Literary Vibes - Edition CXVIII (24-June-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Misty Morning (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 118th edition of LiteraryVibes. Hope you will enjoy the beautiful poems and entertaining short stories in today's offerings.
We are happy to welcome three new members to the LiteraryVibes family in the present edition. Shri Saiprakash Kuntamukkala is a literary celebrity with more than 3000 poems to his credit. His poems have been translated into many Indian languages. Dr. Dharitri Mishra from USA, a retired research scientist at NASA, writes with passion about women and social issues. Ms. Krishna Tulasi, a student of 11th grade from Bangalore writes with smooth fluidity. Her tribute to her mother in today's edition is touching as well as brilliant. Let us hope LV will continue to be blessed with their writings in future.
Around three weeks back I had an interesting, lively dream sometime after midnight. I saw myself in a ship sailing in a vast, blue ocean, the water rippling and dashing against the sideboard. It was awfully cold in the ship but I enjoyed it. There was a momentary break from the dream and I became aware of the gentle whirring of our Window AC and the blast of cold air emanating from the old workhorse. But my dreaming self was still in the ship looking smilingly at the ocean of the purest blue and enjoying the cold breeze. It was as if I was in two different worlds, both seemingly real, yet with a surreal mist enveloping me. I felt mildly euphoric and probably went back to deep sleep.
I am sure such experiences are not unique and must have happened to many of you. Next morning I thought of the incredible power our mind possesses, to create many parallel worlds for us with immense possibilities. Haruki Murakami has explored this theme with wonderful deftness in his mammoth novel 1Q84. My story in today's edition, although a story of love, is partly about an adolescent boy's faith in Gods that they listened to him if he prayed to them with right devotion.
Speaking of devotion, I am sure all of us are aware that certain devotions are beyond normal human comprehension and encompass extraordinary dimensions. Such devotions are nothing but surrender of one's self to another being - be it a spouse, a lover, parents, children, siblings, friends and of course God.
I came across a beautiful story on this simple, yet monumental feeling. I am happy to share the story with all of you.
"The Empty Chair "
Once, a young girl approached a Saint and said, “My father is quite ill. He is unable to get himself out of bed. Would you mind coming over to our house to meet him?”
“Yes, I will indeed come,” replied the Saint.
When the Saint came to the house, he saw the sick and helpless old man lying in his bed with his head resting on two pillows.
However, he also noticed an empty chair next to the bed.
“It appears that perhaps you were anticipating my arrival?” the Saint asked the old man.
“Oh, not at all. By the way, who are you?” the old man inquired.
Introducing himself, the Saint said, “Seeing the empty chair, I assumed you had an inkling I was coming.”
The old man said, “O Saint! If you don’t mind, please close the bedroom door.”
Slightly alarmed at the request, the Saint did go ahead and shut the door.
The old man spoke, “In fact, to this day, I have not disclosed the secret behind this empty chair to anyone; not even to my daughter.
To be honest, my whole life, I never understood how worship is actually done. Even though, I made a point of daily going to the temple, I never really understood anything.
About four years ago, a friend of mine came to visit me. He told me that I can pray to God directly.
He advised me, “Place an empty chair in front of you, faithfully imagine that God Himself is sitting on the chair in front of you and talk to Him in exactly the same manner as we are now talking to each other. He listens to our every calling.” And when I followed his advice, I liked it very much.
Ever since then, I started talking to the Lord for two hours at a time.
However, I used to be very careful in making sure my daughter didn’t see me doing this because if she did, she would have thought I had gone crazy.”
Upon hearing such tender feelings of the old man, tears of love and emotion began to stream from his eyes. “You are indeed practicing the highest kind of Bhakti,” the Saint sighed.
Placing his hand on the old man’s head before leaving, the Saint said, “Keep your true devotion going.”
The Saint returned to his ashram. Five days later, the old man’s daughter came to see him, and told him, “My father was extremely happy to see you at our house the other day, but he passed away yesterday morning. Just as I was leaving for work the other day, he called me up, and kissed my forehead. His face was gleaming with peacefulness; his eyes were teary. But,
when I returned home from work, my eyes met with a rather peculiar sight – He was sitting on his bed, but his head was on the chair as though he had it on someone’s lap.
The chair was empty as always. Would you please explain why my father lay his head on the empty chair?”
Upon hearing the news of her father’s passing, the Saint began to cry bitterly and pleaded to the Lord, “My Lord! When my time to leave the world comes, I too, want to leave in the same way as did the old man. Please do grant me my wish with Your Grace.”
..........................
On Sunday, the 19th June, my mobile phone crashed, all the data got erased and I got a message that the "Factory Settings" have been restored. Often in the past, troubled by the numerous labyrinths of daily existence, I had wished how easy life would be if we could be free from everything and go back to the way God had brought us to the world - simple, uncluttered and unperturbed. In other words i yearned for my "Factory Settings". But when it actually happened in my mobile, wiping out all the past data, I went crazy, more perturbed than ever. I could not retrieve my old messages from WhatsApp, my Contact list vanished into thin air, the Gmail refused to open. I felt lost and although I am able to operate the phone now with about ten percent of its previous capability, I still keep wandering in the dark lanes of life like a lost traveller looking for his moorings. I have tried to capture the feeling in my poem "Vanishing Data" in today's edition.
Hope you will enjoy our humble offerings in LV118. Please share the links with all your friends and contacts:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/441 (Poems, stories, anecdotes), and
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/440 (Young Magic).
There are also two articles by the renowned Gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/438 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/439
Relax and enjoy.
We will meet again in the last week of July
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Friday, June 24, 2022
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K Mishra
A SURREAL ABSTRACT
02) Haraprasad Das
MADHYABITTA (THE MIDDLE-CLASS MAN) - 1
03) Dilip Mohapatra
EXCAVATION
MOVING ON
04) Bibhu Padhi
BIRTHDAY
05) Saiprakash Kuntamukkala
FATHER!
WHO ELSE CAN SAVE !
06) S. Krishna Tulasi
DEAR DIARY
07) Abani Udgata
GRAFFITIS
08) Sundar Rajan and Team
UBER UNIVERSE
09) Kamar Sultana Sheik
BOY ON THE SUBWAY STAIRS
10) Sharanya Bee
THE PEN OF HOPE
11) Gita Bharath
KALINGANARDHAN
12) Hema Ravi
PEEK THROUGH…
13) Alexandra Psaropoulou
FLYING
14) Runu Mohanty
GANIKA (THE WHORE)
15) Snehaprava Das
RADHA
MEERA
16) Ravi Ranganathan
QUIETUDE
17) Dr Antara Kunwar
A STEP TOWARDS INCLUSION!
18) Pradeep Rath
RED SUN RISING
19) Setaluri Padmavathi
SILENCE
20) Niranjan Barik
DON'T CALL A PEN A PEN, CALL IT A ROSE!
21) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
VANISHING DATA
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Ajay Upadhyaya
DOG’S STORY
02) Chinmayee Barik
OVERCOAT
03) Ishwar Pati
DEADLINES
04) Dr.Radharani Nanda
SHELTER
05) Meena Mishra
1-The Best Teacher
2-How I Spent My First Earning
3-How TIL Fought Her Demon
4-The Hairy Tale
06) Lathaprem Sakhya
NESTS
07) Dharitri Misra
THE LIFE STORY OF AN EMPOWERED...
08) Col(Dr) Rekha Mohanty
A BRIEF ENCOUNTER WITH THE ...
09) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT...
10) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
LIFE FAST FORWARD
11) Pradeep Biswal
MULK RAJ ANAND AND MARG
12) Dr.S.Padmapriya
DR. LEE
13) Sunanda Pradhan
MY LIFE AN INSTRUMENT OF LEARNING
14) Satya N. Mohanty
NO ONE CAN GO IN
15) Ashok Kumar Ray
BLIND LOVE
16) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
TOPPER BOY
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Ritika Pradhan
MY MOTHER
02) Trishna Sahoo.
SUMMER CAMP
POEMS
Tonight I have planned
my master strokes
with my masterly hand
using my pet brush, pet style.
It has been a long time,
the tears have dried
in eyes and on cheeks,
where they were unwelcome;
their beds, that the streams took
pride in for the boating of lost souls,
have gone foul like Ganga and Yamuna
sheltering bones, ashes, longings.
From wet ashes, no phoenix would rise.
From the muddy soot, burnt bones,
only curses, sighs, desolation
raise heads. No hope, no happy tidings.
I stand at my open window,
no grill work to protect against a fall,
the fatal attraction; down below
cars and busses crawl like tiny beetles.
In my Sunday best, my mind
doing a blood thirsty Dracula, I fly out
turning into a huge bat to land
spread eagled on the asphalt road below.
My grey stuff, red blood, black scalp,
splinters, shreds beside my Armani suit
splattered in a dramatic collage,
a mural, looking surreal and abstract.
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.
MADHYABITTA (THE MIDDLE-CLASS MAN) - 1
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra )
A kitchen…,
enough meat… veg-fare,
the house-help, a bit wayward,
the family mostly under the weather’.
The cutest recipe
for a middle-class household.
Man of the house
serves his severed head
ingratiatingly on a platter
oozing submissive blood
before his well-heeled friends
invited home on his birthday.
His neck never too strong
to carry his self-esteem,
low but heavy for the lack of success.
No friend lends an ear to him
when he waxes eloquence
of his very few achievements.
His friends, least bothered,
how he feels, how he cherishes,
own fragile ego, his existential opiate.
Nails of his diffident hand
keep scratching his head,
when his guests
wine, dine and dance,
occupied with self-indulgent joy.
His niceties, his worries,
his caring and pleasing ways
remain miss their attention. Yet he
stands alone, proud of his grim aura.
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)”
My hands dig
deeper and deeper
into your dark
and damp vulnerabilities
scratching
prodding
probing
ploughing
leaving behind
oozy furrows
to unravel below the ruins
the bones of
your desire
your smouldering smiles
the fossils of your sighs
and your
petrified passions.
I try to scoop
and extricate
my find
to the light of the day
but the next moment
you slip through
my fingers
and disappear .
Building castles in thin air
could be rather easier
as long as one can dream
and fantasise
to conjure up
the fortified walls
the spires
the drawbridges
and the moat around
but resurrecting your past
digging your memories
to excavate your lost limbs
and transplanting them back
where they once belonged
is perhaps as transient
as their
line drawings in chalk
easily erasable
in unseen tears and
which last as long as
they can
till you stand on your hands
and swing your legless trunk
forward
to move on
and on.
Note: Moved by a graphic posted on FB, in which a legless boy squatting on the floor, had drawn the missing parts in chalk.
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.
Time is remembered. By the clock’s hands,
each moving closer to the. exact time,
each recalling time in its quartz accuracy.
Time is remembered in a gathering
of guests and laughter, in the numerous ways
in which a name could be called in time.
Time is remembered in the rain’s long visit,
the cyclone’s choosing this place and time
for showing off its exaggerated authority.
Time is remembered in someone else’s
preponing his exit for a zone
of painless time, a human trick
of turning time away from its own time.
Time is remembered, once again
after a year. Year after year.
This day, this time. May our
wishes bloom into her colours
at a future time.
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.
Let me allow my imagination stretch to all Fathers living or departed
In my memories, I wish to portray the role of a father
Waiting anxiously outside the labour room,
with the same wrenching pains,
taking a walk up and down the corridors bright
Biting his nails for the announcement of the arriving child
Sweating forehead, kept uncared
Holding his breath all the while
Hearing a cry, much relieved,
missing a heart beat for the first time
Greetings galore, tight embrace
Living those moments inch by inch
Folded hands, eternal prayers,
offering thanks for His benevolence
Infantine looks, widening smiles, holding tender hands rest of his life
A horse, elephant many roles he plays
Tossing the kid high into air
Showing the wonderful world that wait outside
Friend, guide, philosopher all roles in one, played to perfection
A selfless soul, stands by our side
Oh! Father how can we repay, your selfless sacrifice
Not only this day, we offer our stiffest salute each single day
As the whole humanity is on the verge of collapse
Who else can save us, except the Almighty God
Stand in prayers, to usher in a new morn
By His benevolence and Providence only we can sustain further
Let the warring factions, be showered with love and compassion
Where mutual respect and mercy lead them into true light
May God shower his abundant bliss, on to the whole of humanity
Under His everlasting shade, let us rejoice
O Lord the merciful, excuse us of all misdeeds and misadventures
Grant your boon to walk on peaceful paths of coexistence
Saiprakash kuntamukkala, is an advocate by profession and a poet with passion. He has nearly 3000 poems to his credit , winning many accolades including Gujarat Sahitya academy certificates. His poems are translated into 30 National and international languages. His poems featured in more than 15 international Anthologies.
You define perfection
You are my reflection
I never understood
I never saw the good
I took the bad
So the fights I had
The reasons were crappy
So we weren't happy
I may not be the best
But I'll talk about the rest
From nice to sweet
From cold to heat
You were always there
Cared about everything from foot to hair
All the days of laughter
I'm happy to be your daughter
The days on purpose I ignored your sound
Are mistakes where answers weren't found
Every time I listen to what you say
I come home with, "I had the best day"
Today's your day, my dear mother
You understood me like no other
But I'm secure with you with a smiley
Cause you are my "Dear Diary"
S. Krishna Tulasi from Bangalore, studying 1st PUC in Presidency PU College. Her interests include reading, writing and music. She is an ardent fan of writing. She believes in giving social meaning or sharing her knowledge and experiences for the benefit of others.
The first rain of the year, today,
I rushed out to confront.
The rain as always is a stranger.
that comes from the sky at its will
The sky has no borders nor the rain
My graffitis , I said , do not touch them.
A few red-eyed man spoke to me
from telly-screen, newspapers, clubs
as the evening sweated, night sweltered,
fitful sleep turned sides, fidgeted. It was
a long, cruel summer, hottest summer
that burnt the grasses. Birds are soon
going to disappear, trees wax in to memory.
But they said graffitis must be scrawled
on more and more walls
Because only the graffitis can save us.
The rain danced like a dervish on grasses.
Birds and trees that are soon going to die
joined on still-warm cheek of the earth.
My voice will not reach today to the stranger.
The rain may also die one day
if it comes here too often.
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
Am I just a black vaccuum empty and dark,
Or sustainer of all, a vast Noah's ark?
I harbour all matter, suns, moons, comets, stars
Also the blue planet that humans call ours.
Am I just collectively called Space - Time?
I am the totality of existence,
Encompassing planets, galaxies and all,
With steady expansion, cosmological.
Am I just a celestial amalgam?
All existence is from and in my stardom
Architect of all that is and is to be
Unfathomable infinite energy.
Am I just an amalgamation of things
I am just, Indiscriminate to all things
I create, sustain, raze in Moderation
Humans please dont try all my toleration!
Am I just a space of empowered nothing?
I am really born to certain something,
I just exist; I breathe life in all being,
I live in you hidden without you seeing!
Am I just an all encompassing whole,
Existing to play a pre-determined role,
Or the one with no beginning or end
Of all celestial creations a blend.
Am I just a huge dark place planets call home
Or Am I a vast space where stars like to roam
I am the mother of all the galaxies
Mysterious, the world calls me fantasy.
Am I just a single, unique creation
Or of multiverses, am I only one?
So vast am I that men cannot comprehend
Where I begin and where in Space-Time I end?
GB SSR PJ SB SRS PV SS GB
There was a boy once
Who walked the subway stairs
Like his very life depended upon it;
And it did : for he was hungry
To the point of passing out.
It was so different from how it was
Back in his hometown.
He thought he would be rid of hunger
Away from the parched fields,
The dry earth and drying rivers..
The cities seemed so full..
Full stomachs, full streets,
He had thought he would survive somehow..
Now the burden on his head seemed to weigh
Heavier than that which he carried
On his young shoulders..
A bark of a shout from his employer
Had him run faster up those grimy stairs,
Until he reached the top...and then
Without a backward glance at the shouting man
He walked away...
He walked tall and stately, always..
Even when he was just at home,
Lungi-and-baniayaan-clad,
As much as he was on Eid day in white Jubba.
Or in a grey safari suit at functions..
He was one who had that raw handsomeness
Of a self-made man, who bowed to none;
Peers were in awe, elders jealous,
Youngsters flocked to him for attention;
I was the one most coddled by him
For he loved my daring, which matched his own..
And yet when his youth had run its course
And his jet-black curly hair had the first tinged of grey,
He jokingly said, "Come, I have to tell you a story.."
And he said it all :
How at twelve, he'd sold his books
To buy a ticket to Madras
To make his life far from a village steeped in famine.
How he was terrified by the death
Of hapless farmers who left for the mines abandoning their land..
And their corpses never coming back..
How his own father planned to do the same and to escape it's fate
He'd run away...and kept running
Until he'd reached a place where none could shake him.
Sheik Ismail is his name,
He was my dad, a simple man, but a deep one..
I share his love of Earth, Soil and Nature,
Sometimes when the glare of too much glamour,
Starts to blind me against reality,
I remember what he told me :
"Never forget the boy
On the subway stairs".
Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in
Little whiffs of smoky hope
Escape throughout
The years I bawled, the years
I tip-toed, The years I scribbled on walls
The years I drew on lined paper
The years I carried secret diaries
The years I fooled myself
And the ones that followed
Lying upon the cold rock bottom
Of a muddy chasm
They call depression
My fingers try to draw on stones
Some force's sympathy results
In a pen of silver body being dropped
As delicate as it seemed at first
This tool helps me carve on rock
Until I've built them stepping stones
I make my way out of the pit
I look back
There were never any stones
Nor did my pen carve on rocks
All there was, to help me out
Was an invisible ink that pen spilled
Out
A silvery ink, of smoky hopes
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.
Gita Bharath has enjoyed five years of teaching middle school before starting on a banking career that lasted thirty four years. Now, happily retired, she focusses on writing and trying out kolam art.
Her first book Svara contains three hundred poems, comprising narrative, humour,and philosophical verses. Her work has featured in international anthologies, and won prizes from Literoma, Asian Literary Society, Story Mirror, etc,
(Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi)
The cottage in front of our home is
ever attractive with stunning visuals —
The thematic doll arrangements
on Memorial Day, Halloween, Christmas…
Although I never got to interact
with its occupants, I constantly gaze
at the tidy, compact garden
that boasts of the season’s beauties
the dense flowering crab apple tree
not forgetting to mention
the artistic bird feeders
and the attractive birdbath.
Come Spring, a flurry of activity begins
tiny sparrow-like birds flock
and dwell in the branches.
One morning, sweet sound of whistles
the familiar backyard birds —
Cardinals.
From time to time, the crested male’s
short ‘tweet, tweet, tut’ from
atop a pole, was music to ears.
Elusive, it thwarted my attempts to click.
I did however spot the buff-brown companion
flying out and in with sticks, twigs and fiber.
The passerine birds were perennial pastime
waiting for the piercing chip notes
turned into longing.
The tangles of the short tree
safely hid them from human view
while they nested in harmony along
with the white-throated sparrows
all through the Summer until
the shedding of leaves began.
Cheery chirps have yielded to sudden silence
As I rest my mortal coils on a damp, dark night
My heart yearns…
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.
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.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
She has no name, she just exists,
a flower that blooms,
in a hutment, also upmarket settlements
with equal contentment.
She is a temptress with frills
and thrills for patrons: bewitching kohl
in eyes, palms and soles dyed pink,
smelling of spring blossoms.
A river with strong undercurrents,
tributaries pouring in,
charmed assets, silt of wealth,
un-sedimented promises.
Her heart never in a bind,
a desire, unadulterated, ascetic;
rippling surface, calm depths; a goddess,
a fire that enchants and burnishes.
Her words tangle with one’s senses
like a gossamer net around a fish
pulling it into her sinuous stream
rippling beneath her slippery silks.
An enchanting Kadamba blooms
in her yard, all seasons. All her evenings
wear a magical moon in the sky.
A sizzling silver lining leavening dark moods.
She wishes her company to augur well
for her companion, never ill to any of them;
she adorns the bereft thrones in their hearts,
hardly giving away her own, too fastidious a chooser.
Ruefully smiles when
blamed as a ‘poison flower’;
leaving the choice to her lovers:
boring honey, or the savory poison.
A wild bloom to her honey bees.
A spot-on hot iron crucible,
malleable unlike the rigid steel augers
of her guests, like water to a red hot poker.
No miser like a catacomb
that receives dead souls, no Blackhole
that absorbs all, gives back nothing.
Rather a generous giver.
Free, yet besieged, an enchantress
held as a hostage, a ransom
she pays with entertaining
her guests, admirers. A gem in a vault.
A Sybil of esoteric wisdom
that her flesh is a heaven
to sinners, a pilgrimage giving
purifying dips. A critics’ punching bag.
she gets immolated
every night, taming the lech,
but remains untouched by desires,
theirs or of her own, a Buddha.
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
It matters little to me
If you stand under the Kadamba tree
Playing your charmer-flute
On the edge of an ancient river
Or recline in a forest of casuriana
Stretching off the solitary shore
Of some primeval sea;
I am always metamorphosed by the
Hypnotic notes you play,
And abandoning all the base stuff in me
I leave my frame of clay,
To let my volatile form
Travel through smoke and air
To teach your lips and trail from
Your flute in a river of ecstasy
We stand together
Lost in the melodious fervour
That flows between one eternity
And another;
I have never aspired to be a goddess
I know I have chosen to transgress
But still it is not them,
The gopi s, fifteen thousand
Nine hundred and ninety nine
Or you eight glamorous queens,
The keepers of morals have
Allowed entry to your holy shrine,
Why am I the one they keep
By your side?
Is it because from the
Purgatory of my passion I have emerged
Burnt and purified
To stand with you as your eternal bride!!
It also matters little to me
If it is not I but she
That the keepers of morals have chosen
To keep by your side
As your eternal bride;
I have never aspired to make you mine
Or to stand with you in your shrine,
Just by sitting at your feet
Draped in my reverence for you
I have felt your touch on my soul, too;
I have not, like her let my elements
Assume a volatile form
Even when clutched to all
My dirt and dust
My love thrives on my unflinching trust;
I too have renounced my regalia
And set out on my eternal quest,
Surviving all odds, ordeals
And Time's corrosive test;
I know your flute for even once
Will not take my name
But the tune has made its way
Through the ethereal space
And descending to float along
Another river holy
Has strummed the strings of my veena
Sending through them
The same ecstatic throb,
As I roam along the alleys of Vrindavan
Singing of you, mad with love;
If transgression is the way,
Have I too not transgressed?
I do not know what else is wanted
To complete the infringement
After I was branded a 'sinning-saint';
Haven't I worn the stigma on my royal self
As a mark of pride,
And taken all abuses in stride?
But, I hold nothing against her
Who stands with you
As your eternal bride!!
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)
Meditation took me yonder
Peace has already built a nest there
Surely not a place of no thoroughfare
It glows more the more you ponder...
Now and then, a conscious drawal
away from people, places,familiars
Is my Mantra to dy-mystify me
It is not easy to rest in that Nest
At best you can nibble and withdraw
A divine vibe strikes your inner cage
With a Bliss that is unbearable
Even Hermits will be at their wit’s end
Trying to balance the joy that unbinds
These sojourns suffice to set my goal
A synthesis of body, mind and soul...
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.
We see a child, a little awkward
Trying hard to reach the front
But still falling backward!
We look at a teenager, quiet and being excluded
Yet we do nothing, to make them feel included!
We meet a young person, hustling day in and out, in making his differently abled self count.
But we mock them for their outlook
And only let their misery mount!
We encounter an adult, of having unique ways of doing things.
A little different from what we perceive as normal and what “fits in”.
And rather overlook the beauty and charm their personality brings!
How foolish can we be, and for how long
Let’s join hands & make them feel included
and lets beautifully coexist!!
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.
I wish I could find those childhood days,
when I espied the red sun
long and deep,
as it rose from azure eastern sky smiling with sure,
steady steps
and pervaded the canopies of sky scattering the bright hue,
the earth was dancing with glee as birds chirped,
what a mirth it was!
As I look at the sun in these dull mornings,
while I go on a morning walk,
avert my eyes quick fearing nameless injuries as
the air is thick with smoke and dust,
a lurking fear half seizes the fleeting mind
while crossing the road,
I find thrill of red sun
rising from waves
only in Hollywood films and mind goes blank.
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.
I cherish my leisure at the beach,
spending hours together with the sound
of the blue waters, sea creatures
fluttering wings of resting birds,
though I find complete silence!
All of a sudden the tides stop sound
The branches stop to nod their heads
The flying birds rest far away from the sea,
thinking that's the time for the sun to sleep
that's the way I find true silence!
Tiring of all the routine jobs in a day
I move to the beach for a peaceful way
though the noisy folks wander around
and the energetic swimmers thrash the waters away,
amongst all these deeds, I once again find silence!
I joyously attend the gatherings of people
for a serenity, love and so much warmth
people do stare at me, the eyes question me,
then their hearts communicate to me with love
thus, I find silence all around me now and then!
People come and go on a regular basis
with a purpose of mental connection,
Words become too less in number
Hours appear too long in a day
When I find silence once again and again!
Is silence truly amazing and incredible?
It matters in my mind and body forever
whenever I avoid my pondering thoughts
and put a full stop to lingering ideas,
I really find silence without fail ever!
Silence changed its name and face
It does not look so precious today
as one to one talk vanished slowly
I cannot bear this unimportant silence
I sadly call it an intolerable silence!
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
DON'T CALL A PEN A PEN, CALL IT A ROSE!
Niranjan Barik
A pen is a pen
A pencil a pencil
A Rose is a Rose
You don’t need a Frost
To defrost you and say
A rose is a rose
It was a rose yesterday and days before
And shall remain so for days to come
May be National Parliaments in absence of issues
Would find new Nationalism in the Rose and give it new names
But it would be Rose to the Eyes and our Nose
It will smell same sweet irrespective of its name
But a Pen or Pencil could be rosier
Smile it brings to the faces of tiny tots, so easier!
Faces of those rosy sweets
Boys or Girls
Boys and Girls
Are they holding it in their hands?
Flaunting it with pride
Close to their chests as lovers do !
Pen or Pencil makes them new lovers in a new milieu
As the Bell rings and the little ones go,
Goes the look of onlookers,
Seniors who missed the opportunity themselves
Seniors whose juniors missed it
Look so jealously at the pen or pencil!
You could call Pen or Pencil a Rose
Its smell may be wider than that of the Rose !
Didn’t another Rose, Malala tell us this ?
Malala whose pen, the bullets could not crush!
Whose fragrance engulfed the world!
Let us make new Roses bloom
Their smell swirl and go wild,
Roses in all corners smile and boom,
Faces beam and fragrance spread!
Let not onlookers remain lost and bewildered
Pen or Pencil they also hold
And call it their Rose, those very old !
Their Honey , their Rose, very much Gold!
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.
VANISHING DATA
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The one I met under
the big banyan tree
at the end of the road,
Long after the fire at home
had died down, the smoke
rising in a vicious curl
with an ominous whisper,
after the lone bird in the garden
had cried itself hoarse.
Long after the shadows
walked away in a single line
like sorrowful pall-bearers
pointing their fingers at me,
saying here comes your doomsday,
the dogs howling in pitiful shrill,
the noise rising to a crescendo
lights going out without a warning.
The one I met told me
just two words - go away,
In a flash my life's data got erased,
my original settings were restored,
all memory gone,
everyone became a stranger.
I have been groping ever since,
to find all that shaped me
now the shadows keep disappearing
and I am left alone,
dreadfully silent
in a cacophonic world.
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 . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He 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
We have heard expressions like Dog’s Dinner and Dog’s Life, although we are never sure what they mean in today’s world. But what about Dog’s story? That is plainly absurd. I accept, ordinarily dogs can’t talk. But that limitation does not apply to the world, where not only dogs can speak, vines have a voice and trees can think. Here the distinction between living and non-living is blurred; all things including lakes, mountains and clouds are conscious. That is where this story comes from.
Why am I telling you my story? Not least because, this will confirm what you have always felt, somewhere deep down, that dog is man’s best friend. And, the first person account would give you the ending, you perhaps did not expect.
This story, like most of them, has multiple versions. That is hardly surprising because we all see things differently although the event in question remains the same. In fact, it takes an inordinate amount of effort to get to the truth, but it still falls short for some.
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The most widely known version appeared in the local newspaper. It reported the tragic death of a local dog lover, George Walker and his dog Smoky in a freak accident.
Last Sunday evening, fifty-seven years old George Walker, a frequent sight in the local mountains, in company of his large Golden Retriever, Smoky, accidentally plunged from a height to his death. Whilst out walking, George slipped and fell down a cliff. His dog, Smoky, securely tied in a harness, got dragged with George and also fell to his death.
A rock climbing exercise was under way around the cliff, with the climbing gear in position. Almost miraculously, it seemed, both George and Smoky would be saved by the climbing gear, as they got entangled in ropes and slings attached to a peg in the rocks. They were seen high up in the air, dangling from the ropes, for several minutes. But hopes of them being saved were dashed as the peg on the rock was not secure enough to bear their weight. In a tragic twist of fate, the loosened peg came off before they could be rescued. Sadly both George and Smoky plunged to their death.
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But this is nowhere near the full story.
For Daniel McSwain, the Climbing Group Leader on the scene, who witnessed the accident, it was a devastating experience. He was certain, till the end, that at least George could be saved. His expertise in rock climbing, he thought, would come to his aid and give someone the gift of life. He was hopeful that his quick thinking would save George Walker’s life. From his long experience in climbing exercises, he had a keen sense of the maximum weight that the peg could bear. George was a slight man, thin as a wire whereas his dog was a massive Golden Retriever, who was almost as heavy as George. While he knew that it could not bear the combined weight of both George and the dog, he was equally confident, it could at least support one of them, to allow a rescue team enough time to reach them. And, if a choice had to be made between a man and a dog, the result was obvious.
Daniel was, however, puzzled about what really transpired in those crucial few minutes. He had a clear channel of communication with George. His instructions to George were unequivocal: cut the dog off the rope because that was the only way to save his own life. He was certain, George received his instruction and understood exactly what needed to be done. No doubt, the circumstances were extraordinary, But, going by their conversations and his responses over the phone, George sounded calm. Even from such a height, the knife in his hand was visible, its sharp blade reflecting the glare of the afternoon sun. George had both the opportunity and the time to cut the dog off, but that did not happen. Although he appeared to remain calm, perhaps, he froze in panic. Or, did he lose his nerve?
Daniel heard that George had extensive injury to his internal organs. But the injury to his right arm did stand out. While the forearm was relatively unscathed, the hand had been mutilated; it looked like a savage dog bite. So, the most likely culprit was the dog, who stopped him from cutting the rope in time. “Poor animal,” Daniel thought, “the dumb dog didn’t have a clue as to what was going on.”
Then, Daniel reflected, “But, how can you blame the dog? The wretched thing could not foresee the consequences of its actions. All it could do was to act reflexly.” That is how humans distinguish themselves from animals. The superior human mind can set goals, and plan a sequence of action to achieve them. Human brains have evolved to suppress their instincts at critical junctures and act logically on a defined thought out plan.
At the bottom of the cliff, a monument was commissioned at the accident site, to commemorate the bond between George and Smoky, known locally as the inseparable pair. In its centre, on a pedestal stood a life size bronze figure of slightly built George next to the massive Smoky. Whenever Daniel passes by it, his gaze is drawn to the pair. He would notice the mismatch in their size; but something in their body language, call it harmony, if you like, made them look distinctive.
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Here is my version, the inside story from Smoky’s mouth.
When I woke up from my sleep, I found myself in a cloud of mist. Through the haze, I spotted a man, at a distance, in conversation with a group; they listened to him in rapt attention. He didn’t speak much, as if he knew exactly how much would suffice. They dispersed one by one. After the last person left, he turned towards me. Soon, I could see him clearly; there was something about the expression on his face and his overall demeanour, which gave him a distinguished look. I was instantly drawn to him.
“Where am I?” I asked him.
“You can call it The Land of Angels.”
“And, you are?”
“Take me as the local guide here, to welcome everyone and orient them to this new world. I will be meeting George next, after we finish your orientation session.”
“You seem to be more than a guide. Shall I call you Chief?”
“You may, if it makes you happy.”
My head felt fuzzy. I could not remember much of how I got there. He comforted me, saying, it was natural to lose ones bearings when you leave your familiar world for a new one. Talking to him helped fragments of memory to come back to me, coalescing to form a clear picture.
I died in an accident, while out walking with George. I remember walking one minute, and hanging at the end of a rope high up in the air, the next. I also saw George hanging at the end of another rope, by my side. He spoke with Daniel, the leader of the Rock Climbing Group about help coming our way. His tone was frantic, but it was a relief to hear that Daniel was arranging a rescue operation for us.
What happened next was terrifying. I heard George speaking with Daniel and then taking out a knife. Soon after that he started cutting his rope. Daniel’s voice was steady and full of authority. Calmly, he told George that the peg supporting our ropes was loose and would give way anytime unless the load was made lighter. It could, however, support the weight of George alone. Daniel’s instruction to George was unequivocal; he must cut my rope, so that he would survive. Otherwise, the peg would give way to our combined weight, killing both of us.
At the same time, I also knew, George could not imagine his life without me. I could read his mind. He surmised that if only one of us would survive, then that must be me. So, for George the solution was simple, and the decision was easy; he had to cut his own rope off.
When I looked at George, I saw the steely determination in his eyes; he was intent on executing his final plan of action. That was to cut himself off, so that my life would be spared. For me, the unfolding disaster was too painful to even contemplate. George would fall to his death and that would save my life. But what life would I have when he was gone? I scratched my brain in a panic. But what could I do, high up in the air hanging by a rope? I did the only thing that was in my power; bite his hand hard to make him drop the knife.
The Chief was curious as to why I wanted to tell my story.
“I want everybody to know how difficult it is to separate the dog from the man for long; the dog would do anything, even maul his master, if that is what it takes to keep them together. And, dog remains man’s best friend, even in the world of angels, where no statue is required to celebrate their inseparability. We are the living proof, even if we had to die to demonstrate this. Now humans can vouch for its universality with confidence.”
“Anything else, you wanted to tell,” the Chief asked.
“That is not all, dogs can also sense what their master is thinking, like best friend do.” Now, you have got this straight from the dog’s mouth.
“Tell me, why you were rather hesitant in biting him, as if something was holding you back.” The Chief remarked.
“Yes, it was not easy. In fact, it was the hardest decision of my life. You know, how difficult it is to bite the hand that feeds you?”
“Well, it was a relief to see that you did succeed, at the end.”
“Yes, but it was tough; George started fighting with me, when he realised what I was trying to do.”
“I was moved,” the Chief said, “to see how intent you both were on saving the other’s life, at the expense of your own.”
“That is what best friends do, don’t they?”
While I was in conversation with the Chief, his assistant came in with some fresh news. It was the final post mortem report of George. He had sustained extensive head and multiple organ injury. Further analysis confirmed, he also suffered from terminal cancer.
“So, if the accident did not materialise, the cancer would have killed him in a matter of months,” the Assistant commented.
I looked at the Chief; a faint smile flickered across his face. It was of the kind, you give, on being told something, you already know.
“You are right, George did not have much life left. The alternative to the accident was a painful and protracted death.”
“So, you already knew, he was dying of cancer?”
The Chief gave another of his knowing smile, with a slight nod of his head.
I realised, how wretched my life would have been, if the accident had not happened. Without George, I would have been desolate.
The Chief looked away briefly, as if he was distracted by something pressing, which just came to his mind. Or, may be he was simply avoiding eye contact.
“So, the accident, however tragic it might appear, was really a blessing,” I said.
“Yes, I had no doubt, without George your life would be an absolute misery. I reckoned, this was the most kind treatment for you two.” The Chief said.
I was about to say, “Dangling high up in the air, I was praying to God to grant the strength to my bite,” when the pin dropped. I realised where I had landed. I wanted to address the Chief, in stead “I can see now, who gave me the strength to bite George’s hand.” But, in a flash, the blanket of haze was back, the Chief lost in its midst.
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A heart warming story! But if you are questioning its authenticity, think again. Accuracy is a measure of the match between the narration and what you know to be true, all along.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
There is a warmth radiating from the left pocket of my overcoat. In a wet wintery night, when my fingers go into a cramp from the cold, I can imagine the warmth in the overcoat pocket reviving them to normal life. Seated comfortably in my sofa, when I look at the overcoat hanging in front of me, I feel a warm glow, as if the warmth has wafted through the room to embrace me.
Two days ago, when the weather was fairer, without rain or storm, I met her in the night club. I had occupied a table and just started to savour my champagne, when she came to sit down next to me. She was scantily clad and kept crossing her legs, in a deliberate attempt to expose more of her bare thighs. Although I was not keen on ogling at her flesh, my eyes kept straying in direction of her thighs. This loss of control unnerved me and I feared, I would be off my mental balance, if this went on for too long. But I struggled to tear my eyes off her. The club waiter gave me a knowing smile; the darting of my eyes had not escaped him. The glint in his look was casting aspersions on my character. But I knew, I was not made of weak moral fibre. I would not be easily beaten in my determination to prove my moral integrity and show my self restraint.
The perfume on the young woman was rather tacky which made me somewhat uneasy. It was nowhere close to my planned departure hour and I was biding my time in the club. I looked at the clock; its hands seemed to have gone somewhat sluggish. Was this a hint, offering me an opportunity to spend more time with her? She was not exactly pretty. I noticed the scar on her forehead and did not know what to make of it.
Next, she moved closer to me and our bodies touched. She looked at me from the corner of her eyes, raising the wine glass to her lips. I sat, pretending to be unaware of the goings on between us. Nonetheless, my thinking machine was on the overdrive, making me oblivious to my surroundings. Even the loud laughs of drinkers from nearby tables did not seem to bother me. The casino operations were in full swing. There were several couples on the dance floor, enjoying a lazy waltz. I was trying to keep my gaze away from her, and fixed it on the dance floor. Suddenly, I could feel her foot rubbing against mine. I had no doubt, it was rather deliberate, not an accident. This physical invasion of my body made me really uncomfortable. I shifted myself slightly away from her but her body followed mine. Exactly at this time, an acquaintance of mine turned up at my table and engaged me in a conversation. Although we kept chatting my attention was almost totally diverted to her activities.
She got increasingly bolder; the next thing, I felt, was her hand sliding across my thigh. I refrained from showing any reaction and waited, guessing what her next move would be. I could then feel her hand slipping inside the left pocket of my overcoat. I was no more able to anticipate her next act, but her last action was enough to spread a chill in my body. I could sense her hand searching the inside of my pocket. By now, I had no doubt, she was a pickpocket, and all her feminine wiles, used for distraction, were a part of her modus operandi for a sleek criminal operation. Nevertheless, I remembered, I always carried my wallet in my right pocket. This thought gave me a thrilling sense of victory over this sleazy pickpocket.
She suddenly pulled herself up and stood directly in front of me. Her mellow eyes instantly turned evil. Before I realised what was going on, she hurled, “To hell with you!” before walking away. The scorn in her voice and the loathing in her look made me feel sick. Did she take me for a penniless pauper, someone showing off his expensive clothes with no money in the pocket to match! May be, she is financially hard up; perhaps, she is in dire need of money. But her abhorrent parting abuse pricked my pride. Her vile conduct was so enraging that someone else in my position could have been provoked to strangle her. This thought crossed my mind too but something held me back; it was the look in her eyes just before she hurled the painful abuse at me. While the look kept taunting me, a deep sense of despondency took hold of me. Then, it occurred to me that had I kept my wallet in my left pocket, perhaps it would have been better. Even though I would have lost my money, it would’ve spared me this indignity. In a future meeting, if she repeats her abuse, or worse, spits at me, that would be intolerable. The loathing in her eyes flashed before me again. It was a weird emotion, which I just could not shake off.
Immediately, I got up from my chair and went out in search of her. But she was nowhere to be seen; she had vanished. I returned home. When I took off my overcoat and hung it on the wall, the warmth radiating from its left pocket took hold of my body.
I never saw her in the club again. I kept searching for her and visited the other clubs in the town, in the hope of finding her but there was no trace of her. At times, I asked myself what was driving my compulsive search for her. That is the time when the pocket in my overcoat would grow rather heavy.
Since then, whenever it is raining outside, I can feel the warmth of her hand, which leaves me truly baffled.
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After a gap of about two years, I saw her again in a Sunday fish market. She was busy haggling with the fishmonger over the price of the fish she was buying. She was dressed in a white T shirt and jeans. From her torn jeans, I did catch a glimpse of some skin on her thighs, bringing back the memories of our first encounter in the night club. Today, I did not have my overcoat on. Still, I felt the urge to transfer my wallet from the right pocket to my left and stand next to her. I quickly finished my fish purchase and put it in my scooter to return to the market floor. As I proceeded towards her, I transferred my wallet to my left pocket. Then I saw my old friend, Abhijeet, approaching her from the other direction, waving at her. I stopped on my track, curious to find out what was to follow. I saw that they were engaged in a friendly chat. I could sense an air of familiarity in their talking; their laughs had an informality, suggesting that they knew each other well. I got a chance to inspect her face closely to ensure that I was not mistaken about her identity. Yes, I was convinced, she was the same woman, I had met in the club; she wore a thin vermillion strip on her head, in the parting of her hair.
That was a near confirmation that she was the wife of my friend, Abhijeet. I instantly decided to change course and go back on my track, avoiding them altogether. But Abhijeet had spotted me by then and called out my name from behind. My instinct was to flee, but reluctantly I stopped to turn round; I just could not ignore Abhijeet. We were meeting after a long gap, he gave me a hug and we chatted for close to half an hour, catching up with all the news of the intervening years. We parted with him extending an invitation for a visit to his house. The lady was standing at a distance, watching me from the corner of her eyes. I was certain, she could see me, but I was not so sure if she was watching me or recognised me. Next, I saw them both driving away on his scooter; she was sitting behind him with her hand on his shoulder. I returned home that day, with deep regrets, not for the wretched woman, but for my friend, Abhijeet. He is from an affluent family, an only child and heir to a sizeable estate; he should have no difficulty in finding a respectable partner. “How did he end up with this sordid character?” I pitied him.
On reaching home that day, I put the overcoat for washing, in the hope that the washing would get rid off all her memories. She is my friend’s wife. I have no right to pass any judgement on her character, negative or otherwise. Rather I should stop thinking about her. I dispelled all thoughts of her out of my mind. I tried to convince myself that I forgot all about her.
It all changed one day, when I received Abhijeet’s marriage invitation card. It startled me; Now, it was clear that she was not my friend’s wife. So, had I got everything wrong about her? The overcoat started to emit the warmth again. My impatience to get to the truth about her grew. I phoned Abhijeet immediately but got no response. I rang his number repeatedly in vain, my inquisitiveness about her identity was bubbling up inside me. “I would get to the bottom of this mystery, I thought, when I attend Abhjeet’s wedding,” I comforted myself.
It was four days before Abhijeet’s wedding. My curiosity about her had reached its crescendo, driving me crazy. Perhaps, I would meet her at Abhijeet’s wedding, when all would be revealed. As I got thinking, I found my obsession about her bizarre. After all, we had met only once and in any case her behaviour towards me on that occasion was far from favourable. The roots of my rumination eluded me and she remained a conundrum. I tried to go to sleep, with my face buried in the pillow. That is when my phone rang and it was Abhijeet at the other end. I got up, as if I was jolted by a massive electric current, calling out hello, hello, on my phone.
“You are coming to my marriage, I take it?” Abhijeet said.
“Of course, I am attending your marriage; I have received your invitation.”
“No, just attending is not enough. You must get here as early as tomorrow.“
“What for?”
“A lot of arrangement for marriage is still pending. I was waiting to go shopping with you.”
I replied him back, with the one word response, yes, to all his questions as I was dying to find out the secrets of this mysterious woman, bugging me for so long. Finally, I put my question about her to Abhijeet, albeit hesitantly. Immediately, he became quiet and after a brief pause said, “Let’s leave her alone. Ask me anything else, but not about her, please.”
But I could not be budged beyond this question. So, Abhijeet had little choice but to divulge her details. Her name is Siuli and she was his father’s second wife.
“What?” I gasped.
Abhijeet then proceeded to narrate an account of her life, disclosing further details of her place in their lives. Siuli used to pick pockets in clubs, where she met his father. They fell in love and eventually got married. After their marriage, his father discovered that she was an unmarried mother of a young daughter who was born with birth defects, rendering her too disabled for an independent life. Corrective surgery for her daughter was frightfully expensive. She had resorted to picking pockets, in her desperate efforts to raise the funds for her treatment. Although she stopped picking pockets after their marriage, her past proved to be too damming for his father, who could not accept her and eventually threw her out of the house. She did not have the means or resources to challenge him through courts or claim her rights to alimony through legal route and quietly went out of his life.
At this point, Abhijeet took a deep breath and added, “It was perhaps just as well that she simply disappeared out of his father’s life. Otherwise, she could be a potential beneficiary of his father’s estate. After all, every cloud has a silver lining.”
I was stunned by this revelation. I could no longer hear what Abhijeet spoke beyond this point. A chill had taken hold of my entire body. It was a wintry night and I had donned my overcoat. I walked down the road aimlessly, as if the road knew where Siuli had taken off and therefore could possibly guide me to her.
Abhijeet’s marriage ceremony was over. I had resumed my regular visit to the night club. I had made it a habit to carry my wallet in my left pocket and always with sufficient money in it. Who knows, when and where we might meet next? In our next encounter, she might try her luck again. In this future scenario, I had resolved to keep myself absolutely still until she had finished her job.
I scoured all the night clubs in the area, hoping to find Siuli. My fixation with Siuli was inexplicable but I simply could not let go of her. I made every possible enquiries about her with all and sundry; In my desperation, I asked even the road, and the night for any lead on her. While none could give me any clue to her whereabouts, one day, I spotted her on the railway platform. I was overjoyed by my discovery and instantly thought of phoning Abhijeet to give him the news, but something inside me stopped me. Today, Siuli was dressed gracefully in a chiffon saree.
I did recognise the swiftness of a doe in her eyes, from our very first meeting. She scanned her surroundings gingerly and in a flash lost herself in the crowd. I stealthily followed her to the same crowded patch of passengers and carefully positioned myself close to her. I made sure, the wallet was in my left pocket and it carried a decent sum of money. Our eyes suddenly met for an instant. She froze momentarily. I moved myself closer; now my left arm was almost touching her right arm. I looked away, pretending to be unaware of her presence. But all my senses were wide awake, pining for her warm touch. Standing there, I lost track of time. Almost half an hour had elapsed before I realised, I was no longer in the middle of a gathering. I was standing all alone on the platform. The crowd had dispersed and the train had departed leaving the platform almost deserted.
When I turned round, I saw Siuli on a bench at the far end of the platform, feeding a disabled girl, I assumed to be her daughter. When I checked my pocket, my wallet was still there. My pocket suddenly turned very heavy; its weight felt like an enormous load for me. I advanced further to take a closer look at them. At the same time, I did not want them to alert them that I was watching. On the pretext of wanting a drink of water, I stopped at the water kiosk, keeping them in my sight, all along. After feeding her daughter, Siuli got up, marching briskly, with her basket of trinkets, towards the main platform, where the crowd was the thickest. As the train approached the platform, she quickened her pace, perhaps to get to the arriving train before other hawkers could get there. Her daughter was left sitting on the bench, alone.
Spellbound, I was watching the drama unfolding before me. I could see Siuli imploring the passengers on the platform for purchasing her ware of key rings and fake jewellery. A surge of emotion welled up in me, moving me to tears. Before, I could process fully what I was witnessing, my feet carried me across towards her disabled daughter, sitting alone on the bench. She gave me a smile, as if she knew me from before. On reaching her, I bent down to stroke her cheek. She showed no sign of fear and continued to smile at me. I took off my overcoat and covered her deformed body with it before waking away. My legs were now moving fast. After covering some distance, I could hear, someone calling out for me from behind. When I turned around, I saw Siuli, running towards me with my overcoat in her hand.
I was not sure, what to do next. In an impulse, I ran to jump on to the train, that had gathered speed and was leaving the platform. I was wondering whether I had left my visiting card in the overcoat pocket.
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, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
I dread deadlines. Our life, every act thereof, is governed by deadlines, whether tacit or formal. It starts with the alarm for the morning walk, which agitates us to the very bone. Subsequent reminders keep tripping us one after another like dominoes. Time for breakfast, time to catch the 8:40 local, time to rush to the canteen for lunch, time for official appointments, time to make ready and get ready for dinner, time to sleep to get up in time for morning walk—a vicious minefield of deadlines that keep us on our toes and our minds constantly on edge.
A multitude of deadlines keep haunting us throughout the day and into the night as well. What will happen if I can’t meet the deadline? The cost of ‘failure’ may be nothing, or disastrous. One slip and a mine can blow up and disfigure our face—or even worse. So we die a thousand little deaths every day, day after day. The more a company prospers, the more it resorts to deadlines to coordinate its energies and the greater the pressure on its employees to fall in line—or else! A collateral damage of the process of development.
By contrast, animals are so uncivilised that they face no deadlines to trip them up—no tension to muddle up their simple existence. The tiger gets up when he feels hungry and catapults himself into running to catch a prey. Then he devours it at his own sweet pace with no deadline to meet. He even leaves a part of his ‘kill’ behind to feast on it another day.
A peacock preens itself endlessly for no reason and suddenly displays its colourful plumage for no one to view. It dances not when the audience demands it, but when it is seized by a desire to do so. Migratory birds move according to a timeline dictated by nature. Unlike our constant need to change the course of events on earth by fouling up the atmosphere, animal life flows in tandem with the natural passage of time in nature and reaches its destination ‘in due course’—without the artificial obstruction of deadlines impeding or hastening its course.
The only deadline it faces is in the terminal act of death. But by then its lifeline is past, and the opportunity to experience the tribulations associated with trying to meet deadlines passes it by.
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.
Sulagna was over pressed with her household work. She was cursing the dreadful Corona pandemic that grabbed the whole world in its clutch leaving human race shattered and terrified. As if everything had come to a standstill. Visit to the near and dear ones even staying close to them was a remote possibility. Lockdown had restricted all day to day activities and whatever relaxation Govt had permitted people were fearful to come outside because of ongoing crisis due to Delta variant creating havoc for its fatality. The maids, cook, gardner and all other workers meant for household works stopped coming to work.
Because of ignorance about the ferociousness of Corona at the beginning of the pandemic, people were less conscious and Sulagna like many others allowed entry of workers inside the house. But now the situation was different. People were panicky in the second wave because of its horrific scenario taking lakhs of lives. Children staying away were too much concerned for safety of their parents and kept on alarming Sulagna not to allow any workers inside the house and also alerting their doctor papa to abandon private practice and stop seeing patients.
Sulagna could not but do what her children suggested. But to carry out entire domestic work alone was not an easy task for Sulagna. Her age related ailments like knee and back pain, and vertigo etc. were constant hindrance to her normal activity. Her husband Suryakant could not become a silent onlooker to her turmoil and was ready to render some help to his wife in her work.
Suryakant was a full fledged practitioner in medicine and had little access to kitchen and other works except the responsibility of bringing home weekly groceries, veggies and other necessary stuffs. As children were with their families working in metro cities away from home the requirement was also minimised. But he had least knowledge of cooking and other activities related to maintainance of the house. Sulgna would not allow him to come to her help apprehending he may spoil the sanctity of the kitchen.
Suryakant could feel the tumult of Sulagna and without a second thought bought a dishwasher for cleaning of utensils, a robot for cleaning and mopping of floor and a rice cooker for instant cooking. But Sulagna had to work round the clock inspite of so many appliances. She was becoming reactive to trivial things on slightest provocation.
Ma...Ma...Somebody was calling outside the door. Who was there, Sulagna's irritable voice resounded. Frustrated, she threw the broom and opened the door. It was Pabitra, the man residing in the out house of another plot 2 to 3 kms away, which belonged to them
A boy of 12 to 13 years of age with a simple half pant and white half shirt was standing by his side. When Sulagna enquired about his presence his eyes brimmed with tears. In a mournful voice he told "Ma, corona has devastated our family. My elder sister who was no less than my mother and her husband, my brother in law, both died of corona one month back. Sulagna was worried enough at his words and asked "Why did you not take them to hospital?" Pabitra replied remorsefully, "Ma, we admitted them in a Covid hospital but nothing could be done.They had joined the gathering on the occasion of Melana of Lord Krishna in Dola Purnima and taken panaa (a drink made of water,banana,sugar,and many other ingredients offered as Prasad to God) there. After a few days they were affected with severe form of corona which didn't respond to treatment. One after the other they passed away leaving us alone. Yamaraj took them away at a very young age when they were still to understand perfectly the meaning of life. He took a pause and continued pointing to the boy accompanying him, "Ma, he is the only son of my sister and he is 12 years old. At this tender age he became an orphan. I am very poor and I have nobody with me to take care of my nephew. At this hour of crisis I remembered you. You had asked me for a servant to work in your house. No lady from the village agreed to come to such distant place. Please keep this boy with you. He will obey your words and will do cleaning, mopping, washing. If you train a bit he will be of immense help to you." Pabitra wiped his tears with his towel.
"He will be under the custody of good people like you and I will be relaxed that my nephew will not starve or beg for food.This unlucky boy had to face the premature death of his parents and had to put a full stop to his study in the middle. What better option he will have than to get a shelter in your house?"
After finishing his story Pabitra could not hold his emotion and cried like a child. Sulagna 's eyes also welled up. She was short of words to pacify Pabitra. She was not ignorant how ghastly Corona was devouring the human life and devastating family after family. She could not imagine what the future had stored for all of them.
Till now she was listening quietly to all that Pabitra told about this boy and his family. She threw a glance towards the boy. His look was so innocent.
The wound that time had inflicted on him had masked the childish glow on his face. Sense of desperation and desolateness for losing his parents was clearly revealed from his grief stricken gesture.
Sulagna's heart was filled with sympathy and kindness for the unfortunate child. She was deeply engrossed in thinking about the boy who was supposed to work as a servant in her house. Her heart was not giving a nod to it. Sulagna tried to convince Pabitra she could not keep this boy as he was too young to work as a servant. She persuaded him to take him back. But in the next minute her conscience compelled her to think over her decision. Where will he go if she refused to keep him? He may beg for his livelihood or Pabitra may leave him somewhere else where his life may become miserable. Sulagna became thoughtful for a while. This is the story of many at present where the ferocity of Corona had caught the whole world by shock. At this hard time it would have been a great pleasure for her to get a helper. But Sulagna had no such feeling at present.
Pabitra was flustered to observe Sulagna's bafflement.
He uttered in a melancholic tone, "Ma I put immense faith on you. If you deny where shall I go? Two days back, after I returned from village we both tested for corona and yesterday we had our reports negative. Trust me and keep this boy as your help. I am sure you will not be disappointed and the orphan child will have a secured shelter to earn his livelihood."
Sulagna was introspecting. The child was in school going age. Children of his age were continuing their study to build their future, side by side enjoying their life playing and merrymaking. The life of an innocent child would be ruined if she denied shelter to him. She had everything in affluence by grace of God.Two children have grown up and well placed. Husband is a doctor and doing his own private practice after retirement. It would not be difficult to keep this child with her, not as a servant but as her own child. She looked again to the boy who stood silently in front of her. Streams of love, emotion and mercy flooded her heart awakening the mother in her.
Her face was gleaming with a discretion which she was confident enough to exercise.The dreadfulness of Corona had no place there, not her old age constraints. She would give shelter to this child in her house. She would bring him up like her own child. She would give shape to his life devastated by corona, a new form. Like all other children he will start going to school again. He will laugh and rejoice like all other boys of his age. She may not wipe out tears of all unfortunate children like him but she would give solace to her own self if she would build up the future of this helpless child. All her worries and listlessness were fading away. Sparkle of victory was blooming in her eyes. She could feel as if she had defeated Corona and its menacing power. A sense of self satisfaction was enkindling her entire being. She held the tender hand of the boy and entered inside the house after Pabitra bowed down before her and left.
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.
Dear Friends,
I am going to introduce you to, The Impish Lass ( TIL ) To begin with, let me tell you that she lives in your heart. Deep within all of you resides an impish lass or lad. Someone who loves breaking rules, bunking classes, loitering around, enjoying with friends, visiting different places, wandering like a free soul in the open fields, climbing trees, accepting challenges, taking risks, discovering small delights of life, appreciating beauty, experimenting new things, keeping secrets, falling in love, crying when heartbroken and ready for reconciliation. It is a common scenario for all of us.
What do you do when you look at a beautiful rose, a laughing baby, a gorgeous lady, or a handsome man? You smile, you are in high spirits, and you overlook your qualms for some time. Even TIL feels the same. After reading her story you would feel it is your story, your neighbour’s story or probably your parents’ story. Because she is one of you.
The anecdotes from her childhood have the power to make you feel happy, feel sad, feel crazy, feel relaxed. A common naughty girl wearing the naughtiest smile.
She is.... The Impish Lass.
Loads of Love,
Meena Mishra
- The Best Teacher
TIL stood beneath the sweltering, suncrested sky, her hand tightly wound around her mother’s slender fingers. The clouds were coloured a deep, effulgent golden and the long, dry grass grazed her knees. “Aai!’’ she whined, dramatically putting a hand to her waist. “I can’t walk any longer. Where are you taking me? My back is tired and if I take even a single step more, my knees will melt and break!’’ she moaned. TIL’s mother, a hefty and powerful woman swivelled around, and began laughing. “How will your knees melt?’’ she spoke, immersed in a fit of incessant giggles.
“Aai! Don’t laugh at me. It is so hot. When we eat ice cream in the sun, the ice cream melts, doesn’t it? So, the same way, my knees will melt!’’ squealed TIL, a persistent aura in her voice justifying her logic. Her mother bent down, and scooped TIL up in her strong arms, as they journeyed further. Her mother burst into song, as TIL followed suit, their song in sync with the rhythmic tinkle of her mother’s bangles. A moment later, the mother and daughter paused before a host of sunflowers. The sunflowers seemed to be outlined by the bright golden sun rays and were decked in various shades of yellow. It was absolutely overwhelming.
“Do you see the sunflowers, Rajkumari?’’ asked TIL’s mother, lovingly stroking her daughter’s head, as TIL nodded. “Look at the way the sunflower follows the sun. You will see that whenever the sun changes position in the sky, the sunflowers will follow suit. You know child, I am illiterate, but I can read the textbook of nature, which contains the alphabet of love. Every human being can understand the language of love, but that is if the human being wishes to do so. Nature holds such vivid and beautiful examples upon her pages, this scenario being one of them. The sun is the ideal teacher, and the sunflower is the ideal student, following the guru wherever the guru goes. There is so much you can learn from the sunflower, TIL. I know…. I hope you will.’’
TIL’s mother scooped up her daughter in her arms and took her back home. TIL (The Impish Lass) was a fair, chubby, eyecatching, endearing, three-year old baby with curly black locks touching the absolute centre of her forehead, and meeting in a spot between her eyebrows. She lived with her parents, uncle and a younger brother at Kali Bazaar, a small colony at Hazaribag, a small town in Jharkhand. All the people living in that locality had a soft spot for her, so much so, that whenever TIL’s mother had to go out of town, a host of brightly clad women queued up to babysit TIL. The people of the locality had nicknamed TIL – “Khazaana’’ which means treasure box. Truly, TIL was a Khazaana of love, innocence, and stories. Despite her tender age, she was an ambitious and immensely active storyteller. Her eyes would shine, and she would move her hands dramatically, while narrating tales from the magical world of her imagination. She seemed to house myriad fairylands within her three year old self, and would widen her eyes with amazement – sometimes surprised by her own tales, as she’d narrate tales about the princess who thrives on the leaves of the spinach that her mother would bring home every alternate evening. These tales, and her adorable actions were the highlights of everyone’s heart, and one could spend hours and hours listening to TIL’s narrations.
TIL’s father decided to shift to a more secure house far away from this lane. A colleague of his helped him in the process and the whole family shifted to Munka Bageecha a quieter lane of Hazaribag.
TIL always told her mother that she wanted to go to an English Medium School. Those were the days when parents preferred their kids going to the nearby municipal school, a simple hop, skip and jump from their house, at least during initial years. Her mother was an illiterate lady but thought of inquiring about her daughter’s admission. She asked many neighbours’ in the locality. One of them informed her that there was a convent school for girls, but that day was the last day for admission.
TIL and her mother visited Mount Carmel School. Both mother and daughter were thrilled to see the school. The huge campus, excellent infrastructure, spacious and well-ventilated classrooms, and the huge playground, fascinated both of them. The teachers were elegant women, clad in crisp saris. They wore their hair in tight buns and smiled lovingly at TIL. They wore minimal jewellery and yet they seemed like the most beautiful women on the face of the earth, outshining the slim, featherheaded models that often walked the ramp.
“Because the true jewels are education and learning,” spoke TIL’s mother almost reading her daughter’s thoughts. “Gold and silver do fade away one day…”
The mother requested the school authorities to fill up the admission form for her as she couldn’t read or write. They did the needful. “Shall I ask my husband before I make the payment?” She thought for a moment and then rubbed off the idea. Whatever she was doing, was for her daughter’s betterment after all. With a broad beam on her face, she made the payment. “Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with a plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding line, and no way of knowing how close the harbour was. ‘Light! Give me light!’ was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.”
These lines by Helen Keller always reminded TIL of a girl who would have lost herself or rather never discovered herself if it had not been for education. Similar is the case with millions of children across the globe, isn’t it?
TIL’s mother took a decision that finally led her to what she is today. Her urge to educate her daughter made TIL grateful to her throughout her life and the way she took the decision without referring to her father was the reason, TIL always looked up to her. The lady with sturdy virtues inspired her to be like her and take commendable decisions for the ones she loves. The virtues of this lady did not have an indelible impact solely on TIL – instead through TIL, they impacted a myriad people around her. For instance, on her first day of school, TIL’s teacher asked every student to draw their inspiration on paper. The students had filled their sheets with drawings of sportsmen and flamboyant film actors, but TIL’s subtle and neat pencil work caught the teacher’s eye. TIL had drawn a simple sunflower, colouring it a light yellow, and above the sunflower, she had drawn a majestic sun ensuring that the sunrays were the brightest orange colour. She had beautifully shown the sun rays caressing the petals of the sunflower.
“How is a sunflower your inspiration, dear?” the teacher asked her, a curious expression in her eyes.
“For me, the sunflower is the true symbol of unconditional love and respect. It looks up at the sun and follows it, wherever it goes. It does not say anything, and lets its actions speak louder than its words. It clearly considers the sun to be its guru. I also want to become like the sunflower one day. I also want to imbibe the essence of unconditional love and respect for you, ma’am, since you are my guru.’’ With these words, TIL bent down and touched her teacher’s feet. With teary eyes, the teacher blessed TIL, and held her close.
The teacher knew that the child had a fertile imagination and she could make a promising writer, if nurtured and guided. For some reason, the teacher was overwhelmed by a desire to seize the moment before her and begin just then.
“So, what do you think, my child? How does the sun teach the sunflower? What goes on in your classroom of the sky?”
“Well, ma’am… maybe the sun rays are the chalk, and the sky as the board….” began TIL.
After all, TIL had just begun.
And, as she talked on and on, delving deeper into the heart of the story, the teacher knew that now, there was no stopping her.
2 - How I Spent My First Earning
I t was a warm, summer afternoon and the sun was shining brightly in the sky. It seemed as though the sun was the heart of the sky, and within that heart, a beautiful happiness was blooming. This happiness was illuminating every cloud, every bit of blue that made the sky. A nature lover and a poet at heart, this scene was bound to make me happy. I was in grade 11, looking out of the sky and immersed in my dream world.
The peon entered our classroom and announced, "Who's Meena? The Principal has called her.
149 pair of eyes turned towards me. Scared and confused, I moved towards the Principal's cabin. My hands were shaking and a whirlwind of thoughts was raging within my mind. These thoughts were colliding with question marks and stone cold borders of doubt.
The principal was extremely happy to see me. Her eyes were moist with motherly happiness, and when I looked into her eyes, I felt I saw a bit of my mother mirrored within the depths. Hugging me she said, "Congratulations dear! You have won state level essay writing contest. Few people from the capital would be visiting our school with the cash prize and gifts for you. We will be keeping a felicitation function for you." That was my first earning of Rs 300. I held it to my heart and thanked my principal, feeling like the richest girl in the entire world. How did I spend it? I bought a casserole for my mother so that instead of rolling chapatti’s for us and serving us while we ate, she could also sit with us and have dinner together.
Even though the pride that I had felt while receiving the prize money was immense, the joy that filled my heart when my mother sat and ate with the family was irreplaceable. Of course, the cash was my first earning but more than that, my mother's chatter and laughter and my family's cacophony of friendly noise was my first earning which I have safely stored in the pockets of my heart forever.
As a teenager TIL’s head was filled with apprehension about many things. She made friends as well as enemies. There were times when she shared something with a friend considering her a confidant but found herself in hot water. There were also times when she would feel very annoyed with herself and everyone around. It was the time she felt like crying without any reason. A small positive remark from her parents, teachers and friends made her exultant but a little criticism done even in a jest made her hysterical and terribly upset. There were moments of delight and glee but equally many moments of irritation, blues, antagonism and frustration. The worst of all remarks was the one that was made on her physical appearance.
She was an average looking girl who had got fair amount of facial hair due to hormonal changes. She was shorter than other students of her class. Her physical appearance was never a concern for her till she was laughed at by Priyanka, her cousin who was her age.
TIL’s family and she would visit her maternal uncle’s place annually. As a young child she was always in awe with her cousin for the dolls and toys she possessed. She was an over pampered child unlike TIL.
This incident took place when she was in Grade 10. She was going to a photo studio with herfather to click a passport size photograph for the first board examination of her life. Priyanka suggested her to wear good clothes, do her hair properly and look good. While TIL was getting ready, she kept observing her closely.
When she was about to leave Priyanka said, “You know what? You look like a bear with this facial hair. You don’t look like a girl. See it for yourself.” With this statement she turned a small mirror that she was holding in her hand in front of her face and had a good belly laugh.
For the first time in her life TIL felt so awful, humiliated, frustrated, embarrassed, shamed and dejected.
As soon as she left the house, she burst out into tears. Her father was shocked at the sudden change in her behaviour. He kept on asking the reason for it but thought of giving her space when she refused to open up.
She was appalled at the insensitive treatment meted out against her. Somehow the photo session ended with TIL feeling shattered and devastated.
She tried a lot to overcome this incident but to no avail. It had left an indelible scar on her soul. She went through heavy bouts of depression.
One fine day she found a way out. She decided to work upon her strength rather than lamenting over her shortcomings. Then there was no looking back.
So dear readers –
Teenage is the era of mayhem and so was it for TIL. A cousin of hers portrayed her shortcomings to her amusement which had a deep effect on her. She was drowned into the sea of self-loathing and depression unless she realised that no one would take her out of it. The way to swim back had to be found only and only by her. She soon found her way and swam back to the world of illusions and stories, thoughts and words and the world of diaries and books.
She took it further by writing poems and short stories and pursued her love for literature, finally finding refuge in it. She turned out to be an over-sensitive youngster, fond of literature, in love with poetry, seeking solace in music and living in a world of fantasy quite ignorant of the ways of the girls her age.
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
It was a misty, winter’s morning. As usual, the clicking of the typewriter woke Vidya from her slumber. Through sleep-encrusted eyes, she looked at her father, who was a blur of rapidly moving fingers on the typewriter. She sat up in bed, her eyes moist with tears of fondness. She loved her bedroom. Ever since Vidya had been a young girl, the one she looked at with absolute adulation and reverence, was her father! She would look up at him, just the way a sunflower looks up at the sun. For her, her father was her world and the epicentre of her Universe, her life revolved around him. He was the beginning and the end of her world, and it was an absolute pleasure for her to catch a glimpse of her world as soon as she woke up. She looked around at her surroundings and smiled at the way her bedroom extended into her father’s study. It was almost as though her bedroom was an arm, reaching out into her father’s study, just like her childish hands had quested the fullness of a ripe mango from the pedestal of her father’s shoulder.
It had a bold and dramatic room with dark hues and luxe materials. The curtains and valance were made of velvet. Extremely robust and sturdy king-sized bed was paired with a vintage bookshelf. Her granny’s armchair was lying in the corner where she would see her mother reading the English classics. But, for Vidya, the most significant part of the room was the fireplace. When winter nights would take the fiercest of avatars, she would cuddle into her father’s lap by the fireplace, and he would hum hymns to her, running his reassuring hands through her curly, fluffy hair. Unlike other girls who had long, silky ponytails, Vidya had a mess of angry, entangled hair. Her mother had attempted to disentangle her curls since time immemorial, using exotic hair oils and shampoos from Arabia and Persia. But all these attempts were in vain. So, Vidya’s mother had taken to tying her hair with tough rubber bands and hairnets. She would often call Vidya’s hair a wild beast and say that the reins and chains were important to hold this wild beast in place.
Vidya was born to highly educated and sophisticated parents. Her father Kabir Bedi worked as a correspondent with the leading local newspaper and mother Parminder Kaur was an author cum freelance journalist. Vidya had grown up, surrounded by books, and listening to the best literature narrated by her mother. They were a very respectable family of Chandigarh. She was raised like a modern princess with the best of privileges available in the town. But looks were never a priority for this family. They did wear the best of clothes, ate the richest food available but physical beauty was never a concern. They believed in looking naturally beautiful. They never became a part of the parlour culture.
When Vidya was doing her Masters in English literature from Chandigarh University (she had to pursue literature as she had grown up learning that there is a world of difference between a person studying literature and all others). She lost her father to an untimely heart attack. Her father’s sudden death devastated her mother mentally and emotionally. She withdrew from all activities. She went through severe depression. After Vidya completed her masters, her mother decided to send her away from the gloomy environment. Vidya took up a job as a content writer in a famous publishing house and shifted to Mumbai.
The family’s financial condition did not allow her to take a separate rental apartment, so she decided to share an apartment with Archie. Archie was working at the same office as the marketing manager. It was wonderful to have someone who knew the city and office. Settling down became a cake walk for Vidya as Archie helped her at every step. Almost everyone in the office knew what favours had been done to her. Archie would boast about her generosity.
Archie was impressed by the kind of books Vidya read. She borrowed a few books saying she would return them later but, did not. Vidya felt furious but kept mum. Archie’s help and favour was becoming a burden for Vidya. She started choking. Archie’s bossy and grumpy attitude was getting too much for her to handle. On the other hand, Vidya noticed that the colleague who would congratulate her on her small achievements in office had started showing signs of jealousy towards her. Vidya had a strong hold over language as writing was in her blood. She was slowly becoming a favourite of her boss.
One day Vidya accidentally had a shower without wearing a shower cap. She had no time to dry her hair, as she was getting late for her office. This was the first time she went to the office with wet hair. Her hair was curly and fluffy since childhood, and she would be very careful about tying them properly before leaving home. Vidya was busy eating her lunch in the office canteen, when she saw Archie and two of her colleagues looking at her and giggling. “Look at her hair. It’s looking like that famous Baba,” said Archana and the three of them burst out laughing. This was too embarrassing for her. She had tears in her eyes but tried her best to hide it from them. She excused herself from the office early and cried her heart out. She recalled all the moments when her parents treated her like a princess. She knew what she had to do. She had to take charge of her life.
When Archie returned from office Vidya did not let her know what she was going through. The next day she started searching for another house and changed her residence in a week’s time while maintaining distance from Archie. Archie was surprised at her behaviour.
“Vidya, let’s go to the canteen for lunch,” Archie said, moving towards her desk.
“I have stopped eating canteen food,” was the reply.
“You can carry your tiffin dear. I miss the Punjabi delicacies cooked by you,” Archie said, trying to convince Vidya, who flatly refused.
Something in her had changed forever. She was no longer a new girl in town looking out for favours. She was strong enough to handle her work and her emotions.
It was a bright spring evening. In an extraordinarily intuitive mood, Vidya found her steps leading her to the garden, where she would often go when her heart and soul were overwhelmed with thoughts. There was a brook there, and just like the Mirror of Fortune in Snow White, the brook would give her all the answers. As she entered the garden that evening, the fragrance of sweet peas filled her senses. A gentle breeze blew, softly ruffling her entangled and messy hair like a father’s loving hand. For once, she did not restrain her hair with harsh metal clips like she had always done. She did not strangle the wild, free spirit of her hair with a net or a hairband either. Suddenly, a light drizzle started to fall. But this drizzle was not like any other. It did not hold the rhythm of rainfall. Instead, it sounded like a typewriter. Vidya smiled. Her father was truly always around her.
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Clickety Clack!
Meena Mishra is the Founder & CEO of The Impish Lass Publishing House. An award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, 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.
Minu was in a state of euphoria. just two more days for marriage. She had met her boy, a government employee and she was happy. She wished to marry only a man with a government job. She fancied it would take care of their life. This thought had crept into her mind after she witnessed the struggle of some of their relatives. Those who had government jobs or had ancestral wealth led more or less a secure life. She was one who wanted a comfortable life. Marriage can make ones life hell or heaven. But she felt to a certain extent that depended on the choice a girl made instead of just being mute when her
parents and elders' decided. The rest is in the hands of God. Many dashing young men had come to see her. Most of them were from the people with whom her father was associated. But she was not happy, they had wealth but no good job. But this alliance came through one of her maternal aunts and she liked it when she heard her aunt discussing it with her mother. He was the only son of a widowed school teacher and he had a government job, a house of his own and a bit of cultivable land too. After his father' s death the land was lying fallow, the mother took it up after her retirement and had become a good farmer in the locality.
When Raju came to see her she was a bit put off. She never expected him to be so dark or to have a face disfigured with pock marks. Added to it he had dark, crimped hair. The one redeeming feature was his smile which transformed his face with its geniality. Her cousins were aghast. But she recovered fast, looks never mattered to her. She was not a beauty herself, just a plain looking girl but very fair. This was her man and her decision was final. He was a draftsman in the PWD. She had just completed her PG and was awaiting admission for B. ED when this alliance came. She could go for B. ED and become a teacher, if the boy agreed. When the subject was brought up, the mother was delighted. She said she would allow her to complete her education and encourage her to get a job as a teacher. Her father and her relatives were also satisfied. Yes, it is going to be a good alliance. And the overwhelmed father offered 100 sovereigns as dowry. The boy and his mother smiled in consent.
All the arrangements for the marriage were done. The hall was booked, food ordered, saree was bought and the guests were invited. What remained was the purchase of gold. Her father had arranged it with a business man whom he had helped a lot when he was in service. But it would arrive only on the morning of the wedding day, as promised. Minu had no doubts about it, but her mother, knowing her father well, was a bit dubious. And there were often skirmishes over it which they hushed up when they saw her.
Being the only girl in the family, her mother and her grandparents were very particular that she should wear at least a minimum of ornaments when she came of age. And so Minu had a bit of gold on her which she constantly wore. She had no greater desires.
Her father, who was in the state police service, retired as an ASI. But all the money he got as his retirement benefits was confiscated that very day by his mistress. Minu learnt that from her mother, who had mourned for a week until he pacified her by promises of the rest of the amount he would get as gratuity. Minu was sorry for her mother, she was always abused by her father. Her mother was her father's uncle's daughter so his "mura pennu."
And she was attracted to him from her childhood because of his wild, jaunty, bonhomie, full of fun and laughter. Finally when he landed the job in the Police service, his father came up with the proposal. Her maternal grandparents were delighted. Thus a marriage of convenience. How she adjusted with him was a source of amazement to Minu.They lived in their ancestral home, where they were well looked after by her grandparents and so she hardly suffered from any want. Her mother too was well cared for. But she had often seen her mother crying secretly and her father sitting in ominous silence. Yet they were attached to each other in their own way. Minu wondered how they managed to do that. She guessed their marriage must be at least 25 years old. Her elder brother was twenty-four.
Minu was sitting on the kitchen doorstep listening to her mother as it was her wont, on holidays. Suddenly she was distracted by the nests of the weaver birds swinging in the wind far below in their coconut palm grove. Their ancestral land stretched far down into the valley, where at the boundary was the grove. A jaunty stream separated it from the viridescent paddy fields that lay beyond and rolled down to the blue horizon. The coconut trees were the haunt of weaver birds. Thousands of birds had their nests on the palm fronds.
She looked at the nests dreamily. She had grown up seeing them and hearing many stories about the weaver birds. She was fascinated by the stories of their love for each other. Most of them she had heard from her grandmother as she accompanied her to collect the random fallen coconuts and to check on the plantain trees her grandfather had planted . The she - bird would weave an elongated nest, intricately with the grass strings collected from the grassy bank of the stream. It was always a sturdy nest that no weather could destroy.
She remembered how she had found a discarded one and taken it home. She had examined it and found that the entrance was from the bottom. Out of curiosity she took a scissors and cut it into two. She was awed. The seemingly simple nest had two sections, one to lay eggs and the other a room for the she - bird to rest, she presumed. There were still a few tiny, downy feathers in the nest. On one side of the nest she found a small blob of mud. She smiled to herself. Gosh! how ingenious they are! She had heard so many stories about that too… It was the spot they stuck the fire fly to provide Iight, for them in the night...
Every nest would sport this small blob of mud. Almost human she thought. She had never ever thought that even creatures needed light inside their dwellings. She imagined them to have eye sight in the dark unlike humans. She meandered on dreamily munching on the biscuits her amma gave her as she left the kitchen.
The weaver birds' story did not end there. The he - bird and she- bird were so attached to each other from time immemorial, that they became the symbol of love and companionship in its purest form. She remembered asking her grandmother umpteen times about the small nest that hung next to the elongated one.
"Oh, that is the he - bird's nest", her grandmother would reply nonchalantly. "He made this to be close to her and watch over her and the little ones." And she would look up at the huge coconut trees and see how next to each big nest the small one hung. Every big nest had a small one close to it.
"Like achen looking after amma and us." She had piped in once. That was her first concept of an ideal marriage. The he-bird and the she- bird would live happily with their fledglings until they flew off to make their own nest. That was when she was a tiny girl of seven. Now she knew the reality. She wished Raju too would, like the weaver bird, be faithful and loyal to her and not make her cry. The thought made her get up and saunter to her room. The frequent phone calls had drawn her closer to Raju and she was excited.
The marriage day dawned. There was festivity in the air. Everyone was joyful, only her mother looked dull and her forehead was creased with worry. She slid away from her relatives and kept herself busy. Minu had noticed it. And she knew what was ailing her mother. She was sick with worry. Her father was not visible anywhere, though she could see the other men in the family chatting in the pandhal. The gold had not arrived.
Soon the bride was dressed, now what remained was decking her with gold. Her father was waiting anxiously at the gate, when a messenger came with a note from the businessman. Due to some family problem he could not buy the gold as promised so he should forgive him, after all it was only 25 sovereigns. He believed he could easily manage it with what he already had. Minu' s father almost swooned. What was he going to tell his daughter and wife and the bridegroom?
The guests were coming in and it was time to go to the hall. He broke the news to his wife and she started weeping silently. The news spread fast. Her relatives stood shocked. No one had anything to say, not even her father’s brothers. They never expected this . He could have at least told them and not wait till the last moment. Minu stood mute and rigid like a stone. She was decked with the gold gifted by her parents and relatives. But all that wouldn't count up to the hundred her father had rashly promised the boy. The boy' s family was called and the news was conveyed by her uncle. The mother gave the phone to Raju. Without any hesitation he said,
"It is ok, I wanted only Minu but you were the ones who promised 100 sovereigns. You can give her the gold later on, that too if you so desire. I asked only for the girl." Everyone gave a sigh of relief, the near tragedy was smoothly averted by the wise decision of the young bridegroom.
Minu, who had sat through the trauma like a stone statue, started crying. Tears rolled down uncontrollably. As the beautician tugged her hand and pulled her to the room where she was decked, she stopped at the window to gaze at the weaver bird colony. After all, the she - bird and the he - bird nests were still swinging gaily in the gentle breeze.
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
THE LIFE STORY OF AN EMPOWERED VILLAGE WOMAN
Usually, we regard ‘women’s empowerment’ as women breaking glass ceilings or barriers to achieve something important – especially in fields mostly occupied by men – such as being political leaders, corporate heads, top scientists, aircraft pilots and so on. These are very exciting positions, achieved by determination and perseverance. Such women provide inspiration and self-confidence to younger girls, and deserve all the accolades bestowed on them.
The term empowerment is defined in the Cambridge English Language dictionary as:
The process of gaining freedom and power to do what you want, or to control what happens to you. [https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/empowerment]
Thus, it is up to each woman what she wants to do and how she controls her environment – often overcoming the hurdles in a male-dominated society.
With this underlying meaning of empowerment, we find that there is another category of empowered women who have not received as much applause or attention – those who overcome massive obstacles and reach their ultimate goals – not to better themselves but to help others; whose hearts cry for the unfortunate; who cannot sleep at night thinking of those in need. Below is the story of one such woman, born more than a century ago in a rural village of Odisha, who had touched many lives and brought hope and happiness to many families through her self-acquired power and dedication.
The person and her childhood:
Her name was DhAnamani, and she was born in a lower middle class Brahmin family in a village near Puri, in the year 1892. They were three sisters, DhAna being the youngest, followed by a brother. When she was still very young, her mother died – forcing her two elder sisters to take care of the household, and DhAna to look after the little brother. Unfortunately, one day the little boy wandered off and got drowned in a backyard pond. Since then, the father punished her in every conceivable way for being the cause of the loss of the ‘family jewel.’ Her maternal uncle and aunt, who lived in a nearby village, took pity on DhAna and took her under their wings for a few days. There, they introduced her to another young girl, seven-year-old Radhamani, and established their spiritual sisterhood as GangaPani - water of the river Ganges, pure and divine.
Marriage and widowhood:
DhAnamani was a slim, tall, brown-skinned girl with lots of dark hair, but not considered pretty those days, as fair-skinned, short, plump girls were preferred in the marriage field. So she got married to the second son of a lower middle class Brahmin family in a nearby village, called Sri Ramachandrapur, and left for her in-laws’ house. She was very adept at taking care of the household, but unfortunately, her husband, under the tutelage of her jealous older sister-in-law, constantly berated her as ugly and tortured her both physically and mentally. She had no place to turn to, but luckily, her childhood GangaPani was married and settled in a neighboring house in that village, and visited her often – but being a young bride herself, could not assist DhAna much. After a few years, out of desperation, one day DhAna tried to commit suicide but was rescued at the last moment. Afterwards, the husband treated her a little better, and they adopted a young boy, since DhAnamani was childless. To her misery, in a few years, both the husband and the boy died of some untreatable disease, living her a childless widow at the age of 25. The plight of such young, barren widows in the orthodox societies of that time was beyond description. So before he died, the remorseful husband called for the friend Radhamani and made her promise to look after her GangaPani after his demise, to which she agreed eagerly and whole-heartedly.
Start of a long journey:
At that point, Radhamani was a mature, intelligent and courageous woman of 23, the mistress of a respectable middle class family in a Brahmin Shasan. She was the caretaker of her old parents-in-law, her young children and the household, her husband being away most of the time on bigger causes for the country. She was very well-informed, self-motivated, and quite progressive for her time. She convinced DhAna to come and live with her as a family member, and to take part in everything. Slowly DhAna developed confidence in herself – which she had lacked being constantly mistreated and berated since childhood. She also improved her educational skills.
The progressive Radhamani, however, had more ambitious plans for her friend. She wanted DhAna to stand on her own feet, developing skills much needed in the orthodox, poor villages those days. She must have also seen an eagerness in her friend to take care of others. So she talked to her husband and arranged for DhAna to get midwife training in the nearby Sakhigopal hospital for attending to pregnant women and delivering babies, an unheard-of profession for a conservative Brahmin widow at that time. DhAnamani took the training very willingly, and started her long journey towards becoming the most revered and sought after ‘delivery doctor’ in all the villages within a ten-mile radius; the farthest she could go in a bullock cart in a few hours.
DhAnamani’s unparalleled skills:
She established her admiring client circle, who revered her and regarded her as Amruta Hasta, not only for her skills, but also because of the human elements accompanying it. Her tall, reserved, compassionate figure, clad in a plain tusser or white cotton sari, evoked confidence and respect. She had a keen understanding of the hardships then faced by pregnant women in most middle and lower middle class families; the lack of good diet, rest, mental happiness, plus unknown gynics problems. A woman with several daughters but no son, or one whose children were born or died prematurely, faced unbearable mental agony during pregnancy. Most women and their families could not imagine going to a hospital or seeing a male doctor. They needed a competent female gynecologist, as well as a friend, a psychologist, a nutritionist, a cheerleader - and all that for little or no charge. DhAnamani fulfilled all these roles without effort and without reservation. Below are just two examples of her gynics and social skills.
Reviving a stillborn: She had a standing order for clients that before her arrival, if a baby was born but appeared dead, not to take it out for burial but to wait for her. She could determine if the baby could be revived with proper tricks to clear the fluid from the lungs, increase oxygen flow, etc., and she would often revive the baby. No gynecologist of the area could top her in that.
Blessed ghee and other tricks to aid women: DhAnamani knew that the poor diet of village women – like pakhala, badi and saga, would no way supply the protein and other nutrients a frail pregnant woman would need for carrying and delivering a full term, healthy baby. She would easily figure out, from the look of a woman, her nutritional deficiencies, and would tell the head of the family that she would send them a few kg of ‘mantura’ ghee, blessed by Lord Lingaraj himself, and it must be given to the pregnant woman with hot rice and customized good side dishes – otherwise it would show disrespect to the God. The family would of course comply, and be finally blessed with a full term baby. She would similarly play other gimmicks to convince the family that if a boy was born, it was the mother’s good deeds, but if it were a girl, the family had bad graha. Surprisingly, she was so revered for her real skills that people believed her and followed such biddings – which rescued so many young women from the clutches of death and/or the curse of the cruel society of that time.
As people trusted her more than any doctor, especially for difficult pregnancies, DhAnamani was always sought after. She would go by foot or by bullock cart; and in rainy days would cross rivulets in small boats. Once, when the boat had been swept away, she changed her saree to wear it like a man and asked the would-be-father to take her across the water on his shoulders. As she got frail, she would even go on the back of a bicycle, clutching her medicine bag. She never felt inhibited to do such things; her only goal was to reach the patient quickly. She never asked for fees, but people admired her and gave her whatever they could, and she spent most of it buying nutrition for poor, pregnant women. When she was very old, at night, she would sleep with a stick at her side, with instructions to poke her with it – in case she could not hear an emergency call. However, people had enough sense not to bother her with night calls at such age.
In recognition of her selfless, high skilled and much-needed service to the community, a two bed women’s delivery room in the Sakhigopal hospital was named after her as Dhanamani Matrumangala Kendra, with a proper signboard display. Unfortunately, at present it is not there anymore – for reason unknown!
The patriotic side:
Like her friend, DhAnamani was inspired by Gandhiji’s Indian Independence Movement and was jailed in Puri for civil disobedience. When she got very sick there, the Puri jailor wanted to release her to the care of her relatives, but DhAnamani refused to leave until her term was over. She told him: “Don’t worry; you are all like my children. Whatever care you would provide, that will be sufficient for me.” In her old age, she was given some forms to fill out, as the Indian Government was going to pay stipend to aged freedom fighters. She laughed aloud about the idea of being paid for demanding the freedom of her own country, and tore up those forms.
Unfailing devotion to her friend:
DhAnamani never outwardly praised Radhamani for her help, but it remained etched in her heart. She blended so completely with her friend’s family that most people, including the family’s children and grandchildren, until their adulthoods, were unaware that they were not blood-relatives. She stood by her friend at her times of need, took complete charge of the household on occasions Radhamani had to leave the village home to take care of her ailing husband staying with the children in town, or to attend family functions there. Following the Hindu custom, DhAnamani had adopted a son from one of her relatives, took care of his school and college education, got him married to a nice girl. They lived close by; but she never spent a night there. She breathed her last in 1978, in Radhamani’s presence, in the house she regarded as her own.
My connection to DhAnamani:
One might ask, how do I know of this village midwife DhAnamani; what is my connection to her? The answer is – First: Long ago, a young would-be-mother, like many others, wanted this skilled midwife (instead of a doctor from the nearby Sakhigopal hospital) to aid in the birth of her first child. DhAnamani helped deliver the child. It was a breech baby, blueish and breathless – soon given up as stillborn by everyone present, but not by DhAnamani. Due to her rigorous, non-stop, hot-water exercises conducted on the baby, the presumed-dead newborn cried after forty minutes, announcing to the world that she was alive after all. I was that baby, a testament to DhAnamani’s confidence, perseverance and superb gynics skills. Second, and equally important, is that she was my most beloved Bada Aai, her GangaPani Radhamani being my grandmother or Aai. My cousins and I spent many a summer vacation in Aai’s house, bothering Bada Aai tirelessly, but eagerly assembling every evening around her to listen to exciting fairy tales. Our favorite mischief was to call her from behind, regarded as a bad omen, when she was about to start on her auspicious homeopathic and nursing rounds. She had to turn back and restart.
Some of the facts, especially about DhAnamani’s young days, I read in my aunt, Sahitya Academy Award winner, Smt. Rama Devi’s autobiographical collection: Rama Devi Rachana Sambhara.
My take-away from DhAnamani’s story:
My main purpose of telling this empowerment story, besides paying homage to the lady who gave me a new life, is to bring attention to three related areas:
- Women’s empowerment as selfless dedication to a worthwhile cause,
- Importance of women helping women to provide confidence and opportunity,
- Plight of widows in India, especially in rural sectors. In empowering women, we should not leave this segment behind to a cruel fate dictated by the orthodox society.
The first point is that, as told in its definition, empowerment means doing what we want to do, but it does not have to be something big, extraordinary, or something to advance yourself. A stay-at-home mother happily taking care of young children, a dedicated school teacher making sure that students learn their lessons, a farmer’s wife willingly helping her husband in the field, in my judgment, are all examples of empowered women. Often, these women do overcome other competing and conflicting demands to do what they want to do. They should get equal respect and admiration. Moreover, “what you want to do” includes desire to be an enabler, to advance others, rather than simply focusing on yourself. And one does not have to be Mother Theresa to garner admiration, a person like DhAnamani is quite admirable as well.
The second is that, the role of women in empowering other women cannot be overemphasized. In my opinion, sympathetic women can relate to the pain, the helplessness, and the desire to overcome adversity, in other women much better than men can. They can more easily win the trust, extend a helping hand, and assess the best course. In case of DhAnamani, without her more fortunate friend, who supported, encouraged and respected her throughout her life, this admirable story might not have been possible. But this undertaking is a grave responsibility, with no one-size-fits-all solution. It requires deep understanding of the context, personal ability, preferences and patience. Otherwise, it would do more harm than help.
The last topic centers around the plight of young widows in India, especially in our villages, regarded as the soul of India by Mahatma Gandhi. No doubt we have made great strides in improving village lives from the pre-independence era; but status of widows, especially in Hindu society, lags behind that in the rest of the world. Usually widows still cannot remarry, are excluded from most religious functions, subjected to rigorous dietary restrictions and compulsory religious fasting. The life of a childless village widow is still regarded as meaningless. Even in cities, young widows face criticism for deviations from age-old traditions. Fortunately, now-a-days, many are able to have jobs and earn their livelihoods; but that should not be the end of a widow’s ambitions, her dreams! Until our society takes up their cause and removes the stigmas concerning widows, our journey for women’s empowerment won’t be complete.
Dharitri Misra grew up in Bhubaneswar and got her PH. D. in Physics from University of Maryland, USA. She worked as a technical lead in Spacecraft command and communications areas at NASA, and later as a research scientist in advanced machine learning projects at NIH, from where she retired in 2021. She likes to spend her spare time in reading, gardening and on various domestic pursuits.
A BRIEF ENCOUNTER WITH THE RESILIENT LEAF
It was a Sunday morning. I went out for my routine morning walk inside the society premises.
As I was engrossed in finishing my last leg of round,I heard a gentle swishing sound very muffled calling me from behind.
The rustling leaves in cool morning breeze requested me to halt a bit.I saw the iron bench in a corner of the lawn and I obliged to sit down under the champa tree with branches swinging down laden with green foliage and fragrant white flowers.
I always see it from my ground floor varandah and long to feel the sweetness and divinity but can't because of morning chores to rush to work in week days.
But to day was different.
I was in a leisurely mood.I looked at the bowing leaf almost touching me.I gently touched it and felt it's tenderness and the life force running through it.
It was a feeling never before !!
The silent conversation between us started. The leaf responded brushing against me in return.I knew it said Hello to me. I asked how are you ? It replied in enthusiasm that it is busy on duty and has no Sunday or holiday.I asked what makes you so much pre occupied ?Still you wanted me to talk to you today ?The leaf simply looked at me and smiled thankfully as I complied it's request and obliged.It had a good company in me who sat and listened.
Then it started to elaborate the routine how it is helping the tree to deliver the goods for the purpose the tree is rooted to the ground.The food cooked in its kitchen is proving energy to grow.The trees and plants in turn feed man and herbivore animals and the ultimate aim is fulfilled.
Leaves are utilising the harmful carbon dioxide and providing life saving oxygen to human beings,animals and birds.
I suddenly interrupted it and said fine. We all know these from our text books from school days. We have drawn diagrams of photosynthesis at the chlorophyll kitchen.I encouraged it
to tell me more about its life.
It started rustling again and said proudly,
"Look dear !
I am very happy that I help trees to be strong to protect beautiful earth from natural calamities like flood and prevent soil erosion.You must have read also that we transform and modify our designs to suit different environments to thrive. We become spines to protect us,be very thick in desert cacti to hold scarce water,become thin wired tendrils in a creeper or tiny offshoot as leaflets for delivering our duties.
You people like this name- leaflet. You had developed a software by same name to support your computer ! "
I suddenly remembered my duty back at home and stood up . Then I was feeling small before it's greatness.I visualised a Book of Resilient Leaf. The open book depicted conglomeration of science, art and culture. I had picked up a leaf of the great book ,the glimpse of which left me calm, motivated and happy .I promised myself to read it recto and verso to fully assimilate the value and contribution of it .
I thanked and waved bye to it for the day.I decided to sit and have a chat again next Sunday and take another leaf of the great book under study.
The dewdrops on moist green leaves were shimmering in soft slender Sun rays piercing through multiple crevices of thick foliage and had started evaporating slowly.It waved at me and told
"Hey friend ! Don't forget to take care of me.Because you know when my tree is hurt I am withered and dead. There is sadness and decay.When I am green I depict hope and revival as I am the symbol of fertility and growth.I represent life of a cosmic living tree of the universe."
I was left awestruck !!!
I had started respecting and loving it more.I promised to render care in return.I went home to prepare a special Sunday breakfast in my kitchen with renewed energy I had gathered that morning sitting under the beautiful Champa tree. I enjoyed the whole day relaxed texting to my near and dear ones.
A day very well spent and I was grateful to the Almighty Creator.
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.
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT A MONUMENT THAT SWEARS IN THE NAME OF DEMOCRACY
The monument we are speaking of here is the Democracy Monument in the Heart of Bangkok , the capital of Thailand. Bangkok is well known as the Venice of the East .In 1932 a coup d'état by a military junta (also known as the "Siamese Revolution of 1932") had led to the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in what was then the Kingdom of Siam. The coup was led by a military leader, Field Marshal Plaek Phibunsongkhram (Phibun). It was under Phibun that the Democracy monument was commissioned in 1939 to commemorate the 1932 revolution.
The Democracy Monument is situated near to the famous Khaosan Road in Wat BowonNiwet, Phra Nakhon, Bangkok .The design of this monument was done by ChitrasenAphaiwong. The construction was closely monitored by Italian-born artist, Silpa Bhirasi. At the time of construction of this monument it was highly unpopular, and people were unexcited as the space required for the monument means shopkeepers and residents had to be dislodged from their shops and homes respectively and many trees had to be cut there.
The monument center has a carved representation of a palm leaf manuscript holding the Thai constitution of 1932, on top of two golden offering bowls. The constitution is surrounded by four wing like structures representing four branches of Thai armed forces – army,navy,air force and police which carried out the 1932 revolution. The central tower is 3 meters representing the month of June (which is 3rd month according to Thai calendar). The four wings are 24 meters and so as the radius of the base of the monument based on 24 June when the revolution took place in the year 1932. There were 75 small cannons around the outer ring of the monument representing the revolution year 2475 according to Buddhist calendar. The six gate of the center tower represents the six polices of the Phibun regime: independence, internal peace, equality, freedom, economy, and education. Naga fountains are found at the base of two wing structures. Naga depicts the protective snake creatures of Hinduism and Buddhism mythology. It also resembles the western dragons. The panel in one of the towers titled "Soldiers Fighting for Democracy” shows how their army is fighting for democracy. The panel titled "Personification of the People" shows a soldier protecting the Thai people while they go about their civil pursuits. The panel titled "Personification of Balance and Good Life" represents the social ideology of the military regime. Interestingly Monarchy is the most striking feature conspicuous by its absence from the iconography of the Monument , though it is the focal point of Thai national life and political culture even today.
Thailand has seen a number of military coups time and again . Interestingly the Democracy Monument has been the rallying point for people to gather in protests or demand for enlargement of their freedom and political participation or overall political reforms. Last year on November 14 Thai pro democracy protestors gathered at this place with anti government slogans in the banner and called for reforms of the monarchy. I had the opportunity to visit Bangkok this year(2022) May and I visited this democracy monument where I saw large rally of people marking the Labour Day on May 1. Here in the rally different groups of labour committee workers were parading with Thailand flags and their group committee flags with their vernacular slogans. Different groups were differentiated based on the colour of the dress which they were wearing and they had different flags. It was a huge rally with a lot of people but at the same time they made sure that they are in proper queue and the road passage for different vehicles was smooth.
It was a colourful long march extending miles in which children were also taking part, slogans were being raised , people were on foot and some moving in groups on vehicles , giving a picture of people’s power and a feeling of festivity. One of the banners read ,”We oppose globalization “ Police was controlling the procession locating itself in strategic points , but the procession itself was peaceful and just slogan mongering . It reminded me of a statement that Democracy is a process and not a State .
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore
Alpha; a girl from 2118
Dev, Supraja, Tejas- Children of present day
Dev, Supraja and Tejas are chatting with each other holding a book, a bicycle and a cell phone.
Dev: Hey, look! I see some light over there.
Supraja: Oh! You day dreamer! You are always day-dreaming. You are always in the land of aliens (mockingly smiles).
Dev: Hmm…(angrily)…look at that…. it’s even getting bigger.
Tejas: Yes (with astonishment)! I too see that. Hey, it’s getting bigger. Let’s run from here. Am so afraid (with fear)
Dev: Hey! You chicken-hearted boy. Wait I’ll handle it.
Supraja: No Dev, aliens are good for storybooks, it does look like a real UFO. Let’s hide somewhere.
Dev: Wait….someone is there…who’s there? (Stammering) who’s there?
Alpha: Don’t worry. I’m Alpha. You can call me your friend.
Dev: Alpha…hmmm…where did you come from? And why should we believe you?
Alpha: I’ve come with a mission. I want you to take you all with me to our time.
All three: What!!! How!!! How have YOU come here?
Alpha: It’s pretty easy. I’ve come here by time machine.
Dev: But what does Time machine did to you that you came here?
Alpha: Simple. Time machine converted me into energy and transmitted me here and again materialized me in to my present form.
Supraja: Ummmm…Couldn’t understand how. But anyway from your dress and talks I feel you are truly from some other time.
Other two nodded.
Alpha: Hey! What’s that you are leaning on?
Tejas: Oh! That’s a cycle. What do you do to travel in your land? We kids travel by this…then when we grow up we have bikes and cars.
Alpha: Strange! I’d read something like your cycle. We travel by flying discs…no pollution, high speed and very convenient. For longer distances this Time Machine.
Supraja: Hey! What’s your name? I totally forgot to ask your name? I’m Supraja, he’s Tejas and he’s Dev the Don (giggles).
Alpha: Why do I need a name? We are all the same in our time. We all do the same work. We can read minds of each other. So just we have to think and the other person knows about our wants.
Rest 3 look at each other in dismay. How???
Alpha: What are you holding in your hand Tejas?
Tejas: It’s a book?
Alpha: Book?
Tejas: Yes, a story book. An imaginary incident is recorded in elaboration.
Alpha: Give it to me, let me see. Hey, where is it’s power button? You don’t have a charging point.
Rest 3 laugh aloud….
Supraja: What? (Laugh) It’s a book , now don’t say that you haven’t seen a book. We get lot of knowledge out of it. What you people have?
Alpha: (Swings her hands in air) Here. Whatever information you want it’s available here. It’s a virtual screen.
But Supraja what sound you made?
Dev: What do you mean what sound (shrugs)! She laughed at her naiveté. Now you don’t tell that laughing is new for you.
Supraja and Tejas go around Alpha looking from top to toe.
Both: Correct! She’s just queer. She doesn’t have any emotions…no laugh, no sadness, no excitement..whoa! How do you live even!
Alpha: We don’t need any emotions. We can feel each other’s feeling. No pretentions, no lies and hence no emotions.
Come to our world and see how simple life is.
Rest 3 look at each other…
Dev: Sorry buddy! We are fine with our slower pace. At least we have emotions. We feel for each other.
Tejas: Sometimes we feel sad but then when we get smaller happiness we feel so ecstatic!
Supraja: OMG! Your world is soooooo boring! If you give me 1000 crores also I’ll think twice before going to your world. You please go back. We are happy with what we have.
Alpha: OK. I can study your minds. In next 20 years also you’ll not join me to visit our world. But I too don’t understand how you people live with so many variations.
Rest 3: Bye bye buddy…and take this book as a gift from your forefathers…all laugh aloud
Alpha tries to laugh but fails …..disappears into dark.
Rest 3: Hooof! Was that a nightmare! Who can live like that…we don’t want our life fast forward…nooooo.
®®®
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.
After my intermediate examination was over I proceeded to my aunt’s house for a break and to spend few days of the summer vacation. A big surprise was waiting for me there. In an aluminium suitcase in one corner of the house there were some English novels and my joys knew no bounds. The first novel I grabbed was the much acclaimed novel of Mulk Raj Anand titled’ Untouchable’. The next was ‘ Coolie ‘. A new world unfolded before me with these novels and I became an instant fan of Mulk Raj Anand. His characters in these novels were from the lower strata of the society undergoing suffering amidst poverty and squalor. While Untouchable was published in 1935 , Coolie got published the next year. The author had tried to give a realistic view of life of these marginalised people of the society in the era of pre- independence India. He was a committed writer greatly influenced by Gandhiji and his philosophy. In fact before publication of the Untouchable he showed the manuscript to Gandhiji and stayed in his Ashram for few days. He had to edit the original manuscript on the advice of Gandhiji.
Born in Peshawar now in Pakistan in 1905 his early life was spent in Punjab. He had learnt the art of story telling from his mother. During his college days he participated in freedom struggle against British government and courted arrest. In 1925 he graduated from Punjab University with English honours and proceeded to London for higher studies with a scholarship. In 1928 he got PhD from London University and then got associated with T. S. Eliot’s literary journal’ The Criterion’. His interest in literature continued even after returning to India and he published his novels and short stories one after another. It brought him instant recognition as a frontline writer and one of the finest voice of Indian English literature. He got International Peace Prize in 1952, Padma Bhushan in 1967 and E. M. Forster Award in 1978 for his writings. He breathed his last in 2004 after an eventful life but left behind a legacy worth remembering.
Mulk Raj Anand was the founder and first editor of Marg, a journal dedicated to promotion of Indian art traditions. It came out for the first time in 1946 and revealed another facet of his personality as a serious art critic. His focus was to highlight the rich art traditions of India before the world audience. Fortunately, the TATAs came forward to fund the ambitious project at the initial days. Now it’s 75 years old as a prestigious publication being published by the Marg Foundation and has gone digital keeping pace with modern technology. One can access the latest as well as the back issues online. Besides, with patronage of Government of India it also undertakes the task of identifying, cataloguing and publicising the nation’s heritage in the visual and performing arts as well as the sculptures and monuments.
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.
Dr.Lee was a doctor working at the government hospital at Wuhan province in China. A man of great distinction and unfathomable abilities - nevertheless, he was one wedded to his medical profession. He always came to the hospital on time and was always the last to leave. His indomitable spirit and energy was the envy of all the fellow doctors at the Wuhan Hospital.
Dr.Lee was around forty years now - quite what is considered middle age in China. His mind always revolved around his patients and their treatment. In fact, he was quite unlike anyone in his group. He was least interested in women or marriage. In fact, the fear of committing himself to another human being seemed an unthinkable idea to him. To him, it was like committing adultery. He had never been able to think about his own marriage.
But things had changed over the last one month. Dr.Luli, the new apprentice doctor at the hospital, had entered his life. She was living true to her name, which meant 'dewy jasmine'. The fragrance of her honesty and compassion seemed to fill a gaping void in his heart.
Right now, she was standing there at the corner of the hospital building. It was Dr.Lee, who began the conversation.
'Hello, Luli! Am I glad to see you!?' said Dr.Lee.
'Good Morning, Dr.Lee! Is it not a fine day!? said Luli. 'How many patients are getting discharged today, doctor?'
'Luli, there are 4 patients, who are getting discharged today. With this, there are no more in-patients. I should be able to leave, early today,' Dr.Lee smilingly replied and continued the conversation. 'Would you like to join me for dinner?'
Dr.Luli liked Dr.Lee. He was a gregarious person - bursting with talent, energy and kindness. She wanted to know him better. She immediately responded to Dr.Lee's request.
'Sure, doctor! I know of a good restaurant, which is near to our hospital. We can go there, together.'
Dr. Lee and Dr.Luli parted joyfully expecting to meet again by evening.
Around 12 noon, there was a call from the Ministry of Health to the Department of Pulmonology, Wuhan Hospital.
Dr. Lee picked up the call. A commanding voice boomed from the other end.
'Good morning, doctor. This is special secretary, Department of Health, who is speaking to you.'
'Good morning, Sir!' replied Dr.Lee.
'I have bad news. There seems to a dangerous viral outbreak. Two people from our Wuhan province were found with severe sneezing, cough, feverishness and other symptoms at a Superstore. Our men have brought them, here. Research at our facility has identified this as some kind of a virus. There must be further studies on them. Your internal laboratory is the top notch lab. I am sending the duo to you. Have them quarantined and begin their treatment.'
Dr.Lee responded. 'Sure, Sir. Please send them over.'
The two patients arrived at the state run Wuhan Hospital premises by 2.30 p.m. Their outfits reminded Dr.Lee of the Chinese astronauts, who had recently left for the International Space Station.
Just by looking at them, Dr.Lee guessed that something was seriously amiss. He asked the two to come to his office. He examined their tongue, ears, nose and throat regions. He had a swab test done on them, immediately. They were sent for further testing at the internal lab.
Half an hour later, Dr.Lee heard a panicky voice at the other end, which confirmed his worst fears.
'Dr. Lee, we have detected a new species of the Corona virus in your patients. They must be quarantined for the next two weeks with immediate effect.'
Dr. Lee called Dr.Luli to come to his office, immediately. He appraised her about the extreme situation.
Dr.Lee put the two men on intensive anti- viral treatment, immediately. As he left his two patients after a second over-view of the situation, he felt weak. The dreaded virus had attacked him, too.
Dr.Luli recognised the symptoms and put him on quarantine and began anti- viral treatment for Dr.Lee, immediately. Dr.Lee could not make it. Dr. Lee and Dr.Luli's dinner was never meant to be.
However, Dr.Lee's treatment of the two patients worked. They were discharged after 14 days. His line of treatment for the COVID -19 virus became the favoured method of treatment for the dreaded virus all over the world. By now,the COVID-19, named so by the World Health Organisation had become the biggest scare of the century.
Meanwhile, while the rest of the world grappled with multiple issues, Dr.Luli was left with mere memories and dreams.
Dr. S. Padmapriya is a well known poet and writer from India. She began writing poems in English at the tender age of seven. She is the author of three poetry collections – ‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’ and ‘Galaxy’ as well as one novel, ‘The Fiery Women’ and ‘Fragments’, a collection of short stories. Her poems, short stories, book reviews, articles and other literary works have been published far and wide. She is a multi-faceted personality with experience in teaching, research and administration.
MY LIFE AN INSTRUMENT OF LEARNING
Sunanda Pradhan
Learning is a never-ending process of life. When one stops learning, one becomes old. When one is convinced that what one knows is nothing compared to all which remains to be known,when one feels that what one has done nothing compared to all which remains to be known, when one feels that what one has done , is just the starting point of what remains to be done ,when one sees the future like an attractive sunshine with innumerable possibilities yet to be achieved then one feels young. By learning one stays young. A thought "I know everything" in the mind prevents us from learning. Lifelong learning is an asset which no one can rob however skillful one may be.That is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to be acquired . One should always keep his eyes and ears open to learn various aspects of life.
The best way of not becoming old is to make progress , the goal of our life.
One can learn from anyone wheather from a child or a person who is doing menial jobs. Every person has some divine attributes.
My first and foremost guru was my father. Basically I have learnt many things from four people. My father, my mother, my father in law, and my mother in law .All of them played a very important role in shaping me to what I am today. It was not that they did not have any bad qualities or short-comings but I used to close my eyes to their negativity , never raising those thoughts in my mind.
My father's unimaginable potential to inspire others helped me in finding solutions at the time of
difficulty . Over the years I have developed a reading habit which I had seen my father doing .He was very fond of reading life stories of great people at his leisure .such a down to earth, kindhearted, caring personality inspired me to a great extent.
Unlike my father, my mother had her own special characteristics. Such a bold, highly confident lady with very strong likes and dislikes. An extremely knowledgeable lady with very few of her contemporaries could match . In spite of no formal education she could talk to anyone holding any position in any matter, whether it was political , geographical or historical, any sphere. She was an encyclopedia of knowledge incomparable to anyone, with tremendous memory power. In spite of three major brain operations she did not loose her memory rather she could speak extempore in any field. Beacuse of her strong will power she could survive 33 long years even after she had met with a severe accident in which she lost one of her eyes.
I learnt from my mother the attitude of self confidence. I tried to change my attitude of apprehension by remembering her when I face any health issues .
After marriage, I came to my in law's place , and found my father in law to be a very carefree person devoid of any worries and very clean at heart. On the other hand, my mother in law was a completely different personality . What an epitome of hard work, difficult to comprehend.
Over the years I tried to inculcate
these virtues of my elders slowly and step by step.
During my childhood till youth, along with formal studies I had learnt many other things like music, cooking, baking , singing, etc because my father used to believe in integral education. So he gave me the opportunity to learn various things.
Apart from book studies and other things, I tried to learn from our support system too, like house maids, drivers, peons etc. A few of these people I still remember.
After marriage when I came to Bisnupur there was an elderly person called Kesto kaku, a fatherly figure for me .He used to teach me about household things like how to spend money and save it.Though I have never asked about his spending our money he used to spend meticulously and keep track of every single penny by maintaining a small diary. I have no words to appreciate him. Though in the later part of my life I wrote an interesting story about him - "Kesto kaku and hundred gm fish".
Then came another elderly man named Narayan in Nadia. His style of talking is worth mentioning. Whenever he used to communicate he used to be half bent .I was not able to understand the necessity of this gesture. That was his signature style of politeness. In fact Britishers have left their mark on these type of people , how to pay respect to the boss.
What to talk about Darjeeling, my husband's next place of posting. The culture was purely westernised ..Britishers have left their marks in this hill station fully. Subordinates were like the 'ji huzoor' type. Height of humbleness, paying so much respect to the master.
The next memorable person was Ganesh, our driver in Kolkata for 10 years. He had so much love and respect for both of us that it is difficult describe.
What to talk about the guard Amrish, an epitome of sincerity and the house maid Vimla, a lady with a permanent smile, in Delhi!!
At last the supporting staff at Bangalore. The young energetic duo - one driver and the other the house helper. They were like two "genies" for me - whatever I ordered they were always ready to serve without slightest hesitations.
Among all these people two things were common, one was devotion and the other sincerity. And I have learnt many things from all these staff of ours at different places simply by observing them.
After coming to Bangalore I developed more interest in spirituality which I am learning from my daughter, and my son-in-law as well . After my father I think they are my spiritual guides. I am learning from the two grand children too. My 13 year old grand son is very good at English who writes poems at leisure and helps me in editing my write ups. The 9 year old one gives me tips in using interesting words.
Last but not the least,
I learnt to be self disciplined and organised from my husband by staying with him over the years, which is a very important aspect of my life!!
I have read from Srimad Bhagavatam that saint Avdut had 24 gurus he tried to learn from God's creations of nature like sun, moon, air, water, earth, sea, sky, snake , pigeon, spider, moth, fish, and so on. Similarly I tried to learn from everyone I came across closely something or other throughout my journey of life. I am thankful to God for giving me so many opportunities in my life. I conclude with Mahatma Gandhi's quote - "Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever."
Sunanda Pradhan is an enterprising lady who keeps interest in various facets of life. She wants to be amidst nature whenever given an opportunity, whether it is on top of a calm mountain or beside a tranquil sea beach. Perhaps those moments help her in expressing herself the best. She likes to spend her time taking care of her balcony garden and reading books on philosophy. She also enjoys the fun moments spent with her two grandsons and teaches them the values of life.
NO ONE CAN GO IN
Satya N. Mohanty
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Inderjit Shekhawat was surprised that he’d tested Corona positive. Given his age he was advised ICU treatment. But given his primacy in the state, a full-fledged ICU had to shift into his bungalow. Doctors, nurses, and equipment were shifted
in lock stock and barred. It was a three shift duty and some additional manpower also came in the tow. Had he shifted to the hospital, it would have raised eyebrows and the gossip mill of the capital would have started working overtime. That wasn’t too good for the regime in power. This stealthy arrangement helped. There were enough accommodation for the doctors, nurses and other helpers in the sprawling campus.
Inderjit wasn’t exactly pleased that so many health professionals have shifted to his bungalow denying their services to others. He knew the pressure on the ICU was heavy. That didn’t leave him with a good feeling. But he was prepared to go along with the idea as an occupational hazard. The tradeoff was clear, put the establishment in a tizzy or the opposition in high spirit or give the impression that nothing has happened. He was already seventy and he knew he
was in a vulnerable category.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t careful. If at all, his approach had been extra careful. He’d stopped meeting people, all his interaction was on video conference. Even the cabinet meeting where an impression was given that the meeting took place in a single venue was actually a curated photograph in which he attended a video conference and other attended in a different sitting arrangement than the normal. It was explained away as social distancing seating arrangement. The photographs as well as his videos were selectively released to the TV and Press.
For the last six months, every meeting including his official interactions was always on the VC. In a way his bungalow had become an impregnable fortress. He was a bachelor and he had a need for female companionship.
Normally, after ten thirty, the CC TV of the bungalow used to be switched off till to six in the morning. During this time, his favorites visited him. But there was no finger print, no trail or no evidence. But even that had to be stopped during the
Corona time. These interactions were marked by closest physicality and were an invitation to the danger of infection. If any of them was positive, there was risk to his health and reputation. A life of six months of self-denial still resulted in infection was a surprise by itself. Where it came from wasn’t known. His domestic staff stayed in campus so they could at best be carriers as they used to go home for a week after every two weeks of duty. It could be traced back but
finally it was of no consequence as he was already Covid-19 positive now.He was wondering about the inevitability of fate. All his readings were in thin tracts produced by the party. The whole medieval history could be reduced to thirty to forty pages until Shivaji came. Shivaji was the subject matter of an independent tract. The knowledge imparted was uncluttered with single minded focus. Any elaboration would make the mind mixed up.That was what the party seriously believed.
He'd also read about King Parikshit. Accursed by a Rishi, he knew that he would die in a week. Everything in the palace was locked up but finally the serpent king Takshak bit him. He came into his chamber as an insect among fruits until he took the shape of serpent at the appointed time. How was he going to be protected, if it was his fate?All along he had believed that epics teach us lessons. But he was smart enough to quote them and do exactly opposite and that had helped him to climb up. But somewhere in his mind he had a faint belief that they can’t go completely wrong. Stiff security had informed him that everything was closed. They put three circular webs of protection around him and no one was allowed to meet him. Not even his cabinet colleagues were allowed to come in. He was assured by the security that in his interest they were shutting
off ingress and egress to his residence. He had faith in this. But the deadly virus still managed to come in.
He’d built up over the years a list of the visitors. No one could visit him unless he cleared. He wasn’t talking to anyone, his extended family included. By outsourcing this work to Police, he saved time, was never distracted and problems of people close to him by and large used to get sorted out on their own.
It also helped creating a reputation of not pathologically connected to his own family. But his old mother from the village used to send his younger brother once in every six months with some savories. The meetings used to be matter fact and
perfunctory. No public display of affection and that built up a huge reputation for him. Of late he was hearing that his ministers were facilitating his brother in making some money. After the pandemic he would sort it out.
During the last six months he had also stopped the barber from coming. His beard grew in length, but his image managers said it was suiting him and he looked like a savant, a sage or may be a variation of Guruji Ravindranath Tagore. He had accidently cultivated an image of detachment from luxuries of life, thought it wasn’t true. Some photographs were taken when he was feeding a peacock in a photo session and the picture had gone viral. The security chief had kept a mobile only with his man Friday Jagadeesan.
A doctor was hovering around him all the time, once the oximeter showed oxygen reducing; they put a ventilator on him with a pipe going through his throat. Now he could communicate only by gesticulation.
Jagadeesan suddenly became active, went out and was talking. He came back informed that his younger brother was near the gate but the police weren’t allowing him. He wanted to meet his brother this time. No one knew whether he would be able to ride out of this pandemic. Once his brother went back home, he would only come after six months. He gesticulated that he may be brought in.
The doctor joined the discussion and said, “Sir, this is an ICU. No one is allowed here.” He gesticulated that he could come and stay at a distance.
“No, Sir, it is for his safety too.”
He sheepishly looked down at Jagadeesan. Jagadeesan told his brother that Saheb was resting and wouldn’t be able to meet him. But he could try after a couple of hours.
“You want to come in now or wait?No one is allowed to come in during this time. You please wait here.”
Now he told the person in security not to let anyone in. The instruction from the security chief was to not let anyone in once the ventilator was put on. Inderjit was thinking who knew the future. At least he should meet his brother. At least he could go back and tell his mother that he’d seen him. Parikshit’s best effort could not stop Takshak. In his own case, his best effort could not stop the virus. Why pretend then? He was trying to plead to the doctor.
“Will he like it if he sees you like this?”
“The word will spread,” the doctor said magisterially. The last bit had some impact. But within a minute, he renewed his request to the doctor. This time he wrote on a letter pad and showed it to the doctor. The doctor relented. He rang up to the security and passed on the instruction.
“Saheb wants his brother to be let in. I have also cleared it.” There was no response from the other side. But did it really matter where instructions flowed from one side?
The younger brother duly reported after two hours at the security. The same security man who had received the call from the doctor knew about Inderjit’s instruction and doctor’s clearance. But he also knew the clearest instruction from his boss. There wasn’t much of wavering on his part. “No one can go in.That is my instruction.” The younger brother knew that ‘no’ was no. He rang up to Jagadeesan who didn’t lift his phone. Defeated, he traced his steps back after depositing the
savories with the security man. He was wondering how his brother could have given such an instruction to stop his entry.
Inside Inderjit was wondering why his brother didn’t come in though, the instruction was clear. Warts reduced it to a question of who was in control.
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
Their love was blind. It took over them, their hearts and minds.
And they were blind.
But their blindness had eyes to see and feel each other's heart.
They were love binds, though they couldn't see each other in their naked eyes having no eye sight since their birth.
We were enjoying their love secretly, without their awareness and knowledge.
In our college life, they were our love guru ( teacher).
We were calling them Kalia and Malia.
We didn't know their actual name, address, identity, place of birth, or their parents.
Kalia and Malia were blind from birth, staying near our college in their hut under an old, big banyan tree having so many roots hanging from its branches.
Thousands of various birds also had their nests in it. They were also lovebirds.
It was a tree of love and romance.
It was recess. We had no class. Sita and I were talking to each other. We were hungry. We brought our tiffin boxes and water bottles given by our Moms.
I told her - Let's eat under the shade of the banyan tree in loneliness.
We saw Kalia and Malia sitting together, talking to each other and smiling in a romantic mood.
Sita said to me - Though they can't see us, they will listen to our walking sounds. Their ears are very sharp. They are walking not with their vision, but with their ears.
I laughed loudly.
She asked me - Why did you laugh ?
Me - Hearing your words….'walking with ears'. Are you mad or your brain is cracked ?
She - The hearing power of their ears is so sharp that by hearing the sound of their crutches on the ground they know the road or way accordingly they walk and beg in town, train, streets, etc. Your mind is too dull to understand anything, even the loving words.
Me - Do you actually love me ?
She - Shall I declare in mike, idiot ? Let's go to Kalia- Malia silently without making any noise. I will teach you love.
Accordingly we reached them. Pin drop silence was prevailing there. They could not know about our presence.
We observed them from a distance. They were feeding each other in love and affection.
Malia was telling Kalia - Your hands and fingers are strong.
Kalia said to her - Your lips are rosy. Your bust is beautiful.
Malia - Your body is handsome also. I am lucky to have your masculine body.
Kalia - I am fortunate to have your glamorous, amorous love. We should love each other secretly.
I see….you are more beautiful than the college girls.
Malia - Your love is greater than the college boys.
They don't know how to love a girl.
I burst into laughter. Sita put her palm on my lips.
But they could know about our presence. They stopped their romantic talks.
Kalia asked - Who are you, Bhai ( Brother) ?
I told him - Kalia Bhai ! I am Ashok, coming from college. My Mom has given roti and chicken curry. Would you taste it ?
He - I see…your girlfriend is with you. Won't you feed her in your hand as a token of romance to strengthen your love for her.
Sita - Kalia Bhai ! Please teach him love. He is a purely raw boy. He is eating alone, giving me nothing.
Kalia - Without sharing, romance cannot be converted to love.
Me - Are love and romance separate and different ? Can you please explain it to Sita ? She is squabbling with me, without knowing romance and love.
Sita - Kalia Bhai ! He is not only naughty, but also a liar. Don't believe in his words.
However, please teach us the difference between love and romance.
Kalia - Romance is a temporary superficial gesture like kissing, hugging, gifting, wishing, liking for a short period. After some time, it may be nipping in the bud.
I see…..college students are loving each other on campus. After completion of their studies, they forget each other and marry any other person.
But, love is deep, devoted, long-lasting and forever. It's eternal. It touches the heart and soul.
Of course, romance is a part of love. Love is a commitment among the lovebirds. Without commitment, love cannot be sustainable.
Malia said - Romance is a feeling that excites you, thrills you for some time.
But love is an emotional outflow with deep devotion and attachment.
But I see,,,, You, Sita and Ashok, are standing separately. I feel …. You have no love between you. You have some romantic feelings during college hours only.
We asked them - How can you see us, without your power of vision ? Do you have 'Divya Dristi' ( Divine Eyesight) ?
They told us - The Almighty God has not given us eyesight since our very birth. Shall we blame Him ? God is good. We can see in darkness. Can you see and read in darkness ?
Day and night makes no difference for us. We don't feel any difficulty in begging, walking, sleeping, eating, etc.
I said humorously - You left the words, 'loving each other deeply'.
Sita laughed.
Malian said shyly - Have you seen us sleeping together ?
Sita told her - How can we know - What are you doing at night ? You can see and touch each other in darkness also.
All of us laughed in fun.
All of a sudden, a monkey came and took away their food for the night. They were shouting and clamoring. But the monkey went to the top of the tall banyan tree, ate everything and threw their empty aluminum plates at us.
We felt sorry.
Sita told me sorrowfully - What would they eat at night ?
I said to them - You please keep my roti and chicken for your dinner.
They asked - What would you eat ?
Sita said - I would give something to Ashok from my food later.
They told her - You are standing away from him. As a symbol of love, you please kiss him, hug him and feed him in your own hands.
For the first time, we kissed and hugged each other in romantic love.
Sita was feeding me. It was my first experience to eat from the hand of a girl. The taste of her hand was so sweet, I had swallowed almost half of her food within a minute.
They shouted at me - It's not love, rather your greed. You are eating from her hand and she is looking at your face in her hungry stomach and eyes.
Love means sharing. So you should feed her in your own hands as a gesture of love and romance.
I was feeding Sita. She was eating.
But her sharp pointed teeth bit my fingers. I shouted at Sita.
Kalia-Malia laughed, embracing each other and said to me - It's the evidence of pure and perfect instinctive love of Sita towards Ashok. Her love is greater than yours.
I asked - How ? I fed her also.
They told me - Love is blind. So, her blind teeth bit you.
I gave my roti and chicken to Kalia-Malia and came back with Sita.
It was our first experience of Blind Love.
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.
Ankit stopped in his track and sniffed the air. Ah, the same old, earthy fragrance! The lane has not changed in the last ten years. He used to take this route to his school every working day. He wondered if the temple was still there - the small temple on a round platform surrounding the big banyan tree around the corner. Yes, it was. He smiled to himself. This town is like an old beloved, never forgotten, always cherished, every visit bringing back sweet memories of his adolescence.
He was a serious student, always coming first in the class and the teachers used to fawn over him, grooming him to be one of the top ten students in the state in the High School exam. He used to walk the distance of about a kilometre from his home to the school. During the return from school he was accompanied by Santosh, his best friend, who used to live some distance away. He accompanied Ankit only in the evening. In the mornings he had to chaperone his younger sister Maani to the Girls' School which was on a different route.
Santosh was not very happy with the task of accompanying his sister to the school in the mornings,
"Why can't she walk alone? What's the big deal walking alone to the school? So many girls do it!"
Ankit would smile at the futile rage of his friend,
"Yes, why indeed?" He would ask Santosh,
"It's my Mom, she thinks Maani is too pretty to run the risk of walking alone on the street. So she picks her up in the evening from school but since she is busy in the mornings cooking, I have to escort the stupid girl every day."
Ankit's smile would widen,
"Only your mom thinks Maani is pretty? You don't think she is pretty?"
In reply Santosh would burst like a cracker,
"Pretty, that Fatso? She is certainly fatty, not pretty. The stupid monkey doesn't think twice before snatching away my ice cream after finishing hers in two bites. And she finishes all the mixture, sweets, fruits at home without offering me even one bite. Pretty? Pretty, my foot! Why, wait a minute, don't tell me you consider her pretty?"
Santosh would shrug,
"I don't know, I have seen her only once. And frankly, she got on my nerves on that occasion."
Ankit recalled his visit to Santosh's house one afternoon to return the book he had borrowed from him. Santosh was happy to see his friend. They started chatting and suddenly his sister appeared from nowhere. And her attack started,
"Bhai told me you are the topper of the class? Ok Topper Boy, let me see how smart you are. Tell me what is the shortest word in English using all the 26 alphabets?"
Ankit didn't know the answer. It is doubtful if he could have told the answer even if he knew it. An only child of his parents, he had no sibling. And this bubbly girl with dimpled cheeks, eyes shining with mischief, a small dot on the forehead between two arching eyebrows, her unruly hair blowing in air like scattered pieces of joy, mesmerised him. He kept gazing at her for a few seconds and before he could open his mouth to say something, Santosh shouted at his sister,
"Hey, little monkey, get lost! Run away from here, before I give you half a dozen blows on your fatty back. Run, you half-witted chimpanzee, how dare you ask a question to the topper of my class?"
Santosh got up from his chair and started walking menacingly towards his sister. She looked at Ankit, made a face sticking out her tongue and ran away giggling. Although Ankit never went to Santosh's place again for many months, the sweet face of the young girl remained in his mind, filling his heart with joy every time he remembered her. He had somehow thought making a face at someone is an ugly thing to do, but magically Maani's face had got more beautiful when she made that playful gesture at him.
Being a studious boy Ankit gradually forgot Maani and her antics and never asked Santosh about her again. He was happy to immerse himself in his books, dreaming of success in the exam and getting admission into IIT or some big college. Santosh was a mediocre student and somehow scraped through the exams. Ankit believed the Gods were kind to him. He never forgot to stop at the roadside temple under the banyan tree, take out his chappals and offer prayers to the Gods. One day Santosh asked him, on the way back from school, after he closed his eyes and finished praying to God,
"Which God did you pray to, folding your hands?"
Ankit got a shock, which God indeed? Although for years he had stood under the banyan tree and muttered his prayers, he never tried to find out which Gods had been installed in the small triangular temple on the platform above. To him all Gods were same, powerful, omnipresent and omniscient.
Cornered by Santosh he tried to bluster his way out,
"What do you mean which God? All gods are same, if you pray to one God, all Gods accept the prayers."
Since he was the topper in the class, Santosh had some respect for him, but he was not prepared to accept this pearl of wisdom,
"How can all Gods be same? There are Gods, Goddesses, their children, and the followers. You think praying to Shiva is the same as praying to Ganesha, his son? Or praying to Ram is the same as praying to Hanuman, his devotee?"
Ankit flashed a smile, although he was no longer sure of himself,
"Why do you try to build barriers between Gods, as if they are human beings? Don't you know they are much above these petty divisions and diversions?"
Santosh kept quiet, but Ankit's mind was thrown into some turmoil. Next morning he left home a little early for school and climbed onto the platform to see which Gods were worshipped in the small temple. He was amazed at the cleanliness of the platform and the temple. The photographs leaning on the walls were cleaned up and adorned with chandan and sindoor. A big lamp was emitting shining light and all the photographs were looking bright. There was an assortment of Gods and Godesses - Jagannath -Balabhadra-Subhadra, Shiva-Parvati, Ram-Laxamn-Sita, Ganesha and Hanuman.
Ankit was overwhelmed seeing so many Gods and Godesses from close. His mind floated in an incredible joy and bliss. He peered closely at them and closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt his heart was filled with light and when he opened his eyes he felt the Gods and Godesses were smiling at him, pouring blessings on him. He had never experienced something like this in his life. He prostrated before the Gods, expressed his devotion-filled gratitude and left for the school.
Ankit's day was spent in an euphoric bliss. He felt light-headed, and kept smiling to himself. He concentrated more on what teachers were teaching in class. At the end of the day when they were returning from school Santosh cornered him,
"What happened to you today? You were behaving in a strange manner, as if your mind was somewhere else. During lunch hour also you were not with us? Where were you?"
"I don't like you guys discussing that poor girl Rebati. And what business has Raghu got to say such filthy things about her?"
Santosh mocked him,
"Why are you perturbed? It's not as if Rebati is your sister!"
"She may not be my sister, but she must be someone's sister. Just because she spurned Raghu's advances he should not try to assassinate her character."
"But you used to listen to all that till yesterday, how come you are so disturbed about it today? And why were you smiling to yourself all the time? What has got into you? Don't tell me some God Fod has entered into your soul?"
Ankit was startled. How could Santosh guess God's presence in his inner mind? On a sudden impulse he told his friend about his morning's experience. Santosh laughed like a deranged gorilla,
"Have you lost your mind? How can Gods smile from photographs? Go and see a doctor, you idiot. Too much attention to studies has unhinged some screws in your brain."
Ankit felt bad, Sanotosh tried to placate him,
"Listen Ankit, in a few minutes we will come to the temple. Let's go and see if your Gods will smile at me also!"
Ankit was scandalised,
"My Gods? What do you mean my Gods? Are they not your Gods also?"
Santosh laughed it away,
"Ok, ok, our Gods, let's go and meet them."
They climbed the steps to the platform and entered the small temple.
Ankit's heart sank. The lamp had lost much of the brightness, someone must have refilled the oil a few hours back. In the fading light of the day outside, the Gods and Godesses were looking pale, tired and dull. There was no smile on their face. The two friends prostrated before the photographs, said their prayers and came out.
Santosh was waiting to burst out,
"You are a champion bluffer! I didn't expect this from you, why were you trying to impress me with your lies? Smiles! Hah, where are the smiles? Or you want to say Gods smile only at you and for donkeys like me they have only frowns!"
Ankit's eyes had swelled up with tears. He held his friend's hand,
"Just one small request. Please, please don't deny that to me."
Something in Ankit's tone surprised Santosh,
"Ok, ok, just say it, why are you doing this drama of 'please, please'? What's it?"
"Please don't tell this to anyone in the school tomorrow. They will make fun of me like I am a chimpanzee escaped from the circus. Please, Santosh, spare me the humiliation."
Tears started flowing from Ankit's eyes, Santosh's heart melted with pity,
"Ok, relax, I won't tell anyone. Good that you warned me, I had already made big plans for making a joker out of you in the school tomorrow."
They walked rest of the way silently.
Ankit had a very disturbed sleep that night. He didn't understand why Gods behaved so differently with him in the evening. He had recurrent dreams of temples, and Gods. In one of the dreams he saw the small triangle of the temple filled with lots of devotees, chanting mantras, in another dream he heard the temple bells ringing loudly, accompanied by the sound of dholak and cymbals.
After a restless night Ankit left for school early in the morning, eager to meet the Gods and see if the smiles had returned to their faces. To his joy, he found the faces bright in the light of the lamp. The smiles were unmistakable, as if to reassure the young, adolescent devotee of their blessings to him. He sat there, mesmerised, with closed eyes and muttering the few mantras he knew.
It was a bit late when Ankit reached the school and rushed to the class. Santosh looked at him from his seat, Ankit nodded his head and smiled, a smile of faith and fulfilment. In the evening they hurried to the temple, to see the Gods again, smiling, but the Gods and Goddesses looked somber in the dim light of the lamp, as if they were tired of listening to the woes of the devotees throughout the day and wanted to take rest. Santosh was aghast. And scared. Was God giving a message to him, of impending failure in the exams? Will his friend Ankit top the class again and Santosh will descend to the bottom of the list? Both kept walking silently, lost in their own thoughts.
A few days after that Ankit saw a ghastly sight near the temple on the way to school. A street dog had been run over by a passing vehicle, one of its hind legs broken. It was yelling in pain and dragged itself to a corner of the street. Ankit could not control his flow of tears and quickly ran to the temple. He sat before the Gods and with folded hands kept praying to them to help the poor dog. He felt the Gods were smiling at him, showering him with invisible blessings. He saw the dog again after three days, its injured leg in a plaster, limping slowly, rummaging for food from the street-side eateries. And miraculously it started walking after ten days, as if nothing had happened to its leg. Ankit went up to the temple and poured his thanks to the Gods. It was morning hour and the Gods were in a happy mood, they kept smiling at him.
Ankit told the whole story to Santosh in the evening when they were walking back from school. The non-believer was gradually coming round to accept his friend's special connection to Gods. He held Ankit's hands,
"Next time you pray to him please ask him to shower me with some good marks in the exam. You will of course get a big first division, may be you will be the topper in the state, I should at least get a second division to be eligible for admission in some college."
Except the rare days he was late for school, Ankit continued to climb the steps and pray to the Gods. One day on the way to school he saw an old lady sitting on the cement platform outside the temple, her face dishevelled, eyes swollen with dried up tears. He went up to her, asked her what the matter was, why she was sitting under the tree. She burst into tears,
"Where will I go my child, which doors are open for me, except the door of the Gods? My son admitted me in the hospital and vanished, telling me he was going out to buy medicines for me. The hospital people kept me for a week and threw me out. Where could I go? The gods are my only hope, they will keep me alive as long as they want and then take me away."
Ankit's heart sank with despair at the cruelty of the son, how could someone abandon his mother and run away?
"Mausi, tell me where is your village, after I come back from school I will get money from my mother and put you in the bus."
The old lady started wailing,
"How do I know the name of my village? Only my son knows, it is a few miles away from Ganjam."
"Mausi, have you eaten anything?"
"I have eaten two pieces of bread and a cup of tea given by the hospital people."
"Mausi, take this fried rice and curry, it's my lunch for the school, I will borrow some food from my friends."
The old woman must have been hungry, her heart wanted to refuse, but the stomach goaded her to accept. She kept her hands on the boy's head and blessed him.
From the next morning Ankit told his mother every day to cook some extra food and pack it so that he could give it to Mausi on the way to school. On the fourth morning the lady was inconsolable. She was missing her two grand children, just seven and four years of age,
"My two little monkeys - I miss them. They love me so much, they would steal food from the kitchen and give to me. Their mother is a real monster, she wants me to die without food, my son has become a slave to her, but my grand kids are real gems. They must be looking for me, how long their father can hide the fact that he abandoned me at the hospital and ran away?"
Mausi started wailing loudly, Ankit felt really sad. He went inside and knelt before the Gods,
pleading with them to help the old lady get back to her family. When he opened his eyes, he felt the Gods were smiling at him, as if to assure him, his prayer had reached them and soon they would make a miracle happen.
The miracle did happen after two days. On the way back from school Ankit and Santosh saw the old lady beaming with happiness. Two small kids were dangling from her shoulders on both sides. Mausi's son and daughter-in-law were waiting nearby, smiling. Mausi was overwhelmed with happiness, seeing Ankit,
"Come, come my child, meet my two little monkeys. The Gods answered your prayers, my child. These two monkeys kept howling for their grand mother, refused to eat for two days, till their parents agreed to take me back. They have been here since afternoon asking me to hurry. I refused, told them I won't leave till I meet my "ischool wala child". I was worried you would think Yamraj took me away when you were in school. Come, let me give you a hug. May God make you a great man, may you always remain good and noble, like you are now. Put your hands on the heads of my two little monkeys and bless them to be like you when they grow up...."
Mausi's voice choked with emotion, she couldn't say anything more. With tears welling up in her eyes, she gathered her grand kids and they all started walking towards the bus stand to catch a bus to Ganjam.
Santosh was staring at Ankit with wide eyes,
"Did you also pray to the Gods for the old Mausi? To unite her with the errant son and the grand kids?"
Ankit nodded. Santosh was amazed,
"There is something in your prayers Ankit, the other day the dog's leg healed and today the old Mausi got back her family's love. Miracles happen Ankit, they do."
About a month later Santosh suddenly stopped coming to school. When a week passed without seeing him, Ankit got worried. He went to his friend's house. It was locked. He asked the neighbour, the lady of the house informed him that Santosh's family had left for Vellore, their daughter was seriously ill, she had to take treatment at CMC. Ankit's heart sank. Maani? Seriously ill? What happened to her? He was worried. For the next one month Santosh did not come to school. Ankit had gone many times to check, but the house was still locked.
The day Santosh returned to school Ankit knew something was wrong, seriously wrong, his face was shrunk, eyes swollen, hair dishevelled. Ankit ran to him,
"Why did you leave for CMC? How is Maani doing? Is she alright?"
Santosh burst into tears, crying inconsolably,
"Maani is counting her last days, Ankit, my sister is going to die. The doctor has given his verdict - she has only two months left before she leaves us. My parents have gone crazy with grief. My Bou used to love her daughter like she was the breath of her life. Now Bou walks around like a ghost. Maani is on the bed all the time, waiting for her inevitable death. Baba sits and smokes, looks like he has also given up on life."
Ankit's eyes brimmed with tears,
"Please don't say like that. If Maani is taking medicines, she should be alright in a few days? Is there any disease that cannot be cured with medicines?"
Santosh shook his head,
"Doctors at Vellore said it is Nephritis, an incurable problem of the kidneys. Ankit, Maani is taking very strong medicines, but the doctors have said, they will only prolong her life for a couple of months. After that it will be darkness - for Maani and for all of us."
Ankit spent the day in restless grief. The sweet, naughty face of Maani kept floating in his mind. He felt as if his heart was breaking into a thousand pieces every time he thought of Maani. They walked back silently at the end of the day, dragging their heavy feet, the mind filled with sadness.
At the temple they climbed unto the platform and prostrated before the Gods, praying for Maani. Santosh wailed loudly, tears flowing unabated from his eyes. When they came down, Santosh looked at his friend, his eyes pleading, his hands folded as if in a prayer,
"Ankit, your prayers are so powerful, the Gods listen to you. Won't you come to our home, sit before Maani and send your prayers to God? Who knows, your prayers might cure what the medicines could not."
Ankit was embarrassed at the faith his friend had on his prayers, but he promptly agreed to come next morning, after a bath and pooja at home, on the way to school.
Ankit had not imagined the pall of gloom that had fallen on Santosh's household. Everyone was silent, his friend's mother sitting near Maani and sobbing. What he saw of Maani shocked him, beyond his wildest thought. In under two months' time she had been reduced to a thin shadow of the healthy, lively girl he had seen about a year back. She lay on the bed, curled like a foetus, looking at the wall. Santosh called her,
"Maani, see who has come - my friend Ankit. Please turn this way, he wants to pray for you."
After a couple of calls, she slowly turned, her eyes dull, a tear came out slowly. Gone were the flashing eyes, the mischievous smile. She mumbled,
"Promise to me, you will always be the topper of the class. Even if I am not there to see it. Promise!"
She burst into crying. Ankit shed silent tears, he had no words left for the poor girl, who had given up all hopes of survival. He sat on a chair near the bed and took both her hands and held them in a reassuring way. Maani closed her eyes. Ankit slowly brought his mind to concentrate on the Gods at the small temple. With eyes shut, he remembered them and started praying to them. Gradually his mind shut itself from all noise, all externalities, and he saw the Gods clearly, as if he was in the temple and in the bright light of the lamp he could see them smiling at him. He sat in a trance. Santosh and his Bou slowly slipped away. Ankit kept praying, losing all sense of time, and gradually came out of the trance after about half an hour. When he opened his eyes, Maani was sleeping peacefully, her gentle breathing looked calm and serene.
For the next one week Ankit repeated the ritual for half an hour every day. There was no change in Maani, but at least she was conscious of his efforts and waited for him, asking her Bou to comb her hair and clean up her face. Her appetite improved and sleep got better. Around the tenth day, the miracle happened. Ankit could see a perceptible improvement in colour on her face, the eyes appeared brighter and her breathing was less laboured. That day the Gods kept smiling at Ankit when he closed his eyes and started his prayers. It was a reassurance by Gods that they had taken Maani's problem into their hands and there was nothing to worry.
A week later, when Ankit entered the room Maani smiled at him, the mischievous twinkle was back in her eyes, the smile was spontaneous,
"Topper Boy, tell me is the Moon closer to us or Delhi is closer?"
Ankit was bewildered - had she gone crazy, asking such idiotic questions? To humour her he replied,
"Delhi, which is less than two thousand miles from here, Moon is a million miles away."
She laughed, in a mischievous way only she could do,
"Wrong, Moon is closer, because we can see it, we can't see Delhi and what we can't see is farther from us. Now tell me how many hairs you have on your head?"
Ankit was amused. Does anyone count the hair on his head? He kept quiet, giving her a stern look, to stop being frivolous.
She giggled,
"You don't know? And you are the topper of the class? I know, it is eleven thousand twelve hundred thirteen."
Ankit laughed at the answer,
"Stop bluffing. How would you know the number of hair I have on my head?"
"Bluffing? OK, then you tell me the correct answer with proof. If you cannot do that, you have to accept my answer. Topper Boy, you may be smart, but I am smarter than you. Wait till I become alright. I will ask you a hundred questions and you won't have answer for even one of them. Want to bet?"
Maani was looking beautiful, her sweet smiles and the soft twinkles in the eyes were captivating. Ankit stood there, staring at her, at a loss for words.
Maani lifted her hands for him to take them and start his prayers. Ankit felt shy to touch her, his heart started pounding with some hitherto unknown rhythm. He smiled at her and quietly left the room. Ankit did not go back for the prayer sessions again. He knew the Gods had answered his prayers and Maani was on the way to a complete recovery.
Next Sunday, Santosh's parents invited Ankit for lunch at their home. He was reluctant to accept, but Santosh was not prepared to take no for an answer. It was close to a month from the day he had first come to offer prayers for Maani. She was looking almost normal. When she saw him her face turned bright, she bent to touch his feet. Ankit remembered the first time he had come to their house and the way she had giggled and run away from him. He wanted to make a face at her but desisted since her parents were looking at him. They all sat to have lunch together. Ankit felt embarrassed the way he was being treated like a VIP, Maani's parents repeating again and again that he saved her life through his prayers. The look of adoration from Maani was unmistakable and his heart was flooded with a torrent of affection for the sweet girl who almost returned from the fearful land of death in a month's time.
Ankit never went back to Maani's home again. The final exams were two moths away and he desperately wanted to do well. After the exams he left for Bhillai where his maternal uncle was an engineer at the Steel Plant. He coached and guided Ankit in his preparations. Finally he got admission in Petroleum Engineering at Dehradun and joined there. After the end of five years he topped the class and was selected for a job at ONGC.
Santosh studied B.A and in due course joined the law college. Whenever Ankit came to spend the vacation at Cuttack they used to meet in the evenings for a chat, went to the river to sit and watch the sunset, watched movies and ate the "thunka poori and aloo gravy", followed by delicious lassi at Buxi Bazar. Santosh informed his friend that Maani was doing well in studies and wanted to study Psychology in college. Ankit never got a chance to visit his friend's family again, because Santosh didn't invite him.
Working in ONGC was tough, the time spent at on-shore assignment, a few miles into the ocean at Bombay High, was gruelling.One fine morning he found a letter waiting for him when he reached his office. The handwriting was unfamiliar, looked like it was from a girl, cursive and compact. He opened it.
Topper Boy,
I don't know if you remember me, but I have never forgotten you, not even for a day. Ten years ago you had brought me back from the brink of death and given me a new life. With your magic touch the little, naughty, adolescent girl transformed into a thinking, serious young woman, throbbing with emotions and feelings. And gave her heart and soul to you in an act of complete surrender from which there was no return. Now I belong entirely to you, and to no one else.
When you passed your high school exam, getting the fourth position in the state, your photo was published in the school magazine. Santosh Bhai had brought it home and I borrowed it from him. I quietly removed the page that had your photograph and hid it in a notebook of mine. Next day I returned the magazine to Bhai. He came back after half an hour and asked me, "Maani, where is the page that had Ankit's photo? I had seen it yesterday, but it is missing now?" I looked him in the eye and told him, "How do I know? It's your magazine, you should be knowing." He stared at me for a few seconds and came near me. Putting his hand on my head, he said softly , "Maani , Ankit's parents are very conservative, they are Brahmins, we are Khandayats, our forefathers were warriors for the kings. We are much below Brahmins in caste hierarchy. Hope you know that." Bhai didn't wait to see my eyes brimming with tears, otherwise he would have known, for me you are not a simple Brahmin, you are my God who gave me a new life and Gods have no caste.
I sometimes feel, Santosh Bhai behaved like a responsible elder brother, keeping you away from me. That's why he never invited you to our home when you came on your vacations. Little did he know, no one could keep you away from me. The photograph of yours that I had stolen from the school magazine, became my most prized possession. After recovering from my illness I had kept the picture of a few Gods and Goddesses in my room and used to offer prayers to them in the mornings and evenings. Everyday I would take out your photograph from the notebook after the prayers, look at your sweet, innocent face and speak to you to my heart's content. The Gods would be smiling at me, as if to assure me that you would always be with me.
After a few days from the time I stole your photograph, there was no need for me to look at it to remember you, I would simply close my eyes and think of you and you would appear before me, smiling like one of my Gods in the photo frames. I would pour my heart out to you. What I felt for you was much beyond love - it was devotion, pure and simple, a devotion akin to what I offered to Gods. This devotion for you has remained with me for the last ten years, burning like a little lamp before the gods, glowing, undiminished by time.
Topper Boy, when I heard from my mother that your parents are looking for a bride for you, I was amused. A bride for you? Is there anyone in the world, other than me, who can take that place? Ever since you gave me a new life I belong to you. No other person can separate you from me. This morning when I asked for your address from Santosh Bhai, he gave it to me, but, slowly, haltingly reminded me, "Maani, I had told you they are Brahmins, we are Khandayats. Hope you remember that." I nodded and he left.
I don't know how you will convince your parents, please tell them that for them I will be the best daughter-in-law in the world. Someone who has returned from the edge of death will never play cheap games with life.
Hope you will not make me cry, you will not take away the smiles from the face of my Gods.
Your
Maani
Ankit closed his eyes. The face of a sweet girl with twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks, both hands extended, waiting for Ankit to take them in his hands, floated in his mind like a magic flower, filling it with boundless love. He realized Maani was a precious milestone in his life which he should have gone back to more often.
With a joyous smile on his lips, he took out a piece of paper and started writing to his mother. After all, how could he bring tears to the sweet face of Maani, how could he make her Gods sad!
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 . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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