloved Manav. But he refused. I left my home and committed suicide in these woods.'
Sima - 'How did you come to the body of Manav?'
She said -'My soul was lamenting for my Manav and searching for him. Last night, I got him here. My incorporeal soul could not touch him. I took your appearance and looked like you. You might have heard about it from Manav. How much he loves me even today can be seen from his bed. Sima ! I am begging you - please give me back my Manav. We will fly to an unknown world and you will not find us any more.'
Sima asked - 'What's your name and why did they not accept you ?'
She - 'I am Sita, a poor girl. Because of my poverty they did not accept me. '
Sima - 'Now, you are killing Manav, me and both the families.'
Sita - 'Neither have I done any harm nor will I do any harm in future. Be assured of it. You may marry him - I have no objection. But allow me to meet him through you.'
Sima - 'Would you come everyday to finish our conjugal life?'
Sita - 'No. I will come only when you are not available for him. I won't cause any harm to anyone. It is the promise of the unsatisfied soul of Sita. Keep it secret. Please promise - except you and me, no third person including Manav will know it.'
Sima promised accordingly and the soul of Sita left the body of Manav. Sima took Manav to the guest house peacefully. They got married and lived peacefully.
Now, the soul of Sita is more helpful to Manav and Sima.
But she cannot live with him; she cannot live without him.
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.
When the door bell rang, Ranjan was the first to hear it. His mom was taking a bath. In a moment he started shivering, a shattering fear gripping him and making him sweat. His heart started pounding as if it was being hit by a huge hammer.
The bell rang again, this time a long, harsh shrill. The visitor was getting impatient. Ranjan's mom shouted at her son from the bath room, asking him to open the door and check who it was. Ranjan had no doubt in his mind about who the visitor was. He had been dreading this knock since last evening, going to the window repeatedly and looking out. Every passing shadow on the road would send shivers down his spine. Would the man walking on the street stop at their door and Ranjan would face his nemesis?
He dragged himself to the door and opened it. The burly man standing outside could be either a policeman or a bouncer at a pub. He glared at Ranjan,
"How long does it take to open the door? I have been waiting for more than five minutes. You think I have nothing better to do?"
Ranjan could only swallow nervously, no words came to him. Streams of sweat ran down his body as the man forced himself into the living room and sat on the sofa, like a rent collector demanding arrears of rent from a defaulting tenant. An evil grin spread over his face,
"I am Atul Samant, Sub-inspector from the Ijjat Nagar police station. You must be knowing why I have come."
The grin got ominous. Ranjan could only nod in reply, his body shaking visibly. The police officer enjoyed the young man's fear.
"Your parents at home? Call them, I don't have much time. Let me complete the formalities."
Ranjan almost cried out in horror. Formalities! So this was the end of the road for him! He had spent the whole of last night browsing through the Internet to know what would happen after his arrest. He had turned eighteen two months back, so he would be tried for murder as an adult. What would be the punishment? Death by hanging? Or imprisonment for life? Either way, he would have to spend a few years in a prison. Fond of good food, he had checked repeatedly how many times food was served in jail, did they serve non-veg in lunch and dinner? He was disappointed that the jail food was a simple, unpalatable fare.
The man shouted at him,
"I am asking you something. Where are you lost? Call your parents, now, immediately."
The loud voice brought Minati Devi, Ranjan's mom to the room. She had just finished her bath and was looking radiant. She stopped on her track, as the policeman looked at her with hungry eyes, the grin on his face getting wider, lascivious thoughts churning his imaginative mind. He had not got up from the sofa, after spreading himself luxuriously on the soft cushion.
She panicked, like her son she could sense it was either a policeman or someone with authority written all over him. She looked helplessly at the grinning man.
"Where is your husband, call him. Tell him Sub-inspector Atul Samant from Station Square Police Station has come calling."
Minati Devi broke into a sweat. A police officer! So the dreaded day has finally arrived! She quickly tried to remember how much cash was at home, how many ornaments, bank deposit certificates. For the umpteenth time she cursed her husband - she had told him repeatedly to keep half the wealth with her sister, but he was a stubborn man, never trusted anyone.
Sub-inspector Samant kept looking at her, a freshly bathed woman in a beautiful light green saree hugging the body aroused a carnal desire in him, which was fast getting out of control.
She stammered,
"My husband has gone to office. You may be knowing him - Suresh Patnaik, Excise Inspector. Should I get you some soft drinks?"
Samant fought with himself to control his raging hormones,
"No, no need for that. Ask him to meet me at my home at seven in the evening. Tell him, if he delays even by a minute, I will come here, arrest your son and take him away. He will have to spend tonight and probably next couple of nights in the police station, facing interrogation. You must be knowing how interrogation is done in police stations."
Samant flashed a cruel grin at her, his hungry eyes refusing to leave her body.
Minati Devi shuddered at the thought, the shock of knowing that her son has done something criminal, momentarily overshadowed her rising fear,
"Our son? Ranjan? What has he done? He is such a sober, decent boy!"
Samant roared in derisive laughter,
"Ha, ha, decent indeed! Ask him what your sober, decent son has done. But wait lill I leave, his confession might give me dirty ideas. Don't be too rough on him. Leave all the thrashing to us, he will get plenty of it at the police station tonight. But be sure your husband meets me at home before seven. Any delay will bring unimaginable sufferings to your son."
With a final hungry look at the comely woman, Sub-inspector Atul Samant left the house, his wolffish grin hanging like an ugly, evil odour in the air.
MinatiDevi turned to look at her son, who was standing in a corner, shaking uncontrollably, sweat running over his body like water from an overflowing municipal drain after a spell of rains. She shouted at him,
"Why are you standing there like an idiot? Why don't you tell me what have you done, that brings a policeman to our home?"
Ranjan broke into a loud wail, like he had just been bitten by a wild monkey.
She got angry,
"Don't wail like a helpless girl, tell me what crime have you committed?"
The helpless son shook his head,
"Call Baba, ask him to come, I will tell him."
Minati Devi felt as if she would burst in anger,
"Why? What have you done that you can't tell me? Have you.....?
Before she could finish Ranjan's wail got louder and he ran away to his room, bolting the door from inside.
With shaking hands she went to the phone and dialled her husband's mobile number. He took a long time to answer and hissed,
"Why are you calling me now? You know I don't like to be disturbed at work. And today, of all the days? The Excise Commissioner's daughter's wedding is just three days away, I am in charge of everything - from decoration to catering, arranging free rooms at the hotel for the guests to fixing the honeymoon suite at Mayfair hotel. And you think of calling me now?"
The annoyance was palpable and at normal times she would have interrupted him, but she was too nervous, too far into panic to behave in a normal way. Voice choked with sobs, she whispered,
"The police had come. Some Samant from Station Square Police Station."
Suresh Patnaik felt a heavy stone shatter his heart in the fraction of a second, a few fragments stuck in his throat in the most painful manner,
"P..p..police? Did they search the house? Did they find the cash and the documents? How about your ornaments?"
She stopped him,
"No, no, it was not a raid. He said it was about Ranju."
Suresh sighed in big relief, air came out of his mouth with a long whoosh. He collected his wits,
"Ranju? Our Ranjan? What has he done? The nincompoop can't even sneeze at a limping mouse! Why should the police come after him?"
"I asked Ranju, but he refused to tell me. He has shut himself in his room, asking for you. He says he will tell you only. You better hurry. The Sub-inspector has warned that if you don't meet him by seven he will come and arrest Ranju."
"Arrest Ranju? Why, what has he done?"
His wife was getting hysteric,
"I don't know, that's why I am asking you to come!"
"Ok, ok, I will be there in fifteen minutes. Don't say anything to Ranju. Leave everything to me. Let me first see what your imbecile son has done."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Ranjan had not stopped sweating inside his room. He was dreading the meeting with his father. He was never free with him, all his interaction was only with Mom, who doted on him and met all his demands with a smile and a pride that is usually reserved for an only child. Ranjan's demands were expensive - he saw a friend wearing a new watch, checked the name of the brand and his Mom would buy it for him. He changed his mobile phone every year, replacing the old one with the latest. He took his close friends for lunch at expensive restaurants, Mom always smilingly handed over wads of notes to him.
Money was never a problem in their household, the excise inspector of Bhubaneswar is always known to be one of the richest men in town. The manufacturers, contractors, wholesalers, retailers of liquor - all of them had a fixed quota of payments which would be delivered unfailingly on the first of the month, to be shared with the worthies in the power chain. And the special occasions - Holi, Dussehra, Deepavali, New Year? They were indeed worth looking forward to. Along with the mithai packets there will be special packets delivered in bulk - once Ranjan opened one such packet lying on the table, hoping to grab some special variety of sweets. His eyes popped out when he saw the bundles of 2000 rupee notes, all new and shining, neatly packed. His throat got dry, he almost pinched a bundle, but decided against it at the last minute. He knew his father had a diary where he kept an account of what is due and what is received. Anyway, he consoled himself, he would ask Mom for all the money he needed. She never said no to him.
Although Ranjan was scared of his father, he adored him with unstinted admiration. Every morning the smart, well dressed man would leave for office in his motorbike and came back late in the night. But every weekend he would take the family for an outing - usually a movie at the mall followed by a sumptuous dinner at the best restaurants of the town. When they walked in they would be greeted by the Manager personally and taken to the best table and served the choicest dishes. His father never paid the bill, but left an extra-generous tips for the waiters, who treated the family like royalty. And the vacations to exotic places all over the country? Ah, they were the best times of the year for Ranjan and his mom - stay at five star hotels, the best food and big cars - all paid for by liquor contractors.
The weekend trips to nearby tourist spots were always in big, luxurious cars. Although Suresh Patnaik rode a motorbike, whenever Ranjan or his mom went anywhere, bright, polished cars would appear at the door by magic, the drivers obsequious and respectful. Once, while travelling alone, Ranjan had asked one of the drivers about the cars,
"Driver Bhaiya, this car is so good, spacious and elegant - a Mitshubishi Lancer. Who has sent the car, whose car is this?"
The driver gave a quick, furtive look at the boy and kept quiet. Ranjan persisted,
"How much is the cost of this car? Must be above ten lakhs. Even the Toyota which came the other day was fully loaded, that must be thirteen-fourteen lakhs. Who are the owners of these beautiful cars?"
The driver smiled,
"Don't you really know or you're joking with me?"
"No, really I don't know, so many different cars come to take us round, who sends them?"
The driver looked scared,
"I can't tell you, if you really don't know. I thought you should be knowing."
Ranjan's curiosity went up.
"Please tell me, please, please, I promise I won't disclose to anyone."
The driver fixed him with a steady gaze,
"They all belong to Sahab, he runs a travel agency in his friend's name. So whenever you and madam need a car he just asks the manager to send whichever car is free."
"Sahab? What do you mean Sahab? Which Sahab?"
This time the driver laughed out loud,
"Ha, ha, you are an innocent boy, don't you know your own father? He is the Sahab who owns a fleet of eight cars, all costly ones, the total value should be more than a crore. How come you don't know that?"
Ranjan felt as if his head had started reeling,
"B..b..u..t, tell me, if he has all these beautiful cars, why does he go to office in a motor bike?"
"Ha ha, another stupid question from you! If he goes to office in such cars, won't the vigilance people come after him? Haven't you read in the newspapers the government has zero tolerance for corruption?"
This time the driver laughed so uproariously that the car shook for a moment. Ranjan had got really inquisitive,
"Bhaiya, tell me what else my Baba has? An aeroplane, may be?"
Ranjan smiled to himself, ecstatic in anticipation,
"No no, not an aeroplane, but everyone says the Hotel Dreamland is his. Every evening he goes there and sits in the Manager's room and they take drinks together, while settling the accounts of the previous day."
Ranjan remembered the many Sunday dinners in Hotel Dreamland where they would be taken to a room and served the best dishes there. That's the only place where his mom would sip expensive wine while his father looked on indulgently.
Ah, all these luxuries would become a dream once he landed up in jail. Ranjan felt like breaking into sobs at the thought of it. He regretted, for the umpteenth time, his stupid act of the previous evening. What an idiot he was, what a priceless idiot! He wished he had not been so impulsive, taking on the bet offered by Sidhant, his daredevil friend.
It all started the previous morning when Ranjan and four of his friends sat in a makeshift pub and drank beer around eleven in the morning. The board exams were over, it was time to look forward to college days and what better way to prepare for transition to college, than guzzling a few bottles of beer? Suddenly Sidhant stunned the group by saying he tasted the forbidden fruit the previous night with a distant cousin visiting from another town. Before the big revelation could sink in, he started giving graphic details of the act, drawing roars of laughter from others and envious glances from Ranjan. They could see how worked up he was getting and they started teasing him,
"Hey Ranju, don't look like a famished dog drooling over a juicy bone. If you have guts go and do it."
Sidhant let out a derisive laugh,
"Do it? What can he do? Look at him, not even a hint of beard on his smooth face which looks like Hema Malini's cheeks. And an apology of a thin moustache! If he stands before a girl, he will pee in his pants! Do it! He can't even do a sleeping cat! Look at him blushing! Beta, finish your beer and run home to hide behind your mom's saree."
The words hurt Ranjan, beer had already made him tipsy. He shouted,
"You bloody idiots, get me a girl, I will show you what I can do"
Others, equally drunk, laughed even louder,
"Ha, look at the joker, he wants us to get a girl for him. Abbey, idiot, don't you know you can get any number of girls at Gulab Street, the red light area? Go there and pick up your dream girl!"
They again laughed loudly, drawing a panicky glare from the shop owner. Sidhant continued his taunt, "If this baby goes to Gulab Street, the girls will put sindur on his forehead and make him sing a bhajan. Gulab Street needs virile bulls like me, not beardless, bleating goats like this baby."
The humiliation punctured Ranjan's ego,
"Ok, bet with me, you idiots, if I go to Gulab Street this evening and sleep with a girl, each of you will pay a thousand rupees to me."
They laughed again,
"Sleep with a girl? Why? Can't you sleep at home holding your Mom's saree? You can't go to Gulab Street to sleep, you have to do it man, like Sidhant did last night."
Beads of sweat had appeared on Ranjan's forehead, a nervous fear had risen slowly within him. He put up a brave face,
"Ok rascals, I will do it and get four thousand rupees from you. Bet?"
"Yes, yes bet accepted, don't forget to take a sachet of bournvita with you. The baby will need milk with bournvita after the tiring exercise!"
They again roared with laughter and finished two more bottles of beer.
Ranjan reached Gulab Street around seven in the evening. He didn't know it was rather early for business. He had no idea where to look for girls. Couple of pimps sized him up - a rich kid, probably still in school. A good prospect for a happy fleecing! One of them approached him.
"Hello Sir, welcome to Paradise on earth. Which Apsara are you looking for? Or are you here for the first time?"
Ranjan just nodded, his throat had gone dry, he tried to say something but no words came to his mouth. A trickle of sweat had started miraculously at his neck and was running down his spine like a thin serpent climbing down a drain pipe.
The experienced pimp knew what he was dealing with,
"Your first time! You deserve a special treat. Ah, I have the right girl for you, she arrived just this morning, a fresh flower from a faraway town. You are made for each other - her first time, your first time. Gulab Street will have a feast tonight. We won't charge you anything for the girl, it's all free for the two first-timers. Just give a donation of ten thousand rupees for a feast. Agreed?"
Ranjan shook his head, the sweat had transformed to a stream from a trickle. He had only a little more than two thousand rupees in his wallet. May be two-three hundred more in his pocket. So he just stood there looking bewildered.
The second pimp did a correct assessment - rich boy, poor wallet. He came forward,
"Come Baba, don't go for an inexperienced girl. You need proper care and guidance. Go to the third door on the right. Ask for Chameli, a young, beautiful girl who specialises in handling new customers like you. You have to come out in one hour and while leavimg hand over two thousand rupees to me. I am her guardian, her agent. You can give a couple of hundred rupees to her as tips. Is that ok Baba? You look so handsome, almost like a film star! Chameli is lucky tonight to have a hero in the evening itself. And the whole night is waiting for her!"
Ranjan nodded and slowly walked towards the third cottage on the right. The pimps winked at each other. A good beginning for the night!
Ranjan had no idea what to expect. He had seen a couple of movies where people visit red light areas where there will be song and dance inside, decorated lights making everything look so bright and shiny. Here it was a big contrast, there was hardly any light, the streets were almost dark and shabby, there was no flower seller, nor an all-knowing paanwalla serving scented paan to customers. A damp smell was invading the nostrils, making him feel mildly sick. He wanted the ordeal to be over somehow.
He met an elderly woman near the door and asked for Chameli. She looked at him, smiled and took him to a small, dingy room. He sat on the bed and looked around. There was a glass of water on a table and a flower vase with some dust covered plastic flowers. For a moment he had a mild reeling of the head, he wished he had not got into this reckless bet with his friends. He heard a noise and looked at the door opening. A girl in a bright red salwar and white kameez entered the room. He had thought she would have heavy makeup on the face, hiding her real looks, but surprisingly she looked simple and somewhat sad. He smiled to himself - his teacher in the school had once told the class that characters in real life are often different from images in popular imagination - not all dacits are burly, with thick curling moustache, not all Naxals are fierce-looking bandits with guns hanging from the shoulders.
The girl walked towards him, a reassuring smile on the face - she could guess this was a rich boy, inexperienced, nervous, and needed careful handling. If she could make him happy, generous tips could make her evening fruitful. But she was not prepared for the jerky, violent reaction from the handsome boy. Ranjan stood up as if he had been bitten by a snake hiding under the bed. He had no doubt this curly haired girl with the mischievous smile was none other than Runi, the daughter of a distantly related Mousi from the village, who had visited them a year back. He shrieked,
"Runi, what are you doing here? Why are you here? In this shabby place?"
The girl got the shock of her life. In her three years at Gulab Street, nothing like this had ever happened. Being mistaken for a relative by a customer! Why do such boys come visiting red light areas - without knowing what they were getting into! She tried to salvage the situation,
"Runi? No. No. I am not Runi, I am Chameli. Look at me closely, I am Chameli. Come, let us talk for a while."
She tried to hold his hand and make him sit on the bed.
Somehow Ranjan felt that a dozen bees were circling inside his head, which would split to pieces if he doesn't run away. To his confused mind Chameli's voice also sounded familiar, although he was not sure if it was Runi's.
He panicked, ran to the door and came out of the cottage like a wild wind propelled by an unseen hand.
The pimp had not expected the boy to come out so soon. Did the experienced Chameli make a wrong move? Was she careless, hasty?
He scampered to the boy and took hold of his shaking hand.
"What happened? Why did you run away? Didn't like Chameli? You want another girl? I have many of them - Juhi, Champa, Tara. But Chameli is the best - why did you come out like you saw a ghost?"
Ranjan shook his head, he didn't want to tell the man, Chameli was actually Runi, his cousin sister. He tried to free his hand and run towards Ijjat Nagar from where he would take an auto rickshaw to reach home.
"I changed my mind. I don't want to do it."
The man's hold stiffened. He made a final attempt."Don't worry. It's your first time. That's why you are nervous. I will get you another one, very cute, very sweet - even better than Chameli. I won't even charge you a rupee extra. Otherwise, come with me. I will show you the girls. You pick whoever you like."
Ranjan desperately wanted to leave, he tried to wrest his hand from the grip of the pimp.
"Let me go, I don't want any of your girls."
The oily voice of the pimp turned rough,
"Leave? Ok, pay me my two thousand and leave, you imbecile, son of an eunuch, pay me my dues."
Ranjan was aghast. Pay? For what? He didn't even touch the girl!
"Pay you? For what? For a tour of your wonderful harem?"
"Yes, once you enter the place, you have to pay, don't try any games with us. We will thrash you so badly, you won't even be able to walk for a month."
Three other pimps gathered at the spot. Ranjan panicked, he felt someone was trying to snatch the wallet from his pocket. A sudden anger seized him and he started shivering - in uncontrolled rage. He freed his hand from the grip of the pimp and slapped the man who had taken the wallet from his pocket. In the blink of an eye the man fell on the ground, shook for a few seconds and went still. The wallet fell on the roadside, notes spilling out of it like maggots from a rotten piece of cake.
Ranjan didn't stop to look at the man, to check if he was dead or alive. He started running, aware of the footsteps behind him and angry shouts of people, "Maar daalaarey, maar daala, the rascal killed our man." God knows from where the young boy found his strength. He ran for his life and jumped into the first auto rickshaw that came his way. The driver saw the boy coming from Gulab Street, smiled to himself and sped away.
Ranjan was convinced he had killed the man. Little did he know this was almost a daily drama enacted in Gulab Street to scare naive, gullible customers to extract bundles of cash for "the funeral of the dead man and upkeep of his family". By the time he reached home, his heart was pounding like a grinder gone berserk. He grabbed a couple of currency notes from his pocket and paid the auto rickshaw driver. The man didn't stop to count the money, he sped away, for the second time in the evening, knowing fully well the handsome boy was in trouble.
Ranjan shut himself in his room. He didn't eat anything, although his Mom had got chilli chicken made at home, with delicious chowmein. He told Mom he was not feeling well and asked her to leave him alone. He kept tossing on the bed, waves of unknown fear washing over him and making him shudder. He had no doubt the police would find out his name and address from the ID in his wallet, and it was just a matter of hours before he would be arrested and tried for murder. In panic he searched in the internet about punishment for murder, he tried to find out how life would be in a jail.
When the house fell quiet Ranjan buried his face in the pillow and kept sobbing till there was no tear left in him. He fell into a fitful slip towards early morning and had recurring nightmares. He found himself in one of the dreams hanging from a public pole, his hands and legs tied, and being flogged with a horse whip. In yet another dream he saw his father chasing him with a pistol, shouting at him and threatening to shoot him down. And the worst was where Runi was holding his feet and sobbing, "Bhai, how could you do this to me, am I any less than your own sister, if you had one?"
The poor boy got up at nine thirty, ate an indifferent breakfast and on the pretext of reading the newspaper, sat in the drawing room, frequently peeping out of the window to check if a police man approached their house. And soon a policeman came knocking at the door.....
xxxxxxxxxxx
Ranjan woke up from his reverie at the sound of his Baba's motorbike. The next moment he heard his Baba's gruff voice,
"Where is the idiot, the disgrace of the family? What has he done to bring a policeman here, to my door? Where is the fellow hiding? Minu, this is all your fault, opening your purse to him like the vault of a bank. You have spoiled him. You and your laadlaa son - you have made my life miserable, today, of all the days! Where is he hiding? Why don't you tell me?"
She pointed to the room bolted from inside and the angry dad started kicking the door as if he was going to break it. Ranjan had started shaking like a helpless leaf in a strong wind. He opened the door, ran away from his enraged father and stood in a corner, facing the wall. Suresh Patnaik thundered at his son,
"Why don't you tell me what crime have you committed? Do you think I have to stand here the whole day to see you tremble like a new bride?"
Ranjan broke into a wail,
"Ask Mummy to leave the room first. Then only I will tell you."
Suresh Patnaik glared at his wife,
"Why are you standing here like a CID inspector? Go and make a cup of coffee for me! Go!"
A sobbing Ranjan started pouring out the whole story to his shocked father........
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Fifteen minutes later the mobile of Shrikant Nayak rang a couple of kilometres away. It was not a busy day, his boss had not given many appointments in the forenoon. Everyone knew his boss Mishraji as the most powerful man in Odisha. An entrepreneur, a fixer, a double agent, a manipulator and a king maker, there was nothing he was not capable of fixing. Hardly anything happened in Bhubaneswar that escaped his notice, for, he had his silken touch imprinted on almost every major deal - political, financial, matrimonial, legal, illegal. From eleven in the morning till nine in the night he received streams of visitors, listened to their woes and solved their problems. His midnight calls were dreaded by everyone. But everyone, from the CM, district presidents of political parties to Collectors and SPs answered his call. They knew he could make and unmake their careers without batting an eye lid.
Today Mishraji was to go for lunch at the CM's house - a one to one where important matters would be discussed. So he had kept himself relatively free. Nayak took the call, the voice at the other end was laced with panic,
"Nayak babu, this is Suresh Patnaik. Is the boss free?"
"Suresh babu! What a coincidence! Sir was remembering you yesterday. He is going to host a party next Sunday. He has asked for a dozen bottles of Black Label, some imported wine and five crates of beer."
The panicked man didn't allow the Man Friday to complete,
"Yes, yes, they will be delivered by tomorrow evening. Tell me, is the boss free? I need to meet him immediately."
"I have to ask him, he has to meet the CM for lunch at one thirty. It's already twelve."
Suresh Patnaik whined,
"Please, please it is urgent, very urgent. A life and death matter!"
"Ok, wait on the line, let me go in and check."
In a few seconds he was back,
"You are lucky. Sir is in a good mood, as usual. But come immediately. Every minute counts."
"Give me five minutes. I will be there. Thank you. There will be two separate bottles of black label for you in tomorrow's consignment."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Mishraji was in an extraordinarily good mood. He rolled in laughter, hearing the weird story of the wayward son,
"Ha, ha, a great story, the funniest I heard for a long time. Suresh, what sanskar have you given to your son? He goes to Gulab Street to prove he is a man? Is he a champion donkey? He could have just made a call to the manager of your Hotel Dreamland, and a room decorated with flowers, a call girl picked from the best agency would have been arranged! The idiot goes to Gulab Street, of all the places! Chhi Chhi, what a fall in taste! What a monumental fall in standard!
Suresh Patnaik's son involved in a brawl in a red light area!"
Mishraji let out another howl of laughter. He was obviously enjoying the story, like it was a Bollybood blockbuster stuff. Suresh Patnaik's discomfiture grew by the minute,
"Please do something Sir. This is just the beginning of life for the young boy, save it from being ruined, save him from jail Sir!"
Mishraji raised his hand,
"Do you seriously think the pimp died from a slap by your son? It's all a part of the drama played in the red light area every now and then."
"But Sir, the police? That bastard Samant who came and threatened my family?"
Mishraji again laughed like a drunk gorilla,
"It's all part of the game. If you go to meet him, Samant will spin a big yarn about how the man had bust an eardrum from the slap, how the concussion in his head from the fall on the street is life- threatening, how he is battling for survival in an ICU, how his wife and kids are crying their hearts out at the hospital. Actually the rascal at Gulab Street must be sleeping at home after a night's labour of pimping, but Samant will make you sweat. By this time he would have made enquiries and assessed your worth, which, as everyone knows, is humongously high. So he would aim at a neat package of thirty to forty lakhs from you, depending on how desperate you are to save your son."
Suresh Patnaik's face got contorted with shock,
"Thirty to forty lakhs? But that's a lot of money Sir!"
"Yes, that's a lot, but after decentralisation the bulk will melt into small packets and travel from place to place. You must be familiar with the process, being a seasoned operator yourself. Decentralisation is an essential part of a growing economy like our country's. As you know it's a process where bulk of wealth accumulated by an individual gets disbursed to other players in the game. Although you pretended to be shocked by the number a few moments back, thirty forty lakhs mean nothing to you, it's not even a fraction of what you have earned in your three years' stint here. Am I right?"
Suresh Patnaik bowed his head and kept quiet, he knew there was no point trying to contradict the big man, he knew everything that happened in the town. And Suresh Patnaik would have spent five times that amount to save his only son from any unintended consequences of a foolish act.
Mishraji flashed a benign smile at the indulgent father, he knew what was going on in his mind,
"So you would pay the demanded amount to Samant, he will throw a few crumbs at the pimp, and then decentralise the amount. A big packet will be paid to his bosses, who will add it to other packets and the wealth so accumulated will be decentralised, part of it will go to the political bigwigs. They will use this wealth to buy a few mines, and a bunch of apartments in Bhubaneswar, the builder will decentralise all the money meant for apartments and pay to the contractor who will pay to the municipal engineer and to the police. So the decentralised wealth will traverse a full circle and come back to the police again. And the economic cycle will keep moving, thanks to the process of decentralisation. A soon-to-be five trillion dollar economy will survive on three trillion dollars worth of decentralised wealth."
Suresh Patnaik was half-listening to the wonderful lecture on decentralisation, his mind was elsewhere. He wondered if in the expansive mood he was in, Mishraji would advise him to pay the thirty-forty lakhs to Atul Samant.
The smile had not left Mishraji's face. He tried to console the worried father,
"Don't worry Suresh, you don't have to meet Atul Samant, I will deal with him. Let your worthy son continue to explore the exquisite pleasures of life, but at decent places. Anyway, Samant needs a change of weather. A posting at Malkangiri will do him a lot of good. Of late he has been forcing himself on the girls of Gulab Street too recklessly. Freeloading has no place in an era of decentralisation."
Mishraji broke into another round of boisterous laughter at the mention of the magic word.
"Ah, that reminds me, did Shrikant tell you I am going to host a party on Sunday. Send two dozen bottles of Black Label and a dozen bottles of Glennfidisch Single Malt whisky. Throw in some good, imported wine and high quality beer. Let there be lots of decentralisation of the golden liquid. Ha ha, decentralisation! I really love that word. And ah, I love the genius who coined it!"
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . He has published nine books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
BOOK REVIEW
THE CUCKOO SINGS AGAIN BY HEMA RAVI
Published By Vanathi Pathippakam, February 2022 | ISBN 978-81-952742-7-7 | pp 96 | Rs. 120
A DELIGHTFUL BOOK OF SHORT STORIES FOR SERENE AND REFLECTIVE READING
This is Hema Ravi’s 3rd book published ( Other two books are 1) Everyday English and 2) Write English Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3) and her maiden attempt at publishing her short stories.
This book contains 16 short stories with a very neat and crisp Publisher’s Note from Dr.T.R. Ramanathan of the renowned Publishing House Vanathi Pathippakam. Dr.Ramanathan rightly says ‘We find the collection of stories also to be a highly finished product of her craftsmanship’.
Smt.Meera Raghavendra Rao, a senior freelance journalist , author and blogger says in her brief foreword : ‘The cuckoo is known for its melodious voice, and we never tire of its singing and that’s the impression I got when I completed reading the slim volume’.
The book is beautifully designed with a fine, appealing cover page design by Srivats Chandrasekeran.
Another outstanding feature of this book is some amazing black and white photographs at the beginning of each story by N.Ravi. The photograph of the Cuckoo at the beginning of the title story ‘The Cuckoo Sings Again’ is particularly awesome. Indeed, black and white photographs have their own charm!
Hema Ravi has respectfully dedicated this book to her parents. In her note to the readers, she has also thoughtfully dedicated this short story collection to her immediate and extended family members, her friends and associates for kindling her creativity.
The title ‘The cuckoo sings again’ having kindled my curiosity, I read the title story first though the serial number of the story was 4. It is a lively, easy description where the Protagonist Seema for whom the rough and tumble of married life has all but taken away her passion for singing because she has no ‘me time’ hears casually from the transistor of a mobile tea vendor an immortal song of poet Subramania Bharathi sung by a renowned Carnatic Singer and it provokes her to sing sub consciously and gets spontaneous applause from passers by! The Cuckoo in her is awake! No wonder this story got an award, as some of her other short stories too, in this book!
‘The Train Journey’ is very interesting where the house wife travelling from Dehradun to Chennai for the first time with her two young children overcomes the nervousness of having to travel with strangers and experiences ‘great learnings’.
‘An Orator is born’ perfectly justifies the opening quote in the story ‘Quiet people have the loudest minds’. I liked that natural narrative where an excited Nupur, while sharing with her mother over phone her joy of winning a prize says “ Zara taharo, Baahar aathee “ ( to get a better signal from the phone)
There’s the touching story of ‘Beyond Stereotypes’ of labourer Thangamma working with her husband in the crematorium for her daily bread. Her husband dies and the struggle for life continues. She had to bring up her young son. How she thinks out of the box for the sake of her son’s future is tellingly emphasised.
All other stories are equally interesting and eminently readable, particularly two very short stories titled ‘Athithi Devo bhava ‘ and ‘Letter from Mother to Daughter’, more so as the author herself says that ‘these stories are based on real – life incidents, but the story that impressed me the most was ‘ Survival against Odds’. I read the story twice. Seena and Ranga had been colleagues at School ( Ranga somewhat senior) and they have together worked for the upliftment of Bloomsberg School. The essence of the story is in the two letters, One written by Ranga to Seena and the other by Seena to Ranga in the form of a reply. It is to the credit of the writer that the confident nature of Seena’s character is so clearly highlighted in her reply. It shows how amidst all the struggles in her life ( her son did not have a sense of hearing, her husband succumbed in a road accident) and yet she raised her son with poise and confidence with a positive approach and with whatever she learnt from her husband and mother on People Management. Her ability to face any problems in life with equanimity stand out. In the beginning of the story, Seena is mentioned as gifting a book ´The Prophet” by Khalil Gibran. By quoting aptly from the same book at the end of the story , the author has added a great touch of relevance.
Overall, I really enjoyed reading this book. Every story has a subtle but positive message. Style of writing is simplistic, devoid of unnecessary frills and yet elegant.
I wish Hema Ravi writes more and more short stories in her easy, natural and free flowing style.
As already mentioned in the beginning of this review, this is delightful book of short stories for serene and reflective reading.
Ravi Ranganathan is a writer, critic and a poet from Chennai. Also a retired banker. He has to his credit three books of poems titled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Writes regularly for several anthologies. His awards include recognition in "Poiesis award for excellence" of Poiesisonline, Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and’ Master of creative Impulse ‘award by Philosophyque Poetica. He contributes poems for the half yearly Poetry book Metverse Muse . He writes regularly for the monthly webzine “ Literary Vibes” and “ Glomag”.He is the Treasurer of Chennai Poets’ Circle.
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