Literary Vibes - Edition CXVIX (29-July-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & REMINISCENCES
Title : Invisible, I wander through hills and dales
Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya
(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)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in welcoming you to the 119th edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes loaded with lots of wonderful poems and entertaining short stories. Hope you will enjoy them and share the links with all your friends and contacts.
We are indeed fortunate to have as many as twelve new contributors this time, some of them celebrities in the field of art and literature. Shri Devdas Chhotray is a household name in Odisha through his film lyrics and poems, short stories, anecdotes of life, as well as regular columns in newspapers. Shri Amarendra Khatua, a retired Foreign Service officer, is a pioneer of Avant garde poetry in Odia and is an unfailing presence in all Odia magazines for the last five decades. Ms. Jayshree Tripathy from Delhi is a wonderful writer, her emotions, distilled in the filters of time have produced some exquisite pieces of poems and other forms of writings. Shri BKS Ray, a retired civil servant from Raipur, Chhatisgarh, is a prolific and versatile writer with as many as 44 books to his credit. Shri Dinesh Chandra Nayak, a retired civil servant from Balasore, Odisha, is a writer with great passion and sprinkles his writings with multifarious colours. Shri Ajit Dash is well known in the literary circles of Odisha for his deeply emotional poetry, some of which resonates with his commitment to social causes.
We are also lucky to have the contribution of many budding poets and writers - all Post Graduate students from Utkal University - for the first time in our eMagazine. I had an opportunity to be acquainted with their talented writing in recent past. They are sincere, dedicated and raring to go. Ms. Punyasweta Mohanty, Gracy Kujur, Archee Biswal, Siddheswari Basuri, Arpita Priyadarshini and Shri Mahitosh Gopal, are young, energetic and enthusiastic writers with lot of promise. They need our good wish and let us give it to them in plenty. Let us hope that we will see their recurring foot prints in LiteraryVibes in our future editions also.
I was visited by high fever, cough and body ache a fortnight ago. Fearing the worst, namely the dreaded C, I was promptly kept in isolation, locked up for a week. It proved to be a blessing in disguise, as I got a chance to read half a dozen good books - all from Reader's Digest. I want to mention three books which moved me the most.
1. Man, Woman and Child by Eric Segal,
2. To Sir With Love by E. R. Braithwaite
3. Smith and Jones by Nicholas Monsarrat
The first book is an exquisitely moving story - of a child suddenly appearing from the past, pushing a happy family into a storm. Eric Segal's best known work is of course "The Love Story" - an iconic work which has provided the cue to dozens of movies around the world about a loving spouse watching his beloved slipping into a slow and agonizing death. Eric Segal started his writing career with a book on the Roman playwright Plautus which sold only eight hundred copies. So he sought a change of scene and wrote "Love Story' which became an instant bestseller. Its sequel "Oliver's Story" also became a bestseller. But Segal was anxious to create a new novel with an entirely different set of characters and that's how Man, Woman and Child, the third best seller in succession took birth.
"To Sir With Love" is a trailblazer in its own way - the story of a determined, dedicated teacher changing the lives of a class of unruly teenagers. The movie with the same title, starring Sidney Poitier is an all-time great - a masterpiece of incredible beauty. Although I had seen the movie twice, this is the first time I read the book. Let me quote from the Readers Digest Editor's note to highlight who wrote the book and under what circumstances:
"E. R. Braithwaite was cleaning out his lodgings in Hormchurch, Essex, when he came upon a diary kept during his early teaching days and began reading it. His landlady read it too and felt it had no place among the rubbish he was discarding. 'Why don't you write a book?' she asked; and he did. Having no idea how to get a book published, the young teacher sought advice at his local public library. The librarian spoke scathingly of idiots who thought they could write, but, after reading the manuscript, suggested that Braithwaite offer it to a literary agent in London. The agency receptionist was not encouraging. They received so many manuscripts from unknown writers, she told Braithwaite, that it might be months before he was read. That evening, however, one of the agency's executives, having nothing to read on the train home, picked the top manuscript of the pile on the reception desk and took it along. Next day he despatched a telegram to Hornchurch and 'To Sir, with Love' was on its way to becoming an international bestseller........And what was the gift that came labelled "To Sir, with Love" from his students in his school? It was a box of cigarettes ...."
The third book Smith and Jones is an extraordinary spy story. Some of us who are small-time writers take a lot of pride in giving a twist at the end of the tale. But this book has the mother of all twists. One reads the last sentence and the story turns upside-down through that one single sentence! All assumptions go out of the window in a whoosh and you are left with holding your head and shaking it as if you have just survived a hurricane. Let me quote the Reader's Digest Editor's postscript:
"Does the ending of this remarkable story leave you surprised, perhaps even a bit stunned? If so, you are not alone; some of our own staff readers "turned upside down". Like them you may wish to retrace your reading steps and check how and where you walked by the author's explicit - if intentionally misleading - clues and signposts, to reach his turnabout conclusion."
I personally feel life is worth living, just to prolong the pleasure of reading such wonderful writings, and experiencing many other miracles, feeling them in our hearts, internalising them, till they pervade the very essence of our being. I recently came across a piece which described it in the most perfect way. I am tempted to quote it:
"Years ago the great actor Sir Richard Burton was given a grand reception in his childhood parish. While replying to the complimentary speeches in the parish auditorium he asked if there was anything, they specially wanted to hear from him. After a minute’s pause his old pastor asked him if he could recite the Good Shepherd Psalm (Psalm 23), which he had taught Burton in his Sunday school.
A strange look came over the actor’s face. He paused for a moment, and then said, “I will, on one condition—that after I have recited it, you, my pastor and teacher will do the same.”
“I,” said the old, retired pastor, “am not an actor, but, if you wish it, I shall do so.”
Impressively the actor began the Psalm. His voice and intonation were perfect. He held his audience spellbound, and, as he finished, a great burst of applause broke from the audience.
As it died away, the old pastor rose from his wheelchair and began to recite the same Psalm. His voice was feeble and shivering and his tone was not faultless. But, when he finished, there was not a dry eye in the room.
The actor rose and his voice quivered as he said, ‘”Ladies and gentlemen, I reached your eyes and ears, but my old pastor has reached your hearts. The difference is just this: I know the Psalm, but he knows the Shepherd.”
Wishing you a sight of the "Shepherd", my dear readers. No one knows in what form, at which turn of life, you will experience the touch of the Shepherd. And you will see the truth of life and be overwhelmed with it. Some of you might have already got it, others, like me, will keep waiting, knowing it is worth the wait.
Do send the links to your friends and contacts: https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/446 (Poems and Short Stories), https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/445 (Essays, Anecdotes, Travelogues), and; https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/444 (Young Magic).
There are also two articles by Prof. Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo, the eminent Gynaecologist from his real life experience, at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/442 & https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/443
Take care, keep smiling. We will meet again in the last week of August with our 120th edition.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
HOME
02) Haraprasad Das
REMORSEFUL ARJUNA (ABASADARA RATHARE JANE ARJUNA)-3
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE LIGHTHOUSE
OPTIONS
04) Bibhu Padhi
FATHER’S VOICES
05) Bijay Kishore Sundar Ray
Rhythms of Identity
06) Siddheswari Basuri
CONNECTIONS
07) Jayshree Misra Tripathi
SHE WORE WHITE.
FROM A LADIES COUPE : SAMBALPUR JUNCTION TO NEW DELHI
08) Mahitosh Gopal
A SUNSET & SOUL OF A BEHOLDER
DUSTSCEAWUNG
09) Amarendra Khatua
DELIVERANCE
10) Archee Biswal
THE DESPAIR OF AUTUMN
11) S.Krishna Tulasi
BLUE-GREEN EYES
12) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
RUMBLINGS IN SLEEEP
13) Arpita Priyadarsini
WITHERED LOVE
14) Gracy Kujur
COLD-BLOODED
15) Ajit Dash
DATE NIGHT - A MONSON GIFT
MAYA
16) Sundar & Team
BREEZY REFLECTIONS
FRAGRANT FLOWERS
17) Dr. Molly Joseph M
PRESENCE
18) Hema Ravi
ICONIC PRESENCE
19) Dr.Radharani Nanda
DREAM
20) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
21) Abani Udgata
UNFINISHED
22) Alexandra Psaropoulou
FLYING
23) Sharanya Bee
WARDROBE OF WONDER
24) Setaluri Padmavathi
FARMING - A WAY OF LIFE
25) Dr. Snehaprava Das
NOW THAT THE RAINS HAVE COME
WHEN IT RAINS ON THE ISLAND
26) Col (Dr) Rekha Mohanty
YOU
27) Bichitra Kumar Behura
TATTLING WITH RAIN
28) Namita Rani Panda
I’M SORRY
THAT ICE CREAM VENDOR
29) Ravi Ranganathan
ELEVATION
30) Indumathi Pooranan
ROUTINE
31) Meenakshi Goswami
SANGUINITY
32) Professor Niranjan Barik
BLESSINGS
33) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A SHADOW OF HOPE ......
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Devdas Chhotray
MATINEE SHOW
02) Geetha Nair G
THE WEDDING
03) Ajay Upadhyaya
INCY WINCY SPIDER
04) Meena Mishra
JUST FRIENDS
05) Chinmayee Barik
DECEMBER
06) Satya N. Mohanty
THE MISSING ENCOUNTER MAN
07) Satish Pashine
EIGHT-B AND EGG CURRY
08) Dr. Radharani Nanda
DARLING DAUGHTER
09) Ashok Kumar Ray
A LOVING MEMORY
10) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
UNRESOLVED
REMINISCENCES
01) REMINISCENCES OF A FEW IAS OFFICERS ON THEIR FIRST DAY AT THE ACADEMY, MUSSOURIE
(Compiled by the Editor)
Table of Contents :: ESSAYS, ANECDOTES, TRAVELOGUES
01) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - WHY SHIVA IS CALLED ARDHANARISHWAR?
02) Punyasweta Mohanty
ELEPHANTS IN THE ROOM
03) Bidhu K Mohanti
EXERCISE KEEPS YOUR BRAIN YOUNG
04) Hema Ravi
THE WHAT, WHEN, WHO, HOWAND WHYOF “PROMPTS”
05) Avaya C Mohapatra
A TALE OF TWO KINGS
06) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
READING HABITS: WRITERS THEN AND NOW
07) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
08) Pradeep Biswal
JAYANT MAHAPATRA: THE DOYEN OF POETRY
09) Jayshree M. Tripathi
THE DIPLOMATIC TRAILING SPOUSE
10) Prof. Viyatprajna Acharya, MD, PhD
AS A MAN THINKETH
11) Sheena Rath
ON THE ROAD
12) Shruti Sarma
FEAR OF GHOSTS
13) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
IN LADAKH, THE LAND OF LAMAS, JUNE 2022
14) Bidhu K Mohanti
AMARNATH YATRA - MOUNTAIN PILGRIMAGE
15) Gourang Charan Roul
A WEEK IN THE LAP OF HIMALAYAS
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Ritika Pradhan
PATRICK SAW A GHOST?
02) Trishna Sahoo
MY LITTLE SWEET FRIEND
POEMS
A shadowy profile
against a parapet, brooding;
its back to me,
outlines and creases dissolved
into an amorphous dark.
A lone palm on the foreground,
its trunk having a personality
of its own, precise, silent;
rather gaunt, but like gauntness
it has its honesty, its intent.
And a sea beyond, its murmur
stilled, a silent sitar. Sky cloudy,
stars extinguished, perhaps,
our universe is dying, starting with
the stars... vanishing into the dark void.
These remind me, we had a home,
a little nest, even not upset, rather
upstaged by gossips, the worse storm ever
than empty pockets, back-biting,
but it all has lost meaning this night.
The silhouette’ outline… does that resemble
you? Is it you? Had there been a draught
from the sea, a familiar perfume
could be drifting in the air.
But, this airless night refuses to stir.
(Footnote - My tribute to the thoughtful cover picture of the “HOME, Anthology” from the Brown Critique, that inspired the poem. The anthology is edited by Gayatri Majumdar et al.)
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.
REMORSEFUL ARJUNA (ABASADARA RATHARE JANE ARJUNA)-3
(Translation – Prabhanjan K. Mishra.)
With tears in eyes,
Arjuna remorsefully
hurtled ahead in his chariot.
He failed to comprehend
the bloodthirsty war-flags
fluttering atop his cousins’ war-tents.
He knew, the killer instinct killed,
arrows and swords
were only excuses,
as was blood, labeled as instigator.
His arrows agreed with him,
they hesitated to leave his bow.
The arrows, perhaps, couldn’t
differentiate foes from the family,
both bleeding the same red blood,
hurting equally, but anointing
the winner as the prince of absurd,
wearing the crown of unease,
sitting on the throne of vainglory,
soaked with family-blood.
Arjuna took an eyeful of the battle field
from the prospective of an open eye
of a slain soldier lying on the ground,
staring out of its macabre socket -
Neither the dumb sword,
nor the unfeeling arrows
suffered from guilt,
but in the guilty soil of the war field
and repentance stroke deep roots;
excuses never redeemed the killings.
He commiserates with his wife,
“O’ exalted princess of Drupada,
do not ask me for your bloody retribution
as the price of your love.
It would break your slim hip with too heavy
a pitcher of blood, carrying it to posterity.”
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)”
Have you ever
rigged your sails
on your uncertain
schooner
and challenged your
seamanship
to venture
into the expanse
and depths of the blue
in someone's eyes?
Have you ever
lost your bearings
on your compass
and gibed frantically
from port tack
to starboard
and back?
You are not sure
if your sails
failed you
or was it the
wayward wind?
Have you ever
looked down the horizon
where a desolate
defunct tower
stands in silence
its silhouette
vaguely
splashed on a
somnambulant sky
and then
see it crumbling
and crawling into
its saline grave?
I could sow the seeds of my paranoia
and nurture it to germinate
and in due course
on the boughs of malevolence
flowers of persecution would bloom
which would have tongues
of fire that could lick around
and burn everything to ashes.
Or I could distil all my thoughts
both loving and loathing
and pick up the pure distillate
in a crucible
after the vile
and vituperative volatiles evaporate
and then allow it to sublimate
into nothing
with zero mass
through a transformation
that perhaps is transcendental.
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.
I remember how that voice was
mostly harsh and loud, how
it was heard by our friendly neighbours
during the day and at night injured
their children’s sleep.
But there were
milder moments too, as when
he slowly put me to sleep, singing
something about a pair of orphaned eyes
that were sad and lonely without me.
Or when he spoke of humbler things,
like the child who grew up alone among
the world’s tricks and treacheries
to become what my father was
at the time—careful to make his wife
and children less alone than he was,
determined to make them face a time
that might exclude him, anxious
to show himself that love was still available.
So many other voices have followed,
but they have only fallen between
one voice and the other.
The two voices have stayed with me,
made me learn their basics. I’ve been
harsh with anger, apprehensive about
the future, and I still sing my child to sleep
but with a voice that sounds bruised, yet
refuses to be mine after all these years.
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.
Ultimately
I'm a wandering gentleman
Even at hard times
Exploring frontiers
And I realise in my heart of hearts
How barbarous are the barriers!
No freedom to walk and brood
The authoritarian ghost
Haunts my enthusiastic moods
Society, government and moral policemen
All are out for encirclement
I'm angry and embarrassed
Where is Rousseau's dictum "Man is born free"?
At every step fear strikes him
I'm on my endless journey
Singing the songs of existential freedom
Fighting confrontation and seeking harmony
Something that divides man from man
Could be the target of my assault
I'm the icon of a freedom journey
Never to stop!
Stray dogs, roaming deer, flying peacocks
Blowing leaves, blooming flowers and falling raindrops
On the edges of the mountains
Floating clouds and cloudbursts!
Who can understand my exploratory identity?
I'm a pilgrim near the wild rocks
The endless expanse, an euphoric turmoil
Talking to the unknown is an insatiable thrust
From one end to the other
A wild spirit runs amuck!
I read Frantz Fanon and understand hunger
And how the racists organise murders
Everytime I think about the miseries of humanity
Gandhi and Mandela grip my heartbeats
I've heard about them, though not seen
No flesh and blood encounter
Yet they constantly grip
This is the magic of a universal consciousness
On the contours of introspection, suddenly breaks
That mystery is the bedrock of my identity
Feelings flow like a Brazilian forest stream.
I'm a non-violent rebel
Never hesitate to question the totalitarian ways
A restless consciousness flew to Tahrir Square
Where freedom celebrates with fireworks
Women, children and the penniless beggars
Protest against fraud and massacres
But why do the revolutions end in disillusionment?
Why a sense of betrayal at a certain moment?
I recall the words of Albert Camus
"A false revolutionary chokes human freedom
Doesn't do what he says
Goes on a killing spree
With his fanatical ways!"
Hence, I read Aldous Huxley
Quietly invite a pleasant unrest
"A genuine revolution relates to a genuine mind
That goes restless for the happiness of mankind!"
My spirited identity
No longer a silent onlooker
Calls upon to resist a violent breed
That constantly threatens a humanitarian creed
How can someone take away someone's life?
In the name of a blind revolutionary tide!
If I say, "Life is supreme!"
I categorically reject the revolutionary doctrine
Enough is enough
It's, in fact, a mindless death bulletin!
Massacres in Syria
Massacres in Somalia
Massacres in Nigeria
My humanity is mutilated
Who can squeeze those blood-sucking vampires?
Suffer suffocation across a religious divide
And I endorse without doubt
What Bertrand Russell said
"Religion has caused more harm than good"
Religious zealots are in the fray
With devilish doctrines heralding the decay!
The world is so beautiful!
And many faces are so ugly!
Wicked laughters and conspiracies
Innocence is slaughtered in broad day light
In the hands of a satanic creed
The devils are diabolical and deep
But I'll resist
As I represent a revolutionary breed!
I go out to that open world
Endless greenery and kingdom of animals and birds
Speak to the Amazon forests and the Niagra fall
Snow mountains and polar bears
Constantly cheer
If nature is my friend
No room for fear
Life must speak to life
A true adventure!
You may ask me
"How could a nature-lover be a revolutionary?"
Well, I don't walk on a moribund path
Nature teaches me to prevent massacres
Poet Wordsworth hailed the French Revolution
A lover of nature amid violence and destruction
Poetry must resist injustice
Otherwise blood of innocence will be spilled!
Silent sufferings of the masses
Trauma and torture in the concentration camps
I can't see the victims, they are far away from me
I only visualise the brutality of the terror machine
Everywhere, violence in the air
And worst is the insensitivity to human despair
Bombs and bullets in Kabul and Baghdad
And we silently suffer the symphony of maniacs
Life must speak to life
But here how to organise death
A beautiful pastime!
Rhythms of my identity
Carry that humanitarian shadow
From graveyards to wild streams
I can exist, when others too exist!
Once they wither away, I too will perish!
A domestic identity
An international identity
That speaks of a regional-universal spirit
It's the human suffering that moves me deeply
Bloodbath and graveyards of the innocents
Translate my body-mind
An epicentre of turbulence
Killings in Syria and murders in Baghdad
My blood freezes over the existential despair
Words of Aldous Huxley ring around my ears
"A real revolution across human corridors"!
And I cling to my identity
As a humanist liberator
It's the voice of my humanistic hunger!
B.K.S. Ray retired from the I.A.S. In 2008 in the rank of Chief Secretary to Government of Chhattisgarh. Apart from handling many challenging assignments in bureaucracy, both in M.P. and Chhattisgarh, Sundar Ray is a prolific writer. So far he has written 44 books that include poetry, short stories, novels, dramas and essays on contemporary affairs. As a former research scholar of the JNU, New Delhi, Sundar Ray takes a deep interest in international affairs. He writes a regular weekly column on international affairs in a newspaper published from Chhattisgarh.
Owing to his literary achievements he has received many prestigious awards such as Basundhara Award, Socrates Award, True Media Award and Rashtra Bharati Award. All his literary writings relate to love, human relationship, loneliness, the commercial existence of man, an attack on hypocrisy, and a relentless anger against wars and aggressions. B.K.S. Ray is a member of the prestigious India International Centre, New Delhi. He lives in Raipur, Chhattisgarh, where he pursues his literary and scholastic studies.
From where do I start,
He lives 16 miles senses apart..
I desire to start where he had left,
I found it some day of a hept..
That all it started with a mere text,
I did think, okay! What next...
And then he asked for a casual tea date,
Confused mind, jumbled emotions but i accepted that..
I could not sleep whole the night,
Set my alarm at half past 5..
I did not want to get late,
Also he was not just some mate..
I still remember the song he played,
Got butterflies in stomach, in my mind it stayed...
I could catch his eyes through the RV mirror,
Glittery, shining like two stars too nearer..
He joked about the mask on my face,
I joked back he was driving at a slow pace..
Then he pulled my cheeks really hard,
I was thinking oh! Is that how he plays his card?
It was winter so my cheeks were red
He asked to put on the sweater and cover the head
I had almost got out of the car
But he insisted to stay inside from far
He had brought two cups of tea,
Offered me one and stared at me..
I had forgotten to share the cup with him,
He reminded me of the text i had sent to him...
Sip sip sip sipped the one,
And then I jumped on the other one just for fun..
Oh! I was falling for his sea like eyes,
Drowning in the blue, knew this is how time flies..
I could not express what happened next,
His hand on my shoulder like one scripted text
I hesitate to describe the day had light,
The gay and nice completely bright...
He kept on talking I don't remember about what,
I continued listening to till of its ending part..
I had no idea I had skipped the day,
Now that it was an evening of winters..
Had to put on sweaters back again on our way.
It rained outside we were in the car,
Were stucked in traffic from the city so far...
Suddenly he opened the door and stopped the car,
Then came back with a notebook, a pen and a chocolate bar..
His way of gifting things had a varied way,
By that time I didn't know much that's all I can say..
He dropped me safe to my hostel room,
I bid him bye and gazed at the moon..
There is no comparison how beautiful he is,
Damn! That smile he has....
I can die for this voice without any fees.
Since then i have been going on tea dates with him,
Listening to his endless talks I feel i am in a dream..
The design of smile he has, I warn
Can make you fall for him without whereas...
I am incompetent, can't delineate,
The sketch of his eyes has no words to relate...
He takes my heart away when he smiles,
The radiance of which are saved in my memory files...
The way he talks has taken me over,
I am drowning by my own, you see I ponder...
The stars know that how much I think about him,
Gazing up at the moon I often dream about him...
When the last time he looked into my eyes for three seconds more,
I was at pause and mute couldn't hold the moment for next second to four...
I always say he is my moon,
See, that's adorable how he feeds me biryani without the spoon...
There's a comfort in his every touch,
Things went left and everything happened as such...
I couldn't thank him enough for all the memories he gave,
The movie writers now have to have this new script on save...
That how unpredictable one could be,
I never knew, may be things happened how it should be..
He says things that are very deep,
Drowned with his words I am a sunken ship...
That the melody he plays with mere words,
I would listen to it, damn his vocal cords...
Those two beautiful artistic eyes of his,
Describing 3rd time here, speaking of which.
Miss Siddheswari Basuri is a first year student at Department of Zoology of Utkal University, Vani Vihar. She is a passionate writer and a dreamer. She is also a nature enthusiast and an ornithophile. Along with science she is fond of literature also. She is amazed at how words make her feel and take her to an imaginary yet realistic world. You can reach her at siddheswaribasuri2000@gmail.com and follow her on the instagram page @kuch._.batein (Ashma Stevia).
(In memory of Sibabrata 1955-2017)
Whispers from the corner
made my resolve stronger
as we climbed in beside you,
in a strange local hearse, unknown vintage,
two days after we brought you home.
You would have liked the Embraer Jet,
the air ambulance that trembled
through turbulent skies,
dipping with the air currents,
as we held you tight.
You slept on - opened your eyes
to familiar voices, breathed in and out
quickly, gasping for Life,
You - in the throes of Pain,
the Crab had the last laugh.
Sixty-one is no age to Die.
We held you tightly, she and I,
as we jolted down
the narrow-cobbled streets
to where you had once stood
beside your father – alone in the end,
you had often said over thirty years.
It had rained that day, so
mourners slipped away.
We recalled your anguish,
your tears at fitful memories,
as the decades rolled by.
So here you lie now, so cold, so calm
on unruly sticks, no sandalwood logs,
only a few chips offered in token respect.
No, we were not meant to be here,
At the cremation ground.
She wore white, her body convulsed in grief,
she walked around your pyre,
tears flowing, constantly, like silent waterfalls.
The pot of water, its trickle on her shoulder,
I see, yes I can still SEE…
Drops gently flow through The Hole.
Life is now Extinct.
Now the Purification of Existence,
of one who grudgingly believed
In the Power of Religion, not Ritual.
The Brahmin reluctantly handed her
Eternal Fire – to Singe Your Soul, set it Free.
She stooped, convulsed in grief, saw
Scalding Flames that set your Soul free.
The End.
Whispers from the corner,
made my resolve stronger.
I clenched both palms,
holding our son's intangible hand,
but he, so far away
in another continent,
could not arrive in time;
so I held her palm in mine.
No. Untrue.
I stood alone, hands ajar, propped
by the Circle of Friends and Family,
Some that loved us. Some Invisible.
And there we stood, she and I,
Trespassers in the Fold of Tradition.
I do believe
You would have smiled at our stance!
FROM A LADIES COUPE : SAMBALPUR JUNCTION* TO NEW DELHI
* Jharsuguda
The station master waved the green flag,
mother's copious tears, father's eyes moist
as I bid them goodbye. Utkal Express began
its long dusty journey, nine hundred miles
in thirty hours on Indian Railways,1974.
I met Mumtaz in the Ladies Coupe.
We opened our bedrolls, shared sandwiches;
stared out as the landscape changed,
drowsy, secure inside, with long hours ahead
we spoke, we laughed, we read.
Stations came and went;
we called out for kullhad chai,
took turns to keep vigil in the corridor
on trips to the loo, alas, that foul odour,
the worst part of a rail journey by far!
A sudden jolt as wheels ground
to a halt, like chalk scraped on a blackboard
that gave you goose bumps at school, hush!
The emergency chain had been pulled;
voices clamoured to be let on board.
Outside, the stark ravines and distant hills
did little to assuage our fright;
Dacoits ascended, hollering away,
banging on closed shutters, laughing
in manic glee, we were petrified.
The Chambal Valley.
No, they had not galloped down on horses,
as their compatriots did in Hollywood movies
on the wild, wild west. They crept from behind
foliage, hidden from view till the chain was pulled.
We sat in fear in our 3rd class, 3-tier Ladies Coupe.
Derisive laughter, shrill wolf whistles, stoked our fright.
"Arre, asli Mumtaz kahan hain? Humey dekkhna hai,
Kholo, kholo", names gleaned from the passenger lists
pasted on the carriage outside, fists battered the door.
The Ones Above heard our Prayers.
Scuffles receded, the train chugged on, ever so slowly.
Hours later we heard 1st Class passengers had been robbed,
by these justice-seekers, out in revenge for their oppression
for generations, their decades of deprivation.
The utter stillness of fear on a train journey remains.
(/Published "In Songs of Peregrinators: An Anthology of Poems on Travels' March 2022, Edited by Amarendra Khatua & Mandira Ghosh)
Jayshree Misra Tripathi has been a consultant, educator and examiner in English Language and Literature, for the Diploma of the International Baccalaureate Organization. She worked in print media in the late ’70s and ’80s in India. Having lived in diverse cultures for over thirty years with her late husband, a career diplomat in the Indian Civil Service, her short fiction and narrative verse dwell upon journeys through the diaspora, highlighting women's 'voices' and cross-cultural conversations.
When i look at the sky
I see endless possibilities for remaining life but nowhere to start.
I see a better life is waiting behind that cumulonimbus but i ain't thriving.
I see those dark and blue spots hiding under veneer of yellow glaze but my sun has set.
I see the reflection of evening and seek for a beginning.
I see those silhouette trees yonder but my soul is farther.
When the sky looks at me
She sees a fidgeted soul roving for a way out of lull body but my heart resists.
She sees all the loves to give but not to be found.
She sees the gravity of life that pulls me down but what sets today rise again tomorrow.
She sees the distant memories of past but what's ahead makes you the man.
She will see me again somewhere but not the same we met today.
Stars spark and moon shines
I wait for next sunset
Untill the sun and i rise again....
The earth compounds dust
From beginning to death
Species and Civilisations evolve
Till time ceases the breath.
Whatever remains decipher the truth
They transcend myriad vicissitudes
Grinding all the way to present
A bruised life appends to solitude.
Civilisations perish , species fade away
Notion of impermanence sway the way
What is alive today turns to dust tomorrow
Captive of fate , everything tends to decay.
Augury of darkness conquer the remainder
To see a world in a pile of dust
A reminder to set as the beacon
Nothing is ever truly Lost.
It passes to a glorious past to be read in history
Contemplation of dust unravel the mystery
Dust if you must , but the present is here
Edgy for the end sail away from victory.
Culture exudes bygone ethics , bypath to future
Memory of perils past evokes epiphany
Each achieve the pinnacle when time befriends
Whatever crowns the history goes on an erratic journey.
Mahitosh Gopal is an M.A. history student at Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He began writing during his Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya days and has an inclination to pen down the repressed thoughts of life. His poems were published in his almamater JNV Alumni Magazine, BJB College Magazine, various Instagram handles, and in some digital magazines.
The woman shall ask for love's
eternity, the body's undivided chaos.
A strange flower of surrender,
whose petals have to be thrown
in making hunger easy and simple.
The longing shall be restless
when the veena of magic is played.
The carefully arranged pictures
are shattered before it is time to get its wings.
Everything was written and known.
faith had kept every certain complaints
over its head. Even then, the ignorant life
moved forward in search of the story
of a saint. It begged for relationship,
intimacy, for the dead butterflies and petals,
in the unreachable love-making
and the strange inversion of the body's longing.
Now, the deliverance is not in grief,
there is only the tremble of waiting.
after looking for everything, bringing them
together, after laying them in the lifetime's
leaf-plate, it is still not known where
is ones liberation. The pictured time
that began in love, is now tortured
by lovelessness of every wish.
Amarendra Khatua is a renowned poet whose poems have been published in numerous national and international magazines. Apart from publishing his own collection of poems, he has edited many Anthologies. He retired from the Indian Foreign Service after a distinguished career spanning thirty seven years. He publishes in Odia,English and Hindi.
On this wet, colorful land,
again, a leaf goes by.
So sad that it got separated;
even the birds let out a sigh.
I look up at the sky
but find the trees obscuring it instead.
So red they seem,
that I have to confirm it’s not dye.
So rich they look,
so satisfied.
Such a shame it is,
that these leaves as well have to go for a ride.
Another leaf goes down,
enjoying its last moment.
Then, the wind swept him away,
and far it went.
One by one-
All leaves fly away.
Even though their mother,
is begging for them to stay.
Now I look at her again-
so gloomy she looks.
So creepy and miserable,
all her efforts drowned in vain.
She has no other choice,
but to wait for spring.
A tear leaves her eye,
as another child flies, stretching its wings.
Archee Biswal is from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is currently pursuing MA in Analytical and Applied Economics at Utkal University. Her dream was to be a writer ever since she was 9 years old. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines such as Chandamama and Kloud 9. She likes dancing, painting, and playing instruments such as the keyboard and guitar. She speaks 6 languages including German and Spanish, which she learnt while staying in Germany. Her favourite wish is to travel all over the world and collect new experiences.
(Charumathi Subramanian)
There was only one thing
Which embarrassed the sky of million stars
That was the shine of your lustrous eyes
Now condensed tears flow through them
The shine hasn't gone, it's glazed with water
The drops just fall yet those eyes are pretty
Do you remember that day
When one of those million stars called and said
'There's only one thing I'm jealous
And those are right beside your glabella
Yeah, your eyes are so pretty
Don't put me to shame tonight'
Whatever the reason may be
Shedding tears will not help
The problem may be very serious
But it is short and ephemeral
The solution to your issue is in them
Those pretty innocent eyes
Don't hurt those eyes, just don't cry
For they are worth staring
For seconds to hours to days
Bluish eyeballs to start beautifully
Greenish finish to gracefully end
Those blue-green eyes are just gorgeous
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.
Now, who’s this! friend or foe?
Knocking on my unfastened door,
At late hours of an ebbing moon,
Shaking my branches for a fruit or two.
The voice wants me to forsake my slumber,
Prune the deadwood and hedges in between,
Lighten the soil and water the roots,
And start growing foliage, once again.
How is he expected to know,
This fat stump lies in a mortal comfort,
Inside a self made cocoon with slits,
Through which to watch the birds with ease,
Act as a harbour for runaway kites,
That nobody visits to recover again,
As a shelter for wandering birds,
That make occasional visits to peck and shit,
And then fly away to greener trees promising shade.
The visitor wants to know; expects even!
This dried up stump to sprout buds again,
To growing up lilies from a dried up pond,
Or; “growing lilacs out of deadwood”,
(As the great poet had said in his exuberance)
See, how I have started borrowing lines even!
In my privation; and passing them as my own,
These days I seem to be borrowing everything,
Days, months, years to revive those memories again,
In a fruitless search for greener pastures I left behind.
But, I bow before this intruder,
Who pokes this dying ember to life again.
Dinesh Chandra Nayak (b 1952) is a Post Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University, Vani Vihar. He entered the State Civil Service in Odisha and held many important positions before retiring in 2010. His present pastimes include reading, titles like "Joy Of Laziness" among others. Although he did not earlier feel any spring of creativity strongly, LiteraryVibes has inspired him to "try to burst forth in geysers". He hopes the transformation of the dying ember into a new life will lead to a creative splendour. LV wishes him the very best in this new journey.
Love is not the epilogue
That's written
On the walls of
Memories and music
But the calmness that it holds
You hold hands
To find and trace the calmness
Within one another
And ask each other's permission
To invade deep inside
And pluck out the roots
Of the chaos
That's been growing wildly and consistently
Inside you since ages
You sit along the memories
constantly pondering over the fact
That how the love
That you've been offering
should have been delivered
with a prominent promise
Of being each other's calm
And a decaying self
Of nostalgia and bruise at times
You hold their hands
With utter numbness
and a sigh of guilt inside
Cause this love grows
Leading to a gazillion memories
And tons of mirages alongside
Yet you let them move away
Slowly yet steadily
Accepting the fact that
You're nothing but
Paradigm of love and threat
You've halted and moved
With no self explanatory notes
To make yourself believe
That you're nothing
But another piece of your broken dream
That once has ooze out
From the exact place
That you've lost your instincts to
Your love never demanded
to be cherished
Rather
It demanded to be lived through
Anything and everything
That can possibly exist
Your love never demanded owning
Rather
It demanded caressing the moments
Before they slip away
And breathe their last breath
Arpita Priyadarsini, a final year Post Graduate student of Department of Statistics in Utkal University, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
Its been a while since i have been numb
So i invent my own miseries
just to feel some
Keep on looking for signs
When there is none
I have become cold-blooded
Lost my ability to self regulate
Lying parched in a puddle
I knew this was to come
And now i am busy chasing the sun
Thoughts of freezing scare me so much
That I would rather get scorched
Soon on this heated earth
As i grow disoriented
I'll be biting my own tail
Its better this way i yell
Better than facing the night
Having to watch helplessly
Life dying out with the light
Miss Gracy Kujur is a 1st year student of English Department at Utkal University. She is passionate about literature. Her life mostly revolves around books, movies and cats. Somewhere along the line, writing, especially poetic content, has become her hobby. Her cats do seem to listen to her poems, whether they appreciate it or not is up for debate.
Writing emotion-filled poetry is Gracy's forte. One of her poems has been published in UTKALAYAN(July -2022 issue), e- Magazine of Alumni Association, Utkal University. She will welcome feedback on her present poem at gracykujur90@gmail.com .
The moon inaudibly sings a lullaby
Swirl of stars high in the harbor
In the arms of night
I was just embracing the dream
We are walking in the woods
You are feeling the monsoon rain
No longer to carry the rain
It is raining, let it rain
I am just getting wet
In the delicate love droplets
The sound of love needs no translation
Learning to dance in the rain
with metronome of bird’s chirping
Let the rain kiss you
However, being kissed in the rain
Getting hug under the showers
Until the rain stops
While walking in a full moon night
In the sand of Chandravaga beach
Enjoying oceanic droplets drizzle
A lotus face wondrous spectral
Appealing in a distance with shy
The eyes are ringed with Kajol
Forehead is marked with tikka
Ear rings decorate the sides of the head
Necklace adorns her neck
Pair of armlets on the upper arm
Covered with bangles at the waist
Palms and soles painted with alta
Just left throwing a smile
Followed her miles long
Playing hide and seek on the way
Shadowy entered into Black Pagoda
Appeared on Natya Mandir
With three-fold bending of body
While tits bouncing in one direction
head and hips deflecting in the opposite
hands and legs merged into a rectangular
Endeavor to lead into climb up
Oh! no way to touch her
Climbing down from its elevated area
Language of man is defeated
by the language of surfaced sex symbol
Asamyukta hasta again inviting to embrace
Among amorous design on the walls
Performing mudras on Astapadi with bhabas
Involving lower, mid and upper
Perfecting expressions brazen
With the musical modes of Raga and Raginis
Poet Sri Ajit Dash by birth inherits his forefather Pariskhit Rathasharma’s legacy as one of the Navaratna Ministers of a Royal King. Being an astute organiser, socio-political as well as Development activist, he has made his presence globally. A freelance journalist and motivator, Sri Ajit Dash leads his life with lots of diversifications as an expert, imbued with utmost passion in the fields of Literature, Language, Environment, Governance, Entrepreneurship Promotion. He is experienced in Media house promotion and Electoral Politics too. Now a days his study is going on in the Use of Multilingualism, Wavelength and frequency of Odia Script, Words and Sentence pronunciation by different speakers in a multilingual perspective. Prof D. K. Ray, Late Prof of English, had compared his poems with the legendary Irish poet W. B. Yeats in the preface to his book of poetry “Midnight Dream” published in 2017. Sri Dash follows his father’s poetic accomplishments as his recently published book "Wings of Burning Violin" has been a great success.
BREEZY REFLECTIONS
PJ. SB. SSR. GB PV SS SB SS SRS GB PJ
Am I just the ephimeral morn breeze?
To all, the flora, fauna and human
Even as they sway, dance, sing as they please
Harbinger of another cheerful dawn.
Am I just a dance teacher to flowers
Directing them how to swing and to sway,
I also nurture the mighty power
If I choose to have them all blown away!
Am i just a gentle breeze, soothing, calm?
I toss ships and trees, whipping up a storm!
My stillness will bring the globe to its knees,
I dictate hot or cold winds as I please!
Am I just a wicked witch in the town
Whistling her wicked tune, swaying along
Firing away some heat without a frown
Blowing chills when no one sings the witch song !
Am I just the randomly moving air
Or fervent appeal to your better sense
I teach equality, roam everywhere,
Not bound by narrow thought, or fort or fence.
Am I just flowing as a balancer,
To stabilise and calm the atmosphere?
Mankind, for sure has gauged my calibre,
At times, my deeds are catastrophic, sheer.
Am I just the ever welcome cool breeze?
I wish I were, but do don other robes
From time to time Mother Nature to please
But always return after a quick strobe.
FRAGRANT FLOWERS
PJ. SB. SSR. GB PV SS SB SS SRS GB PJ
(Picture credits Subha Bharadwaj)
Am I just a one day wonder?
Frail, short-lived flower to wither?
In artworks etched, my beauty stays
Vibrant and refreshing always.
Am I just lotus for sun, bloom
Or Cactus, lily scents the moon
Sunflower ardent sun follower
Night and day we just flower.
Am I just a home for insects,
Where bees,butterflies see prospects,
Sucking merrily on nectar,
Pollination too, a factor?
Am I just here to give delight
Delicate, fragrant, fragile, bright,
Or strong enough to produce seed
And grain and fruit for human need.
Am I just here to produce seed,
And grain and food for human need?
Have I more intrinsic value
Satisfy soul's appetite too!
Am I just an ornament
Loved only till I am fragrant
Thrown out as I start to wither
Crushed to death to get another!
Am I just a pallete of hues?
Farrago cups to collect dews?
Thrive on my nectar, birds and bees
There can be no flora sans me.
Am I just a dash of colour
Sans me won't the world be duller
When in the garden I add charm
Take me home and I will spread calm
Am I just a shade of colour?
I am here to please you dear
I keep your spirits so lively
I am around here benignly
Am I a mirror for sunlight
Many-hued, fragrant, fragile,bright?
Sometimes clone of silver moonlight
I attract moths, I'm waxy white.
Am I just a one day wonder?
Like all beings, I'm forever!
What will I next evolve into?
Whatever, I'll come back to you!
My passing spirit
as it traverses through time
to take the other side
is it leaving behind
a soft touch
the breath of my being
dispersed in the air
that only the nodding leaf knows
the stretching valleys of silence meditate,
the twinkling stars of the scaffold keep watch,
the foliaged filled forest breath out,
and the soaking earth absorb...
none departs.
presence embedded in absence.
Nothing leaves...
Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published twelve books,10 Books of poems, a novel and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include India Women Achiever’s Award 2020. She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. She can be reached at E mail- mynamolly @gmail.com ; You tube- https://www.youtube.com/user/mynamolly
(Mt. Rainier. Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi)
Extending endlessly alongside azure-grey skies,
Milky-mist clouds floating past in myriad shapes,
O white-robed tranquil beauty, are you a deity in disguise?
Over your slumbering arms, flora, and fauna traipse
as the Spring sun disperses gilded hues,
What secrets lie concealed beneath those glaciers of ice?
For a lifetime image of your multi-dimensional views,
to catch a glimpse, people throng, unmindful of the price.
Unbridled growth in your environs does not augur too well!
In vain, let him attempt to put away the dark.
Ne’er allow egotistic Man to rule o’er you - to quell!
Continue to enchant, ignite in him that divine spark.
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.
When her lazy lids weigh and cling
The gallant prince of her dream
steps down from his winged white horse
Stealthily intrudes into her being
Enveloped in his mighty arms
She tries to gleam
He soars high and high
Far off to paradise
Adorns her with
Heavenly parijata
Entranced in the bosom of her hero in few minutes
a thousand years of life in
Exuberance she lives
Lids open up to reveal
the hurly burly
In her bleary eyes
flashes reality of life.
A journey of turmoil,
the story of strive and exhaustion
scribbled in pages
Melts down her dream to nothingness
The white horse in oblivion
Handsome prince from heaven
Never comes down again
To caress the princess
Cuckoo's utter silence
Fragrant spring drifts away
Heaps of desperation
Dwindles her credence
But effervescence never ends
Relentless strive
Keeps her going
To reach her find.
The mirage in sprawling dessert invite
Her eyes glint
Ladened with million years of dream
To relive and gleam
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.
She accepts her lot,
her hard times,
injustices that roll her way,
not sporadically,
but metronomically.
The 'uncaringness'
now her stays.
Yes! Her stays!
And the nails in her heart,
driven over the years,
she has grown accustomed to,
by growing a cicatrix
so thick, it seems a bark,
inextricable.
The bark is part of her,
defines her
Peeling it
would mean leaking life.
So for now,
she justifies
her hardscrabble style
by unearthing
the 'true' nature
of those around.
She finds peace
in revealing
all men are as snide
as the one she wedded.
Her machinations
always an attempt
to throw to light
men as riddled
with warts, pustules
and always green.
She laughs alone
in surreal delight,
the ripples
echo all about
and in distant stars.
But once in a while,
she comes across one
(or maybe just once)
who has no dark thoughts,
no shifty glances,
just white light.
And instead of revelling
in the warm glow
she eats herself
from within,
bark and all,
day in, night out.
Jairam Seshadri is the author of MANTRA YOGA (Rupa Publications), WOOF SONGS & THE ETERNAL SELF-SABOTEUR (Partridge) and JESUS SAHASRANAM - THE 1,008 NAMES OF JESUS CHRIST (Authorspress). He is a CPA with an MBA from the US and has worked in North America including Canada and England for over 30 years before returning to India to take care of his father. He lives in Chennai and can be reached at 9884445498 or jairamseshadri@hotmail.com
(** A scene from the movie “ Ex Machina”)
In my caterpillar’s crawl
muscles are squeezed into
every inch of the path.
I may not reach there or may lose
sight of that coveted bit of the sky.
The eyes have always betrayed.
They go all the way to the moon
and the stars and beyond unchallenged .
They bring romantic tales of scaling
distances, of the other side of midnight.
At the next bend, the path will enter
the chrysalis, entombed breath will
lie dreaming about the flickering edge
of the universe, where butterflies roam
free and innocent in the fluorescent air.
Today the aching limbs,
the bleeding tendrils,
the caterpillar’s days and nights,
will grind its way up the path.
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
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.
If a dressmaker caught hold
Of our tales, then I am sure
He’d weave the finest
Garment out of them
Sequinned with laughter
Layered in dreams
Frilled with bygone smiles
A ball gown sewn – beautiful like a dream
That even Cinderella would envy
And after the final touch
When he displays it out
For sale,
Will you bid the highest price
For me?
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.
The backbone of the nation strives hard
whether it is the hot sun or heavy rain
He works with hope, faith, and love
who truly thinks of others' hunger!
He counts the raindrops as coins
but unexpected floods ruin the crops
His teardrops have no meaning
when he cannot meet his needs
The land brings a moment of happiness
where families rejoice the crop and merit;
that feed thousands of families ever
This harvest festival reminds his struggle!
The growth of the nation is seen in villages
where fertile land brings immense growth
The brownish ground is sacred and gold
that offers us food, life, and greenery!
A farmer is a skilled magician
who uses techniques in the field
Farming isn't just a job, it's the life
of a farmer who feeds you thrice a day!
Let us recognize him and all the working crowd
that spend sleepless nights and days at work
Let us heartily thank him and the mob
who made it an auspicious and happy day!
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
Now that the rains have come
The earth smiles moistly
Savoring the aroma of fresh green,
The cuckoo prepares to make
A reluctant exit
From the exuberant summer scene;
Playing new notes in new rhymes
Through the crystal droplets
Bands of swollen clouds make their
Shimmering way down,
And mop the faces of the mountains
Standing sober in their grey gowns;
Trees, heavy with desire, the tremble
As the spray mist touches their face,
In a jungle of clouds a few confused stars
Grope for their ways in the liquid darkness;
Now that the rains have come
The shrivelled humanity, at last
Breathes a sigh of relief,
Watching life in smoky waves cascading
Down the distant cliffs;
The despairingly gaze hovering over
The sun-stricken lands,cracked dry,
Turn upwards now at the hope drooping
From the sullen, cloud-clad sky;
Now that the rains have come finally
Live, like a featherd-song swoops
To pearch outside my forgotten window,
And I melt and let myself drift
Aimlessly in its luminous flow!
The island of sands and rocks,
Of gritting pebbles and whooshing waves
waits patiently
Nursing the ruins
Of the sea-dreams in the creases
Of its desiccated face
Till the rains descend
To wash the sands off
The palms, the cactus and the dates,
The one somber tree at its edge
that sits like ancientness
In meditation
Gratefully breathes in
The green wetness;
Like fresh flow of life
A bird sails in from some
Distant land of music
struggling through the wet winds
To pearch on a branch,
And the tree begins to sing
The sands and the rocks
The clumps of dates and the palms too
Swish and shiver and sing
Drowning the grating cries of the sea,
When the rain descends generously
On the sands and the rocks
And the half brown, half green
meditating tree;
They sing and sing
In a rapturous feat
Till the sky is left bared
Till the tree and the sands
Are hoarse from it;
The rains now climb up to another sky
Looking for the ruins of different dreams
In another sea of time
In another island that has gone dry!
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)
I remember vividly the day when
You came and sat beside me
You read my thoughts
You held my hand
You kept your head on my shoulder,
We shared many memories
of past together.....1
The silver twinkling
of the mirage in a desert
that attracted but
never could satiate the thirst
the waste efforts
to catch the golden deer
that disappeared in hot dry air,
Leaving us tired and exhausted
in sheer despair....2
The track riddled with thorns and obstacles with no scope for rest or pause
the focussed race that assured
a sure win was left with
a flicker of hope
the direction was
missed in dark
the path was
lost some where way behind,
The staggered race
was on a blink
with many hiccups and glitch
The whole experience was
a mere tough grind....3
Looking back
the mad rush and race
that left the body dying static and motionless
A sudden gush of fresh air
entered into the gasping body
to give it the life force rare
And enabled us to see again the little beautiful flowers
on our side ways
and smell the sweet fragrance on the trail,
Living and capturing each and every precious moments encountered thereafter
without a fail.....4
That day when I sat
beside you
Realised the human worth
and value of you
you sprinkled love infinity and everything belonged to you,
The only wish left
with me was to
have vicinity proximity
and talk to you.....5
Life presents everything in
own schedule time
teaching lessons on some day,
Wishes are granted by the unseen power
when we gathered strength together to pray
and march forward
on a promise to have
nice rejuvenating breaks on
our thorny flowery way....6
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.
Rain!
Don’t mind
If I cry in pain,
Patiently, I wait
For the gentle shower
As healing touch from above.
Wash away the discomfort
Flashing my eyes with water
Removing all the congestions,
I have been trying to cleanse
With my tears,
However, they are not enough,
But, do I have any other option?
Dried heart and longing soul,
Feel deserted by my own body
To grow few seeds into trees;
Come, delay no more,
I see lots of hope
That can change my life
Including that of many others.
Past almost forgotten,
Time ripe to introspect,
May be the solution lies
In the foregone ages,
Dormant and hidden
Waiting little knock
To wake up from sleep,
Rejuvenated and fresh.
Rain!
Come fast
Enlighten me
With lightening speed
Wiping out all my vice
Accumulated during dark days,
Drench me with nectar
Splashing my heart with love
And heavenly warmth,
Don’t judge me if I deserve
The heavenly blessings,
But I know for sure
Can’t withstand, anymore
The wrath of floods and fury.
I hear the pitter-patter sound,
So soothing,
All the indication
You are coming
With the celestial band
Orchestrating divine music.
I wake up to see,
This is a new morning,
Dark and cloudy
Without the sunshine,
But full of life,
Dull yet inspiring
With immense possibilities,
Something great is surely unfolding.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
In the afternoon of life
damn tired in the race of life
on the road of strife
In my wheelchair
With few dear and near
When I pass through my memory lane alone
Pained to see the corpses of many sweet bonds
That I had mercilessly slain.
The crown of ego I used to wear
never allowed me to bow and say
“I’m sorry. Please excuse me if I ever hurt you anyway.”
Now there is no value of shedding tears,
no chance to get back those precious treasures.
Now when I compete for death
In which there is no need for a crown of ego and pride
I prefer to wear a heart of love
that inspires me to say “Sorry” to all.
Nobody knows for how long we’ll be together
So, I forgive those who hurt me ever,
I say sorry to those whom I hurt ever,
I say sorry even to those, though I am not at all wrong
as I value everyone and every relation.
To be loved gives much more satisfaction
So, there’s no harm if I say, “Sorry I’m wrong.”
It’s far better to touch someone’s feet
Or with a hug say sorry to keep the bond sweet
rather than insisting to justify myself right!
There is no such satisfaction in the air-conditioned ice cream parlour
Lavished with mouth-watering ice creams of unconventional flavours:
Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pista or kesar
There is no such pleasure in the frozen desserts in parties
With ice creams of varied varieties: Blue Moon, Raspberry Ripple, Moon Mist or Tutti-Frutti,
From branded companies like Amul, Dinshaw’s or Kwality
That I nibble carefully protecting my cultivated beauty,
So cautious I’m of my makeup and false status
That I enjoy happiness with extra caution in little measures!
But how sweet were those ice creams of street vendors
Whose horns used to rouse my taste buds from deep slumber,
Whom I used to wait anxiously in the noon of hot summer
And to have one I persistently pestered my mother
Blackmailed/ was blackmailed to fulfill the demand
To savour an ice cream was a celebration so grand!
A stick with a coating of thin layer
Of water, sugar, some colour without flavour
That I used to consume with utmost care
So that not a single drop would slip from my tongue
With a longing that it would last long,
Relished as if a thirsty barn swallow
Licking the melting flow from the elbow!
What a simple way to beat the summer
With no fear of contaminated water
And sneer of society or satirical remarks
When with full concentration I used to lick, suck and smack!
Namita Rani Panda is a multilingual poet, story writer, editor and translator from Sambalpur, Odisha. She has five anthologies of poems to her credit: Blue Butterflies, Rippling Feelings, A Slice of Sky and A Song for Myself and Colours of Love. She is co-translator of Rivulets of Reflections, a book of translated stories from Odia to English. She has co-authored Radical Rhythm Volume I to IV with the credit of editorship of Radical Rhythm II. She is co-editor of Resplendent Rainbow and Durga the Invincible, both being collection of poems. Her signature words are love, optimism and self-confidence. Presently she is working as Vice Principal of Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya Cuttack, Odisha.
Now it seems so long ago
Seems like a forgotten song
Yet, I remember its vague outline
But it was surely there
In chambers of my memory
Sharp as sunlight
My spiritual search!
And then came obstacles
Not so pretty blocks
Blocks that simply distracted
Growing and growing
Like an unending wall
Blocking me as I traversed
Locking me with emptiness!
It was like I had gone astray
In search of useless lucre
Of ephemeral, unseemly pastures
That landed in bottomless chasm
Taking me far away from my search
It seemed like an unbreakable barricade
Between me and the goal!
This Pilgrim’s regression
Was leading me nowhere
My meanderings were a nightmare
Till I decided to block the blocks
And decipher the diversions
That hid the light of my dreams
I began decoding the dark shadows!
I now follow only the inner light
And relentlessly fight
To break through the wall
Before I finally fall.
I no longer get entwined
With the darkness. I break it
Into lights to see the Divine!
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 wake up each day in need of you
You set the clock ticking the moment we are out of bed
Without you we are left clueless and aimless
We tend to become lazy in your absence
We look forward for a break from you
And once we get it we start longing for you again
We very well know with you in our lives
We have saved enough time to our reserves
Our days seem to get better and better
Well, back to ROUTINE is what we all say isn't it ?
Indu Pooranan lives in Chennai and is passionate about literature. She started writing a few lines wishing her husband for his 50th birthday and from then on has gone on to making people feel special on important occasions by expressing her thoughts and the bonds they share. In addition to the photo grids that she tries to create, she also pens her thoughts on nature and current topics.
Awoke at aurora by the excruciating sounds of the crackers,
I mizzled for a stroll...
Amid the dissonance I voyaged the cliffs and ridges,
Cruised the riverine,
Applauding the prunes Hanging from the twigs and boughs
Apricots and raspberries were glowing in their tender greens ...
Aren't the hills chaste ?How weirdly !
Magnificently beautiful that dewy morn
When the crackers were dispensing the anxiety of the hikers
I was but poised
Vanquishing all vagueness,
The breeze at the dawn had the secrets to tell me
I had to look upon it asThe quintessence of life,
Nobody can go back and start a new beginning,
Isn't it a serious thing just to be alive ?
On this fresh morning- in this broken world -
I arise , start afresh
And keep on strolling flamboyantly...
Meenakshi Goswami is the Principal of CNS HS School, Sonitpur Assam and an inhabitant of Tezpur, Assam, India. She has 2 Books of Poems to her credit and also poems are published in many Anthologies. Her debut book The Sensuous Zephyr was launched in 2014 in Melbourne Australia where she had attended a Poetry Meet and her Second book Waltzing Words is Published by the renowned Publisher Authorspress Delhi this 2021 in the month of September. She is a recipient of State Award for Teachers on 5th September 2018 from Govt of Assam and Republic Day Award in 2013 and 2019 for her dedicated service to human resources, Art and Culture. She is also the recipient of Oil Shikshya Ratna Puraskar 2016 in recognition of all round excellence as an educationist. She has attended many multilingual international poetry festivals in India and abroad
Drones may dive,
Do the somersaults
Bombs may blast
Missiles may crisis cross the sky
Ukraine is far off
Let me count my blessings
Need not look to the other side of the mountain
Grass is green here , so also the leaves on the trees
Green leaves radiating their fresh greenness on a bright sunny day ,
A cherry smile from the persons I did not know this morning
A sweetness of a toddler in the arms of the mother constantly looking at me ,
The most miserly colleague mine,
Master of materialism
Surprising me with a cup of my favourite tea
A Coffee by my boss in a meeting just at the time I needed it .
DK sweeps the balls and sends many on aerial route beyond the border / boundary
India equals a series and keeps the surprise open
Vishkhapatnam throbbed the heart , made my nation prove mahan again,
Who said that the Monsoon is missing our address
It has come to our doorstep, its small steps we see
And hear its sound on the lanes outside
The cool breeze has banished the fire-air
Brought down the temperature ,
Like a close person , without any inhibition
Enters my house through windows and doors !
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.
Whenever I enter the room
And look at the languid mirror
I see the shadow behind me smiling
My shadow, my own shadow.
I go out and let the shadow free
To soar to the sky
Touch the stars, kiss the moon
Talk to the happy souls twinkling.
Couples walking on the streets
Look at my shadow wondering
Why it's brimming with joy
What life offered to it, so special.
Tha shadow moves around,
Playing with little kids in the park,
Sharing a biscuit with the old lady
Walking down the street.
As if it's on a mission
To spread happiness and joy
To tell the passersby in life's caravan
Of the world beyond Kashmir and Ukraine
Ah, my cute little shadow,
Going beyond me, my soul
Roaming with happy abandon
Some day I will be you,
My shadow, my own shadow.
......AND ONE OF DESPAIR
I was the one who stood on the street
Shouting slogans of protest
Throwing a stone or two,
I was the one who glared at the brute force.
With time I gathered my fallen dreams
From the dry leaves swept by burning winds.
My sweaty shirt squeezed into balls of blood
I am the one who ran into the howls of despair.
What I sought lay in dark corridors of my heart
Amidst the ashes burnt from the dead fire
That had smouldered like licking flames.
Till my laboured breath put it out.
The big ones laughed at me,
My impotent rage, my rising frustrations.
Who am I to judge them, the high priests
They chant mantras for the masses,
I decided to join the protest
And here I am running away from life,
and the small remnants of hope
A sad life dotted with a thousand deaths.
The shadow no longer follows me
Nor leads me like it used to.
The light that once shone to guide me
Is now a small flicker.
The dew that sparkled once
On a smiling petal looks at me,
Its heart throb, I hide from it,
I am but a pain, an ache, a blister.
I am going to run and hide
If you want to know where I am
Don't bother to ask the wind, or the sky,
The trees or the fallen leaves.
Just look for the lost shadow,
And follow the drops of ashes
That once fell as driplets of blood
From a tormented soul.
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
(Translated by Prasanna Kumar Hota)
It was a Saturday afternoon! Kanduri ate his lunch late, rinsed his mouth in haste, washed his hands, and announced to his wife suddenly that she should dress up quickly wearing a good sari as he was going out to look for a rickshaw for both of them to go together to a cinema hall to watch a matinee show. Lily gathered together all the remains of fish bones from her and her husband’s plate, threw these into a half-broken plastic bucket lying in the small courtyard, sprinkled some water on the plates for cleaning later and ambled into the bedroom to change her sari. She switched off the fan so that the folds of the sari would not flap in a half-hazard manner while dressing. It was late April afternoon in Cuttack, the wrath of summer had begun. Lily took out a special red coloured ironed sari which had defining dark lines also -a ‘Dhaniakhali’ sari. Their home did not have a large mirror; in the old-fashioned rented house her make-up materials like powder, hair clip, and three different sizes of red ‘bindi’ etc. were encased in an alcove in the wall. A thin small mirror hung next to the alcove, which barely enabled Lily to peer at the reflection of her face.
Lily was married for the last three years. She spent about four months after the marriage in the home of her in-laws in the village. Then Kanduri got the job of a lecturer in Mathematics in Ravenshaw College at Cuttack, and they moved to a rented accommodation in Bepari Sahi of Cuttack. When Lily moved to the new house, she was initially wonder-struck at the scene - a large Cockatoo that was sitting and swaying continuously in the front verandah of the house-owner. In this new home, she had a full look at her husband for the first time. She had a miscarriage of her first pregnancy only within two months. Luckily, this did not leave any ugly mark on her body. There was no large size mirror at home; but in Rajhans Sari showroom, she could gaze lovingly at her five feet six inches tall shimmering attractive body. And when she poured water on her bare body in early evening for a bath, she felt titillated; but she was bemused whether it held any special meaning for her indifferent husband.
Lily kept pondering about her longing body and her impervious husband while affixing a medium size ‘bindi’ on her forehead. She had almost stopped putting vermillion on her hair parting. She blushed at the impromptu proposal of her husband in the blazing afternoon to visit a Matinee Show of cinema, because Kanduri seldom took her out. She did not even know which was the movie they were scheduled to visit. She only knew that Kanduri was a fan of actress Madhubala, and saw the movie Mughal-E- Azam umpteen times. She had noticed that Kanduri had hung a black and white calendar photo of Madhubala on the wall against his study table. She did not however know or cared whether that photo was from her movie, Howrah Bridge or Jalinote. She had two pairs of shoes to use for outside trips, one black and the other red. She took out the red pair and brushed these clean. Then she went to her bathroom as she remembered that the toilets in the cinema were very dirty and she would not have to use these toilets. She dried her feet and hands; Kanduri had not yet returned.
The film songs special show over radio in the Vividh Bharati centre blaring from the paan shop across the road apparently had come to an end; it meant the time was 3 PM. About forty minutes had gone by; but there was no sign of Kanduri. There was some sound of a rickshaw bell. Lily had heard that there were five Matinee shows. She peered out; as usual, the cockatoo was swinging on his metal ring seat…an empty rickshaw passed by on the front road There was no sign of Kanduri.
Lily closed the doors and windows of her home. She tried to come to terms with the reality of Kanduri’s absence… it called upon her patience. She responded with feeling languid and sleepy. A Gujrati family was the tenant on the first floor of the building. The TV was on in that floor. Lily went to the bedroom and clad in her special saree she reclined on the bed to sleep. She woke up with a start after three hours when the evening had descended and the matinee show should have finished, at the chattering of a group of children passing by in front road engaged in their games. Kanduri had not returned !
Lily is not the occasion nor protagonist of this story. The writer of this story probably finds her physique rather attractive and igniting, that is all! Neither Kanduri nor the story to unfold depends on her. Therefore, Lily could not have thrown any light on Kanduri’s whereabouts except to state later that Kanduri suddenly reappeared like an unexpected gust of a small tornado after about twenty four hours on Sunday early evening and blurted out to her, 'It is too late now for the Mateine show; but, if you get ready in a jiffy, we can visit the Evening Show.' Lily, however could not react and ask Kanduri why he appeared wearing only a red cotton towel, had no other clothes except his sacred thread and a handful of tobacco-laced pans held together in a leaf... and where were his shoes! It also could not become apparent from her whether they visited any cinema show that Sunday or on any other day.
Only Kanduri could relate the details of the cluster of happenings behind this event; and it took nearly thirty years before we could ferret out all the details from him. I shifted to Delhi for my job and career; I however kept visiting my home town now and then. Initial couple of times I bumped into Kanduri at the pan shop of Kishu. His brief narration of the ‘Matinee Show’ adventure had turned into a light-hearted banter among the friend circle; but, suddenly Kanduri disappeared from the scene altogether. A news reached me that Kanduri, my classmate and Gold-medalist in Mathematics in Graduation had been sacked from his job as a lecturer as he started drinking heavily even during the College duty hours. We were about to lament the bad fortune of our dear Kanduri when a news reached us that he had bagged the job of the Regional Manager of a reputed liquor company and was flying around in the eastern part of India as part of his job. Kanduri first purchased a motor cycle and then a Fiat car. He soon sported a military style handle-bar moustache [like Devanand in the film, Hum-Dono]. He bought an elegant Mahanadi river-facing Flat in a new developed area called CDA, and shifted from Bepari Sahi along with Lily. Perhaps, they were yet to have children; but there were two polka-dot Dalmatian dogs at their new home.
Our lives took different paths for the next thirty years. Three months back, finally I caught up with Kanduri, believe it or not- inside a liquor bar. Akhyay Bhai had started drinking even during day-time since last ten years, however, he would drink only in the famous Bilimoria Bar. Three months back I had come to Cuttack on some Governmental work, went looking for Akhyay Bhai, couldn’t find him in Bilimoria. I then went searching for him in the unique bye-lane of the area where the vegetable stalls, the dirty vegetable remains strewn on the road, the ubiquitous local bull masticating all the thrown vegetable remains, the hot sun, the thin road-side overflowing drains, all these had combined to produce a florid stench repelling and attractive at the same time. In that lane was a liquor shop doling out both ‘country’ and ‘foreign’ liquor. A slim but lame Telegu girl somewhat resembling actress Waheeda Rehman was serving the liquor to the customers; some were drinking the liquor mixing with water and some drank it ‘neat’. Akhyay Bhai was there and Kanduri was in company.
It was not easy to recognize Kanduri at the first glance. He looked like a witch-doctor; he was having long hair, greying beard, a trouser and only a sleeveless vest; perhaps, he had taken off his shirt and tucked it away, he had a long vermilion smear on his forehead, and ‘rudrakshas’ around his neck. His one hand held a cheap aluminium glass and the other had a never-ending procession of cigarettes. And his eyes glittered like two broken pieces of glass reflecting sunlight. Akhyay Bhai mentioned to us each other’s names and said, “Devdas, do you know of Lin Yutang’s ‘39 Moments Of Happiness’ where it is mentioned that when one meets a very old friend in a pub, that is a moment of perfect happiness.' One did not know the veracity of this writing, nevertheless, it was the most appropriate statement for the occasion.
Kanduri and I plunged into various chattering; but the subject of Matinee Show would not have come up but for the arrival of yet another friend, Deba Acharya. Until a few years back, Deba’s sole indulgence was ‘bhang’- the cannabis leaves. After a lot of wire-pulling, he had managed to be called up for being interviewed for the job of a Radio announcer at Delhi in Government of India. His voice was of the right pitch and his enunciation of the words were distinct. Jatin Das, the then great all-India Odia newsreader was interviewing him. He allegedly asked, ’Where from the word Akash-Vani has originated?’ Deba was totally under the influence of ‘bhang’, peered at his face as if mesmerized and blurted out innocently “From your lotus mouth! Whenever we put on the radio in the morning to hear the news, you say, ‘Akash-Vani’, here is the news read by Jatin Das.’
Deba acharya, of course, did not get selected. However, whenever, Kanduri would meet him, he would greet Deba- ‘Hello Akash-Vani!’ And Deba would invariably reply, 'Hello, Matinee Show!' But then Deba also did not know like we did not know, what exactly happened thirty years back on that fateful Saturday Matinee Show. That afternoon, in that ramshackle bar he suddenly insisted that Kanduri must spill out all the beans, what all happened when Kanduri had announced that he was going to fetch a rickshaw for going to the matinee show with his wife. But instead of the rickshaw he returned more than a day later sans his clothes and shoes clad in a thin red cotton towel. Deba was insistent that Kanduri had to unlock the story of the mysterious happening and regale us with the minutest details. Kanduri was conciliatory and said that he would tell us the whole truth, nothing but the truth, provided he was not interrupted.
Akhyay Bhai nodded and said, 'Yes, the last time Kanduri was about to relate the details, Deba again started talking about the shaggy black dog visiting him out of the blue'. Deba’s black dog was his perennial baggage, the dog came into his life inexplicably while one evening he was at his uncle’s home at Berhampur as a college student; [the home of Deba’s Uncle faced the gate of the city’s Women’s College; Deba would mention this piece of geography each time with a tinge of pride]. Deba perhaps, had a little more ‘bhang’ than usual, and so, went to sleep closing all the doors and windows of his room. But, lo and behold, he found a black shaggy dog sleeping below his bed when he woke up in the morning. The mysterious black dog would puzzle Deba and intrude into his conversation whenever Deba had an extra bit of intoxicant of any type. Many an occasion, we all had to puzzle along with him and were made to listen to his eternal question about the shaggy black dog invading his closed sanctum sanctorum. No logical conclusion could ever be reached except that it could be the outcome of some super-natural occurrence or hallucination caused by Bhang.
Deba said with finality, 'Damn the shaggy black dog, let the sleeping dog rest today. Kanduri Bhai, you please tell us where did the matinee show take place that Saturday- with some other woman who invited you to her bedroom, or atop the back-seat in the cinema hall? ‘Okay; have patience, I shall describe all events, but, it may take time.' Kanduri said with a grave face. 'No problem about time today! Let it spill over into evening or night. We are all ears. Just tell us who enticed you.' Deba asserted.
'I shall need three pegs to tell the details with nuances; so, please decide first about who will pay for the drinks'. Kanduri unhesitatingly tabled his demand. ‘I shall pay for the first round’ Akhyay Bhai promptly said. Kanduri lighted up a cigarette. The lame Waheeda Reman look-alike girl poured some whisky into Kanduri’s aluminium glass. Deba could not hold himself back; he said, 'First of all, please inform us who enticed you.' Kanduri gulped a large portion from his glass, stared back at us and said, 'Liquor invited me.'
It was a similar sun-drenched afternoon thirty years back when Kanduri walked rapidly to the Buxibazar Square to locate a rickshaw so that he would take his wife to a matinee show. His mouth was also seeking the post rice-lunch tobacco-laced pan. Pan would also be needed at the movie. Kanduri went up to Kishu’s pan shop and ordered the pans first. Kishu was all alone. A couple of grey turtle-doves were busy jostling each other perched on the parapet of the nearby shop. The road was almost empty of all traffic. The Sun had started ascending the western sky and was blazing on the High Court building. Kishu lined up pan leaves and started preparing the pans no sooner he saw Kanduri. Kishu was his usual reticent self of the silent Buddha! He had mastered the art of applying the minutest potion of ‘kimam’ with the broken tip of a match-stick on the pan leaf; his talk with customers was even more minimal. Therefore, when Kanduri vanished like a streak of lightening into the side lane of the main road as the preparation of the pans was halfway, Kishu reckoned that the pans would not be called into service for at least the next two hours.
The bye-lane near Kishu’s shop housed the much famed among the patrons, the distillery-cum-bar of country liquor. The place used to throb with crowd of radio artists and movie goers and other connoisseurs every evening except on occasions like 2nd October etc. when the activities used to shift to a thatched hut behind the distillery for the select few customers out of respect for the importance of the Day. Kanduri was already a ‘regular’, He had estimated that he would only take a few minutes to down a pouch of the amber in a jiffy, and then come back to Kishu, pick up the pans, put a pan in his mouth to subdue the smell of liquor and then on with the visit to the matinee show with his wife. However, he never dreamt that time would rush by like a river in spate. By the time he staggered out of the bar, he became alarmed that the matinee show by that time would be about to end; he thought that he had lost his mind. So, he did not pick up the pans, hailed a rickshaw instead, and asked the rickshaw-puller to take him to the railway station as he could not decide any definite destination due to onset of panic.
Kanduri sat erect on the cushion of the rickshaw almost in a lotus pose. When the rickshaw trundled through Mangalabag, then Ranihat and drew abreast of Ravenshaw College Square, Kanduri observed the flooding of the college campus by the golden rays of the setting sun; he also saw that both the tennis courts in front of the College were active; tennis players were at it. Kanduri suddenly alighted from his rickshaw, lighted a cigarette and smoked and watched the tennis from across the low-height boundary wall. The sun set and the light dipped quickly. Hundreds of birds descended on the Deodar trees lining the roads and the campus creating an evening show of their home for the night. Kanduri also ended his role as a spectator, walked rapidly towards the railway station. Of course, he picked up a half-bottle rum on way from a shop, mixed some coco cola with it, drank a little. Put the rest in his pocket and ambled along into an ordinary unreserved compartment of a train lined up on Platform number 1. As if the train was waiting for him to board; it started immediately and moved on.
Kanduri was not startled. It was his old habit to board a train or a bus without any definite purpose or destination now and then. The main thing was that Kanduri did not set any targets and milestones to cover in his journey of life. Once, when his marriage ceremony was over and he was still employed as a lecturer in Mathematics, Kanduri due to his sheer mastery over Mathematics was invited from Kolkata to take part in the Mathematics Olympiad. This was also a matter of prestige for the College. A box news item in the local daily newspaper was published along with a small photograph of Kanduri. The next Olympiad was scheduled at Chicago; so, there was some excitement in the circle of friends about Kanduri’s impending foreign trip. Many of them came to the railway station to wish him bon voyage and good luck when he boarded the Puri Howrah Express train for Kolkata. He was, however, was untraceable in the Mathematics Olympiad at Kolkata. His wife Lily received a telegram from Kanduri after five days carrying a cryptic messaged-‘Reached Guwahati safe’.
The train compartment was plunged in darkness as the lights had not come on. Kanduri tried to solve the mystery of the deepening darkness by peering into the compartment and to the outside sky. He saw that a dark cloud had started descending and was gobbling up the remnants of the daylight which was like a thin glistening silk line in a Malayalee’s Mundu. Inside the compartment, Kanduri saw the reflection of the darkening sky on about a dozen of Sufi dervish like men dressed in long dark robes who were taking their time for settling own on their seats and arranging their luggage creating even more gloom. They were the only other noticeable passengers in that compartment. Kanduri sat on a seat near the window, kept peering at the star-stolen dark sky and kept sipping his rum and coke.
An unannounced cloudy night. Some unseasonal rain also fell. Thunder and lightening kept company in tandem, after a while. Only occasional flash of lightening darkening the sky further. What remained was the continuous pouring of rain, some of which an occasional gust of wind carried into the compartment through the window. As if eternal gloom had reserved the entire compartment for an endless journey! In the compartment of the moving train, some light had come on as the train picked up speed, but the light almost petered out as the passenger train slowed down as it drew near to wayside stations, and the bulbs were like pale men gasping for their final breath, it only heightened the ethereal night which had overpowered the compartment. Kanduri responded by adding the remaining rum with the remaining coke to drown out the darkness of the journey.
Kanduri suddenly heard a sound challenging the silence of the gloom. A piece of wood striking with another piece of wood in rhythm to usher in a musical beat to initiate a different night. Then the tinkling sound of the bells of anklets commenced, as if an exquisite danseuse started a performance of a classical duet putting her delicate anklets to motion and emotion. The sensation of a duet got heightened with the sound of pakhawaj drum beats, and it was followed by the sound that poured out from the sarangi like a wild piteous cry piercing the heart of the night silencing all other stray sounds. Kanduri rebounded from his stupor. He observed each member of that unique group wearing long black robe opening up his luggage and mingling with the musical medley already flowing, with his own instrument. It so happened that mouth organ and even banjo smoothly joined the chorus.
Eventually, a personality having curly abundant hair like Abida Parvin, but an imposing male figure, took out from a carefully wrapped big bundle a large size scale, changer harmonium. Right from the beginning, his fingers nimbly played on the reeds as if it was not being played by a human hand but was the outpouring of a fast, paced mechanical marionette. When the notes from the harmonium commenced, most other instruments gave way and sat around like the stars at night that surround the moon quietly. The leader then put his hand near his left ear and let out a high octave recital. The musical notes must have climbed through the windows of the train compartment to the clouds floating in the sky. And he started with his unique high-pitched voice a melodious stanza, difficult to decide even after listening to it with rapt attention whether it was the voice of a man or a woman. It was the opening line of the famous qawali, 'Hume to loot liya milke husan walone, kale kale balo ne, gore gore galone. I have been looted by the beauties having raven-black hair and fair blooming cheeks.' For the next three hours the enthralling musical ensemble continued, Kanduri had never before or after experienced the like of this sixteen-piece orchestra and the ethereal ambience the notes of the qawali created that night.
The qawals in their flowing black robes and instruments got down from the train at Baleshwar. The sky was clear of the clouds, the train window had no traces of the early night rain, the pockets of Kanduri were empty, not a drop of rum, no trace of any intoxication. The beats of the pakhawaj of the qawali party had driven off all the effects of alcohol. However, Kanduri knew that world over, invariably there would be an open liquor shop nearby each rail station. This knowledge came to Kanduri from his a singular experience. He had completed his graduate examination in Ravenshaw College. It was a summer night of late April or early May. Kanduri just went to the Cuttack rail station. He saw a stationery train standing on the platform, got up into a compartment sought out an empty berth and went to sleep. He found himself in the morning at Waltier station and realised that he had boarded a special train- it was a train arranged, decorated and was travelling all through India to commemorate the ‘Hundred Year Centenary of the Birth of Mahatma Gandhi’. It was scheduled to travel throughout India for a year. And it was said, that Ms. Ava Gandhi was also aboard the special train. Kanduri enlisted himself as a volunteer and roamed around in the train for about four to five months. That train was a Special Exhibition Train. It moved at night, during day it stopped at the station of some town or other. Day-long, the volunteers preached in work-shops about the principles of Gandhi Ji on prohibition and abstinence. However, when the train stopped at any station at night, some of them would rush out to any shop close-by to the station and arrange for their sustenance.
At Baleshwar, Kanduri also got down to arrange for his quota of pans and rum; but, when he returned to the platform, the train sans the qawals had vanished into the endless night. Kanduri was not the one to be perturbed, he got busy in preparing the right mix of the coke and rum, quietly sipping some of it now and then, and roamed around the station yard. He found on the far end of a platform, a toy-like train parked on narrow-gauge. The night was still young, about 9.30 PM. A blanche moon had occupied the sky that had got rid of the unseasonal clouds. Kanduri got up unto a compartment, a couple of stragglers as passengers were dotting the compartment. Kanduri again ambled along to a window-side seat. A fellow-passenger gratuitously enlightened him that Maharaja of Mayurbhanj had established this Metre-gauge rail only for facilitating the journey between Baleshwar and Baripada. Otherwise there was no other Metre gauge rail in the nearby areas.
Kanduri reached Baripada around midnight, Kanduri had exhausted his stock of rum and coke. However, he was ravenously hungry. He had heard stories about the tasty dish of puffed rice with dry mutton as the specialty of Baripada. But it only heightened his hunger as he could not find any shop open to cater to him at that unearthly hour. Finally, in his tipsy condition Kanduri stretched himself on a bench at the empty platform and went to sleep. He dreamt after a couple of hours about a bespectacled God who somewhat resembled his Head of The Department, the God benignly was gently shaking him and was saying, 'Kanduri, get up! Tell me what is that you desire. I shall grant you three boons.'
As in Life, there was no God around. Only a young boy of about 15 years whose beard or moustache was yet to sprout was trying to shake him to wake him up. And he was adding, 'Aare Saheb, why are you sleeping in this godforsaken place? Get up! There is a better place for you to enjoy your sleep. Let me escort you there.' Kanduri opened his eyes, found no God around, lost his cool and burst like a fire-cracker, 'Who the hell are you?' That young lad did not get perturbed at Kanduri’s impatience, and started smirking with guileless laughter. He blandly announced, 'Sahib, my name is Ispat.' Kanduri remembered his undergraduate hostel days training of ragging and made a rejoinder, 'If your name is Ispat- ‘Steel’, your buttocks must hang a Bill, saying ‘I need a Stick, or at least, give me a kick’ !' Of course, he admitted that in his irritation he had used more slang terms for the anatomy etc, and that he tried to aim a kick at the supple posterior of that boy who with lightening reflex evaded the attempt and said to Kanduri, 'Sahib, do not assault me. I promise you happy sleeping arrangements. Kanduri patted down his crumpled clothes and sat erect on the bench, asked 'Will some good stuff be available there?' This time Ispat caught hold of Kanduri’s hand, gently tugged to make him follow him muttering, 'Everything is available; just follow me'
The boy escorted Kanduri to the alleged place of sleeping where two sisters were waiting. The elder sister was dark complexioned, plump and married. The parting in the hair of her head loudly proclaimed her status as it was full of vermillion. She also had a pair of long earrings. She was draped in a sari which embraced her loosely and the end of the sari was falling behind her shoulder. However, perhaps due to the hot weather she had not put on any blouse. She did not appear particularly pleased at their arrival and queried, 'So late at night?' Kanduri held his ground and hollered, 'Where is the liquor?' This startled the younger sister. But the elder was adept at dealing with such situations with raised eye-brows, she smiled and asked without much guile, 'Do you want only liquor or also do you want to come to bed also?' Kanduri fell silent. The younger sister went to the inner room and came back with an orange-coloured pouch and a glass. Kanduri gulped down the content in no time. He felt stuffy, removed his T-shirt. He had also unbuckled his wrist-watch and put it in his trouser pocket. He lit up a cigarette sitting bare-bodied on the bed in the proximity of the elder sister. She affectionately moved her palm on his bare back and requested, 'Sahib, you better smoke outside. The smell of cigarette will irritate him.' She was perhaps, hinting about her husband. Kanduri remembered Lily; she also asked him to go out of the bedroom whenever he would start smoking.
Kanduri came out to the front-yard. There was a wind which did not carry much moisture, but felt cool on his bare torso. Clear moonlight was flooding the area; on the shrub-hedge it glistened like the skin of a snake. The house meant a two-room railway shed of a railway labourer in charge of repairing of tracks, was built with poorly burnt bricks and thatched with clay-piece roofing. The shed stood alone in the darkness of the surroundings, though the halogen light with its bright glare was quite visible at the distant signal pole. The elder sister loosened her sari a bit and reclined on the bed inside waiting for Kanduri. Kanduri sometimes smoked four to five cigarettes in a row. He was yet to re-enter. The night was meandering along. The younger sister was lying down on a mat on the floor next to Ispat and both of them were engaged in some way with each other passing time. She had put on kajal, black eyeliner- on her eye drawing the line out, she was wrapped in a short tight colourful frock which was only up to her thighs, her hair was loose, she looked with all this a bit older than she actually was. Ispat was chuckling and trying to explore her body, she was equally playful in keeping his probing palms at bay by hitting those away with her mehndi-decorated palms.
This game stopped no sooner than Kanduri re-entered the room. The elder sister got up from the bed, put off the light and said, 'Come, it is getting rather late!' As she pulled Kanduri to the bed, in the darkness, Kanduri’s knee bumped against the sharp edge of the bed, and he uttered a small cry of pain-’Ah!’ The elder sister said soothingly, 'Hey, are you planning to sleep with all your clothes on!' Kanduri had taken out his T-shirt earlier. The elder sister was perhaps, wrestling with his pair of jeans. It was not visible in the darkness. Just then Ispat piped up from the mat, 'We are feeling a bit shy. Will you please escort him to the inner room?' The chuckling sound of the younger sister at these words as if made even the dark night smile… The elder sister tilted her head to one side and said, ‘Hey, you Show-off!’ And she caught hold of Kanduri by hand and drew him into the pitch-dark inner room. Kanduri had practically gone to sleep while he was being led walking to the inner room. Anyway, the notes of pain and pleasure- ‘Uhm… Ahh’ - all ceased within ten minutes in both the rooms along with movements and other sounds of the alive darkness. And what remained after a couple of minutes after the mandatory ten minutes under the star lit sky as a canopy hovering over were sounds of snoring breaking like sea waves in a full tide night emanating from that two roomed structure.
Deba Acharya groomed and powered by the benefit of imbibing Bhang over years forgot his promise not to interrupt or interject, blurted out,' Only ten minutes.! Even the shaggy'. Akhyay Bhai anticipated the dog perfectly and jumped in with his bit to rescue the serenely hurtling afternoon from being hijacked again by the intruding animal. Akhyay Bhai was always permitted to punctuate any story with his wit and couplets, it lent verb and vigour to the raconteur to gather his thoughts and continue. In any case, Akhyay Bhai was paying for the drinks. He looked at Deba,' You may be better than ten minutes. You know, here our dear lyricist, he writes such seductive lyrics. Our Charmer is quick to get into strange beds, sing his short anthem and then seeks ways to exit the bed and the room in next few seconds leaving a startled womanhood agitated and bewildered ‘the lyric was so good, but, the song had barely begun,’ Kanduri has given no such promises to anybody, his world is of Bacchus; he is unperturbed by Saki.' Thank God that Akhyay Bhai did not evoke Aphrodite. Deba would have been thoroughly confused and might have asked the lame girl for bhang sherbet instead of the usual.
Anyway, Kanduri took Akhyay Bhai’s interjection as a musical interlude and continued…
Gods seldom smile on mortals eternally. The snoring of four-piece rhythmic tandem was too good to lo last. And so the Railway Helper like a late night homing bird returned after an hour drunk to the brim, kicked the front door, and hollered- 'Open the door, Malati!' The clarinet playing of snoring ceased, and utter fear burst through the roof of the two-roomed shed like invisible rockets which whooshed skyward.
The younger sister startled from her sleep rushed in and hissed like a snake, 'Sister, Sister!' Ispat threw some clothes on Kanduri and said, ‘Sahib, just wrap and run out of the back.’ And he vanished in a trice by the backdoor, scaled over the wild shrub- boundary followed by a bewildered Kanduri who out of nervousness could not put his leg into the trouser in the darkness. As he was rushing out of the backyard, practically naked with a trouser in his hand, sans his shoes and shirt, he grabbed a thin cotton towel hanging at the backyard to dry. He wrapped it around him and scaled the shrubs. All he could see was a small light at the distant railway station steadfast as the pole star. He ran towards it and reached the deserted station of late midnight, silent and lifeless. He could not locate Ispat anywhere, however, he saw that what he was clutching in his hands was the under-size trousers of Ispat. And no way, he could fit into that narrow trouser. So, he had to make the most of the thin red cotton towel which he had frisked from his misadventure to cover his modesty.
As he gathered his wits about him, he found that the red cotton wrap was a miniature ‘Khorda’ red gamcha, absolutely inadequate to lend him any dignity. All his tipsiness had vanished… he was neither inclined nor had any access to any further drinks. He had attained enough clarity to realise that Ispat had scooted with all his clothes unknowingly or deliberately, and had left him his waist 22, length 24 and flat buttock size pant, not perhaps, enough to accommodate a single leg of Kanduri. The dawn hovered sheepishly in face of Kanduri’s overwhelming sense of anger. A shaft of sunshine fell stealthily. Kanduri started his exploration with bare feet in the still closed market lanes of Baripada town that morning with his fair, bare body adorned with the sacred thread of a Brahmin in the loin-cloth of the thin short gamcha. He had no way to pay even a cup of tea, as all his money was in his purse which with his wrist-watch that he had got as a special costly gift at the time of his marriage was in the pocket of his trousers which had been fleeced by Ispat. Kanduri was in desperate search of a tailor’s shop where he would mortgage his gold ring and pay for altering Ispat’s trousers into a wearable half-pant to meet his minimum needs. Finally, at about 11 AM he could locate an open tailor’s shop, but he was startled to discover that Ispat clad also in a short Khorda red gamcha, had preceded him there and had succeeded in persuading the tailor to recast Kanduri’s man-size trouser to fit his slender squeaky frame. The tailor had completed the alteration and was sewing on the last button.
Kanduri could have no other engagement other than assaulting Ispat. The tailor was a bewildered witness to a surrealistic scene where one red gamcha was chasing and trying to land blows and kicks with limited success on another red gamcha. Ispat was flying around like a thin dragonfly hopping around to evade an angry child out to de-wing him. Neither of the red gamchas produced any sound. The tailor witnessed all this and in nervous reaction, screwed up the alteration leaving Kanduri no alternative but to continue in the red gamcha. After ten minutes of attempted thrashing, Kanduri thought it was time to take the matter in his hands rather than rain futile blows which seldom found the mark. He suddenly lunged forward and caught hold of the dragon fly by the red gamcha wrapped around Ispat’s waist. Ispat realised that the game was up, it was his life or his modesty. In the blink of an eye, he untied the knot of the red gamchha around his waist; the ‘dragon-fly’ managed to fly away into one of the bye-lanes in a trice in pristine naturalness, leaving Kanduri clutching at Ispat’s thin red gamcha. And a few currency notes tucked in Ispat’s gamchha floated around on the dusty road. Kanduri’s mathematical brain finally came to his rescue, he put two and two together, he must survive. He chased and gathered the notes, and his red loincloth of gamchha became with some improvisation and addition of Ispat’s parting gift, an underwear of red-ochre colour, Thus, Kanduri received back Rs. fifty-seven. The rest had vanished, the costly watch, shoes, T-shirt and about five hundred rupees with the purse. So, Kanduri rolled the fifty-seven rupees carefully, tucked the notes into the fold of his red gamcha tight around his waist, after all, he had the reluctant memory of the habits of a Brahmin priest returning with Dakshina from a devotee after performing ‘Shraddha‘ at his home. He continued to traverse with bare fit without any thought of food or drink, the sun had climbed high. Kanduri bought eight tobacco-laced pans tied in a leaf, and he meandered his way to the bus depot where he spotted a Cuttack, bound bus with its engine producing noisy sounds of readiness to commence its journey.
Kanduri got up onto the bus, found a window-side seat. Fatigue and hunger were propelling him into slumber. His face had acquired a serenity replacing the tensions hitherto, an acceptance of the fast-changing reality. His glowing complexion, dishevelled hair [grown longer than usual as his favourite barber had gone to his village to get married], his white sacred thread, his half-closed eyes and his only apparel, the twin thin red gamchas which had started looking yellowish with dust and sweat- made him appear like an enlightened but other-worldly yogi. Four ‘sabara’ tribals who boarded the bus from Nilagiri, prostrated themselves before him as soon as they noticed Kanduri in the bus. Kanduri peered at them for a second, noticed a wizened female tribal among the four and in his floating mind he thought that she resembled his mother-in-law. So, he in turn did his obeisance to her, and, as per his past habit of seeking something or other from his mother-in-law, he extended his palm towards her. [In fact, that is how, Kanduri had been initiated to chew tobacco-laced pan by his mother-in-law after his marriage, when he had extended his washed palms after eating a sumptuous lunch as a new son-in-law hoping for a towel to dry his fingers.] The old Sabari took this quite naturally, and put some dried weeds into his open palm. Kanduri immediately put the weed and a pan into his mouth, started sucking and plunged into a dream, full sleep. He first had a quick black and white rerun of last night’s events. The dark two roomed shed as the stage, the plump older sister with her heavy posteriors, the extended line of kajal of the younger sister’s eyes, all this drained out from the bowl of his dream soon enough. After that a twin set of dreams in Eastman colour started playing out parallelly in each of his pupils. Kanduri saw Lily dancing in the young green fields adjoining the highway on which the bus was travelling, it was one Lily on both sides of the highway keeping pace with the bus marching forward dancing like a ballerina pirouetting to the notes of a silent but vigorous orchestra. And Lily was wearing the same special red ‘dhaniakhali’ sari with lines running across its body, such lines on a woman’s body invariably would leave Kanduri flush with excitement.
The narrative and concluding events thereafter of that fateful Sunday thirty years back, was seldom above suspicion and Kanduri could not be trusted further for accuracy. Anyway, Deba was about to chip in his bit about the shaggy black dog getting up on his hind legs imitating some dance or trick posture to ingratiate itself to Deba, but, Akhyay Bhai was playing his role as the guardian -angel of the remnants of the afternoon to perfection, and stopped Deba in mid-stride with a wave of his hand to Kanduri to go on. Kanduri said that by the time he reached his home, the evening was setting in. The street lights came on. And he with his red-ochre clad undergarment rushed in and announced to Lily as if only an hour or two has elapsed, 'Give me a couple of minutes to be ready. The rickshaw is here. It is too late for the Matinee show, but we can go and watch the evening show' As per Kanduri, Lily was waiting still dressed in her beautiful red sari, and, they went and watched the Evening Show. However, the jealous onlookers said that, Lily had gone away on that Sunday morning to her parents’ home and Kanduri and Lily had not visited a cinema together after that ever! Deba looked up to a spider crawling on the roof of the ramshackle bar and said quietly that truth would be somewhere in between.
Today also by the time Kanduri had completed his narrative, the evening had descended, the street lights were about to come on. Akhyay Bhai had generously paid for most of the bill for liquor etc. that afternoon. Kanduri had got his tale off his chest finally. He looked at Akhyay Bhai with some gratitude while alighting from the bar unto the road, and said with a sigh, 'So many omissions and commissions in my life; but I have never forgiven myself till date for my lack of punctuality to visit that Matinee show.' At this, Deba could not contain himself, said 'My shaggy dog is more real than your regret! I need half a peg more to digest your repentance.' So, the group trouped in again for a quick farewell gulp. Akhyay Bhai soothed everyone’s nerves by saying to Devdas, 'Hey Babu, your colleague who headed the district here once said to me that he was missing in his life some quality time. Whatever little creative writing he did, he claimed that he got the inspiration in his bathroom. He had a perpetual runny stomach, so spent quite a bit time in the toilet, and the rest listening to various leaders. or as he said once in exasperation, ‘His life was between shit and bullshit’.' This little tale restored the good cheers of the group.
Early evening connoisseurs had started gathering in the meandering bye-lane dotted with shops selling fruit, liquor, vegetables and medicines et al, when we trudged back to the main road, the bull that was masticating the vegetable remains late afternoon was rooted to the same spot, still engaged unperturbed in chewing the curd. The vegetable vendors were engaged in attracting evening customers by sprinkling some water on the fruits and vegetables to make them look fresh. Two South Indian bellies with flowers adorning their hair were peddling fruit carts darting a hopeful smile at us. I knew them a bit as my friend Gauri used to bargain with them when the night struck ten for cheaper rates for the fruits. He would be also trying to become their lover. They would enjoy the mirth of it all only and move on.
Akhyay Bhai suddenly stopped on the mid-road, and addressed me, 'Devdas, we should find a befitting name to commemorate this lane.' I took up the cue and said, 'This road of Cuttack evokes in me that historic road of ‘Crime And Punishment’ of Dostoevsky where in that small market, shops sold medicine and perfumes from the same counter. So let this road be named as Dostoevsky Street.' Akhyay Bhai appeared pleased with my submission. And as per his wont, he promptly quoted Lin Yutang again, ‘If you spend a perfectly useless afternoon in a perfectly useless manner, you have learned how to live’.
Shri Devdas Chhotray is a legend of Odiya Literature. A versatile genius, his imprints are indelible on many facets of creativity. A poet par excellence, he is also an accomplished writer and is a household name in Odisha for his numerous film lyrics. A recipient of many awards, he has been recently conferred with Sahitya Bharati Samman for the year 2021.
Prasanna Kumar Hota is a retired IAS officer, a recipient of Knighthood for excellence in public service, has authored three story books in Odia(translations with additional trans-creations), and a work- biography in English- /'Secrets Of An IAS Karmayogi' (Amazon).
"Megha weds Amrit" - how much and for how long she had yearned to see the two of them linked this way, on a wedding arch! The rainbow colours that made up the letters were beautiful. Megha, Amrit- so meaningful too- Eternal Cloud.
The house was busy in that uniquely fascinating way houses are before a wedding. Men shouted orders. Workers scurried to and fro, carrying huge pots, bananas, banners. Women added their shrill voices and laughter. The smells of jasmine, oleander and marigold rose to mingle with those of new clothes and nail polish. And the children! What a racket they made, sliding down the newly-varnished banisters, getting in everyone's way, chattering or whooping non-stop!
Megha flitted to the verandah that ran round the front of the house.
It had been a very different house in which she had spent her childhood. It was on the outskirts of the village, very close to the famed Swargatheerth river that rose in the Sahyadri and meandered all the way west to join the Arabian Sea. It was a small house with a big front yard where banana and areca, yam and pepper grew. How long ago it seemed now, her childhood! And how much her quiet village had changed !
She had met Amrit when she was a timid thirteen. On one of her flower-gathering sprees in the riverside wood, a big black dog had chased her. There was a boy behind the dog and he had caught up with her and held her firmly when she was trying to clamber over a hedge of hibiscus ."He's my pet dog. Yama won't hurt you !" he had exclaimed. She looked fearfully at the creature. He was right; the dog was lying on the ground before them, wagging his long black tail. She realized that he was still clasping her and blushing a fiery red, moved away.
"Hibiscus!" he had chuckled, pointing from her face to the bright red flowers that dotted the hedge. And "Hibiscus" she had remained all through their meetings spread over the two brief years of their time together.
They met again, quite soon. This time they spoke to each other. She learned that he was Amrit, a tenth class student in the big English medium school very close to the Karnataka border. He lived with his parents, sisters, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins in a sprawling house she had glimpsed on her rare visits to the village. In turn, she told him of her family and her life. He said he loved going on walks along the river with his dog for company. She responded that she was the only child of farmer parents who lived in the little house by the river and that she too loved wandering in the woods by the river looking for wild flowers. She even dared to give Yama a timid pat on his black head.
Slowly their meetings became more regular. When his family started questioning his long absences in the evenings, he hit upon a plan. Meeting by night. Three days a week. He would come to the path just beside her house that led to the river and wait for her. When he reached, he would shine his torch intermittently into the neem tree that stood there. That would be the signal for her to slip out.
She agreed readily. Her parents slept early. She had no fear of the dark. It was the easiest and the most natural thing to do - to slip out of the back door and meet Amrith. Together they would walk the few feet to the screened riverside. Their teenage love was sweetly innocent. They would sit close to each other in the near-darkness, occasionally holding hands and talking. They talked of their families, their schools, their friends. Sometimes they talked about the future. Amrit hoped to become a doctor. His family planned to send him abroad. "So far away!" she would exclaim."You will forget me." "Never!" he would declare, clasping her hands tightly and raising them to his lips.
"My heart is here with you and with our land. I shall return to work here. In my village." She would gaze in wonder at his beautiful face illumined by the moon. She had no ambition except to live out her life by his side, as his wife.
No one had known of their closeness. That would have meant scandal and the end of their relationship, of course.
The wedding rites were over. “Megha” and “Amrith” were united.
After the wedding feast, the two were carried out in a small special wooden seat which was then placed in the bus carrying them to the bridegroom's house. The bus was decorated with flowers and coloured paper streamers. It started and slowly the occupants became quiet. They were a little tired now, the merrymakers.
Megha relived yet again that unforgettable July night, the night before Amrit was to leave for the college in Mysore.
It had been very raining heavily but of course he had come to their special spot as planned
They had kissed and clung to each other in the sweet sorrow of parting, the rain beating down upon their young bodies.
In a flash the mad black river had come roaring, overflowing the banks like a rearing monster, seizing them in its wet jaws and taking them along with it in its headlong fury.
The "newly-weds" were taken in after the aarathi was performed by the lady of the house. Megha hadn't seen her before but the face was familiar. Then it struck her; she was Amrit's youngest sister whose photo he had shown her once or twice.
The two figures were ceremoniously carried to the southern grounds where the pyre of sweet smelling wood waited. Amid chants, they were placed within the logs. She heard the pujari say, "O gods, free the souls of the young boy and the girl who died tragically fifty years ago. Lift the curse that their unfulfilled desires have caused to fall on the two families. Put an end to the misfortunes that plague their members of late. Let the spirits of the two be at peace and not trouble the living again."
The pyre was lit. The two brightly-decked effigies of cotton and straw caught fire at once. As the logs started to crackle and explode, Megha felt a gentle presence beside her. He had reached at last, her beloved Amrit.
Together they were wafted on a soft breeze, far from the smoke rising from their burning effigies. To become one Eternal Cloud.
(Several communities in Kerala's Kasaragod district, especially in villages bordering Karnataka, practise a custom called “pretha kalyanam” or "marriage of ghosts/spirits".
Every rite of an actual wedding is performed with wooden or straw figures representing the bride and groom. These effigies are then charred or drowned. It is believed that such marriages honour those who died young and unmarried, give peace to their souls and remove misfortunes that inflict their families in later years.)
Geetha Nair G is a retired Associate Professor of English from Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. She is the author of two volumes of poetry("Shored Fragments", "Drawing Flame") and a collection of short stories ("Wine, Woman and Wrong").
Her second collection of short stories, "Love, Lies and Laundry" will be released in September, 2022. All the stories in both collections were written for and first appeared in LITERARY VIBES.
She has also co-edited an international anthology of short stories titled COCOON STORIES which was released this April.
It was Wednesday, the most relaxed day on my calendar. I have the afternoon off; I can do whatever tickles my fancy. Our domestic routine lately had changed with the arrival of our first grandchild. The joy of grandparenthood has brought with it the responsibility of occasional baby-sitting.
This Wednesday afternoon was one such occasion. Ordinarily, I would take this task in my stride; she is a happy baby and looking after her for a few hours is nowhere near an ordeal. Typically, it is a pleasant chore; playing with her rekindled happy memories from years ago. The age-old nursery rhymes were again the order of the day in the house. In our days of parenting, we often read them aloud to our children. Now, it is convenient to turn on the recorded rhymes to keep babies entertained, to steal a few minutes for a cup of coffee or a dash to the toilet.
Reliving the old times, the rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle, reminded me of how the dog laughed to see the dish running away with the spoon. Listening to Hickory Dickory Dock, I learnt again what happened when the clock struck one. When the rhyme, Two Little Dicky Bird, played, I could not figure out why Peter and Paul came back nor why they flew away in the first place. Music is obviously central to the nursery rhymes, some of them being deliberately nonsensical. It was a joy to watch our little angel responding to them instinctively, swaying wildly to their rhythm.
She then played the rhyme, “The Owl and Pussy Cat”.
The owl and the pussy-cat went to the sea,
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some money
And plenty of honey,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
Listening to it again after three decades, I wondered whether this was another meaningless rhyme or the words had some hidden sense in them.
While I was trying hard to focus my full attention on our baby, my mind was drifting. I was still smarting from my recent rejection for the Hospital’s Medical Director’s post, mulling over the inner workings of hospital politics. I had spent the best part of my professional life and my career, as a surgeon, in this hospital. After making a name as a surgeon in my younger days, I had invested the latter half of my working life in hospital management. It was acknowledge that I was instrumental, over the recent years, in creating a favourable working environment for doctors and fostering a collegial relationship between doctors and managers. When the Medical Director’s post fell vacant, it was a foregone conclusion that it would be offered to me.
Defying all expectations, the post, however, went to Dr Isaac. That I came a close second gave me little comfort. I was obviously dismayed and so were many of my colleagues, who tried to cheer me up with messages of surprise at this unexpected outcome. Some offered words of consolation, which could be summed up as: Your credentials for the Medical Director’s post were good. But, your fatal flaw was the Board members’ perception that you were not the most malleable person to tow the corporate line.
Reflecting on the outcome, I re-examined my position. I was not oblivious of the fact that the hospital could not run like a charity. It had to generate revenue to cover its cost and pay its staff and leave a surplus towards new developments. But in my mind, the management and doctors are not adversaries, like parties in a tug of war. But if it came to that, the centre of the rope should stay near the middle, making it a win-win for both sides.
Other colleagues used different words to comfort me, “You are known to fight the doctors’ corner vigorously, which was unpalatable to the management.”
As a surgeon, my insight into the quirks of medical world put me in an advantageous position in judging the activities of doctors. My argument was, “If I don’t fight for their legitimate causes, who will?”
We are still a profitable organisation with a robust revenue stream, reflected in our doctors’ decent levels of income. Although they don’t top the league tables, the lure of our competitors’ bigger pay packets has not dented our high staff retention. I believe, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Our favourable work environment shows in its minimal staff turnover.
Other colleagues offered their take on what went wrong, “But, your vision is seen as old school, you are inflexible in adapting to the demands of twenty-first century.
None of these issues was news to me. But I also knew, what was pivotal to my failure. It was my key note speech in the Annual Medical Society Meeting, which killed off my chances. Its theme was how to revive the image of medical profession, which had been tarnished by the excesses of private medicine. The profession had lost the public’s trust. In the mind of common man, the doctor is a predator, eagerly waiting to exploit the sick at their most vulnerable, in stead of acting as healers of humanity at their hour of need.
But it was unfair, to my mind, to brand doctors as the sole villains in this fiasco, Their attitudes and values are not formed in a vacuum; they are imbibed from the society they grow up in. Nevertheless, it behoves doctors to take a lead in remedying this lamentable situation.
My core message was: Ethics and profit are not mutually exclusive; sacrificing ethical principles is not a pre-requisite for running a profitable hospital. But for the Board of Directors, my emphasis on ethics made me lose sight of profit margin and revenue stream.
The focus of the talk was how to honour our moral obligations to the society without hampering our business strategy. In surgical practice, it is well known that complicated cases carry a greater risk of dying or suffering from serious consequences. By turning down high risk cases, it is possible to move up on the league tables on mortality and morbidity. These statistics, in turn, heavily affected our insurance premium.
But it would a mistake to let this drive our clinical decisions. Medical professionalism dictated that patients’ interest always came first and clinical priorities must never be trumped by financial considerations If we all spurned challenging cases, for fear of undermining our mortality and morbidity statistics, the society would be poorer for it. Everybody is a loser at the end; we doctors never develop the expertise and patients don’t get the necessary treatment.
In exchange for a small cut in our income, we can sleep better and earn the good will of the society. This trade off, to my mind, made perfect commercial sense too. The small loss of income was best seen as the doctors’ contribution towards the advertisement for the hospital, in the context of our PR budget. Restoring the confidence of public in medical profession would easily offset our loss from the salary sacrifice.
I seriously considered delivering a different key note speech this year, as suggested by my closest colleagues, but decided against it. My views on the matter were not a secret, anyway.
A common theme in all the messages of comfort I received, was that genuine talent never goes unrewarded, There is always a next time and of course, there are second chances. In the end, perseverance always pays.
I was trying to rationalise my failed bid for the top post in the hospital and console myself with the thought that perhaps, it was a blessing in disguise. I would find more spare time to pursue my hobbies. At this time, my colleague’s phone call put a stop to my reverie.
“Did you hear about Dr Issac’s wife? A relatively young woman, she has just been confirmed to be suffering from Motor Neurone Disease. Obviously Dr Isaac has been devastated by this latest development.” I was out of circulation for past few days and this news had somehow not reached me until now. I know, Motor Neurone Disease is one of the most dreaded medical condition. In a way, it is worse than heart attack, stroke or cancer. It progressively paralyses our entire body and eventually kills us. Sadly there is no treatment. It is effectively a death sentence with an open date for execution. Notwithstanding the outcome of the recent job interview, my heart went out to Dr Isaac. I could imagine his anguish at this devastating turn of events.
As I was processing the sad news of Dr Isaac’s family woes, my grand daughter pressed the button on her music book to play her favourite rhyme for the umpteenth time.
Incy Wincy spider,
Climbing up the water spout.
Down came the rain,
And washed poor Wincy out.
Out came the sunshine,
And dried up all the rain
So, Incy Wincy spider
Climbed up the spout again.
Then the phone rang again, while this rhyme was still playing This time, it was the Chief Executive Officer of the Hospital on the phone.
“I am sure, you have heard of the recent sad news of Dr Isaac’s family. In light of this tragic development at home, he had reconsidered his position. He has decided to put the interest of his family first and in order to spend more time with his wife, he has turned down the offer of the Medical Director’s post. Under the circumstances, the Hospital Board has unanimously supported your application and it is my pleasant duty to offer the post to you. We will be much obliged if you accept our offer.”
I was left in no doubt, this nursery rhyme made perfect sense!
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.
Love is a summer sky, dappled with clouds, and friendship is a grey sky replete with a sweet and sour monsoon breeze. There is a thin line between this summer sky of love and the grey sky of friendship - a belt of pink, evening sky. This boundary must always be maintained.
It all begins with fluttering, feminine eyes, blushing cheeks, elegant wrists wearing one bangle extra and a smile that extends in a wider and more prominent manner. It begins with averted gazes, continues with furtive glances, and concludes with an essence so close, so incomprehensible and abstract - something like the blur of tears between eyelashes, like the sun in the rain kissed eyes. In such a scenario, the Universe begins to work its magic.
The relationship between a male and a female has been glorified since time immemorial. While history calls this relationship the most intricate, philosophy and spirituality insist on a more abstract perspective. How a woman views a relationship is different from the way a man views it. To sum it all up, this relationship is absolutely magical.
When the Universe works its magic, it orchestrates your meeting with someone who affects your mood physically, emotionally and spiritually, and you feel he is the ultimate man. His eyes morph into oceans, and instead of the typical ‘I feel as though I will drown in the ocean of his eyes’ feeling you just wish to swim through the waters of his eyes with him by your side. It is a beautiful feeling. Your dopamine level jumps and you feel euphoric.
Did this ever happen to you?
It happened to Niharika. The moment she saw Sumit sitting next to her on the bus during the field trip, she knew there was something different. Firstly, his almond brown eyes kept gazing at her, making her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. Most importantly, his way of gazing was absolutely different. Usually, the stares of boys would make her feel uncomfortable, but his gaze was a different kind. It made her feel important, special, loved and like the most important girl in the world.
They were in the same group. Thus, they had the berth next to each other on the train, too. She had many boys on her friend list who were physically more attractive than Sumit, but he was different. Both of them were pursuing their masters in Archaeology from Banaras Hindu University. This was their field trip to Sarnath. They were going to visit the Sarnath Museum, the oldest site museum of Archaeological Survey of India.
“Do you know the history of the Sarnath Museum?” Sumit asked Niharika after exchanging pleasantries. “I had read about it once,” she replied. “The museum has 6,832 sculptures and artefacts. To keep the antiquities found from the site a decision was taken in 1904 by the Government to construct a site museum adjacent to the excavated site at Sarnath. The museum was created due to the initiative of Sir John Marshall, the then Director-General of Archaeology in India. These plans were prepared by Mr. James Ramson, the then Consulting Architect to the Government of India. The building was completed in 1910 to house, display and study the antiquities in their right perspective. The building forms half of a monastery (Sangharam) in the plan,” he said. “This is exactly what I had read on Wikipedia,” she said. “Me too,” he giggled and continued.
“The museum contains five galleries... prominent among them is the earliest Buddha image found at Sarnath and many images of Hindu Gods dating from the 9th to the 12th centuries,” he paused. “You sound like a guide who has crammed up the information and wants to impress the visitors,” she said. Both chuckled.
After returning from the trip, they started spending lots of time together. Sumit was an average-looking boy but too brilliant a student. He was the topper of BHU in B.A. Archaeology. He had a strong personality with a bewitching smile that made him a charmer. All the students would love listening to him when he spoke in the university. Tall, strong-built, husky and deep baritone voice, positive attitude coupled with a great sense of humour made him the much sought-after student of the university.
Niharika was smitten from the moment she met Sumit. Her heart was blinded by the shine of his persona, and she would try to search for glimpses of him in all the boys on the campus, trying to compare them with him, but he was unrivalled. She found his flamboyant confidence galvanizing. She was love drunk.
Meeting, talking and chatting over the phone increased. She started sharing day-to-day activities, thoughts, feelings and emotions with him. He would act as a patient listener.
“Listen,” she would begin.
“Say,” he would reply.
And then she would go on and on with her childhood stories, time spent at her native place Narayanpatty - a small village in Madhubani district - her interests, hobbies, likes and dislikes. In front of him, she was an open book where all the chapters were displayed to the reader. Like a seasoned reader, he would use all four reading techniques: skimming, scanning, active reading, and detailed reading, depending on the time available and his mental framework. But whenever she would be disturbed, he would give her his hundred percent attention and ensured her nerves were soothed, had a clear mind and a peaceful sleep.
He was consciously committed to helping her grow and hence, started helping her prepare for tests that would get her a good job later. He stood with her through the inevitable tests, and trials that affected her emotional health while she was away from her family staying in a hostel and would feel very low. She was a strong girl now, truly transformed and confident. While having kullad chai at the BHU campus, he looked into her eyes and said, “Did anyone tell you that your eyes reflect the beauty of your soul? Your intense blue eyes are like the ocean any man would die to dive into. One can peep through it into your heart. Did you know this already?” he asked her holding her hands with his face close to hers. “You are kidding,” she chuckled. “You should participate in Miss India Contest. Look at your physical attributes - your emerald-like alcoholic eyes and your porcelain smooth skin. In fact, your eyes are like caves, and it seems as though they are preserving a special emerald stone! In addition to that, you have a wonderful, lilting voice,” he added. “Many people had suggested this in my hometown too,” she replied with a naughty smile. “But I do not want to become a part of the glamour world. It is for the people who enjoy the limelight. I become a chatterbox in front of you but have you seen me sharing with others in this manner? I want to maintain a low profile in public,” she responded. “Okay! My Beauty Queen, do not feel offended. It was just a passing thought with the sipping of tea,” he moved closer and pecked her on the cheek. This was such a stroke of unexpected luck for her. So many girls were desperate to get closer to Sumit but with no luck. She felt as if she was the luckiest girl in this university. She wanted to return it but withheld herself from doing so.
This was just the beginning. They would steal private moments from studies, projects, submissions, and form filings and kept each other entertained. This was something they had never before felt for anyone else, and it was way beyond physical attraction. They were attracted to everything about each other; their heart, body, mind, soul, personality, nuances, and habits. Both of them started complimenting each other. They became the topic of discussion on the campus. Bhavin, the cousin of Sumit, who was in the same class, once asked him about their relationship.
Before Niharika could utter a word, her heart screamed, “Our world is a world that is carved away from reality. It is a pause between the day and night, a fistful of twilight. It is mysterious, like the crimson shades of a blood moon picked from the heart of an eclipse. It is a world where snowflakes and raindrops quiver together, and sunset-soaked clouds clothe bare shoulders. It is a world that is a point in the bubbling brook of infinity, a nameless netherworld. It is a world where our souls have no boundaries, and we are one living energy. It is a world that dwells in the fist of the divine. A fistful of life, in the palm of the divine.”
She was brought back from her reverie with Sumit’s response, “We are Just Friends!"
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets. She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines.
She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya )
If December, the month, stands for the severity of chill, Mrs Thappa, by contrast, is an embodiment of life’s soft melody. Her three-roomed orphanage bursts forth into giggles with her tender touch. The plain building, she considers as her family home, houses the fourteen children of the orphanage, who make up her world. She has invested her entire life’s savings in it and the children are the centre of her universe. Mysteriously, the supremely affectionate Mrs Thappa changes her character in December, when she becomes stern to the core. She rarely converses with others and does not even let her favourite dogs, anywhere close to her.
December is the bane of her life; it transforms her into a fountain of fury.
December’s torment is relentless, consuming Ms Thappa’s entire being in her fight with it. She manages to survive its chill with her private magical chants, ushering warmer days. Her behaviour becomes weird in December; she discards her warm garments, seemingly as an act of defiance. When her wrinkled skin starts to tremble, it is hard to tell whether it is out of fear of the chill or from her active rebellion against it.
Mrs Thappa gets quiet and distracted; she is often spotted staring into space, talking to herself. Although she comes across as a psychiatric patient to all around her, doctors’ reports declare her as normal.
It is difficult, however, to deny that by nature, Mrs Thappa is a decent and generous lady.
And her full name is Aparna Thappa.
xxxxxx
The clothes of K used to be shabby and he had a rather dishevelled look. At times, he wreaked of sweet. But, he always hopped into school cheerfully.
His pocket was full of berries, which he used to hand over to Aparna in the mid morning recess. Twelve-year-old Aparna used to offer him some small changes in return but he never accepted any money. At school break he bade her good bye with his characteristic smile.
Aparna was least bothered by K’s scruffy look or his tattered clothes. Perhaps, children have a loftier perspective than adults in this matter.
She used to bring the berries home happily, only to provoke her mother’s ire. Her mother threw the berries down the drain and all she could do was to silently watch the drains devouring them.
Nevertheless, nothing put a stop to this ritual of berries for Aparna. She loved the spark in the bright eyes of K. She also loved the austere building, which housed her school at the foot of the mountains. It’s surroundings had a special charm for her and its atmosphere was magical. After the school lunch break, she would sneak out with K to the fields for collecting berries. K would climb up the trees to pick the berries. She would be standing on the ground to collect them as K threw them down. They would quietly return to school, shortly before the closing hour.
The news of her escapades with K could not be contained for long; it began to spread. It eventually reached Aparna’s household, and made her mother furious. The result was a sound thrashing, turning her back black and blue. She was down with fever for two days. When she returned to school after a few days break, the first thing she did was to look for K. But K was nowhere in the school. She enquired about K with her class mates, but to no avail. From the teachers, she learnt that K was not coming back to school.
Had K stopped attending school? Is this the end of his studies? These were some of the many questions in her mind, that nobody could answer.
In the school lunch break, Aparna would return to the fields, calling out for K, hoping to find him somewhere, but it was all in vain. She however continued with her lunch hour routine. She would wait for K, as if a longer wait might goad him out of his hiding. The masses of berries lying on the ground would be of no interest to her and a dejected Aparna would simply return empty handed, every time.
She wrote many letters, addressed to K, although most of them were one-liners, like, “When will you return, K?” The letters would end up in the bin, ripped into small pieces. This preoccupation of Aparna would cost her dear; her test results suffered badly. This enraged her father, who for the sake of her academic performance, decided to send her to a boarding school in Shimla.
The day before her departure to Shimla, she managed to send a message across to K through one of his friends. She was hoping to meet K, for one last time, and repeat their berries ritual together, before going away to Shimla for good. His friend managed to deliver the message to K in good time.
By midday, Apart had been waiting for K in the fields, for quite while, but K was nowhere to be seen. She called out aloud for K. At the end she burst out wailing. But there was no sign of K. Perhaps, meeting K was not in her destiny. It was getting dark and Aparna had to return home.
Next day, in the bitter chill of December, she was shipped off to Shimla for her studies. As the time came for her to leave, her mother kept standing like a statue. Aparna could not shed any tear, nor did she approach her mother for a parting hug. She left, bidding her mother good bye from a distance. In the freezing cold of Shimla’s winter, that was gripping Aparna down to her bones, she threw away all her woollens, in an open revolt against December.
Two days after reaching Shimla, Aparna received the news of her mother’s death; she died of a massive heart attack.
xxxxx
The next fifteen years of Aparna’s life were spent in Shimla’s chill, in the folds of its dense woods, tall trees and misty air. Its pleasantly cool springs would remain an unforgettable experience, all her life. Those dreamy memories of Shimla soon receded to distant past, far removed from her present reality. She now found herself in an air conditioned office of the software giant, Infosys, in Mumbai.
She now had a new passion in her life, singing. After her successful audition for the entry, she got into the music programme, Meeting of Melodies, scheduled for staging in about six months time. She had to spend a lot of time, practising her numbers for the final performance. Her music pieces included duets with a young man, named L.
L was fair in complexion and short in stature. His eyes were chinky, and ears rather small. He had rosy lips and his hair was straight.
Somehow, in the beginning, Aparna did not take a liking for L. The reason for her dislike was apparently flimsy; he was too chatty, he talked non stop. But, she was looking for a compatible singer for her duets and had to settle for what she could find, as the competition date was looming. She was, moreover, getting used to L’s constant chattering. His speaking voice was rather odd, as if a toad had got stuck in his throat. But his singing voice was crystal clear and melodious. It had a soothing quality, sounding like spring water flowing in the lap of the mountains. Aparna found this inexplicable.
L often phoned Aparna without any apparent reason. The stuff, he talked about on the phone, usually, had no order or agenda. It included incidents from his state, financial problems at home, and about his music teacher’s job in a school. At times, he simply did hum and sing on the phone. He would talk about the inspiration, he got for his poetry, from her soulful eyes. Then he would sing his lyrics to music for her. At times. He would surprise her by turning up at midnight, expecting her to join him in music practice. Sometimes, their practice session went on through the whole night till next morning. In the beginning, she found this rather tedious, but soon, she got accustomed to this as well. And as time went on she felt much more at ease with L.
At times, while singing, L would suddenly stop, and simply stare at Aparna’s face, as if in a trance. Initially, this unnerved her and she would avert her gaze. But L would plead with her not to avoid eye contact, urging her to meet his eyes, in a deliberate act, albeit briefly. Aparna found his chinky eyes fascinating, even though they were hard to read. She could not tell, whether they emitted emotional warmth or conveyed a comforting coolness. Nonetheless, their appeal was undeniable. She was getting gradually drawn to him.
Attraction, like a strange creature, has its whims; it is so unpredictable! It is fickle too. The feeling may not be palpable at all times, but its ever-present possibilities remain endless.
The competition had three more weeks to run, when L had to return home suddenly. Aparna found her loneliness taxing. She wished, she could open up to somebody and unburden her heart. She vainly searched for someone, who could share her feelings.
L returned on his birthday. Aparna was waiting for this day, when she could open her heart to L. She told him that she had been dreaming of their future life together. In her mind, there was no better birthday present!
L seemed surprised by this revelation, but he said little during their private birthday celebration. Later in the night he phoned back to say, “It is impossible. Falling in love is one thing but marriage is different. In our society, if the bride is older than the groom, then the marriage is jinxed; it is an omen for the man’s premature death. So, I am sorry.”
Aparna realised that she was older than L by two years. When she looked at the calendar, it was that time of the year again; the month of December had five more days to run.
xxxxxxx
Aparna was on a safari ride in the dense forest of Simlipal, expectantly scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of some wild animal. So far she had sighted only stray birds; there was no sign of animals, big or small. She could not hide her disappointment.
She looked at her husband, M, sitting in the jeep beside her. Stroking her head, M tried to reassure her, “We are not returning from this safari without you sighting a tiger.”
M was the Forest Officer of Mayurbhanj district. As the District Forest Officer, the entire forest was his kingdom and knew it well. However, after a whole day’s jeep ride, the only animals they got to see were a few dogs. Exhausted by the long day’s safari, they retired to the bungalow in the evening.
M was a gentleman, with a placid temperament. He paid great attention to her comforts; anything she needed would reach her before she asked for them. M had deployed two servants exclusively in her service. M was her father’s choice and she had happily accepted him as her own, without question. She had little faith in her ability to make the most crucial decision of her life.
Should she not consider herself fortunate to have such an attentive husband like M? Aparna somehow struggled to come up with an easy answer. Soon after their marriage, she realised M was a workaholic, who had little time to spare for Aparna. She should be pleased that M had decided to spend a whole day for her.
They had been married for about two years. They were planning to have a baby, which was an exciting prospect for her. She was hoping, that would change the chemistry in their marriage and bring them closer. Perhaps, she should allow M more time to adjust to the married life. She was hoping, she would be third time lucky.
After a hearty meal, they retired for the night. Aparna dosed off in the arms of M and fell into deep sleep. By about midnight, something woke her up from her sleep. On stretching her arms, she realised, she was alone on the bed. It was alarming not to find M by her side. She immediately got out of bed, looking for him. When she opened the door of their bedroom, she could see the care taker’s quarters in the dim light. To her horror, she discovered M in the arms of a local tribal woman.
That was the end of their marriage and Aparna never looked back at this chapter of her life. That was, incidentally, another December night.
xxxxxx
Aparna Thappa is by no means a weakling; she is fully capable of vengeance.
For many, her weird behaviour is a sign of madness. But the psychiatric verdict rules out insanity. Furthermore, according to expert opinion, survival in this harsh world sometimes necessitates a softer strategy of retaliation; not all acts of revenge have to be destructive.
This alternative seems to have not escaped Aparna Thappa, who is keen to try this recourse.
She built a puppy house, next to the orphanage, where, she is raising three puppies, called K, L, and M. And, she has named the poppy house, December.
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.
THE MISSING ENCOUNTER MAN
Satya N. Mohanty
‘Shit has hit the ceiling,’ Natarajan Nambiar thought to himself. Before him was a fresh copy of Deccan Tribune. On the top page, there was an article on the shambolic gallantry award over an encounter with Naxalites at Kodachadri Hills in Manglore forest.
The paper wrote clearly that police officers who didn’t participate in the encounter, who were staff officers and were attending parties in Banglore around the time the encounter took place, have been awarded with gallantry award. The advantage of a gallantry award is it immediately differentiates an IPS officer from the motley crowd of other police officers.The fact that in the police as a system gallantry was hardly rampant, rather it was a rarity. The benefits were significant while gallantry was anything but incontrovertible. Despite twisting moustaches, everyone knew most police men were busy politically navigating or running political agenda.It also gave life time free railway pass and two constables, a driver and steno to work at home for all time to come. Superannuation hardly made any difference for a decorated officer.
His name as Addl. DG of Intelligence was recommended for the gallantry award and accepted by the Government. He had received hundreds of congratulatory messages and a hundred odd telephone calls. He received the messages politely and just brushed it aside as nothing great. Modestly he had explained it away as that it was a function of being at the right place and a professional stroke of good luck. He came out as a very self-effacing, modest
and low key person, a personality he had carefully groomed.
“Now the press would start digging it.” He thought every day the paper will carry something about it. His reputation so assiduously cultivated would be smeared. But he wouldn’t give up so easily. He was laying out a battle plan for the days ahead.
What was bothering him was who would have given the tip-off to the Press. The article is so elaborate on details, pointing guns at plausible people unmistakably. Undoubtedly an insider’s job. But who was the insider who would
have done it?
“That Saurav Kumar, who was a batchmate but a competitor must have something do with it.” He thought how the bonhomie of the batch amazingly acquires the rancid taste of competition as time passes and climb to the pyramid
top becomes closer. Everyone wants to keep their powder dry before the final launch of assault for DGP’s selection.
“But he is so suave to get directly involved. “There must be someone else.”
He racked his brain. Somehow it stopped with his deputy Chari. A completely lackluster officer, whom he just about tolerated because of his penmanship.
There is no law which Chari didn’t know when it came to himself not doing a job. The second part is honesty which he wore on his sleeve. It was his ammunition for not doing anything or rather avoiding doing any sensible work
which is immediately required. When some work breached legality on the table, he became Human Rights advocate. If Human Rights issues were discussed he would to become a super cop, making short work of rules and law. But to be fair to Natarajan, he had recommended Chari’s name for the gallantry award too. But the DGP cut off the name as inappropriate for a person who spends so much time in Putaparthi. “Chari can’t hold it against me,”he mused. If he was not taken into the Intelligence wing, no one would have touched him with a barge pole. He only gave him a life line of respectability. Otherwise, he would have been posted in Logistics or something. Then finally the face of the crime reporter Anant Krishna who has got the by-line in the front page came up.
“The scorpion. Behaves so obsequiously, praises you on the face and writing such piece indicting a person shows his duplicity.”
He thought, “Well, he should be taken care of.”
“If at all anyone deserved the gallantry award it should be me,” he thought to himself. He was the one who had strategized the anti-naxal operation, collected inputs from his sources, and shared them and made sure things
happened.
“Only a gallantry award. A small thing for hours of hand work. Even people can’t tolerate that. Strange is the way of life,” he thought. This was something which was stuck in his throat like a worm in a hook. He could not extricate it, nor point an accusing finger at others. Around the same time, Chari was reading Deccan Herald.” He was smiling to himself. He ordered for another cup of black tea which the orderly brought.
“It was robbery in the broad day light. People holding staff position are claiming gallantry award. Gone are the principles. At least, people will be careful now rather than hijacking the system with impunity,” he thought.
“All the five naxals were arrested earlier and were in Black Cat office for seven days before they were taken to Kodachadri forest on the way to Mookambika temple and shot dead in cold blood,” he thought, pursuing the thread.
“Are they sympathizers or real naxalites? That question always dogged Chari. A list is always drawn up with names which are aliases. No one gets to know the people, names and some people are arrested and brought in. They fill n the aliases lower down. Names are incorporated into aliases before they are exterminated. Mostly it happens for the lower down aliases for whom no photographs is available.”
This time around their photographs were available. These guys were somewhere in the middle. They were caught with their weapons.
“At least five people killed this time are not innocent informers or sympathizers.” He felt his guilt of complicity was washed away this time.
“Nambiar is a good guy, professional and kind. He isn’t stingy about the huge secret fund he handled.”He thought Nambiar used to distribute his secret fund among his men and officers liberally. Even Chari had received Rs. 50,000/- the previous month.
“He is better than many who in the name of economy, try to appropriate most money for themselves.”
“But how could he commit such a blunder?Leaving his finger print when he knew it can be traced,” Chari bemused.
“Exactly at the same time of encounter, Nambiar was in a party in Banglore. I was in the same party too, so was the DGP. So it was known to DGP. How can a staff officer who was present in a party in view of so many claim
he was part of the encounter when he was 350 kms. away? Ambition, I guess. The weakness for medals and perks.”
“This is the way guys get medals and become like Christmas trees. Nambiar has become the highest decorated officer. Any medal you can think of. But all of them are for meritorious service or distinguished services, not for gallantry."
But Chari knew they would suspect him. It is important that he conducts himself carefully so that the antenna would not be up. The DGP read the news too. “Government has already approved the award and now this news has come out. This means trouble. Several questions will be asked,” he thought.
“Now the question is how a staff officer participated in an encounter three hundred and fifty kms. away at the same time when he was attending a party where I was present,” his thoughts continued.
“The smoking gun makes it untenable. It is the reverse of alibi. It cannot be denied. How do we course correct?” He was thinking. Of course the good part of it was deniability. This list came to the DGP from Addl. DG (Intelligence) so it was easy to shake off any personal complicity.
It was quite a different matter that the DGP himself had suggested to Nambiar to include the latter’s name.
“Well, these things happen. The important thing is the deniability and the ability to change the narrative. It can be fixed,” the DGP thought to himself.
Between ten and ten thirty AM, three people entered the Chief Office. Two were thoughtful and a little stressed out and one looked his usual self, or at least tried to look.
Nambiar got a call from the DGP to go to his office room. DGP was very effusive to begin with and ordered for coffee. As expected he broached the subject after a while.
“These newspaper fellows have created a shindy,” the DGP broke the news which was known to everyone who read the morning papers that day.
“Yes, Sir.” Just then, coffee arrived.
“No one deserves the award more than you. Over the last ten years who has strategized Black cat as much as you? Of course, there is an IG there. But the leadership matters, and you have provided that,” DGP said.
“Nambiar, there is a problem but some insider has spilled the information that you were at a party in Banglore. Where I was also present at the time of the encounter and that is sticky,” the DGP continued.
“Yes, Sir. I just put my name in because you suggested,” Nambiar added.
“Yes. That’s my view. You deserve it the most. But given the mismatch of place, it is better to back out. Otherwise, this murky news reporting will go on for a while. I suggest you write me a letter dated one month back when the Government cleared the file. You write that it would be inappropriate for a staff officer to receive the award and as the Chief you feel it should go to someone junior. It was your call of duty and you are proud to contribute to the effort of quelling naxal movement,” DGP added.
“I would reveal that I have received the letter from you a month back and send it to the Government. People will talk about it in the department and you will become a legend. When you come up for promotion to DGP, people will know here is a man who cares for his juniors,”he continued.
“But Sir, this newspapers will write,” Nambiar said.
“No, when the fire is taken away, smoke dies. The smoke will die down sooner than you think.”
“ I suspect some people’s connivance,” Nambiar added.
“Yes, yes mark those people. A snake must be killed completely.Neverleave a snake half dead,” was the thoughtful reply of the DGP. That afternoon, Nambiar handed the backdated letter to the DGP. Things settled down. The file was closed in the head office.
The shorthand for the file became ‘Missing Encounter Man”.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delh
It was the summer of 1975 in Durgapur West Bengal. I was 24 years old graduate engineer trainee at Durgapur Steel Plant (DSP). We were on training for 18 months out of which the first six months were spent in classrooms with daily visits to the plant to grasp what we learned in the classes. We also received a thorough grounding in the Bengali language and many of us were able to read, write and speak the language with some effort. After the first six months, we spent the next six months in various departments of the plant for orientation cum on-the-job training.
We were provided accommodations in different fancily named executive hostels and used DSP buses for commuting to the institute and the plant. Since the trainees came from all over India their food habits were different and so we were given the freedom to form our mess like North Indian, Bengali, South Indian and so on. We hired our cooks and were given common kitchen facilities with free fuel and electricity. Groups ate in the common dining hall. We used to select a mess secretary by monthly rotation who used to be responsible for running the mess and keeping the accounts.
There was a roadside eatery opposite the hostel -Steel-House where I had my room. The place was run by an old man (Daddo) and his son. If someone did not like what was on the menu, he could order a dish from that eatery. Also, on a weekly dinner evening, it was the place where most inmates ate. He also offered cigarettes, tea, coffee, and snacks which kept the place busy. Regional Engineering College was located at the far end of the road and so the man did good business yet looked poor.
Normally, I used to visit the market at Benachity once a week usually on my weekly off day. It was about 4-5 kilometres at its farthest end from the hostel. At 24 years of age in the prime of my youth, I enjoyed walking long distances lost in my world and did not mind 10-12 kilometres on a good day. But the shops started much earlier on the way, and it wasn’t often necessary to walk that much unless I wanted to eat paratha and Kebab at Zaika. Occasionally if I wasn’t in the mood of walking, I would take a cycle rickshaw while going back usually from the middle of the way.
City bus services run by Durgapur State Transport Corporation (DSTC) were poorly managed like most state-run businesses with ramshackle buses made worse by unionized staff. These buses never kept time and were run by the whims and fancies of the staff. Bus on the route “Eight-B” was no different. It would come from the depot much ahead of its scheduled departure and would start taking passengers from the starting terminal. Perhaps the idea of this driver who happened to be a union office bearer was to pack it completely with the passengers to make good DSTC’s losses on this route. He didn’t care about the timing or the bus capacity as it appeared.
That day also, on the 15th of March 1975, I had gone to the market on foot, but on the way back, happened to pass by the bus stop and saw "Eight-B" standing at its starting point from where a few other town buses also started on their assigned routes. At that time, the crowd was not much. I wasn’t in the mood of walking so I thought that I might as well try the bus and save some rikshaw money. The driver was not in his seat. I loitered outside and waited for him to come. I didn’t care for a seat as I didn’t mind standing short distances.
Twenty minutes passed while I waited thus patiently. But the driver did not show up anywhere nearby the bus. In the meantime, people were moving in quickly to occupy the seats as if their lives depended on them. I still thought nothing of the seat and kept walking up and down outside in two minds about taking the stroll back. But now I was getting upset that the driver Dada (elder brother) hadn’t shown up yet. Ten-fifteen more minutes passed and as I was about to start walking back to the hostel, I spotted him getting up into the bus and sitting down in his high driver’s seat. Heaving a sigh of relief, I also got into the bus. By this time the crowd was so much that there was hardly any place to put even stand upright properly and yet men, women, and children were coming in one after the other. Just then the driver switched off the bus's cabin lights and disappeared. Someone in the crowd said this is the last bus so driver moshai (sir) will wait for a while. He has a very amazing accommodating nature; God bless this good man he added.
The suffocating environment inside the bus was like a gas chamber. Troubled children had started crying, mothers were trying to placate them and the “Bengali Bhadra Lok” (Bengali gentlemen) were constantly chattering about everything under the sun with Charminar( a popular brand of smoke in Bengal at that time) cigarettes between their tobacco-stained fingers oblivious to the heat and stench. I was already stuck inside unable even to move as much as to scratch my back. In one hand I was holding a poly bag with Sandesh (a famous Bengali sweet) in a cardboard box and with that hand I was also holding on to the hanger least the jerks of the moving bus imbalanced me. In the other hand I had a bottle of “Durga Ghee” ( a famous local brand of clarified butter) and a Philips electric bulb which was for a friend. When you went to the market people would ask you to buy things to save them a trip.
Amidst this confusion and chaos, someone from the “Bhadralok group” holding a transistor close to his ears announced, "India defeated Pakistan in gold cup hockey" and “yeh dekhun driver babu suddu eshe gechhe” (see driver sir has also come). My head was on the opposite side of the bus, so I turned it back 120 degrees anti clockwise with some effort. The "Driver God” was sitting on his throne (high seat). Life came back to my oxygen-starved body momentarily. But then in the next moment, I saw people crowding all around the driver's seat and seated even on the bonnet. The driver mischievously smiled and said, "Don't sit on it, it will get hot, then don’t tell me if your bottoms get fried and start looking like that of a red-bottomed monkey” Everybody laughed as if he had cut a nice joke. Seeing the driver stuck among the passengers like this I was worried. Just a few days back, a bus full of passengers on the same route had hit a stationary lorry. People had died and several were injured. The blood had spread far and wide on the road and had not even dried up that this one was preparing for another accident I thought. I wanted to get out now but was stuck on all sides by people struggling even to keep standing.
"Aapnar haath ta saron ( Remove your hands),” I leaned over and saw someone admonishing me. "Why remove my hand, where do I put it?" I cried out troubled and angrily. " Byatha karachhe (It is hurting),” he said. If you want so much luxury, go by taxi. All the people around even in this crowd and suffocation – started laughing. I wondered even in such suffocation and heat, people can laugh, women can constantly chatter oblivious of the crying kids and kids themselves are now silent tired of crying which no one was paying hid to in any case. how? - this can happen only in my great country. The bus was still not moving. The driver was now seen talking to someone out of his window — perhaps to the leader of the CITU ( a trade union). But people were still coming in, no one was stopping anyone. Conductor was missing. There was a silent acceptance that Bhai (brother) everyone must go. They shrink and make way. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke mixed with diesel fumes formed a weird unbearable cocktail. My head started reeling and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I somehow extricated myself out, tearing through the crowd with a sudden rush of adrenal . The fresh air entered my lungs as I came out of the bus, and I came back to life. Breathing in and out deeply for some time I started walking towards the hostel cursing the system or the lack of it. I had just gone a little distance when the "Eight-B" passed me making a rattling noise as if laughing its lungs out and blowing horn as if to hoot and ridicule me.
I couldn’t care less and was not thinking about Eight-B anymore. I had twenty rupees and now there was a ten and some change left in my pocket. There may probably be twenty more in the room in the table drawer. The bill for the mess had already been paid in advance. The date on that day was the 15th and there were 20 more days to go for the salary to come. The bulb was for Mathur, so he will pay for it. Walking briskly, I now get close to the hostel and start walking even faster least I miss the last Radio program. Bhagirath would have covered my dinner and kept the plate in my room. In any case, I'll alert him if he has forgotten. This I can do while passing through the veranda adjoining the mess on the way to my room close to the dining hall. My mind was clouded, there was a bad headache and I probably smelled of cigarette and diesel smoke. God save this country I muttered in my breath but prayed seriously looking at the heavens.
I unlocked my small room , picked up a towel from behind the door and went straight to the common bathroom two rooms after my room at the end of the row. I stood under the shower for 10 minutes with the hope that the dust, smoke, and headaches would all flow to the drain where it rightfully belonged. Coming back to the room, I switch on the radio while downing the cold food from the plate with gulps of water. I then tried to sleep going through the events of the day. I must have just dozed off momentarily when I was woken up by the sound of light thumping on the door. I opened the door robot like and found Anil of the 1973 batch standing like a ghost facing sleepy me.
" Yaar (friend) Satish, I want to have an egg curry."
So, get it and eat - who’s stopping you. I felt like hitting this stupid man.
"But the front dhaba Daddo will give only two eggs in a plate – he refuses to give half plate."
So why don't you eat both the eggs instead of eating my bheja (brain) at this hour?
"But I want to have only one egg -can you share the other one with me on to pay basis"?
Amazed, frustrated, and angry at the same time over his foolishness I slammed the door on his face muttering, “Bhad me jao (go to hell).”
How could I sleep then? My mind now started wandering between "Eight B" and that idiot “Anil”. That miser brahmin from my home state Maharashtra who had no business eating eggs in the first place(considered non-vegetarian and out of bounds to Brahmins of his class).
Even if he wanted, he had no business waking me up like this. Only people like him give us Maharashtrians a bad name I thought cursing him fervently. I even questioned his parentage and upbringing and how his parents groomed him to be an idiot like this who wakes you up at eleven o'clock in the night knowing fully well that you have “A" Shift the next morning. A stupid imbecile who wakes you up just to save 2-3 rupees.
I didn't remember when I fell asleep disturbed and in thoughts. At five o’clock, Bhagirath knocked on the door and woke me up. That month I was the mess secretary of my eight-member North Indian mess. So, the eggs, bread and butter were kept in my room along with other goodies/necessary items. Breakfast was to be made for the “A" shifters. Bhagirath took the things in a cardboard box and asked me, "Apni jaaneen Kaal raatri Anil Babu mara gechhe" (Do you know Anil sir was killed last night). This shook me off completely-all the blood in my veins seemed as if drained out completely. I was speechless and could hardly keep standing.
How could that be? He came here this night.
“No sir, he was returning from the B shift on his Priya scooter, and "Eight B" was returning to the depot from its last trip very fast. There was a head-on collision. His helmet was not tied to his chin, so it fell away and his head collided with the divider, and he perhaps died immediately. The body is in the steel general hospital morgue. The incident took place around 11 p.m.”
I was completely shocked and had this mixed confused feeling of great fear, horror, and sorrow at the same time due to losing a friend from my home state. Did Anil's ghost come to me then, or did I have a dream or a vision? The same "Eight-B" had troubled me and now Anil had fallen prey to its misadventure. My head wasn’t working properly, and my thoughts were incoherent.
That morning I could not go to the plant in my shift. spoke to the warden and shifted my accommodation to Bokaro House.
Anil is no more, but his ghostly appearance on that night of 15th March 1975 still haunts me. I am unable to travel by state transport buses especially during the nights.
Some years back driving to Raipur from Bhubaneswar by a taxi we stopped for dinner at a dhaba and incidentally ordered egg curry. As we were about to start eating a state transport bus passed by rattling heavily. I was immediately transported to 15th March 1975, Eight-B and Anil- his chalk like white ghostly face floating into my mind’s vision. Suddenly a cold sweat rushed up to my forehead.
Archana (my wife) asked me, “are you all right and I mutter to myself if only I had said yes to Anil that night and I shuddered at the very thought. I said, “ I am ok” as there was no point in talking about something which in any case she wouldn’t have believed. You concoct all these paranormal stuffs to scare us she keeps telling me and then our arguments lead us nowhere.
Guys believe me such paranormal things keep happening to me so much that I have now started doubting myself. But still I muse, what would have happened to me if I had accepted his preposition of sharing his egg curry that night? Would I still be here today to write this story?
Disclaimer: This story is based on true events fictionalised to safeguard the true identities of people and to make the narrative more interesting.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Returning from airport Sumitra unlocked the door. Switching on the light and fans of the drawing room she sat down on sofa.
Oh! what a deadly silence, every thing has come to a standstill. She was so much accustomed with the hurly burly of the house since last few weeks. But an eerie quietude has suffused the whole surrounding.
Only daughter Lisa had come from Germany after two years with son in law and their 3 years old grand son which seemed to Sumitra quite a long span.While at Bangalore she could not stay without visiting them at Bhubaneswar every four to five months' interval.
Three years back she had to leave for Germany resigning from her job as a team lead in Wipro as son in law Sujit had accepted his on-site assignment at Germany from his parent company at Bangalore.The Corona pandemic was churning up the whole world with its aggressiveness. Two years was like a decade to Sumitra and unnerving her. The love and affection of parents for their children is immeasurable and their long absence definitely disheartening.
When Lisa arrived, surprisingly without any prior intimation, Sumitra and Suresh were overwhelmed with joy.The plight of two years of desolateness dissipated within a minute. A sense of liveliness and rejoice pervaded in the entire house.
The little grandson was the centre of attraction and mood booster for Suresh and Sumitra. His childish talks and innocent behaviour were so adorable Sumitra could not remain away from him for a minute. Carrying him in her lap she was roaming hither and thither as if wheels had been fitted to her feet.The attachment between a grand child and grand parents is really so intense, so divine.
She would make herself busy in preparing morning tiffin and delicious cuisines for the children with special attention to each individual's choice. Suresh had to run to market many a times in the day to bring required things as per Sumitra's instruction. Lisa's favourite dish Potato-tomato sandwich, Maggi upma and her mummy's hand made special chicken Biriyani, Grandson Ankit's cheese pasta and son in law's special liking for prawn coconut curry and the list was unending which Sumitra was eager to prepare for them. Suresh was amazed to see Sumitra's enthusiasm and relaxed that she had come out of her dull and dreary state of mind.
But her health was not allowing her to do all these stuffs which she had planned out. Vertigo and knee pain was the main culprit to restrict her from taking any such strains.The full time domestic help had left during Corona pandemic
The way daughter understands and feels the plight of parents nobody can. Lisa came forward to handle the situation restraining her mummy from doing alone all these works and assisted her wholeheartedly. Many times she cooked the lunch and dinner compelling her mom to take rest.
Sumitra had never allowed her loving daughter to take part in household work before. She was musing how their dearest daughter turned a full fledged housewife with expertise in cooking which was never a passion for her before.
A mother in her would not be able to see Lisa cooking for them. She would persuade Suresh to bring packed food from hotel .
Sumitra looked all around. Everywhere she could find the touch of her daughter making to feel her presence even after she had left. Not only cooking she had an eye on every tid bit of the problems mummy and papa were striving through. A four burners gas oven was lying defunct. Cooking was being managed with a two burners oven of which one side was partially working and needed repair which was a troublesome work for her papa to carry to market for repair.The next day of her arrival she ordered a new gas oven from Amazon.
It was a difficult task to water the lawn and flower plants around after the full time servant left since one year. She arranged to fit the sprinklers in the garden.The solar lights last year she had brought from Germany were not fully working. She would start cleaning all these, sitting under the blazing sun for hours to make them functional till Sumitra would alert her to come inside.
Back cover of sofa needed renewal and she would replace it in no time. The decorative show items in drawing room had dulled and she would clean them in Colin and soap water to make them shine.Through out the day she would focuss on how to adorn her parents' house which was so dear to her and make it perfect so that her parents will live comfortably. Sumitra would try to convince her not to do so much but she would turn a deaf ear to it. Ultramodern show items, beautiful wall hangings brought from Hometown furniture store, were testifying to Lisa's choice and taste. Sumitra has a problem of frozen shoulder which is much painful and it is much difficult task to hang the mosquito net at night. Lisa had ordered a threadless type mosquito net for her mom and dad.
Sumitra was contemplating over the wonders and wondered why someone had said, "For a girl the parent's house is not meant to be her own". Her sweet little daughter after growing up, was indulging her heart and soul for the comfort of her parents. When she was at Germany she never failed to call her mummy and papa everyday. She never felt good unless she saw them in video.
At the fag end of life what more the parents want, than to get some love and affection from their children. The priceless love that manifests from concern of children for parents is immeasurable.
Streams of tears were rolling down from Sumitra's eyes.The beautiful smile of her loving daughter and innocent face of the little grand child was flashing everywhere in her surrounding. At the time of her departure she alerted her mom not to forget to give BP medicine to her papa who forgot iit most of the time. She had uploaded online yoga practice for her mom for stress release. Sumitra was thinking probably all the daughters in the world are like her Lisa.
Sumitra was not aware when Suresh came and stood behind her. He was able to notice her dismal mood and feel her emotion for her children stirring inside. As a father he was no less missing his beloved daughter. He caressed Sumitra's hair and tried to console her saying, "Don't be upset Sumi.This is the normal go of life. We shall have to sail amid ups and downs, highs and lows of its stream Just recall the day when you had to leave yout house to start a new chapter in your life. Better we should feel happy to see them growing and prosper. We should pray to Almighty to bless them with a very successful and contented life. Please wipe away your tears." Sumitra was speaking emotionally, "See Suresh, our baby who was troubling us for hours so much to finish her food and it was so much an ordeal to feed her - how she has grown up to such a loving, understanding and caring girl."
The mobile rang. Sumitra picked it up. Lisa's tone reverberated from other side, "Hello mummy, we boarded the flight to Frankfort from Delhi. I will call you and Papa after reaching Germany."
Sumitra felt relaxed but somewhere in her inner recess uninvited tune of melancholy was echoing. With folded hands both of them were praying Almighty for His blessings for the safe journey of their darling daughter and her family.
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.
It was Durga Puja holidays in October some years ago. I got into my 1st AC compartment in Golden Temple Express at Nizamuddin Railway station, Delhi. No other passenger was there. I was alone.
It was around 7 pm. The train was about to start. A lady rushed into the compartment. The train started running. Delhi was left behind.
After some time, the TTE came in, checked our tickets and went away.
The lady locked the door from inside. I looked at her with queries in mind. She smiled from her rosy lips. I also gave her a smile.
She told me - For our safety and security I closed it. Do you feel uncomfortable ?
I said to her - Okay. Thank you. But other passengers may come to the vacant berths.
She - I have seen the reservation charts. They are vacant. No one will come to disturb us.
Me - Are you alone ?
She - Yes. What about you ?
Me - Single.
She - I can't understand. You might be married and traveling alone or also be a bachelor. You might also be doing a job or a student. Without giving details, simply saying - single ! You are a young man. Be smart enough.
Me - After completion of my education, I joined state civil services recently and am now on probation.
She - Okay. You were a brilliant student and now you are a reputed civil servant. I think you are unmarried now.
Me - Madam ! You might be a lecturer as I feel from your getup, clothes, mode of talking, affectionate behavior and approach. You might be married…as I think.
She - Your presumption is correct. Shall I search for a beautiful girl for you ?
Me - Not now.
She - Are you engaged to or loving a girl or your colleague ?
Me - It's my loving Mom's job to get a daughter-in-law for her. So I am not thinking about it.
What about Sir ? I mean your husband.
She remained silent. She looked gloomy. Her eyes were stuck at the crescent Moon in the star-studded faint dark sky. I saw tears in her eyes.
I sat beside her and tried to wipe out her tears from her eyes with my handkerchief.
I told her - I am sorry for my inappropriate queries. Excuse me please
Our talks stopped abruptly. Pin-drop silence was there in the closed compartment. To soothe her sorrowful mind, I caressed her forehead and back in the darkness. She felt relaxed and came closer to me.
She slowly and sorrowfully started saying - Some years ago, I had a young caring, loving, handsome husband similar to your appearance. He was a brilliant student and a captain in the Indian Army
He was creating havoc in the hearts of our enemies. His strength, military skills, valor, etc are unparalleled and outstanding. The Indian Army was proud of my illustrious husband.
When he was coming home, he was feeding me in his own hands, caressing me, hugging me, embracing me, loving me passionately. He was the
embodiment of love. I was in heavenly bliss and ecstasy with him.
All was well in our love and conjugal relationship.
In the Kargil War, he finished off the Pakistani extremists and soldiers.
India won the war…….My vermillion was wiped out from my head and forehead…… ……..I received the Param Vir Chakra on his behalf in my bangleless hands and white clothes………..
No words were coming out of her mouth.
In her tears my clothes were drenched. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was shut. No word was coming out.
I put my fingers on his forehead, nose and veins in apprehension. Everything was okay.
She was asleep in my lap in the darkness of the closed compartment. I didn't want to disturb her sleep.
The train was running fast all night.
It was dawn. The birds were chirping. The Sun was yet to rise. Faint light was falling on her beautiful face through the glass.
She woke up and looked at my open eyes. She was stunned.
She told me affectionately - Sorry for your wakefulness, inconvenience and discomfort caused due to my sleep in your lap all night. Excuse me, young man !
Kindly forget the faults of a hapless, helpless widow and forgive me please.
I said to her - I salute you and the brave soul of your great husband who sacrificed his life to save India and Indians.
We became familiar with each other during our journey.
Our train was running ahead fast. The green corn fields were going behind. The rosy Sun was rising in the eastern horizon. Its reddish-yellow hue was coloring the cloudless clear sky. The drops of dew of the corn fields were sparkling in the sunshine. The chirping birds were going up the sky and also coming down and vice-versa in search of breakfast.
She kept biscuits in a paper plate, poured tea into a couple of cups from her thermoflask and said - Let us have it to refresh us from our drowsiness.
I was glad to have morning tea from her soft tender hand. I was thinking of my Mom's tea in the morning with love and affection. Though I have no elder brother, I started treating her as my bhabhi (sister-in-law).
I told her - If you don't mind……shall I call you my loving 'Bhabhi' ?
She smiled silently and her fingers touched my ears in affection - My anonymous 'Devarji' (brother-in-law) ! Please have hot tea before being cold.
Me - Thank you my affectionate Bhabhiji !
In the meantime, our train reached Amritsar and we got down. I held all our luggage and we walked out of the platform.
She - Why are you carrying my bag ?
Me - Why did you call me Devarji ? It's my duty to my Bhabhiji.
I hired a taxi. We got into it.
She - I have no reservation for my accommodation in Amritsar. Do you have a hotel reservation ?
Me - Of course not, but I have made an advance suite reservation for me in the guest house of the Golden Temple complex. If you don't mind, may please stay with…..
She - I do follow what you mean. But………
Me - Maa Sita believed Lakshman for 14 years ! Can't you have trust in me for a couple of days only ?
Also, I am used to sleeping with my Mom.
Holding my ears, she told me funnily - Am I your old loving mother, naughty boy !
Me - Of course not, but you are my young affectionate sister-in-law. Your modesty is my pride. Your all types of comfort and privacy are my prime duty.
But it is also unsafe for you to stay elsewhere alone. So better stay with…….me….if you don't mind.
She - Okay. Devarji ! Thank you for your free offer.
In the meantime, we reached the guest house.
She told me - You are unmarried. But I am married and single. Our combination is strange and peculiar. Of course you are trustworthy…..as I feel during our travel.
Me - I am ready for 'Agni-pariksha' (Test of Fire) in case of my ill intentions or any doubt on me from your side. Please have faith in me, Bhabhiji !
After refreshing, we came to the Golden Temple for divine darshan, worship and prayer.
The holy shrine, Harmandir Sahib was built between 1588and 1604. It is popularly called Golden Temple since it was covered with gold-plated copper sheets by the Sikh ruler Maharaja Ranjit Singh in the 1830s.
The Golden Temple is the symbol of secularism.
Tha calm, quiet, serene and devotional ambience of the Golden Temple filled our heart and mind with Transcendental Love of God.
The temple is surrounded by 'sarovar' (pond). Amritsar is named after it. The words : 'Sar' means Sarovar and 'Amrit' means nectar of immortality. The water of the 'Sarovara Is like 'Amrit'. Amritsar surrounds the sarovar and as such it is called Amritsar.
Like all other devotees, we also took a holy dip in the sacred sarovar.
The 'Langar' in Golden Temple is the largest community kitchen in the World. It is meant for the visitors and devotees regardless of cast, creed color, community, religion or sex. It is the symbol of equality and secularism
Thousands of visitors were having their food there free of cost. We also had free meals there.
Then we walked to Jallianwala Bagh, the site of the bloody massacre in 1919 on the day of Baisakhi, April 13, 1919. We were stunned to see the marks of bullets on the walls fired at thousands of innocent people by the orders of Dyer and Dawer.
She asked me - I am confused with the names Dyer and Dawer (Dwyer) with slight differences in spelling though pronunciation is almost the same. Whom did Udham Singh kill in London to avenge the Jallianwala Bagh massacre ?
I told her - They were two different persons with separate powers and positions. O' Dawer was the Lieutenant Governor of Punjab and R.E.H Dyer was the colonel acting as the Brigadier General by pleasing Dawer. Both are responsible for the Jallianwala Bagh massacre.
Col. Dyer died of disease in1927. Dawer was shot dead by Shaheed Udham Singh in London in 1940 since he was the main culprit as per the versions of Udham Singh in the trial court in London.
We also saw the Wagah-Attari border ceremony between India and Pakistan Armies during the Sunset time. The border is around 28 km away from Amritsar.
But she couldn't enjoy it. She was weeping in agony. The border shows reminded her husband's death due to the India-Pakistan war.
Of course we are proud of her martyr husband. But she lost her beloved husband
for safety, security and integrity of India.
We sleep peacefully, when our military is alert and watchful all day and night at the border to save the lives and properties of more than 130 crore Indian people.
She sacrificed her husband for us.
We were returning to our guest house in a sorrowful mood.
I was proud of getting the companionship of a great lady whose husband is a martyr for the cause of India and Indians.
My heart and mind was touching her feet In honor and gratitude.
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.
I looked at Simadri. His eyes were closed, head bent, as if he was in deep sleep. Yet, in the terribly shaking train, I knew he must be awake, as awake as a brooding rabbit. Coromandel Express was speeding away like a train possessed. I suspected, Simadri somehow was not concerned. I was not sure if he even wanted it to reach a destination. Ever since we boarded the train at Vijaywada in the late afternoon, Simadri had not uttered a single word, kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. I was eager to talk to him, to know what exactly had happened, how he landed up in a jail. Yes, a jail, of all the places. Our quiet, dignified friend, rounded up by the police in a midnight raid at Swapna Lodge in Vijaywada, picked up, along with eleven others, for "immoral" activities. I still believed there was some terrible mix-up and Simadri, my college mate would come out of it with a few scratches.
"Here, Simadri, have some tea, it's piping hot and very sweet, exactly the way you like it."
He shook his head, confirming my suspicion that behind the closed eyes, the mind was quite alert. I persisted,
"I have ordered rice and chicken curry, your favourite food for dinner, we will get it at Vijaynagaram, one hour from now. You must be hungry, did you eat anything in the morning?"
Simadri kept mum. Frankly, I was running out of patience. Why was this idiot behaving as if he had been wronged by a revengeful system? It was I who had paid for his bail after the lawyer I engaged, appeared before the magistrate and got his bail approved. So who was he trying to fool? A slow, smouldering anger was spreading over me. I kept it under control.
In fact, I had undergone a terrible mix of emotions since yesterday morning, from the moment I opened the morning newspaper and stumbled into a small piece of news in some innocuous corner under the heading, "Odia man taken to custody in Vijaywada." I was curious to know why a man from Odisha would be a guest of the jail authorities in Vijaywada. The next moment I shrieked, as if struck by lightning. Simadri Nayak? Our Simadri? In jail? I had no doubt it was my college mate Simadri, because the name itself was sort of unique, something like Michael Mishra or Kamruddin Panighrahi! I also knew Simadri, as a pharmaceutical agent, used to go to Vijaywada to get his bulk stock of medicines. So, the scoundrel was also tasting the forbidden fruit in the lodges of Vijaywada, away from home! Such a Chhupa Rustam!
I remembered I had his wife Vijaya's number somewhere in the telephone book. I quickly found it and called. The phone was switched off. I called again, may be there was some mistake, but again I got the message that the phone was switched off. In a flash of rare brilliance, it occurred to me that I should contact Simadri to confirm if it was indeed he who was warming a bed in some forlorn cell of a Vijaywada jail. The fact that the message of "switched off" came in Telugu convinced me that Simadri was in an alien land, away from friends and family. I thought of waking up my wife Kalyani to break this sensational news to her, but I thought it would be prudent to go to Simadri's house first, hoping against hope that the news was wrong and Simadri was enjoying a sound sleep at home in pure domestic bliss.
The house was locked. There was no one nearby, as if the news of Simadri in jail had spread like wild fire and everyone in the neighbourhood was keeping indoors to disown any familiarity with the "immoral leper". That stopped me from asking anyone where Vijaya would have gone with her daughter Gayatri. With a heavy heart and restless mind I spent a few hours in my office and boarded the train to Vijaywada in the afternoon. I knew Simadri needed someone to rescue him from the clutches of law and that someone was destined to be me. From the newspaper I had gathered a brief idea of his brush with law. It seemed the police had conducted a midnight raid on the Swapna Lodge on a tipoff and found sixteen couples in "flagrante delicto", while engaged in immoral activities. They could arrest only twelve culprits, the others managed to flee under the cover of darkness. Our friend Simadri was one of the "dirty dozen".
It was past midnight when I checked into a hotel near Vijaywada railway station. In the morning I rushed to Swapna Lodge. The manager, who himself had managed to get a bail the previous evening was suitably embarrassed to meet a friend of one of the victims. He helped me to contact his lawyer, who seemed to be an old hand at getting bail for deserving delinquents in exchange of an appropriate fee. Simadri was granted bail a little after one o clock and we boarded the Coromandal Express at three. Simadri had not spoken a word to me from the moment I met him outside the jail - not even a word of thanks. He was lost in his own world, pretending to go off to sleep when we found our berths.
The dinner was served at nine. Simadri said he was not hungry and I blew a fuse,
"Hey idiot, what do you mean, not hungry? You think you are a bloody superman who will survive a night without food? If you are such a superman how did you get caught? In an act of sin?"
Simadri sat up, like he had been stung by a bee,
"Sin? What sin? I committed no sin. I was a freaking guest at the Lodge."
I refused to believe him. From the lawyer I had read the charge sheet filed by the police. My anger was threatening to go out of control,
"Just a guest? Then who was the woman who ran away from your room at the sight of the police? Since when have you started sleeping with sluts?"
Simadri collapsed as if I had hit him with a huge slap. I will never forget the sadness that spread over his face, like a dark cloud over a clear sky. He held his face with both hands and mumbled feebly,
"Padmaja! Her name is Padmaja and she is not a slut! Please don't insult her."
Simadri got up and ran out of the cubicle. I found him a few minutes later standing near the door of the compartment and smoking a cigarette. My anger had subsided at his outburst - to know that there was another woman in Simadri's life, a stranger to us, who he respected enough to defend.
I went to him and gently tapped him on the shoulder. The hurt in his eyes was palpable, I knew soon he would tell me his story. I didn't want to hurry him,
"Come, let's eat. I can foresee the long battle you have ahead of you. At least eat and fortify yourself for the morning. God knows when you will get another meal of rice and chicken curry again."
Simadri picked at his food, his mind obviously elsewhere. The dinner over, we sat smoking. I looked at him,
"Simadri, will you tell me what has happened to you? Why did you need a Padmaja to come to your life, when you have Vijaya and Gayatri at home?"
Simadri flinched, as if I had pricked him with a sharp needle,
"Home? It's no freaking home Abhijeet, it's a hell for me. For the last two years I have been living like a stranger in that dungeon, bound by four stinking walls."
"What? Frankly, it's a shock to hear this. You and Vijaya look like a perfect happy couple to everyone. Why do you say home is a hell for you?"
Simadri flashed a pathetic smile,
"It's all a facade, a charade played by Vijaya to make it appear she is such a sweet, nice wife! Didn't someone say everyone is like a moon and has a dark side which he doesn't show to others?"
"What dark side? Don't talk in riddles! Please!"
"Abhijeet, when you return home in the evening what does Kalyani do?"
"Do? What do you mean do? She would have made tea and would be waiting for me, we would have tea and snacks together, she would pour out all the stories of the day to me, we would talk to the kids before sending them to do their homework. I presume that's how it must be in everyone's house. It's just routine."
Simadri surprised me by breaking into a sob,
"It's just routine....it's just routine. No, my friend it's not routine, not in my home. Vijaya just waits like a crouching animal, to pounce on me and shred me to pieces the moment I enter home. If I return early she would say should I not work harder to earn more money, do I realize my income is less than that of a peon in a government office? If I return late, she would fire a different salvo, am I aware of my responsibilities towards the family, should I stay out of home all the time? If I try to play with my daughter, she would come screaming, do I have any business to spoil her studies, do I want Gayatri to turn out to be an useless good-for-nothing person like her father? And if I don't play with her, she would blame me - do I want our only daughter to become a psycho, a mental wreck, neglected by the father, deprived of paternal love? If I buy a gift for her and for Gayatri, she would accuse me of throwing away money as if I was a king's illegitimate offspring, if I don't buy a gift when I return from tour she would throw tantrums like I am a beggar returning home with an empty begging bowl. Sometimes I would be so scared of her shouting that I would feel like not ringing the door bell, preferring to sleep in the verandah outside. So many times I have thought of not returning to the hell called home, I have felt like jumping before a train and end everything. I know it wouldn't make any difference to her. She has written me off as a husband, or even as a person. It is so exasperating that for the last two years I have almost stopped talking to her. We are living under the same roof, but as strangers."
I was stunned hearing this. We had met Simadri and his family a couple of times in the past two years, but had no inkling of such a storm in their life.
"What about your daughter Gayatri? She doesn't talk to you?"
Simadri sighed,
"Only the minimum. You see, I stay out of home on tour for at least fifteen days a month. God knows what poison Vijaya fills in our daughter's ears. She avoids talking to me, except when she needs anything. How I wish the three of us would sit, chat, have our meals together. But Vijaya makes it impossible, shouting at me all the time, belittling me, humiliating me and making my life worse than hell."
My friend kept quiet, looking down in despair. I wondered when he went into the orbit of the other woman, his Padmaja,
"And Padmaja, when did you meet her?"
Simadri looked up, the memory of the woman who he obviously loved, brought a smile to his face.
"Ah, Padmaja! She is exactly what Vijaya is not - sweet, compassionate and understanding, the time I spend with her are the best moments I can dream of, a solace in the dreary desert of my life."
"Is she beautiful? An apsara?"
Simadri smiled again, it was nice to see him smile after a long day of desperate aloofness.
"No, she is anything but an apsara. She is of course tall, slim, of wheatish complexion. Her face is captivating, the eyes expressive. The first time I saw her, my heart melted, looking at her sad, deep eyes. She had lost her husband a year before and left with a seven years old daughter to look after, she had returned to her parent's home. She started working as an accountant at the medicine wholesaler's firm. I went to her to check the bills and just sat there looking at her without blinking my eyes. I felt as if I was a weary traveller wandering aimlessly and at last found the path of peace and love. Every time she looked at me my heart did a somersault. I went again next day, bought some more medicines and sat at her table, just inhaling the fragrance of her presence. She must have sensed it, but said nothing. Her gentle talk, sweet manner won me over, making me fall like a ton of bricks on a pile of sand. I went back to Vijaywada after a week and thereafter every week. At home I didn't care what Vijaya told me, because I was like a man possessed, only thinking of my next visit to Vijaywada when I would meet the sweet and gentle Padmaja. A month after we met, she told her parents that she had to go on tour and we spent two nights in a lodge, registering as husband and wife. Believe me Abhijit, those were the best forty eight hours of my life. I could never imagine, love between two gentle souls could make life so blissful."
Simadri stopped and closed his eyes, perhaps reliving those happy moments. His face had got back some glow and I was surprised that despite the prospect of the impending disaster of next morning he could feel so much at peace with himself.
I was curious to know what happened to Padmaja when Simadri got arrested. I asked him. He flashed a sly smile,
“After talking to her, the police knew she was not a call girl, still they demanded twenty thousand rupees to let her go. I paid it promptly. For me they put the price at fifty thousand. I didn’t have it. Padmaja promised to borrow the amount and come back as soon as she could. She fell at the feet of the policemen and pleaded not to arrest me. I forbade her not to get involved, I didn’t want anyone to point a finger at her. She left for home crying.”
“So, Mr. Romeo, what is your plan now? I am sure you are not exactly looking forward to meeting Vijaya in the morning!”
Simadri closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
After we got down from the train at Bhubaneswar in the early hours of next morning, we went to Simadri’s house. It was locked. Simadri knew Vijaya must have left for her cousin Priya’s place and wanted to go there immediately. I asked him to calm down and brought him to my home. After a quick bath and breakfast we went to Priya’s house in my motorbike.
We rang the bell and after a long wait Priya opened the door. She didn’t invite us to come in, probably her husband was not at home. For about five minutes we heard she and Vijaya talking loudly, arguing things out. Then she came to the door and told Simadri to wait. Only I was asked to get in. Vijaya was standing in the open courtyard, I went near her, slowly, like someone accused of a serious felony, appearing before a judge. She just stood there, looking at me, her eyes red with anger. I quietly murmured,
“I had gone to your house day before yesterday in the morning. It was locked.”
She shouted back, “Yes, what do you expect me to do? Throw the doors open to allow friends and neighbours to congratulate me, because my husband had become famous all over the country?”
With my head bent, I whispered,
“Simadri is truly repentant, will you please talk to him?”
She sprang up like a cobra uncoiled, her face distorted with vicious anger,
“Repentant! Aren’t you ashamed to come before me to plead his case? Do you have any decency left? Just go and ask your friend if I had done something like this, shared a bed with some other person, he would have forgiven me? Go. Go and ask him and come back to me with an answer”, she almost spat those words at me.
I made a last ditch effort,
“At least think of Gayatri. She needs a father’s presence at home.”
This time the cobra in Vijaya almost stung me, making me take a step back,
“Gayatri? What has he got to do with Gayatri? In fact my daughter will be better off without a shameless, characterless father like your friend. Here, take this key to the house. Give it to him and ask him to clear off with his things by the evening. That house is not good enough for him to spend a night. I am sure he will relish being at Gulabo street, the red light area, finding his soul mate among the sluts. Now please leave, your presence reminds me of the shameful shadow lurking outside the door.”
I knew I had lost the case, there was no way she would relent, even to meet Simadri. I turned to leave. She stopped me on the track, to deal another blow.
“Yes, tell your friend to send twenty thousand rupees every month for the next three months. By that time I will find a job to support myself and my daughter. I don’t need anything from him after that. But also tell him, if he thinks he can get rid of us and start a new family, he is sadly mistaken. I will never agree to a divorce. He deserves to roll on the muddy soil of the Gulabo Streets and die a stinking death there. Now just get out. Leave us in peace.”
I came out. Simadri had started walking down the street. No doubt, he had heard everything through the open door. His head was bent with worry, a grim grief had cast a shadow on his face. I started the motorbike and offered him a ride. He looked at me with unseeing eyes and waved me on, determined to walk the unresolved path of life with a quiet resignation.
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.
REMINISCENCES
REMINISCENCES OF A FEW IAS OFFICERS ON THEIR FIRST DAY AT THE ACADEMY, MUSSOURIE
(Compiled by the Editor)
(Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration, Mussourie)
Editor's Note:
A few minutes after midnight of 11th July, I felt seriously nostalgic about the date. On 12th July 1977, the IAS probationers of 1977 batch had reported at the LBS National Academy of Adminstration to start their career as civil servants. I posted the following message in the WhatsApp group of IAS1977:
12th July, the day the seeds of this group were sown! Greetings to all my batchmates from all services. May you all have a long life, celebrating the glory of the past years and looking forward to happy years ahead.
May I request each batch mate to write a few lines today remembering something of 12 July, 1977 that comes to mind? For me, the bus ride on the hill road to Mussourie was memorable, that being my first ever trip to a hill station. The other one was my amusement at the name Bist, who used to work in the office. And the third one was Kushal Singh bringing tea in the afternoon when I was happily tucked under a blanket on the bed. The last, sorrowful memory is of my room mate at Happy Valley - Bruno D'Cruz, IPS, who passed away very early, while working in MP, his allotted cadre.
Forty five years is a long time, but the memory is still fresh, of Kateswar Castle, Riverview, Hari's Canteen, Library Point and many other landmarks.
God bless you all my friends. Live life like everyday is a new beginning, a July 12, 1977. Look for the Dinesh Mittals, Winstons, Srinidhis, the Lorettas, Chhayas and Sangitas in the everyday crowd. You will find them smiling and singing the happy Hosanna of life.
(Mrutyunjay Sarangi, Former Secretary to Government of India and ex-Member Central Administrative Tribunal (CAT). Editor, LiteraryVibes)
Prompt came the reply in a couple of minutes:
MS... Touching & sincere.
(Pabitro Mohan Roy Choudhury - A former Chief Secretary from Govt. of Gujarat).
Motto of the Academy - Sheelam Parama Bhushnam (Character is the Highest Virtue)
By morning many more responded - all of them retired from the IAS with flying colours. But on 12th July 1977 they were a bunch of fresh recruits into the premier civil service of India - young and hesitant, effervescent, yet tentative. Let's hear what they said.
*****
Brings back such wonderful memories. We made lifelong friends and have grown in many ways than one together.
(A. Nanda Kumar, Distinguished Health Economist, Professor and Advisor to USAid, Govt. of United States and many international organisations, USA.)
(Snowfall at the Academy on 27-12-1977)
45 years now… it’s all gone by in a flash… yet that day changed our lives … I hope we have become better humans and that we lived good and meaningful lives. May we all be friends forever.
I was allotted Kateshwar castle as they mistook me for another Mathew CK from 1976 batch.. I had my my tin box and hold-all lugged up to the top and then of the hill.. it was then the mistake was detected. Thereafter they allotted me a room in Happy Valley.
(C. K. Mathew, Former Chief Secretary, Govt. of Rajasthan.)
I went by taxi from Dehradun to Mussoorie. Mahajan came along, sharing the fare.
He said there are spies everywhere in the Academy, watching the words and movements of the probationers!
On the first day, the Tamils ganged up and were loitering. Malathi looked appreciatively at the holy ash on my forehead. The friendship and the bond created due also to the holy ash continued long after I ceased to have the holy ash on the forehead. Every time I met Mala or Sheela in Chennai, the first question from them was, "GB, anything need be done in TN?"
Mala, when she was CS, rushed to my help when a criminal tried to grab my land in Madurai. Sheela helped my niece getting admission for MBA in Bharatidasan, Trichy. Two among many more such acts to the friend in need.
Hearing that Thangaraj (who was a fatso in those Mussoorie days) went to Kulri in the forenoon, I asked him in the afternoon, "Is it true a barrel rolled along to Kulri from the Academy this forenoon?" Prompt came the reply:"Yes, I went."
Lying down in my bed in the Hotel in Dubai, on my way from US to Bangalore, I reminisce about innumerable instances of friendly gestures that mattered immensely by Dinesh Mittal, Naved, CK Mathew and Lamba, more a brother than only cadre and Batchmate, Samar Ghosh, just to name a few among the big crowd of 77, I can not only feel proud about my batch mates but also feel blessed to have been amidst all of you.
It's only us, after the former PM Chandrasekar, who will continue to chat, "Revive the spirit of 77"!
(G. Balachandran, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of West Bengal)
(Probationers at Army Attachment in Mokokchung, Nagaland, January 1978.)
It was a feeling of reunion . Four of us , all dear friends from college coming together . Three of us were living in the same block , day and night. Rounds of visits to the University coffee house . Then we separated . I moved on in ‘73 . Others remained. We were in touch but never imagined that destiny would bring us together. Debashish Chakravarty was in foreign service, Ajay Agnihotri in customs , Gireesh and I were in the IAS.
It was a joyful day . All coming together in an idyllic setting. Our fifth group member R Balakrishnan TN had already moved in ‘76 . Harbinger of others to follow. Togetherness was the biggest joy on that day that even overshadowed a feeling of achievements of having arrived at LBSNAA.
(Kumaresh Mishra, a former IAS 1977 officer of Bihar Cadre.)
Hi friends,
Congrats for this day.
Most funny thing that I remember on 12.7.77. was that after walking from Library Point with Coolie mai pasina- pasina ho gaya aur room m jatey hi bola, "ye kaisi Academy hai, AC tau duur, yaha room mey pankha tak nehin hai!"
Attendant tab bola, saheb jersey coat nikal lo, 5 minute mey, ish shirt me sardi lag jayegi."
Mera roommate BM Saraswat bhi tab tak sweater nikal chuka tha.
We laughed a lot.
Also we'll not forget Hari's sweet daughter, pakodey and Chaang near Tibetan school....
(Giriraj Verma, A former Chief Secretary, Govt. of Uttar Pradesh)
(The Temple Viewed from Kateswar Castle.)
Traveling from Indian Forest College to LBSNAA MUSSOORIE on 12th July 1977 will remain etched in my memory for ever as I met old friends from university and from IFC as well and celebrated a reunion of sorts.
(O. P. Rawat, former Chief Election Commissioner of India)
Wishing all dear batchmates and their families great good health and happiness on our Anniversary. May there be many more!
(Sangita Goirala, Former Secretary to Government of India)
Warmest greetings to all batchmates on our 45th joining anniversary! Wishing everyone good health and contentment.
(Harjinder Singh, Management Professional, U.K.)
Greetings and best wishes to all batch mates for good health, longevity and tranquility.????????????????
(C. S. Suranjana, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Karnataka).
Warm greetings to all dear batchmates and their family members on this day which marks 45th anniversary of joining service.
(G. Sudhir, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Andhra Pradesh)
Thanks Sudhir for the reminder. Imagine of the 75years.....we account for 45! ....and still going strong. So Apna Utsav .
(Shamsher Sheriff, former Secretary General, Rajya Sabha).
I was the only one who joined on 13th July, 1977. A number of us who reached the academy waited for a day to join on the next day. Number 13 was not so bad after all. Being a repeater, I missed most of the fun the batch had during the Foundation Course but the batch finally accepted us one one them. Those 45 years! Long, full of ups and downs - wish I was a bit wiser to enjoy those moments fully.
(Noor Mohammad. Former Secretary to Govt. of India)
(At the Riding Ground)
Congratulations to all the batchmates on their birthday as civil servants. In the second phase, Anil Mahajan and Venky were my roommates in Ludlo Castle, aka, Stapleton. Venky was reserved and meticulous. Mahajan was care free, jolly, relaxed and left oriented. A wonderful and affable person. On off days he never got up in time in the morning and forced me too to over sleep. Thus missing breakfast in the mess, we had to ask the room attendant to bring breakfast to the room. For this courtsey, we tipped him handsomely. Due to this our mess bill was getting inflated. But it was enjoyable time. My best wishes for good health, happiness and long life to all the friends and their family members.
(B. L. Nimesh, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of J&K)
A very happy service birthday to the group of 77.
Seems just the other day that we were travelling on the Dehradun -Musoorie road , very excited as we proceeded to LBSNAA to join our new assignment.
And almost everything memorable was packed into the 9 months we spent there .
Recall the frequent music sessions we had , both formal and informal, both on stage and off it. The music and vocals of JP, Loretta, CK , Alem, Banuo, River , and sadly , Mapu and Jonathan who have since passed on . The strains of Summer Wine and Ob la di Ob la da still heard at times and it still plucks the heart strings listening to them.
We have so much to be thankful for, as a batch.
Wishing each and every member thereof , with their families, a long and happy life , with good health and happiness .
(Winston Pariat, Former Chief Secretary to Govt. Of Meghalaya).
(Kateswar Castle )
Well,
CONGRATULATIONS to all the dear Batchmates on starting the 46th year of our lifelong friendships!
As rightly mentioned by Noor Bhaijaan, I also missed the excitement of being at a new place, since I was also a Repeater, having become familiar with the LBSNAA in the 4 months of the Foundation Course in 1975, when I was an IRS Income Tax Probationer, though living at the Savoy Campus.
Many of the Faculty Members were also known/ familiar, except that Shri Venkat Chary, our Course Director in 1975 Foundation Course had left. (Perhaps B S Baswan had replaced him.?)
I also had the advantage of knowing very well at least 5 friends from the 29th Batch of IRS Income Tax, with whom I had spent an year at Nagpur also- Subodh Kumar, Jayant Banthia, Dr GD Gautam, Ajeer Vidya and A K Burman.
But making 120 new friends on 12th July 1977 was a Bonus!!
Personally, I remember that I was a bit sad also that day, because second time in two years' time my Basic Salary was getting reduced (from Basic of ?780 to the Basic of ?700) (first time was in 1975, when I had to forgo the two increments earned by me before July 1975, as State Bank of India Probationer, after passing both the prescribed CAIIB Exams, and the second one was the two increments I had earned after passing the prescribed Departmental Examinations in IRS).
One more thing I distinctly remember about 12th July 1977 was that (since both of us had got married while in the IRS- my marriage was solemnized on 8th May, just 12 days before the IAS result was published on 20th May), that very first day itself I and Subodh had discussed as to how to get permission to live in a family accommodation somewhere outside the LBSNAA Campus with our spouses, which we finally managed to do only much later, during the First Phase, occupying one side Bedroom each, which were available on rent at the Mirankot House, much beyond the Happy Valley (perhaps, if I remember correctly, with the help extended by Hari of Hari's Canteen, whom both I and Subodh knew personally from 1975).
But that was possible only during the First Phase of our Training, after (as Repeaters) our Tribal Attachment at the Kathla Block of Dahod Taluk of Panchmahal District of Gujarat (then the District Headquarters was at Godhra, which we visited once during that Tribal Attachment).
We couldn't have a Batch get together today, but we must plan to have a get together next year, if possible, not taking chances to see as to how many of us are still alive and available to attend the 50th Year Batch get together in 2027.
(Sudhir Kumar, Former Member, Central Administrative Tribunal)
(The Government acquired the Charleville Hotel and shifted the National Academy of Administration to Mussourie in September 1959)
The beautiful mist between library point and our Academy on that wonderful 12th July! I travelled in the same bus from Delhi or taxi from Doon with Ashok Kanth of the IFS. I assumed that his name was pronounced Kant as in Amitabh or Emanuel. However he insisted on pronouncing it like an unmentionable English word that sounds a bit like the Hindi word for throat.
(Pervez Dewan, Former Secretary to GOI)
Happy Anniversary to all of us! That fateful day in July changed our lives forever for the better.
I remember, Hari’s daughter had stitched my name on an umbrella I purchased from the shop. After I got married, I was unable to provide a satisfactory explanation for the same and the lady of the house disposed it off ????
(Sharad Asthana, Professor of Management, University of Texas at Austin, USA)
What do I remember of this day 45 years ago?
It starts a day earlier, on the Doon Express for Calcutta to Dehradun. I boarded at Howrah, hoping to meet a few others travelling to Mussoorie on the train, but could find no one. Then I travelled up and down the train (It was a vestibule). Still no one who seemed a likely candidate. I thought some may board at stations on the way, kept my eyes peeled - but no one seemed a likely candidate. The only thing that I noticed that there were a large number of people moving up and down the train corridors. A bit odd I thought.
We reached Dehradun the 12th morning. There was a small desk welcoming probationers. went to it and was told I was the 37th and I had better board the bus to LBSNAA quickly! There were 42 of us on that train and many were going up and down the train to locate other - remember the people moving up and down the corridors?
I recall the excitement on boarding the bus. My attempt at looking nonchalant while we travelled up the hairpin bends and finally reaching the tiny office where we had to fill in voluminous forms giving every detail, including our ancestry! Its then we started making friends and those friendships have lasted a lifetime!
(Pradeep K. Deb, Former Secretary to Govt. of India).
I so vividly remember the day. For me it was promotion from valley to hills an opportunity to meet new friends. Was allotted River view Sameer Vyas was with me . 45 years, appears as if it was yesterday. Wish all my friends healthy and happy life and keep this forum vibrant connecting link between all of us.
(Umesh C. Sarangi, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Maharashtra and ex-CMD, NABARD).
Sorry folks! I frankly don’t remember how I travelled to Mussoorie , whether by train or bus . However, like Deb , I remember the voluminous forms we had to fill on reaching LBSNAA including the Oath to abide by the Constitution. Thereafter I landed up at Hollywood Cottage via Hari’s canteen and loved the view from there which included the valley below , the beaten horse track and the tennis courts. Met my room-mate Sundaram Krishna and we sauntered over to Hari’s for a cup of coffee. We were both excited and looking forward to the journey ahead! And indeed it’s been a wonderfully journey full of all manner of excitement!????
(J. P. Singh, Former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Goa)
(At Kempty Falls)
My joining was delayed by almost a month because my police verification was to be done by the Scotland Yard, since I was studying at LSE before joining the Academy. So when I landed the rooms were gone and so were the friends. But there was so much happiness and energy in the air that in a day I was at home. I still remember the light cool air compared to Delhi, in August.
(Viswapati Trivedi, Former Secretary to Govt. of India and ex-MD, AirIndia)
Like Vishwapati, my police verification was delayed. I was unaware of it till I saw my father come in a police jeep to the school at Nabha, Punjab, where I was teaching. He had come to get the police verification done by Punjab police. Since he was a retired IPS officer of the Punjab cadre, it was easy for him.
I joined on 23rd July. By that time, the congregation at LBSNAA was all abuzz with excitement. Geetika and Ashok Priyadarshi were from my M. A. Class in Delhi University. If I recall correctly, I was placed in Stapleton, perhaps, rooming with Swapan Gregory from IRAS. Alem was also in Stapleton. Later, we were joined by Phool Singh.
(Suneel K. Muttoo, Former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Uttarakhand).
12th July , 1977 was the most memorable day in my life .
Having failed to become a Medical doctor missing it by just one or two marks, I decided to join Civil Services .
In my case there was a divine intervention as being educated in Marathi medium I got selected for Pre Examination Coaching Center sponsored by Maharashtra Government at Nagpur wherein I was properly trained in English including Precis writing etc.
Despite being an M.Sc. I opted for 3 Histories -
Mughal (Higher)
European ,
Indian.
On 11th July, I resigned from Indian Forest Service and the next morning reached LBSNAA by taxi from Dehradun. It was an unique experience to enter the premises and meet the Probationers .
Mr. Baswan (BSB), the Deputy Director looked like one of us.
I was alloted a room in Valley View 1 and had SK Goel, IRS as a roommate. He retired as Chairman, CBSE .
The entire atmosphere was nostalgic.
Myself and my room mate had a round of the physical and social facilities of the Academy before joining for a lunch at the Mess wherein there was a long queue.
(Manik Sonawane, A former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Haryana and ex-Insurance Ombudsman, North West Zone, Chandigarh).
(Frolic at Snowfall, December 1977)
I had to come to Madras (of those days) to reach Delhi on way to Mussoorie. Since I had got in to Railways in 1976, I had a Railway Pass which could be upgraded to AC 1st in TN Express. It was a fully booked compartment and I didn’t get a berth and was asked to sit in the corner of a seat till the TC could find a vacant berth. All of a sudden I saw a distinguished looking man in Dhoti with long hair reaching up to his shoulders walking along the corridor and was trying to guess who it was. Soon I could see his wife and their pretty daughter too and in a flash the Sherlock Holmes in me could decipher that the gentleman was none other than Guru Gopinath a celebrated Kathakali artist of Kerala and that the girl was Vilasini. I made a broad smile at the genial gentleman and asked him in Malayalam if he was travelling to Mussoorie. None of the three had reservation but had got in with AC First tickets with some assurance from the TC. I don’t know about Vilasini but at least the Guruji appeared quite pleased to meet me. By nightfall we got in all about 2 berths and managed till Delhi next day. In Delhi we parted ways as they were to meet some friends. We met thereafter only in the Academy. I took the night train to Dehradun and a share taxi to Mussoorie. At least one or two of them were probably coming to the Academy but I couldn’t make out much of the Hindi in which they were happily talking to one another.
I was quite distressed when I reached Mussoorie. Quite stupidly I was inadequately dressed for the place with just a half sweater to protect myself and was shivering in the misty Mussoorie morning. (with some cold drizzle to add to my misery). I remember giving vent to some frustration to some others about those in Government finding such a cold and forlorn place to locate the Academy. None around however seemed impressed or sympathetic. The high point was meeting Malay Roy my friend from State Bank days. I had known Harji and John Joshua too before joining the service but both of them had probably reported much later.
(P Joy Oommen, Former Chief Secretary to Govt. of Chhatisgarh.)
I don't even clearly recall being in the Academy though one of the initial memory is dear Parvez devouring breakfast with a dozen bread slices (toasted) a glass of milk and the puny omelet in about 75 seconds.
(Naved Masood, Former Secretary to Govt. of India)
Mussorie from Delli was an overnight bus ride. Lots of known friends were on their way there. Stayed at a friend''s place near the main shopping places. Friend and Veenadi who many of you know, went with me to Lbsnaa next day. Wishing to spend some more time together we roamed around next morning and went to join after that- landed up around three p.m..
Filled so many forms and correction of joining time made from noon to afternoon. Bassy (Mr. B. S. Baswan, Dy. Director of the Academy) was the first person I saw and presumed he was one of us and he blushed and showed me the way to ladies hostel. Threw luggage in room shared with Chhaya.
Promptly left for Kempty Fall with many others and forgot to take salt. Saw empty falls. Leeches had a tasty meal and we all came back limping with blood ???? all over .
Received salary from 13 .7 as I had written joining from afternoon. Just enjoying myself by meetings with everyone and having nice dinner ???? and afterwards going to Hari was my first day!!
Too much nostalgia to pen ???? down. Still trying to be as happy now.
Friends are the lasting happy blessings from academy.
(Nita Chowdhury, Former Secretary to Govt. of India, and ex-Member, CAT)
(Editor's Note: And life goes on....Memories live forever....)
(Photographs courtesy Shri Sudhir Kumar, Karnataka Cadre, Former Member, Central Administrative Tribunal, Principal Bench, Delhi.)
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