Literary Vibes - Edition CXXI (30-Sep-2022) - POEMS, SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
Title : Rebirth (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya 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,
Welcome to the 121st edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes with lots of brilliant poems and interesting short stories. Let me share a good news with all of you. Last year during Dussehra I had taken out a special edition of short stories for the reading pleasure of readers during the holidays. They were highly appreciated by everyone who read the stories. This year also I sent a request to a few writers to send their 'best of the best' stories for a Special Dussehra edition. Most of them responded. So, on 5th October, Vijaya Dashami, the Special Dussehra edition will be launched with more than a dozen highly entertaining stories. Please be on the lookout for them and do enjoy the stories. Since good things should be shared on festive occasions, please send the link to all your friends and contacts.
We are fortunate to have four new literary talents adorning our page this time. The youngest among them is Dhivya Rajan from Chennai. She has just finished her high school and bubbles with lot of literary enthusiasm. Dr. Usha Sridhar from Bangalore is a rare personality who has shone in the scientific world, but has never given up her literary interest. Ms. Sumitra Kumar from Chennai is an ardent poet who writes with a lot of zeal and passion. Dr. Surendra Nagaraja from Hyderabad excels in translating deeeply meaningful, soul-searching poems from Telugu to English, apart from writing his own poetry. Let us welcome them into the family of LV and wish them a lot of success in their literary journey. Their continuing footprints in LV will certainly enrich our magazine.
Last month I was invited as a chief guest to a local Junior College to address the students who had just joined the institution. It was their first day of orientation. Thanks to my penchant for story telling, polished through LiteraryVibes, I narrated five stories to the stdents. I am happy to offer a glimpse of them here.
The speakers who spoke before me had exhorted the students to study hard and follow the teachers' instructions. I reiterated the same, but told them that what is more important is character building. Without a strong character all lessons are a waste, the job they do is only perfunctory.
First and foremost, they should never forget the sacrifice of their parents, the efforts they have put to bring their children to where they are today. I told them the story of an interview for a high-paying job in a big corporation. The interviewers were interested to know what the candidates did in the evening. Most of them, suited and booted, replied that they enjoyed life, went to pubs, dated girls and did what the smart guys are supposed to do. Towards the end came a young man, simply dressed, humble and down to earth. He told the interviewers that he had lost his father when he was a child and his mother worked as a maid in a few houses to bring him up. In the evenings he applied balms to her calloused hands after she returned from work, and pressed her legs in the night to put her to sleep. If he got a job he would immediately stop her from going to work and give rest to her. The interviewers took a hard look at him, knew from his sincere face he was telling the truth and gave him the job.
The second principle in character building is never to do anything in life that would put their parents to shame. I told them of a story I have written recently about a boy who finds a two rupees coin while walking on the street and stands still. The man following him asks him to pocket it and go home. He shakes his head and says his mother will choke him to death if he does that. She has always taught him never to take anyone else's money - it is better to eat two simple rotis from one's honest income rather than eat pulao out of dishonest earnings. The gentleman, a young judge, gets impressed and they go to the nearby temple and put the coin in the Hindi. Later, when the boy grows up, the judge gives him a job as a personal attendant. The man remains a faithful, honest companion to the judge and his wife. His son, however, goes wayward and many years later is caught by the vigilance while taking a bribe. The man comes to the judge's home, remembers his dead mother over copious tears and prays at the feet of the judge's wife to choke him to death, for that's what his mother would have done if she were alive, for not teaching good sanskar to his son.
The third principle is not to forget even the smallest person working for you. There was this story of John, who was working in a warehouse where frozen meat was kept in subzero temperature. One day he was woking late into the evening when he forgot to look at the time and got stranded. Everyone left and the door was locked from outside. He panicked, he felt he was going to freeze to death, when someone opened the locked door and came in calling his name. It was Bob, the watchman who promptly rescued him. When he came out he asked the watchman, how did he know he was trapped inside. Bob smiled and said, "Look John, you are the only one who greets me while leaving everyday, occasionally stopping to chat for a while. Today I felt something was missing from my evening and realised I had not seen you leaving. So I came in to check."
Fourth, they should do a good deed whenever they can, because one never knows when he will be repaid and in what way. I told them of my story 'A Touch of Love' from my book 'A Train to Kolkata'. There was this boy Muktikanta who had once knocked at a house on a blazingly hot summer morning to ask for a glass of water. A young girl appeared from inside, chatted with him and gave him a glass of lassi and a one rupee coin to go home in a rickshaw. Twenty nine years later Dr. Mukti Kanta Tripathy, the famous neuro surgeon came across a widowed lady languishing with a brain tumour, her brother unable to find the money to get her operated. He remembers her as the young girl who had saved his life on a hot summer morning. He operates on her in his private hospital. When the brother asks him whether he can accept part of the payment and waive the rest, the doctor smiles, and says, "Waiver? Where is the question of waiver, when the amount has already been paid in full?" The brother is shocked, wondering who had paid the amount without his knowledge. He asks the doctor. The doctor looks outside, at the distant hills, and says, "Manoranjan, when your sister becomes fully alright and can recollect things from the past, tell her, she had paid for the full cost of this surgery twenty nine years back, with a glass of lassi, a one rupee coin and a touch of love."
The fifth important trait of character is a belief in miracles and if possible, make them happen. There is this story of a five year old fatherless girl in America whose mother was on her deathbed with acute pneumonia. The priest had come and left, muttering, "She is almost gone. Only a miracle can cure her." The girl rummages through her savings and finds three dollars twenty cents and runs to the nearby pharmacy and asks to buy a miracle to cure her mother. The pharmacist, all sympathy for her, is left wondering what to do. A tall, distinguished gentleman, standing next to her, asks what is the problem with her mother. She is not sure but says the priest told her it was pneumonia and only a miracle can cure her. The gentleman asks, "And my little angel, how much money do you have to buy the miracle? Is it your entire savings?" She nods, "Yes Sir, i have here three dollars twenty cents." The gentleman, the most distinguished pulmonologist of the town, chuckles, "Ah, my sweet angel, that is exactly the price of a miracle i can sell to you. Come, lead me to your home, let me see what I can do for your mother." And the mother was saved, thanks to the miracle 'bought' by her little daughter.
Sadly, character is something which many in our country lack woefully. I have a neighbour staying in one of the apartments opposite my house. He is a Joint Secretary in the State Secretariat. He leaves for office in a government car sometime between 10.30 and 11 in the morning. By two pm he is back home for lunch and leaves after an hour and half. Evening 6.30 is his return from office. I often wonder what kind of office timings are prescribed here and followed by the officers. During the course of my official assignments I have visited a few developed countries. Everywhere the office timings are eight to five. Eight is followed strictly as seven hours fifty nine minutes sixty seconds, come what may, rain or snow. I am told, here all officers go home for lunch using the office vehicles. In many other states a similar practice is followed. Do they realise how much precious fuel they are wasting by this avoidable ritual? And how much government money? Why can't they carry lunch from home in the morning, heat it up in the office and eat?
The morning papers and social media keep carrying the sensational news of raids on our politicians and corrupt officials. If one follows the tweets of the tech-savy netizens, they use the choicest abuse against these delinquents, but they move on nevertheless, giving two hoots to such criticism and wearing the abuse like a badge of honour. One often wonders how do they show their face to their children? How do the children feel in their schools, colleges and workplaces when others point at them to say ""Iskaa baap chor hai."
However it's not all bleak. We have enough honest officials and well meaning, hard working politicians to keep the country going and growing. They have learnt what character means and how strong character of citizens will build a strong nation. Let's salute them and hope for the best for our country.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in the present edition of LiteraryVibes. Coincidentally, to jell with the above narrative, my short story in today's edition is a glimpse into the character of four borrowers from a bank, their ethics and morals. . Please post your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the page. Do share the LV with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/455 (Poems, Short Stories, Anecdotes, Essays) and
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/454 (Young Magic)
There are also two articles by Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo, the renowned Gyeanocologist at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/452 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/453
The real bonus of this edition is a beautiful anthology of devotional poems named The Secret (W) rites of Marghazhi by Kamar Sultana Sheik, an outstanding poet from the LV family. It can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/456
All the previous 120 editions of LV are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, stay safe, keep smiling.
We will meet again with the 122nd edition of LV on Friday, the 28th October.
It is a pleasure and privilege for me to wish all of you a Happy Dussehra and a joyous festive season.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A LONELY GIRL
02) Haraprasad Das
THE ANIMAL SACRIFICE (UPAAYA) - 6
03) Dilip Mohapatra
CHANGING TIMES
04) Ajay Upadhyaya
STARGAZER
05) Abani Udgata
EACH ONE’S STORY
06) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN - Part 3
EVERYWOMAN - Part 4
07) Meenakshi Goswami
LA BELA DEMOISELLE
08) Dr Usha Sridhar
IN THE FRINGE
09) Ezra Sastry
EDUCATION IS A BAG HANGING UNDER MY SHOULDER
10) Dhivya Rajan
DEATHLY DIALOGUE
SOCIETY'S PRISON
11) Dr. Molly Joseph M
FULLNESS... EMPTINESS
12) Hema Ravi
TURNING THE CLOCK BACK
13) Seethaa Sethuraman
MIRAGES OF THE MIND
IN ESSENCE....
THE OTHER DAY: A TRIBUTE
14) Gita Bharath
SOUTH INDIAN WEDDING
15) Sundar & Team
ROARING RIVER
SUBLIME SKY
THE TWINKLERS
16) Ravi Ranganathan
ETHER EXIGENT
17) Akshara Rai
MELANCHOLY
18) Dr. Radharani Nanda
THE ORDEAL
19) Arpita Priyadarsini
REMINISCENCE
20) Setaluri Padmavathi
CHOICES
21) Alexandra Books
FLYING 12
22) Col(Dr)Rekha Mohanty
WHO AM I ?
23) Professor Niranjan Barik,
THE BALL IN YOUR COURT, PLAY WITH CARE!
24) Krishna Tulasi
MARSHY WOMAN
LAST PAGE
25) Saiprakash
RAIN NEAR THE BEACH !
GOOD TOUCH -BAD TOUCH !
26) Sukanya V Kunju
HER VOICE
27) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE LONE MAN WALKING
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Fakirmohan Senapati
REVATI
02) Sreekumar K
THE STREAM
03) Chinmayee Barik
THOSE FIFTY MINUTES
A FISTFUL OF MOONLIGHT
04) Dr. Usha Sridhar
A NEW ABODE
05) Satya N. Mohanty
THE NIGHT OF DAGGERS
06) Snehaprava Das
A FAIRY TALE
07) Dr. Radharani Nanda
DESTINY
08) Sheena Rath
RAHUL AND HUSHKOO MUSINGS
09) Ashok Kumar Ray
URVASHI
10) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
KNOW YOUR CUSTOMER (KYC)
Table of Contents ::ANECDOTES & OTHERS
01) Jayshree Misra Tripathi
LIVING OVERSEAS AND THE OTHER SIDE OF DOMESTIC SERVITUDE.
02) LathaPrem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSINGS :: WHERE HAS IT GONE
03) Sumitra Kumar
GOVINDA IS CALLING
04) Indumathi Pooranan
RED LETTER DAYS....
05) Punyasweta Mohanty
YOU ARE NO LONGER HERE.
06) Pradeep Biswal
THE SKY UNLIMITED
07) Gourang Charan Roul
A SENSATIONAL SEIZURE OF 11 MT IMPORTED SILVER BARS.
08) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
LITERARY PURSUITS : POWER OF COMPLIMENTS
09) Seethaa Sethuraman
BUDDHA ON THE WALL
PRANAYAM
10) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
11) Avaya Mohapatra
THE UKRAINE IMBROGLIO: GEOPOLITICS AND SOVEREIGNTY OF A NATION
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo
HALF YEARLY EXAMINATION
02) V.Varsha Shree
A TEACHER NEEDN’T BE
BOOK REVIEW
01) Sundar Rajan S
THE CUCKOO SINGS AGAIN By HEMA RAVI - A REVIEW
She has a family, yes, she has.
They talk a different tongue,
pass through her, as she does
through them, water passing
though a loose-knit sieve.
Howling lightning flashes by,
silent thunders hold their tongue,
sparks stay close to hearts,
secrets she holds in her sad eyes,
pain in them being the best repository.
Often her words but get puckered
between lips like a timid bride
in her new home, like her new aches,
muted sores. She sleeps in dreams' lap,
flower valleys, often pest ridden.
Her companions: moths, bugs, sparrows,
beetles, geckos, puppies, and kittens
rule her fond thoughts; her best efforts
to love ants never work, they swarm
her from childhood memory.
Alive, but not living,
apple of her family's eye,
colorless, odorless, she hangs on a bereft tree,
a bare weeping willow, but its tears
like balm, bring her some joy.
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.
THE ANIMAL SACRIFICE (UPAAYA) - 6
(Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Don’t be appalled
by the dripping blood.
This is your share of meat,
the prasad from the sacrificial altar.
Take it home,
cook and eat with family and friends,
enjoy the mood of festivity
in social company.
A bit gruesome, but nonetheless,
it is a delightful ritual.
See, the oozing blood
doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
Of course, it may return
as a nightmare, scary.
I may even scream
like a Gangashiuli*
finding blood on its pristine
delicate white petals.
But isn’t that
a different matter?
Why should you mind?
So much we gain, losing so little.
Great social gains for so small a price,
costing us only our innocence.
Oh priest,
anoint us with
vermilion, garland us.
Let’s dance
to the frenzied drumbeats
like possessed devils,
with abandon
to the macabre rhythms.
Let this opiate seduce us,
oiling our social engine,
steamrolling merrily
over our innocence.
(*Gangashiuli – the small delicate fragrant night-jasmine with white petals on a soft little orange stack, also called ‘Ratrani’ or the night-queen.)
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)”
You need this and need that
the basics to start with
and then the list grows
and you keep ticking them off
till you feel that
you are at par with your peers
if not better.
Then you pause and wish
to tip the scale
and slowly get caught in
the Tantalus trap
and ask for more and more
you deepen your pockets
and fatten your wallet
and your cupboard shelves
need to be redesigned
and enlarged.
You find yourself running
whether in a race or not
whether someone is in pursuit or not...
Whether your staying ahead
or falling back matters or not
you just keep running
sometimes from pillar to the post
sometimes round and round
there’s no respite
there’s no stopping.
The I that you were so familiar with
something that always
came in capitals
grows out of proportion
and towers over others
perhaps only in your eyes
and you keep working at it
to keep it growing
as much as you can.
But a day comes
when you see the light
and seek solace in solitude
and in your austerely seclusion
in letting go
your need
greed and ego
you cleanse your conscience
you detach and detoxify
but then before you
could set yourself free
the new age swallows you up
and again you find
yourself entangled in the
cobweb of the Web
living online lives
and drifting aimlessly
in the digital deluge.
The solitary shores of
gadget free getaways beckon you
to enrol yourself
for a digital vipasana
to take a break from your devices
which perhaps are threatening
to become vices
to redraw your digital boundaries
and to create your device free zones
where you may still yourself
and transcend to the void
and just do nothing...
and cure yourself
from the addiction
of instagramming
from the addiction
of tweeting
and to go slow on your blogs
and your indiscriminate posts
to deal with the trolls
to desist from posting the forwards
and perhaps to rid you of
the incurable malady of
phubbing.
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.
Am I a stargazer?
My friend alerted me:
Caution, the planet thieves
are on the prowl.
Let the thief do his job;
the stars have
already done theirs.
Played peek-a-boo,
from behind the clouds,
to cheer me up
in my down days.
Their black holes filled
my vacant mind
with awe,
about the wonders
of the cosmos.
Their spark speaks
of the smile on
my friends’ faces,
who inhabit the
land of angels.
The stargazer in me
is unfazed,
as my stars’ secrets
are safe, beyond
the thieves’ reach.
They can never
steal their twinkle,
that remains
my lullaby for ever.
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.
each one has a story to tell.
To come back someday to the secluded domain
of your own, only to listen.
To get up to pull that book of stories from
the mantelpiece , keep aside
the ale and the cakes and the scattered meanings.
It is all yours, the pain that was and lies ahead,
the veranda of remorse running round the courtyard
of the temple as the myriad figurines wear dark night.
Each story is a path we walk through our
breaths when hot lips couple in steamy
embrace, strain to deny the inevitable.
A traveller whose pocket bulges with shiny
pebbles and stones that moan plaintive
songs late in to the night, grieve for the moon.
All those conversations by the tipsy fireside,
has it not left you with a strange taste in mouth?
Past midnight, past your worst nightmare
or your sweetest dreams, as you peer in to
faces and shadows, it waits , a faithful charioteer
waiting to ferry you beyond.
Abani Udgata lives in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems both in English and Odia. Udgata has been awarded in all-India poetry competitions and published in anthologies. He has been a regular contributor to LV. Email: abaniudgata@gmail.com
She was a lark,
full of a spark that cheered,
lending fresh ‘n sprightly,
always on the move,
with eyes-hands
caressing pert ‘n airy.
And he?
Always grave,
laden by earth’s pull,
resisting moon’s tug,
brooding dark shadows
hovering ‘n about
swallowing, now, then.
She never expected
a shower of emotions,
a swooning with flowers,
a concerned glance,
a touch,
a listen.
He never saw any
beyond his cuffs,
his heart,
no care beyond his nose,
deaf to lilting thoughts,
blind to feeling emotions.
Oh! her emotions -
overflowing
with wordy nothings
(even if not always sweet)
laced gooey -
treacle on bare rock.
Then one day he told her
he preferred men to women,
that he had married her
only to be ‘accepted’
by the hoi polloi,
the elite, the lot.
She remained majestically silent,
(perhaps she half-knew?)
-has said little
ever the shocking-since.
He wanted a divorce.
She barely shook her head.
If he seeks to make merry
with circles
(with arrows pointing north-east),
or with just one,
it would have to be
while yet, burdened with her cross.
She remains true,
without seeking arms
of other men -
even after dwelling
on a searing
‘what if’.
What if - he had not been gay
and she had declared-
that she was a ‘dyke’ ?
(why that label - why? she wondered)
that she had pretended a lark,
just so, to remain closeted.
And what if -
he had refused to divorce her?
He could have ‘had’ her
every night.
If he so chose.
And every day!
She picked up
two white pebbles,
large, almost smooth,
from her rock garden,
smiled
a meditated glaze.
The pebbles
barely snuggling in her palms,
she struck one with the other,
a swiftness
that sent a jarring shock
up both arms.
The pebbles remained glistening.
I Am As Hard As That!
*
Blessed is the one
who makes her smile.
And the pebbles?
They are
on
her
writing desk.
She bathes in moonlit, luminous, gladness sheets,
Sprouts lucent, tender, diaphanous wings,
Leaves the cuticle, bewitching, cloistered
Darkness, smiles within as a lone bird sings.
Answering her call, lets things ride, chips fall,
Grows anew with each raked roughshod and glows,
Anchoring her true within to her own
Whole, not beating breasts for the wary world.
Her eyes always softly in hoping trust
Through all, enveloped by sheer faith unsheathed,
On humanity’s tongue, placing God in all
Her hues, not turning green, dark fangs to chew.
Shattering free from pre-wrought iron-cast
Or golden, flowing free toward that from
Time's domain, not sniping teeth at Destiny’s
Strings, so, to nearness of the One’s refrains.
Jairam Seshadri is the author of MANTRA YOGA ( 2021 Rupa Publications) WOOF SONGS & THE ETERNAL SELF-SABOTEUR (2019 Partridge) and JESUS SAHASRANAM - THE 1,008 NAMES OF JESUS CHRIST (2018 Authorspress). He is a CPA with an MBA from the US and has worked in the U.S, Canada and England for over 30 years before returning to India to take care of his father.
He founded the India Poetry Circle (IPC)) six years ago, which has seven anthologies to the group’s credit, in addition to two more in the pipeline to be published this year. IPC, through its offshoot, IPC PLAYERS, has also produced and staged several skits, as part of its ‘POETRAMA’© series, including a production of Shakespeare’s MACBETH online. Shakespeare’s KING LEAR will be staged online this Christmas 2022.
Jairam lives in Chennai and can be reached at 9884445498 or jairamseshadri@hotmail.com.
She was a dreamer and trusted
Science might lift humankind above itself;
Her confidence immovably secured in
The people on planet earth.
She had faith in things she could touch and smell,
Yet she has now started pondering noisily about
The plausibility of God.
Her father was a monk –
Past this, her childhood is dark to him
If she was blissful or confused, or not discontent,
One could never make sure.
Untrusting of specialists,
She was diagnosed, sedated and operated;
But at consistent interims with a pointed apparatus,
She tunneled into her own particular ears –
Maybe to stifle the commotion of all that was off.
From her lips poured a limitless torrent of thoughts,
The majority of which he'd listened
For she was his heart and soul, she said
"I might half tune in,
Fantasizing unassailable replies,
Unburied, undignified, unsouled
Arranging splendid escapes....
While I squirmed in my seat"
(Ms. Meenakshi Goswami receiving the National Award to Teachers on 5th September from the President of India)
Meenakshi Goswami is the proud recipient of National Awards to Teachers 2022 given by Her Excellency The President of India on 5th September 2022. She is the Principal of CNS Higher Secondary School, Tezpur , Sonitpur, Assam. A Member of the North East Writers' Forum, India, she is also into sports organisations and anchoring at various functions.
She has been awarded on International Women's Day 2007 by the Indian Medical Association and on India's Republic Day 2019 by the Govt. of Assam for her dedicated service towards human resources, arts and culture. She has been awarded The State Award for Teachers by Govt. of Assam on 5th of September 2018. Meenakshi is a proud recipient of the prestigious OIL SHIKSHYA RATNA PURASKAR - 2016' , In recognition of all round excellence as an educationist . Her debut book of poems "The Sensuous Zephyr" was launched in Melbourne on 11th January 2014 where she was invited for poetry session. Meenakshi Goswami also participated in many International Poetry Festivals. Her poems are published in many National and International Multilingual Anthologies.
She has been conferred The Star Ambassador of World Literature by Philosophique Poetica & Grand Canada at World Poetry Conference for her contribution to World Literature as A Poet, A Committed Educator and Scholar of a High Order. The Sensuous Zephyr and Waltzing Words are two of her famous poetry books. As an outstanding interpreter of poetry & an excellent poet, Meenakshi has attended many Poetry Festivals in India and abroad.
My mom’s fantasy stories filled the air
Life is rosy, fun-filled, and fair, overseen by dainty fairies
Dream big; you will be the sole heir
No, not the rabbit; race is won by a wise hare
Your identity: with pride and courage, proudly wear
Work with no pause for the great day - prepare.
For the fringe-outcasts, the mirror told a dismal story
Etched were lengthened shadows; my image was foggy
The sun refused to let me bask in its warm glow
Ominous was the reflection. Would I be judged harshly?
Are my dreams receding into the background?
I sat in a corner, far from my classmates
The teacher's voice never reached me. I sat mute,
For praise, never was taken with respect - my name
I was a curse; I was not part of the group photos.
They battered my mind and heart; ‘see yourself in the mirror’.
As I grew up, people stared at me, jeering insolently
‘You are trash’, tired I was of hearing it repeatedly
You are a contagious plague, keep out of sight
I inherited all the physical abnormalities; was it my fault?
I have a keen mind, an adventurous spirit, affable personality;
If only you cared to see, your minds are filthy.
Measly jobs were there for the asking
The tasks were humiliating for the dignified society
I worked from dawn to dusk without a moment’s rest
I never got my due; I was their hard-working beast.
The dark cloud hovered menacingly over my head,
The whistling wind blew away my cherished dreams
I will not let the tempest rock my boat any longer
I will fight for my honour with my head held high.
Usha, a gold-medallist with PhD from the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, is presently an independent researcher. She is the author of four collections of poetry and two collections of short stories. She was conferred with the Literoma Author Achiever Award 2021, Asian Literary Society: Women Achiever Award 2022, Asian Literary Society: Best Poetry Book – certificate of excellence. She has contributed poems and short stories to national and international anthologies and has received several awards for her writing. Her mail id: ushasridhar1158@gmail.com
EDUCATION IS A BAG HANGING UNDER MY SHOULDER
Translated by Dr. Surendra Nagaraju
How great yesterday’s memory is!
Putting the scarf of dawn on my shoulder,
I used to become a heap of dung
in the cattle shed of my master.
Gulping my tears and their ilk,
I would drive the cattle to the campos.
On seeing my buddies return from school,
my agony would become the sky’s grief and rain.
How magnificent the memory of the past is!
Whenever a wet morsel of rice and soup fell to the ground,
my mouth would become a red hot sun.
How marvellous yesterday’s memory is!
Two dresses and one hundred fifty
rupees per annum, food apart.
Famine not got rid of, and belly not filled.
The pater busted his son’s life.
Whenever I grazed the buffaloes,
the school came to my mind.
How great yesterday’s memory is!
Putting an end to the salaried work,
we migrated to a far-off place
to do agricultural work.
All my dreams are swirling on the slate.
I would recollect my palm blisters
made by the teacher’s beatings;
on waking up with a startle,
I would find my nickers wet.
All my childhood was replete with grief.
Mingling in a river,
my classes would get damp.
Yet I am swimming.
Education is not much a depth for me.
Whether I drowned or reached the shore,
education is a bag hanging from my shoulder.
Isn’t it?
How great the memory of the past is!
Dugginapally Ezra Sastry hails from Erra Obannapalle village of Prakasam district in Andhra Pradesh State. As he belonged to a very poor family, he did not have good formal education. He was a dropout from Class VII, and later from 10th Standard. He had to start his life as a cattle grazer in his childhood. Later, he passed his Intermediate course and then did some small technical course, got a small job in a company of government sector. He pursued his literary interest, and became a noted poet cum writer. He authored 5 poetry collections, 2 long poems, and 4 novels, all in Telugu language. His phone number: 8096225974
Dr. Surendra Nagaraju, Born in Elgandal village of Karimnagar district, Telangana State in 1953, Elanaaga is a poet, translator, and critic. He is a pediatrician, but is only pursuing his literary interests now. He penned 30 books so far. Half of them are original writings, while the other half is translations. Among the latter, 8 are from English to Telugu, 7 are vice versa. He published 5 collections of poems, 2 language-related books, metrical poems, experimental poems to name a few. He rendered Latin American stories, African stories, Somerset Maugham stories and World stories besides Pavan K. Varma’s Ghalib: The Man, The Times and so on. Also, he rendered story books of Telanagana’s literary luminaries into English, besides books on Indian classical music, standard crossword puzzles etc. He translated innumerable English and Telugu poems into Telugu and English respectively and published them as books. He received a few State level prizes and awards for his works. His poems and translations have appeared in Indian Literature, Muse India magazines etc.
Am I hiding?
Not really,
Just waiting,
For what really?
For everyone to forget?
My regret,
Or do I repent?
The scent of its rent on my judgement.
Or is it fear?
For that isn't clear,
Cause it was only me,
My monstrosity,
My reality,
My fallacy.
Or was it secretly freedom?
Or just a mirage of my stardom,
I guess I would never know,
Or do I really want to know?
The constraints are too painful to let go,
Maybe I should just put up a show.
A facade that I am the diamond
Or a mask over their prying eyes that I am the island.
But I did take a stride to override these lines,
Only to have been cornered with no hide.
I then took a lonely path on a burm,
almost wishing the water would overturn.
Now that I am sinking, gasping for air,
I wonder if I was just a spare
Cause all that mattered was my breath
While every other way led to death
Dhivya Rajan has finished her schooling in the year 2022. She started writing poetry three years ago, which helped her to discover her artistic side and has been a major part of her growth and development. Her hobbies include reading, and painting, especially enjoy reading Rupi Kaur's poems.
the swells
and ebbs
of Onam waves
gone...
how high
it vaulted up
those hectic
waves
uproarious...
boat races
speeding,
squashing
backwaters...
people free
from
Covid cocoons
in common
get togethers
feasts, games
dance, drum beats,
panic
shopping!
so much of
drama around...
far off
nuclear familes
flocking up
ancestral homes,
old, sunken
eyes, glistening
in joyous
reunion..
the ebbs take
the inevitable
exodus...
silence
descends...
the courtyard
filled with
children's noises
empty...
old age
reclines
on the
arm chair
staring
into the
void...
back again
to the rut,
nothing to
hope for
nothing
to wait for...
desolation
fumbles up on
a consolation...
hah!
lucky to
have had
one more
Onam!
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
(Picture Courtesy: N. Ravi)
An old wrecked ship lies on the sandy banks
A barge passes through the exposed rocks
In the nearby fields, stand withered stalks
Tethered boats lie on either side of the ribbony waters
Dad’s luxuriant boat now stands desolate and rundown
Gushing waters no longer; the economy has a meltdown.
High overhead, a few birds still fly
The air is warm; sun shines brightly on cloudless sky
Fertile land where my ancestors migrated hundreds of years ago
Now, unfriendly and hostile, wonder what will bestow
its beauty- restore the flora, fauna, livelihood and all
Whither Time Machine - Climate Change to stall!
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.
Life never ceases to surprise you,
But, ever continues to teach you.
When you decide to walk hand-in-hand with reality, fantasy stealthily embraces you,
And when you allow yourself to drift in fantasy, reality harshly awakens you.
So, lose yourself in the airiness of fantasy,
And find yourself in the earthiness of reality.
This is the roaster coaster that life is,
Don't question it, just ride it for what it is.
Coz, Fantasy and Reality are all mirages of the mind,
When you probe deeper, the distinctions blur, in the hind
Life is lived but is it understood?
Words are spoken but are they meant?
Smile is flashed but is it endearing?
Tears are shed but are they cathartic?
Support is extended but is it fortifying?
Actions are taken but are they impactful?
When real essence is absent... it ceases to be earnest!
When Akka tiptoed to the other world, the other day,
That silence was inconceivably deafening like no other day.
After some intermittent wails, screams and cries of suffering over some days,
Akka made her quiet march to the other side; the other day.
That "she used to talk like this"; "would laugh like that"; are all that remain today,
But her gentle voice would never be heard live again; since the other day.
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
Rustling silks and fragrant flowers
Music, rice-confetti showers,
Bride and groom circle the fire,
Then the priest points to something higher–
He takes them outside, points up high
To where the Great Bear strides the sky
Above the horizon any time of the year.
In the northern hemisphere.
The Great Bear or the Saptarishi
Is what they’re instructed to see.
A particular star in this constellation
Is actually a rare binary.
One binary usually orbits the other,
But here, the two together
Orbit a central focal point.
How did they know this long ago
Embed it in our tradition, to show
Us how spouses should interact?
(Tradition always interests, rather than dry fact!)
One of the sages, Agasthya Rishi
And his wife, Arundhati,
Devoted spouses with an equal say
In everything that came their way.
Each helping, focussed on their common goal-
Development of mind and soul.
These binary stars, together, yet apart
Are an inspiration to the start
Of a partnership that’s meant to last
Of individuals who remain steadfast
Orbiting each other, never out of phase
In a coordinated dance of grace.
Fainter bodies orbit each star;
As children surround their parents.
No wonder newly weds are taught to be
As constant, as supportive as this binary.
Thats why this quaint custom where the celebrant
Focusses on these binary stars still seems relevant
To our day and age.
Gita Bharath has enjoyed five years of teaching middle school before starting on a banking career that lasted thirty four years. Now, happily retired, she focusses on writing and trying out kolam art. Her first book Svara contains three hundred poems, comprising narrative, humour,and philosophical verses. Her work has featured in international anthologies, and won prizes from Literoma, Asian Literary Society, Story Mirror, etc,
THE TWINKLERS
SS GB SB SS PJ SSR PV SRS
(PC: Badrinarayan Kannan)
Am I just a little spot adorning the sky
Or is it me shaping your life showing you way
Some believe we change their destiny from the sky
Some say we are a bunch of friends chatting away
Am I just a point of light that shines at midnight
Or a catalyst that has helped science soar high
Cavemen who wondered at star patterns in the night
Have become space scientists studying the sky.
Am I just a bright twinkle in the sky to view,
On a grey black blanket in the deep dark abyss?
I am mixed bundle of gases bursting spew,
to share my sharp light, warmth with universe abliss!
Am I just part of a constellation above
Part of man's ancient culture, the zodiac sign
Base of superstitious beliefs, of hate and love
Or a fusion reactor of perfect design?
Am I just a beauty spot surrounding the moon
Or simply a distant relative of the sun
Do you gaze at me on a dark night when alone
Or simply ignore me for I am close to none
Am I just an ancient sky gazers' delight?
Or yet a navigator's savior of yore?
I travel millions of years to reach your sight.
Your fortune changer, I could be, so say the lore.
Am I just an astronomical object
Visible at nights as shining points of bright light?
As constellations, I am a unique subject.
As galaxies, I picture an enthralling sight.
Am I just a splatter of bright twinkling lights,
Dependent on clouds for a chance to be seen.
But when I flaunt my lustre in the clear night
I'm part of an eye-catching, magical scene.
Am I just a constellation in the sky?
I am a body of atoms of gold dye
I am here to light your lives well every night
I make hearts bright shiny with love at first sight
SUBLIME SKY
SS GB SB SS PJ SSR PV SRS
( PC : Sundar Rajan)
Am I just a hard dome of teal, grey or blue
Or a vacuum where everything can pass through?
I often wear cloud veils or golden sunlight
Or black velvet, silver and diamonds at night.
Am I just the emptiness prevading space?
Air and light and sound their pathways through me trace
Changing colors, an early warning system
That earthlings look up to in all their wisdom
Am I just your gateway to the outer space
Am I just a roof you seldom show your face
Am I just to tell you if it's day or night
Am I just a go to place for lonely sight
Am I just a colourful canvas o'er Earth,
As Sun dazzles during day across my girth,
And Moon adds aura to the star spangled night,
Holding onlookers enthralled by every sight?
Am I just that huge expanse above the clouds,
Glimpsed at from flight in an aeroplane, it shrouds.
Or like the bright Northern Star in my domain
Am I the only one that doesn't ever wax or wane.
Am I just an unfathomable deep depth,
witness to celestial anguish and mirth!
I watch the birth and growth , day and night evolve
Death Of all Sun moon star, planets revolve, stoic!
Am I just a catalyst that helps evolve
men's minds, a deep mystery for them to solve,
Challenging, beckoning him beyond Earth's sphere,
To infinite space, the final frontier.
ROARING RIVER
PJ PV SB SRS PJ GB SSR SS
(PC : Sundar Rajan)
Am I just a stream running through hill and plain?
Smooth, quiet, or roaring, run through all terrain.
Humble beginnings in a faraway spring;
Grow absorbing waters tributaries bring.
Am I just a flowing expanse of water
Rushing towards the sea without a falter?
Large civilisations have thrived on my banks,
Enormous tracts of fertile land owe me thanks.
Am I just fluid to quench thirsty creatures?
I spring from Earth's womb, trickle to make features!
I flow Serene, glide, fall off cliffs, roar, splint rocks!
Create Life in or around me in myriad forms!
Am I just a stream of unconsciousness?
I am part of your sub-consciousness,
I flow, I move, I am dynamic with life!
I know who I am, I know my fluid self!
Am I just idly meandering along?
To earth I belong and all to me belong;
Causing great civilizations sprout near me.
I turn oblivion merging with the sea.
Am I just a confluence of mountain springs?
I bring down rich silt to grow fresh new green things.
Thinking I wash away sins, men worship me.
But it's their cities' dirt that I flush to sea!
Am I just enslaved by unscrupulous mankind,
As materialistic pursuits turn them blind?
I stride majestically on Mother Earth,
With divinity and power to assert.
Am I just a free-flowing life-giving stream
Gurgling through the mountains, shining like a beam?
Racing fast to become one with the ocean
I take along with me friends till conclusion.
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer.
Padmini Janardhanan is a psychologist focusing on personal effectiveness, a poet and writer.
Gita Bharath is a retired banker, a published poet and writer.
Sujatha Santhanam, founder and Creative Head at InkSpeak Creative, a published poet in Hindi and English.
Padmini Viswanathan is an author, editor and poet.
Subha Bharadwaj, environment and safe food activist, poet.
Sridevi Selvaraj is a bilingual writer and an academic
If other elements like earth, water
Fire and air are considered divine
Ether is towering over them as matter
In space; Its face hallowed in a shrine!
But if unchained through empty space
Will echo and re echo with a sound
Faceless but all pervading place
No sound if no space is found!
Space can never be confined to walls
Walls are just beamless boundaries
Hanging in air with artificial falls
Ether transcends time, beyond primordial memories…
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.
Akshara Rai - Final year MBBS student from IMS &SUM Hospital, bhubaneshwar. Won multiple awards in poem, stories and elocution , passionate abt drawing and painting, writing poems, short stories, Reading books,Acting and oration.
After returning from a dinner party
You rack with pain whole night
Burning chest so severe
As if food pipe would tear
Roll on bed like a struck serpent
Spasm and regurgitation make you unrest
Gut rejects your favourites
Spicy savouries,
Coffee, tea and fries,
A long process of omission
Continue with
Exacerbations and remissions
Medicines bitterly fail
And your body shrivel
Panic as you imagine
An ulcer or cancer rummaging
Inside to nibble the tissue , end with a fistula or a scar
To finish you within
You run to doctor
Blurt out the episode
so long tormenting
A big endoscopy pipe in doctor's hand
Tries to explore the
cause underlying
Eagerly waiting on the corridor biting your nail
Apprehend the report
Could be a fistula, cancer or scar and you pale
Report handed over from counter
Your eyes sweep with fear
Normal ,Normal,Normal
Written in bold letter
The diagnosis being Simple Hyperacidity
The conundrum is over
Cares who?
You rush to the canteen in haste
A cup of coffee ,spicy snacks,a couple of Samosa
All at a time you gulp in no time
To quench the suppressed buds of taste
And lol,no regurgitation,
no heart wrenching pain
You keep waiting
One hour, two hours and days
Which was sure to happen
Never came again
A miracle?
Is that the psychology
So powerful to
Trigger, worsen and lengthen
the ordeal to let you yell
Also to ameliorate and soothen
Where all medicines fail
Dr.Radharani Nanda completed MBBS from SCB Medical college, Cuttack and post graduation in Ophthalmology from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. She joined in service under state govt and worked as Eye specialist in different DHQ hospitals and SDH. She retired as Director from Health and Family Welfare Department Govt of Odisha. During her service career she has conducted many eye camps and operated cataract surgery on lakhs of blind people in remote districts as well as costal districts of Odisha. She is the life member of AIOS and SOS. She writes short stories and poems in English and Odia. At present she works as Specialist in govt hospitals under NUHM.
The cascade of my dreams
Flows through the nook and cranny
Of the unholy pavement
That slithers down my soul
And makes me wonder
Of the one last time
I was allowed
To spread my wings
And fly as high as I can
I vaguely remember myself
Rummaging all around my existence
Just to find a single strand of joy
That existed within
Yet wasn't shrewd enough
To embrace the tiny moments of it's arrival and departure
The blinding city lights
And the deafening silence of the night
Reminds me of the days
When the truthfulness of time
& the ruthlessness of my feelings
Have made me submerge my heart
Into the never ending oblivion
Which moves away
Everytime I try bringing it closer
Scars glorify themselves
Showing off the world
What it means
to be on the darker side
Yet find a way through light
Belongingness is now finding it's rhythm
In the footprints of time
And making sure to revisit
For one last time
To gather all the reminiscence
That life has left
And put it all together
In an age old chiffonier
Whose key lies
underneath the dreams
that we had left behind
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.
Sometimes, I am muddled,
Sometimes, I am bewildered
With plenty of opportunities
I'm often in two minds
As it's tough to decide!
The silken flowery road on one side
The rugged pebbled path on the other
I look at one after the other
I know I cannot travel by both
And If I lose one, I may miss something better!
I take chances to select people
Friendly, selfish, honest, or loving
Oh, the number is very large
That can't be merged into one
Probability becomes my option!
Shopping is my other fond stop
For attractive and useful things
Alternatives put me in big trouble
The joyous selection proves what 'I am'
Contemplations boost me ever!
Metropolitan cities with luxury
Villages with greenery and peace
Rivers, seas, hills, and valleys
Snowy areas or sandy deserts
What should I choose?
I opt for the best and most comfortable one!
Ooh! How many serendipities do I have?
If my mind accepts any, the body may not
If one is suitable, the other may not
What to do and what to choose?
It all depends on my choice
Founded only on pure wisdom!
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
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.
Do you know
who am I ?
The awe-inspiring
vast expanse in open with no boundaries
when you strech your sights out
with inquisitive sigh
I am the mystic Blue Sky... (1)
I have myriads of hues in day
when the Sun
peeps through wooly clouds
or spreads brilliant brightness
through a clear me,
I invoke deep insight in darkness
of a silent night
and twinkling stars dazzle like
jewels in me.........(2)
I am the spring of happiness
when moon beams
splashing the earth with simmering lights,
I am the symbol of highest of height
An inspiration to explore deep
into galaxies very far
limitless and out of sight...(3)
I am the canvas
Nature paints me in enchanting colours
when the yellow ball rises in East ,
And the orange fire sets into darkness
amidst the chirping wings
flying back to nests .....(4)
The sparks of diamond lightning
The roar of mighty thunder
all mingle into me,
The rainbow beautiful smiles across me
Life on Earth is refreshed with showers
when raindrops fall from me...(5)
I am always there
looking from above at you
from remotest past
to the time infinity,
You love me most
and I am your
same beautiful old Blue Sky...(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.
THE BALL IN YOUR COURT, PLAY WITH CARE!
Professor Niranjan Barik
You are just a drop,
Ms, Mrs, Mr, Dr, Professor, Lieutenant,
General, Poet, Laureate, long may go the list!
Arjun the chivalrous, in another format, another title
Prefixes and suffixes to your name for your morale to boost and persona to lift,
True, you deserve well, I don’t contest
To revel high in the sky without limit
But despite these tales or tails, you are just a drop in the ocean
You seek a separate identity but in vain,
From Ocean thou art to Ocean returnest,
On goes many things unspoken
While staying in the Ocean
You are the same with other drops again,
Same properties as the other drops that make the ocean,
You at times evaporate,
Take another form
But to come back to the same environ,
And take up the same old properties
Have the mirth for being part of that vastness called Ocean,
The cycle continues unending,
Of course, there are moments of churning
A tortoise mounts on its turf a mountain,
To do the job , in the era of wars in conjunction
The tussle happens with groups antithetical ,but with understanding of a memorandum
For the Nectar , with nay to Venom
The tussle between Gods and Demons
To accept one and reject the other
But a God also shares and swallows the horrors of the labour
The churning does not die with one victory or one loss to the parties particular
It happens or does not happen is no concern to you ever
As Ocean remains Ocean
And so do the drops whether you call them with titles or titles none
Is there hope for transformation?
One does not know how long and how far it takes.
It is for you to judge,
not emically but etically ;
For I know neither the drop nor the vast ocean any well,
It is fair for you to fathom or look farthest and further!
The Ball in your Court,
Play with care!
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.
(Tranlated by Charumathi Subramanian)
A strong breeze, a storm
Where all the danger sings
Lives that marshy woman
In the wild innocently
She lives where no one goes
Worshipped the blood and stone
Was she good or bad
No one ever knew
No one saw her fully
For the ones who did
Their bloods evaporated to the sky
And they were found in the hills
I was the only one
Who survived that marshy woman
She was nice to me
But her smiles had uncertainity
When she was angry
Thorns grew from the freckles on her cheek
When she was happy
The thorns came back as vines
One murder down the tree
No one saw it perfectly
When someone thought it was her
His death followed from there
She was collecting sticks
Wanted them as brown as her teeth
I thought it's the time to leave
For she was ready to decieve
But that wasn't her intention, she said
That wasn't the reason she wanted it
She took it to cook her food
From flames of fury
She started stirring the vessel
With some red gravy
Well, it is exactly what you think
From the pot grew arteries
Why was she stirring
Even though the food was cooked
Was it to eat it herself
Or was it to kill me with that
So I ran away
From the woods that day
She tried to catch me fast
With those thorns down her cheek
I tried to escape
Winds gushing faster than heartbeat
She was the one causing it
But soon on time I came back home
The nights were haunted
The days were all scary
Because of that lady
Whose face looked like a skull
A strong breeze, a storm
Where all the danger sings
Lives that marshy woman
In the wild innocently
Little footsteps
Jumping up and down
Little jawline
Smiling as you wear the crown
Little mouth
Singing London Bridge is Falling down
Little hands
Which come to hug me when I'm in town
Little eyes
To have a curious look
Little ears
To listen when mom reads a book
Little tongue
To enjoy every food that's cooked
Little fingers
To give back every toy that you took
Little arms
To stop whenever you're hit
Little stomach
To digest all the food in it
Little back
To prefer to sleep than to sit
Little hips
To have all the pants fit
Little legs
To run and run and run
Little brain
To sense that you're having fun
Little smile
To light me up like a sun
Little shoulders
To hold me like you're the one
Little heart
To have a tiny beat
Little chin
To look up crisp and sweet
Little hairs
To comb them to neat
Little toes
To support your feet
Little elbows
To just stay there
Little thighs
To cover with the pants you wear
Little ankles
To fix and tear
Little nose
To breathe sweet fragrance, I swear
So my dear baby,
Don't age
Because if you do
You will be filled with rage
My dear baby,
Just remember you are never caged
And you will understand everything
When you read the last page
The last page will never come to the shore
It can never be touched forevermore
You will get it after many years of age
Above the world is when you read the
Last page
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.
(Photo courtesy: K.S.S.Sachin)
Walking on the shores of Bay of Bengal
Those relentless waves
Trying to breach the shorelines
The skies too aiding the efforts
From pitter patter raindrops to elephantine showers
I could hear their conversations
Silvery foam often perforated by drops of dew
Oh! What a sight , nature's bliss
I stand as a mute witness
Those memories of you and I
Hand in hand walking miles
Our feet forced to retreat
Running away in fear as if we may drawn deep into an abyss
All those sand castles we built , disolving at the advent of waves
Only our spirit of never accepting defeat
Building more castles away from their reach
Oh! Dear what a splendor
An eternal bliss
Watching the rain and waves meeting on the horizon
Like an icing on the cake
I could see the rainbow in the west
Welcoming the communion
You ,I, waves and rain
Make your kid aware the difference between a good touch and a bad touch
This world has no dearth of Wolverines
Waiting for an opportunity to extend their fangs on innocent souls
Hold your kid in your mother's embrace
Tell him this is what a good touch means
Anything above and beyond is a touch with bad intentions
He need to raise an alarm
Attracting the attention of passersby
Share your kid a password you both only know
So that he won't fall prey to strangers on the pretext of parent's call
Never teach him to accept a toffee or a gift from an unknown
Ask him to be in a group as long he is away from his parents
These and a few more precautions can keep our loved one's away from unsupected perils
Saiprakash kuntamukkala, is an advocate by profession and a poet with passion. He has nearly 3000 poems to his credit , winning many accolades including Gujarat Sahitya academy certificates. His poems are translated into 30 National and international languages. His poems featured in more than 15 international Anthologies.
Her voice is sweet, words sharp,
But she cannot raise her voice, because she is a woman!
She walked around uncanny paths, and didn't know whether to raise her voice or not.
She is afraid of people around,
If his voice is raised, the society says there is no problem,
If her voice is raised, the society says
that is a problem,
Unmarried women raise voice but society cuts it out. You want to go to another house, then
Keep quiet and don't raise your voice.
One day you want to live with another family.
If Married women's voices are raised in society and people say be quiet….
You are women
Actually where is her voice to be raised?
Sukanya V Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Micheal's College, Cherthala.Writting poems is her passion.Most of her poems, have been published in the Literary Vibes as anthology.She is also the Co- author of Dusk and Dawn Volume -5.
Look at him,
he who walks alone
head bent and eyes down
on the empty street.
Only the footsteps sound
like sad whimpers of midnight
like gentle whispers
cutting the still air with sharp knives.
Someone speaks out,
yes, someone is speaking out
through guttural retching
like the struggles of a dying man.
The words of eternal grief
the words of wrenching sorrow
hang in the air
like icicles from heartless stones.
The agonized screams try
to pierce the quiet world of comfort
of people sitting in the cosy warmth
of make believe confidence.
The men and women
trying to empty bottles of wine
and mounds of food look out
through hazes of smoke, wondering
Is it this side or the other side of midnight
and the answer comes with dreadful clarity
does it really matter
where the clock stands.
When the man walks all alone
in an empty street
carrying the grief of eternity
on his frail shoulders.
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 Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
“But off some shining April morn
Is darkened in an hour
And blackest griefs o’er joyous home
Alas ! unseen may lower.”
-- Rev. J.H. Gurney
(The stanza from poet Gurney was placed by the author himself)
“Hey Revati, hey Revie, you bloody cinder, you bloody ash, bloody bitch, bloody scourge!”
The above mentioned oft-repeated curses in loud, coarse and querulous ranting of a woman would resound around the neighborhood, rising from the belly of a cavernous house that crouched like a predatory beast, otherwise almost always in deathly silence.
These telltale insane hysterical ravings and rantings belonged to an old woman bent with age, worry and frustration, and gone half blind. Her curses were aimed at a young, docile, silent and innocent woman in her late teens who had also lost everything. The horrific and scary episode had also a past like most horrific and scary episodes in life.
***
?Village Paatapur nestled in a pastoral idyllic countryside. A big mud house humbly humped in the peaceful village with a sprawl of four rooms and a mud wall going around a courtyard behind those rooms opening to the backside of the house. Towards the extreme north of the courtyard a small hut housed a wooden manual paddy-pounding machine, called a dhenki, operated by feet to de-husk paddy and produce clean the rice.
A well was also dug inside that yard to provide the family living there with drinking water. A door on the boundary wall opened to a kitchen garden located behind the house. The front door opened into the main street of the village. The front door was attached on both sides with spacious verandas.
The kitchen garden had a few permanent fruit trees like guava, coconut, banana, and lemon, and flower plants like champak, kadamba, jasmine etc. The open patches of the garden were given to raising of seasonal fruits and vegetables like tomatoes, chillis, cucumber, bitter gourd, snake gourd etc. A narrow outer mud veranda also flanked the backdoor, opening to the kitchen garden.
The villagers came to pay their land taxes to Shamabandhu, the owner of the house. He was entrusted the job of the tax collector by the landlord for the villager Paatapur. The villagers were the land holding tenants of the landlord. Shyambandhu got a monthly remuneration from the landlord for his work. He also earned a little outside the remuneration by drafting the tax related complaints of the illiterate villagers to the landlord. His total income was enough to run his house comfortably.
His kitchen garden kept his family supplied with seasonal vegetables and fruits. In a little shed he kept for two cows to supply the family milk. The family enjoyed ripe fruits like guava, berries, pineapples, papayas and bananas from his own garden. Life ran smoothly.
Shyaamabandhu also was given three and half acres of farmland by the landlord. The land was on the share-farming. He got half of the produce of the paddy and lentils from the share-farmers. This was besides his monthly remuneration as village tax collector. It met his family’s annual requirements for the grains and pulses.
Shyaamabandhu was a simple man of friendly nature. The villagers who were the landlord's land holding tenants as per the revenue system of the then government’s arrangement, paid their annual land tax to Shyaambandhu who in his turn deposited the collected tax with the landlord’s treasury.
They loved Shyaamabandhu because in his dictionary ‘harassment’ and ‘misbehavior’ were unknown. He coaxed and reminded the villagers to pay their land taxes in time but if any of them had financial hardhip, he gave them time and collected the dues only when they were comfortable with their money. There was not a single villager who, at some time or other, had not failed in his timely payment of land taxes, and who had not taken Shyaamabandu’s help in tax matters.
He would never charge a commission for adjusting for a late payment. The villagers had much faith in his upright nature and never bothered for a receipt from him for their payments. They knew that Shyaamabandhu would write down the receipts and thrust it under the rafters of their thatch-roofs if they forgot to collect it on the spot. Shyaamabandhu also maintained immaculate records of his collection from tenants and the deposits of the collected revenue into the landlord’s treasury.
If the tax supervisor of the landlord came to the village, Shyaamabandhu would not allow him to harass the villagers who might have defaulted timely payment once in a while. He would rather humor his superior by spending a little from his own pocket and entertaining him with a smoke or a pan or dropping a few paisa into his pocket.
Shyaamabandhu’s family had four members, himself, his wife, his old mother and his ten-year old daughter Revati, his only child. The daughter Revati was very attached to her father. In evenings, sitting by her father, she used to sing hymns, prayers, or recite memorized lines from scriptures. At times some neighbors from the village joined them to listen to her sweet lilting songs. A particular prayer was her father's favorite and he enjoyed much when it was recited by his little Revati.
?Two years earlier, when the Deputy Inspector of Education had toured the area, he had camped for a night at Paatapur village. The villagers met him with an application for a school in the village. He was convinced of their need for a school and agreed to submit a favorable report to the state authority about it. As a consequence, an upper primary government school was set up at Paatapur a few months later with the provision for a teacher with monthly salary.
Besides the salary, the teacher was allowed by the government to collect an ana (the sixteenth part of the then rupee) each month from every student as his tuition fee. It was a clever trick to keep the teacher on tenterhooks. Because, better he teaches, more pupils would be attracted to join, and more would be the teacher’s total monthly tuition fee. If he taught bad, he would suffer the consequences.
Vasudeva, a young teacher trained at Cuttack, came to serve in the village school as its first teacher. Even without any bait in the form of tuition fee, he was a dedicated teacher. Hardworking was ingrained in his tissues.
Not only the name of the new teacher, Vasudeva, corresponded with the second name of Lord Krishna, he also had the good looks of a god. He was warm by nature. A friendly guy towards one and all. He never poked his nose into others’ affairs without solicitation.
During his childhood Vasudeva had suffered from jaundice and as a countryside remedial measure, his mother had burned his forehead with the rim of a scalding hot bottle’s round mouth. To this day, he bore that little circular mark of his mother's love like a branding on his forehead. In a quaint way that mark made his fair broad forehead look lovelier.
It came to Shyamabandhu’s’ knowledge that Vasudeva had been an orphan from his childhood years and was brought up by his maternal uncle and aunt. He was of the same caste as that of him. Their common caste established a closer tie between the two men in spite of their age-difference.
During festive occasions, when Shyaamabandhu’s household celebrated with goodies like rice cakes, savories, and other special dishes prepared by Revati’s mother, he would invite Vasudev to be a part of their family joy in festive occasions.
Those occasions brought the lonely young teacher closer to Shyaamabandhu’s family. Revati’s mother developed a tender motherly affection for Vasudeva. She would affectionately mumble to herself, “How harshly has the fate treated this orphan!” She would keep worrying for him, “The poor boy, he is living all alone. No one is there to look after his needs, to give him food or comfort. No one to give him love when he returned home after the hard work of teaching.”
Of late, Vasudeva had become a regular visitor in evenings to Shyaamabandhu's house. One evening, Shyaamabandhu learnt from Vasudeva that girls were taught to read and write in certain developed areas. Those were days when women education was a social taboo. Girls were never sent to schools. People, in general, thought that educating a girl child was bad for the social balance.
Surprisingly, though the drive against female education was a male-dominance oriented idea, the women had been brainwashed to oppose the female-education with much more vigor than their male counterpart. The women had been brainwashed to believe that an educated woman was a social evil. They bring misfortune and ruin to their family.
Shyaamabandhu learnt from Vasu that there was a school reserved only for the girls only in the Cuttack town. The girls were taught reading, writing, arithmetic and home science that included cooking, embroidery, sewing, healthcare, hygiene, and other requirements of a woman to become a competent homemaker. The education also prepared the girls to be better wives and mothers.
Shyaamabandhu expressed his wishes to educate his Revati. Vasudeva was delighted to learn his wishes. Sending Revati to the village school to be instructed along with the boys would definitely beobjected to by village elders. So, both decided to get Revati be taught at home. When Revati learnt of the plan, she was delighted. She gushed the news to the female section of her household with great relish.
Her mother said, “It is alright, baby, if your father says so.” But,Revati's grandmother opposed the idea vehemently, “You are a girl, what would you do with education? You rather learn cooking, making savories and rice cakes, wall painting, making curd and butter out of milk and other household work.”
During dinner that night when Shyaamabandhu was having his meal, his mother shouted at him, "What is this nonsense I hear about Revati going to be taught at home, Shyaam? Where do you get these weird ideas of educating a girl child? Don’t you know it ia evil and brings misfortune and ruin?”
Shyaamabandhu cajoled his old relative, "It is OK mother. What you say is the propaganda of the so-called moralizers who want to deprive our girls from getting educated. Our little Revati is so enthusiastic about her studies, let her be taught at home. We are to grow out of our superstitions.”
Then he added, “Daughters of the Patnaik family in Jhankada have been taught to read and write. Did misfortune befall on them? That has rather put their girls in great advantage. They can read Bhagavata, our scripture on Lord Krishna's life. They can also read and recite Baidehisha Bilasa, the lovely composition about the love-life of Lord Ram and his consort Devi Sita by our great Odia poet Upendra Bhanja. Education will make our girls better homemakers.”
Grandmother's objection to her studies made Revati furious on her grandmother. She shouted at her grandma in her childish ways, “Will you shut up, you, old hag” and begged her father, “Papa, don’t listen to her. Let me study.” Her father assured her, “Yes baby, I will make the necessary arrangements. Don’t worry. Your grandma is only a little worried for us out of our social prejudices.”
Revati's education started on the auspicious day of Vasant Panchami, the sacred day of the year when the goddess of learning, Devi Saraswati, was invoked and worshipped in Odisha, especially by the students in schools. Vasudeva came to Shyaamabandhu’s house every evening to give Revati tuition. Shyaamabandhu sat there enjoying his little Revati’s rapid progress.
Shyaamabandhu one evening, had a heart-to-heart talk with his mother and wife. He shared his inner wishes to see the teacher Vasudeva as his son-in-law. He also had a wish that Vasudeva, after being married to Revati, should stay with them as their own son, not take away the bride like a son-in-law. He was sure Vasu would agree to both of his proposals but first the ladies of the house should agree.
?Revati could overhear the discussion. On the threshold of her budding youth and pubescence, she, all of twelve years old, felt a coy attraction towards Vasudeva from that evening. That was perhaps the first green shoot of a tender love germinating in her heart. From that day, she would behave in a different way when Vasudeva was around. She felt a peculiar shyness in his presence as if before him she had no clothes.
She would giggle a lot to herself. She would wait for him every day but hesitate to go to his presence unless compelled. Her coyness and sensual looks at the young teacher however did not escape the old grandma’s attention. She, in her old ways, could not appreciate it. She considered it as excessive sexual drive that had possessed the little girl because of sitting close to Vasu for hours for her lessons every evening and that was a mark of the evil.
?It was a fine day in spring, the most pleasant of the seasons, but it brought with it the worst for Revati’s family. Cholera visited the locality out of the blue. In the morning there was news in the neighborhood that Shyaamabandhu was afflicted by the epidemic killer, cholera.
In the countryside of Odisha those days, cholera was the most dreaded killer. Antibiotics were not yet there. And people did not know that by giving water with sugar and salt for drinking every hour could save most patients of cholera. Rather, water was denied to patients, thus killing the patient of dehydration.
For fear of getting infected, and killed people quarantined themselves behind locked doors and boycotted the afflicted houses. People, instead of helping each other to fight the disease, remained secluded and insular. That sort of social behavior made cholera more the killer in those days.
It was believed that ‘Cholera’ was a mean witch. She roamed the streets to collect the dead in her dreadful basket. In Shyaamabandhu's house the two helpless women and little Revati tried to get help from neighbors but none opened their doors to their knocking. None dared to come forward to bring them a government doctor or the village medicine man. Even Revati's howling pathetic cries did not move any neighbor’s heart. They forgot all the helps Shyaamabandhu had extended to them in their bad days.
The only exception was Vasudeva. He came running and comforted Shyaamabandhu without fear. He sat by him, lovingly massaging his dehydrated limbs, and pouring a little water to wet his parched throat from time to time. By afternoon Shyaamabandhu's last hours seemed approaching. In chocked voice of a dying man, he held both hands of Vasudeva and begged him to take care of his family, and marry Rebati after his death. Vasudeva cried like a child as if Shyaamabandhu was his own father and nodded his head vigorously.
Shyaamabandhu breathed his last. The plaintive howls from the house alerted the villagers about Shyaamabandhu's death. The family waited in vain for the neighbors for coming to cremate his corpse and help in his last rites keeping with the village custom. But no one turned out until the midnight, except a low caste man, Banaa Sethi, carrying an axe on his shoulder to supply wood by cutting some dry twigs for cremating the body. The hearts of the friends and neighbors, who had basked in the tax collector’s benevolence, had frozen to selfish ice.
Banaa Sethi had earlier experiences of cremating dead bodies. Though from a low caste, yet a kind heart was still beating inside his rib cage for the distressed family of the good old tax collector. He came forward to help without the fear of cholera. With his help, Vasudeva and the family members carried out Shyaamabandhu’s cremation and the last rites. They returned home only by the daybreak and immediately Revati's mother showed the symptoms of cholera. By the next noon she breathed her last too.
?Time passed by and fate exhibited its inexorable power to the two hapless women left behind by Shyaamabandhu, the little Revati and her grandma. The old woman had gone almost blind from crying and bent under the weight of her great grief.
Three months had not yet passed after Shyambandhu’s death, when the landlord showed his real teeth and nails, not less unlike the Devil Himself. He sent his men to take away the two hefty cows from Shyaamabandhu’s cowshed as the price for certain pending land revenue collected but not deposited in the landlord’s treasury. His allegation was a white lie, everyone knew.
All knew that the landlord’s allegation was false and a pretext to steal the cows in broad daylight. They knew, Shyaamabandhu was not a man to hold back the deposits in time or keep it pending. But none put a word to the landlord’s men in support of the honest tax collector. They were afraid, the landlord might not like their words of protest. It was of no use to support a dead man’s honesty, they thought, rather supporting the dishonest landlord might bring some benefits.
The landlord also took away his three and half acres of farmland which was a part of Shyaamabandhu’s remuneration as a land tax recovery man employed by the Zamindar. The two bullocks used for the farming were sold for seventeen rupees in a distress sale by late Shyaamabandhu’s old mother.
As without the farmland, the two beasts of burden had been rendered useless and money was urgently needed to meet the expenses of certain pending rituals of the last rites for the two departed souls for which the priest was pestering. The old lady did not understand why the priest was so worried for the salvation of the dead in her family, yet she couldn’t stand the thought of her son and his wife having uncomfortable after-lives.
The neighbors, who bought the bullocks from the old mother, forgot how good had been her late son to them. They exploited the distressed helplessness of the old woman by offering less than half the marketprice. The readers of these reporting should not be sarcastic towards such neighborliness. Perhaps, worldwide neighbors believed, ‘make hay when the sun shines.'
Most of the money from the sale of bullocks was spent in various superstitious rites for bringing comfort to the souls of late Shyaamabandhu and his late wife as prescribed by the greedy priest, the sacred offerings finally finding their way to the priest’s pockets. So, the priest was cleverly adding new rituals, demanding more and more puja-provisions and money towards his fees to exploit the gullible old woman, a kind of religious blackmailing.
As before, Vasudeva kept visiting Revati’s house every evening and stayed around for a few hours, but Revati’s tuition did not resume. The mood was not there. The old woman, Revati and Vasudeva would just sit in the outer room silently for hours with intermittent deep sighs.
Vasudeva knew the grandma had hardly any saving, but she would not take money from him for her own self-esteem. If she gave him a little money to buy some provisions, Vasudeva would add his own money to that and buy things to last a two to three weeks.
The old woman would blame Revati and her evil practices like studying for the family’s misfortune. She believed that her son and daughter-in-law had paid for the sin they committed by educating Revatiat home. So, whenever in bad mood, she would rant, “Hey Revati, hey Revie, you bloody cinder, you bloody ash, you bloody scourge! You devoured my children alive.”
None among the villagers except Vasudeva, an outsider, came to the rescue of Shyaamabandhu’s helpless family of two surviving ladies. Rather the villagers appeared to relish a morbid pleasure to see Revatiand her grandmother suffer in hands of landlord’s men, forgetting totally that when alive, Shyaamabandhu stood by them with helping hands in their bad times.
Revati was no more her lissome self of a nubile little woman on the threshold of puberty. Her beauty, budding youth, and sweet voice appeared to have completely faded away. She moved like a bag of bones. Only her large black limpid eyes followed Vasu and spoke volumes of her grief and loss. She would spend the entire day waiting for Vasu’s arrival in the evening. When he arrived, she used to keep her eyes and mind riveted on him, as if her heart was beating only for that man.
?One evening Vasu arrived with the weekly provisions and said, “Grandma, here are your routine things for a week. The Inspector of Schools has summoned me along with my pupils to Haripur where he is camping. I start tomorrow early in the morning. I will return after five days. So, tell me if anything more you need from the market to manage during my absence over the five-days. I will bring the things you need before leaving.”
The news totally unnerved Revati. She felt dizzy and fainting. It unnerved her to think of spending five long days without meeting her heartthrob Vasudeva. Earlier Revati would avoid eye contact with Vasu. But it was different that evening. They looked at each other without wavering as if this was their last opportunity for communication. Their eyes locked again and again when Vasudeva was telling the two women his outdoor itinerary at Haripur.
?Till the sixth day there was no news of Vasudeva. Then Revati and her grandma got the news, that delivered the worst blow ever of their lives. During his return from Haripur, Vasudeva, their last hope for not giving up hope, had been afflicted by cholera and died on his way. His students had returned with the news of their teacher’s death.
Some neighbors, who had guaranteed their loyalty to the late tax collector earlier, had changed their behavior. They delivered the terrible news of Vasudeva’s death to the two women of Shyaamabandhu’shousehold in their most indifferent feelingless voices. Rather their words bore a hint of glee at the new misfortune of the grieving women. They talked Vasudeva’s death, as they would talk about the death of a street dog that had just died in a garbage dump.
The two ladies, Revati and her grandma, heard the news like wooden pillars. After the door of the house closed, the old woman started crying aloud and cursing her granddaughter with her ranting, holding her responsible for all the misfortune that had befallen the family.
Revati felt dead and had no reaction at all. She was not even crying. It angered the old woman more and her ranting increased. This was the resounding ranting of which we had mentioned at the starting of telling the story about Revati, when late Shyaamabandhu’s entire neighborhood would echo with the loud, coarse and angry curses of a ranting and phlegmatic old woman.
***
After cursing Revati for days, one morning the grandma realized that her granddaughter had not spoken back to her over days, not even her breathing or coughing had been heard. The old lady started looking for Revati inside the big house with her failing vision, only by touch. Finally, she located Revati lying in a corner, writhing with high fever without much consciousness.
Grandma recalled that Revati and she had not eaten a thing for the previous two days. She felt terribly guilty and wanted to give her ailing granddaughter a little rice-dal gruel. But she found no provisions left in the house for cooking, or any money to buy things. She looked for some old household thing to pawn or sell and get a little money to buy rice and dal for the time being. She wanted to give her hungry child a little something to eat, so that she might recover faster.
Her hand fell on a brass pot which she took to the pawnbroker Hari Sahu of her village. The greedy pawn broker thought he could exploit the helpless old woman, forgetting that her son Shyaamabandhu had helped him in many occasions. He examined the brass vessel and noticing that the old crone was almost blind, told her, “It is not of pure brass and it has minute holes in its bottom. It is not even worth a paise. But I am not an unkind bloke like other pawnbrokers. I will give you a handful of rice and dal for it. The old lady had no patience to argue with the cheat for the right price.
When the old woman had been away to the pawnbroker, Revati’s dehydration and hypothermia grew acute. She felt an extreme chill, a parching thirst gripping her throat. Her mouth went dry and her tongue felt swollen pulling backward. She felt suffocation and wanted open space and fresh air. Slowly she staggered to the back side of the house in search of fresh air.
Sitting on a raised mud ledge in the kitchen garden’s vegetable patch behind the house, she took a view of the lovely plants and creepers. It was a pleasant evening, refreshingly balmy and windy. The soft golden rays of the setting sun nestled among the fruit-laden guava branches that her mother had planted a few years ago. The air was rich with the sweet fragrance of ripening guavas and chirping of birds fighting for guavas among its foliage.
Revati recalled she had drawn water from the well in their inner yard to water the plants in her garden when her parents were alive. She tried to remember the faces of her parents who had loved her so much. But her mind seemed jaded. She could not recollect even their faces, in fact, not any incident about them except their love. She could not recall her beloved Vasu’s face also. Her mind was growing darker like the looming night. Lumps of darkness seemed creeping out of the bushes and getting smeared everywhere including her mind.
Revati saw a star twinkling above. Was it day or night? She could not decipher. She stared at the star and could not close or take her eyes off it. All pain and discomfort vanished and a blissful sensation was taking over. A quiet and pleasing darkness descended upon her closing from all sides like the warm and soft arms of her mother. She tilted aside and fell like an inert bundle of flesh.
?The old woman returned with the little provision from the stingy pawnbroker. She quickly cooked a liquid porridge and looked for Revatito share the hot food slurry with her. She found her nowhere and no response to her call. She was at the end of her patience and her own hunger made her furious. With loud continuous curses, “Hey revie, hey cur, hey cinder, hey ash, hey bitch….”, and with sightless eyes, she started her search by touch. It was growing dark. She heard neighbors shouting at her, “Stop, you old bitch, or fall dead this instant. Do not kill our peace by your relentless ranting.”
Finally, in her blind search stumbled on Revati, lying like a big lump of cold flesh in the vegetable patch of the kitchen garden. She fell headlong on her granddaughter’s cold and lifeless body, cursing aloud. Everything fell silent after that single thudding sound and the simultaneous loud death rattle. The ranting and raving of the old hag or the gaunt sight of a haggard girl no more stirred the tranquility of the neighborhood.
It would not matter now, what happened to the bodies of the two women. It would not also matter, who cremated them or conducted their last rites. All that mattered were the peace, serenity, tranquility, and idyllic pastoral calm that had returned to the neighborhood and the ungrateful neighbors, forgetting Shyaamabandhu’s outgoing help to them in all neighborly matters, enjoyed the silent air to its hilt.
But was there any guarantee that their guilty conscience would not be haunted by a pair of accusing large black eyes on the gaunt face of a grieving young girl, Revati, or the heartrending rants of a furious and helpless half-blind old woman, Revati’s grandma?
Translator's Footnote – The story is from the book ‘From the Master’s Loom, vintage stories of Fakirmohan Senapati’ in English translation, edited by Prabhanjan K Mishra. Fakirmohan Senapti (1843 – 1918), is considered to be the father of modern Odia literature, an iconic creator whose novels and short stories were trend setters for subsequent writers. He was a social reformer and a reporting journalist of his time. He wrote Revati in 1898, a moving love story incorporating social satire and cultural milieu of the times in his inimitable style that is difficult to recreate in English.
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.
“Spirituality is not about belief. That is religion. Spirituality is all about questioning.”
“Yes,I got it. It is about enquiry,” I responded to my elder brother Sudheesh.
“Not exactly,” he continued, “In the beginning, maybe. But it is about questioning oneself, being suspicious about oneself.”
“Now, I am sure I haven’t got it.”
“We have a false idea about ourselves. We are prejudiced positively about ourselves. We are not the angels we think we are.”
“OK, I have got that much. We are far from that.”
“Again, that is not what I meant. It is easy to confess we are no angels.”
“Then?”
“It is hard to imagine we are demons.”
Confess and Imagine! I always marvelled at his choice of words. He had studied language only at the degree level and then it was science all the way. He still taught science but had said goodbye to it as a discipline long ago. But his language was really superb. Probably from the kind of books he had started reading a few years back. Theology, Philosophy and stuff like that.
We were at the village office. I had been visiting that office every day for a week now. Each day any one of my four elder brothers accompanied me. This was my fourth day there with one of my brothers.
This year all my brothers had come for my father's commemoration day. Corona had given them a chance to work from home. So, they could come down, bringing their office with them. Since it was fun to be together after such a long time, they all decided to stay on for a few more days.
Fun was not the only reason they had decided to stay. A couple of years ago, when a couple of my brothers came together for the same annual function we were enjoying a dip in a stream that went by our ancestral home. I just wished out loud that we could own the stream if we bought an elongated large patch of barren land on the other side of the stream. It was literally no man’s land and the government was willing to give it over to some poor man who wanted to build a house under some new government scheme.
That same night we came up with a plan. We should get some poor man to buy that land and then bribe an engineer to certify it unfit for building a house. Still, the poor man would not be able to sell that land for three years but he could exchange it for a better piece of land. All that would take at least five lakhs, most of it to be given as bribes to different panchayat officials.
Money was not an issue. Five lakhs was nothing to own a long stretch of stream. An elongated piece of land on the other bank was a bonus.
It was nice to see all my brothers unanimously agreeing to do something. They are all different and I am way too different from any of them.
Since then we were working on it. We would finally get all the documents on the property on the other side of the stream. That would make the stream go right through our property for over two hundred metres. We had already found someone to do some good landscaping.
The day before I had gone to the village office with my elder brother Sudheesh, I had gone there with my eldest brother Vishnu Nair. My father had initiated him into communism and in spite of all the setbacks the ideology suffered, he adhered to that and was prepared for a debate on that at any time.
We too had to wait for long outside the village office and he took me through Hegel and Engels. While we waited for the village officer to return from some land dispute, my brother took me to the market nearby. It was crowded and noisy and I wondered why we were there with no intention to buy anything. Then, he asked me to turn on the voice recorder on my mobile and leave it on like that. He then began to ask me about our neighbours, our village and odd thing like that. On our way back to the village office five minutes later, he asked me whether the noise at the market impeded our conversation.
“No, it was not that noisy. I could hear every word you said.”
“OK, now listen to the recording.”
I turned on my mobile in speaker mode. I raised the volume. I could hardly hear our conversation. The market was indeed too noisy. I smiled and my brother laughed.
“This is a demonstration of what Hegel was trying to show. What we call reality is only a convenient creation of our mind. Things are not what they seem to be.”
He went on to tell me a lot about how the concepts of Marx had their roots in philosophy and history.
Knowing my brother’s leftist leaning, the village office was very polite to us and agreed to do whatever he could the same day. He hinted at the fact that it might still take some illegal dealings.
The next day it was my brother Sudheendra Das’ turn to come with me and I expected a rather boring day because he was a rather quiet person. He was the only one in our family who had opted for religious conversion. He had divorced his wife and was leading a very peaceful life with some Buddhists in Orissa.
But contrary to my expectations, he was very vibrant and vivacious that day. He had found the night bath in the stream really rejuvenating. So he was thrilled to see our family finally getting rights over that stream.
“Every time I step into that river, I am actually stepping into the divine I feel.”
His costume and appearance were such a hit at the village office that they all got up when he entered and sat down only when he came out.
We didn’t have to wait at the office for long that day. On our way back he resumed his words about the stream.
“We all repeatedly say that life is like a river. It is a cliche. It wouldn’t be a cliche if you live it.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Even before we landed on this earth, things were happening. So, things can happen on their own even in your absence.”
“Yes, nature can manage a lot.”
“More than that, much more than that. The whole universe is in a flow. We are also in it. We can’t resist being carried along.”
“Then, there is no free will?” I asked.
“Even the question itself is irrelevant. We have free will in our thought process. We are bound. We don’t have a choice in real life. But instead of acknowledging this blissful state, we complain about it. We think there is the other when there is none. What is, is what is.”
“That should make anyone sad,” I commented.
“Not necessarily. It is the desire, the ego, they are one and the same, that makes you feel sad so that you will forever be bound in life, birth after birth, to learn such a simple lesson. Like JK said, the first step is the last step too.”
The next day my third brother, Ganga, came with me to the village office. He was quite different from all of us and had suffered a lot from being so. He was kind of feminine in his ways and I am sure in today’s world which is more liberal he would have been a transgender. He was named Gangadhar but he changed it to Ganga.
My parents took him to several psychos to “cure” him. The only result was that he got interested in that profession and went on to become a certified psychoanalyst.
While we waited outside the village office, he looked around to see if someone was noticing him. His dress, long hair and smooth body usually got him more attention than he demanded.
He removed his cap and combed his hair with his fingers like my mom used to do and laughed to himself.
“How was the time with the other bros? Did they bore you to death?”
“Well, not much. I enjoyed it.”
“Nuts are delicious. But, if you know what really makes them tick, you would pity them.1
“I am happy I don’t know what makes them tick.”
“Hey, you are different. You mind your own business. I am nothing against you. You learned enough to earn a living, married your first love and got settled in life.”
Really speaking, I was happy to hear that. I was jealous of all my brothers including Ganga. They had distinguished themselves in life in their own way. My father would have been proud of them.
And now here was one of them, complimenting me for my underachievement.
“You are not an underachiever in any way,”
God, what they say is true. He could read your thoughts.
“To be an underachiever is to be unhappy. To be unhappy is to have bottled-up emotions. I see that in all our bros. Had I not been my bros, I would cure them. But with bros it is difficult. They may not open up.”
“So, you think they are sick?”
“No, doubt. Look at the way they shun certain things and run after other things. It is all a facade. They are at the mercy of the past they carry with them.”
“What about you?” I was curt.
“Me, I have shed most of it. It took all my courage to do so. I understand who I am and it simply means I understand my emotions. Our bros are barking up the wrong tree. But who will tell them?”
My day with him at the village office was the smoothest. He could see through people and do the needful at every moment. People also felt very comfortable near him. His feminine nature also made him very likeable.
We got all the documents. The stream was finally ours.
As we came out with the papers, Abhi was waiting for me on the opposite side of the road. He was on my cricket team as a teenager. He was the middleman in all our underhand dealing at the village office. He usually took 20% commission on bribes, but in this case, he took only half of that.
He gestured at me to let my brother go home alone. He wanted to spend some time with me.
I asked my brother to go home alone. I asked him to take the car with him. Abhi agreed to drop me. He drove an SUV.
After my brother left, Abhi took me to a hilltop. This used to be our hang-out while we were young.
Abhi took out a packet of weed to fix a joint. He asked me if I needed one. I said no.
Abhi took a few puffs and lay down on the rock.
“Your bros are too disgusting, sorry to say that.”
I didn’t respond. He was on a high anyway.
“Look at it. They used their money power and illegally appropriated a stretch of that stream. With properties on both sides, they can pride themselves on owning that stream.”
“Yes, what’s wrong it that?”
“God, you too think it is alright? True, I took money from you all because I am in dire need. If I had been in any of those chairs, I would have stood against it. But, I don’t have the power to stop you. So, damn it, I too played along and took my share.”
“I see your point.”
I was seeing more than that. Abhi was a school dropout. I looked at him with reverence.
He turned his head to look at me and asked:
“Would you like to have a puff?”
I said ‘yes’.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya
Mrs Bhatnagar was an ordinary housewife. Her formal education was minimal; even simple calcula-tions posed a challenge for her. So, her responsibilities were confined to cooking and the kitchen was her only domain in the house. Mr Bhatnagar, the educated and cultured gentleman he was, un-derstood her limitations and in order to keep her life simple, gladly took many domestic tasks upon himself. Furthermore, he chose to ignore some of her minor lapses in household chores.
But a day came, when everything turned upside down. On that day, Mrs Bhatnagar assumed su-preme competence in all household affairs. The same day, Mr Bhatnagar turned totally useless, in-capable of managing any responsibility whatsoever. Even he was no longer able to take care of himself. Dramatic though it sounds, it was hardly surprising. After all, his negligence was the sole cause for death of their only child, the eight year old son, who drowned after getting separated from him whilst he was entrusted to his care.
On that fateful day, he was about forty minutes late in starting from home for his office. He was fur-ther delayed by ten more minutes in traffic holdup. In the span of those fifty minutes, their life was changed irretrievably. Mysteriously, their son was found floating in the river opposite the school. Despite all medical intervention, he was declared dead on the spot.
How did his son drown in the river? How did the school watchman fail to stop him from getting into the river? He was scared of water any way. So, what drew him into the river in the first place? Was he murdered before he was dumped in the river? If so, what was the motive? How did he die and what did he die for? These were the questions put to Mr Bhatnagar by the police and the media. In turn, Mr Bhatnagar kept asking himself the very same questions. But all he knew was this: His ac-tions, or rather, his inaction, in those critical fifty minutes was responsible for their son’s untimely and unexpected death. This inescapable conclusion anguished him deeply. He ruminated over the ago-ny their son must have undergone while he was drowning and the sense of suffocation, he must have suffered in the process. How frantically he would have searched for the comforting hand of his parents? He could imagine how desperately he must have called out for his father before going limp and lifeless.
Mr Bhatnagar kept mumbling curses to those fifty minutes. In a flash, he was reduced from a forty-five year old sensible adult to a clueless two year old. In a matter of minutes, he would go from sob-bing inconsolably to laughing meaninglessly. At the dining table, he was so distracted that he would be running his hands across the table, missing his plate. In the bed, he would be hugging his son’s baby clothes to comfort him to sleep. At other times, he was drawing doodles in pencil on his son’s note book.
Mrs Bhatnagar felt a strange emptiness inside her. It was vaguely reminiscent of the sense of void immediately after child birth, a sudden relief from the burden of the ten month long pregnancy. But that was a wave of joy from the feeling of lightness. The current void could not be more different; it was dark and brooding. Her deep sense of void was matched by the profound blankness of Mr Bhatnagar’s mind. Now, she had to take charge of the entire household, including the care of him as well. She tried her best to comfort him that he was not at fault and it was after all an unfortunate ac-cident. But it was all futile. He would be staring at their son’s photo on the wall, as if he was silently asking for his forgiveness.
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The air of gloom in the house was overpowering. But Mrs Bhatnagar could not just sit round, crying for her dead son. She had to collect herself and take care of her husband.
She wiped her face with the corner of her saree and approached Mr Bhatnagar at the dining table. He had been sitting at the table for quite some time staring at food on the plate but his hand was scouring the table. In short, he had been reduced to a mental wreck. She did attempt to feed him but he would push her hand away hard and abruptly get off the table. Honestly, she had lost her ap-petite too. She simply put all the food from the table away in the fridge. As he walked towards their son’s bed room, she followed him quietly.
Mr Bhatnagar sat down on the edge of the bed. The ceiling fan was whirling at full speed and it seemed, time could not keep pace with it. Her gaze next shifted to the wall clock and its ticking hands. How she wished, she could wind back the time, and magically undo the events of those fifty minutes. She wondered how long their misery would last and when to expect an end to their grief. She knew, she had to get used to the loss of their child but the added worry over her husband’s con-dition was making it impossible for her to move on. At times, she would pretend as if nothing had changed. Their son was still around, somewhere; the only difference being, you can’t see him or hear him. This would bring a temporary sense of calm to her mind and normalcy in her life. After all, all his stuff were still all around them. His clothes are on the hangers, his water bottle standing on the table, his socks are on the washing line, on the wall was his hand-drawn pencil outline of man-goes, dangling from the branch of the tree. In an impulse, Mrs Bhatnagar got up to run her fingers across the pencil drawing on the wall. On that disastrous day, they had planned to complete the picture on the wall by colouring the sketch after his return from the school. But it remains unfinished; perhaps the mangoes of the picture were not destined to materialise!
But, why did it have to be this way? In a spirit of defiance, Mrs Bhatnagar sat down with a resolve; she was determined to paint the picture of the mangoes, in the way he had would have liked it. But her hand was sluggish and it slowed to a halt by the sound of sobbing from behind. Startled, she turned round to find, it was none other than her husband, standing like a statue, with brimming eyes, his face swollen in grief. With folded hands, he was begging before the drawing, pleading for for-giveness, and at the same time, cursing those fifty minutes with tearful eyes.
All on a sudden, their son’s shirt dropped off the hanger. In the still of the night, it was an audible thud, as if the shirt was heavy from all their son’s memory stuffed inside. It was eerie; Mrs Bhatnagar’s hair stood up. Her hand with the painting brush shuddered and froze. She took Mr Bhatnagar by hand, gently directing him to their bed. As she helped to lay him on the bed, she wiped off his tears with the edge of her saree.
That night, she could not sleep a wink, ruminating over their tragedy. For a simple soul, who strug-gled to manage the mundane daily chores, the prospect of dealing with the complicated world out there, all alone, was scary indeed.
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Next day, Mrs Bhatnagar remained busy in a secret operation, going round the house stealthily be-hind Mr Bhatnagar’s back. She looked rather stern, as if her heart had been drained off all its soft-ness. There was a steely determination in her eyes. She was repeatedly checking the image of her face on the mirror, with no specific purpose in mind. For reasons unknown to her, she kept stroking her own cheeks again and again. All her attempts to smile proved futile. She spent the entire day scouring the whole house.
That night, she prepared all Mr Bhatnagar’s favourite dishes for the dinner. But like the other days, Mr Bhatnagar showed little interest in them; he discarded everything after a couple of mouthfuls. He sat at the edge of the bed, sobbing quietly, and eventually fell asleep.
Now, it was Mrs Bhatnagar’s turn to complete her mission. She strode out of the house with a ruck-sack in her hand, straight to the pond near their house. On reaching the pond, she undid the knot of the rucksack and poured the contents out. They were their son’s things: his books, notebooks, pho-tos, clothes, toys, and shoes. Mrs Bhatnagar could smell him in each and every item. As she took them out one by one, her hands froze when she picked up his choicest red shirt. On its back, it had “Little Master” embroidered in bold letters. She could see his gleaming face, when he first wore it for his eighth birthday. She held it close to her face and took a deep breath in. She felt a wave of emo-tion surging from deep inside her.
As she threw the entire bundle of stuff into the pond, she cried out “My angel, I now drown you all over again. Your are still living inside us, through our memories, invested in your things. But these are driving your father crazy. How long can he continue, sobbing his heart out, carrying the burden of guilt, and seeking forgiveness for his failing? If it was the divine desire to snatch you from us, you better pursue your own destiny, leaving us alone to lead our own life. I will have to manage myself and take care of your father too. Your memories are killing us everyday. Neither can we live our life nor can you follow your fate. Hope, you will forgive us and understand why I am doing this today. I can imagine you branding me as a heartless witch; I gladly accept all such accusation, however harsh.
From time immemorial, mothers have forfeited their claim on their children and willingly given them away, for the sake of their future and safety. I dedicate these symbols of yours to the Goddess of water to set you free. I wish, you go so far away that our memories can’t hold you back nor our grief can hinder your journey. Forgive us for our failings in those crucial fifty minutes.”
In the darkness of the night, Mrs Bhatnagar returned home and spent the rest of the night, washing off all his son’s drawings on the wall. She finally retired to bed with a weird sense of fulfilment. She tenderly held her husband in her embrace, wishing for a new beginning awaiting them next day.
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The morning rays of sunlight were casting long shadows in the courtyard of their house. Their touch had a comforting softness. Mr Bhatnagar was still in bed, deep in sleep, like a baby. Mrs Bhatnagar lightly stroked his face and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. She had woken up with a new re-solve. Today is the first day of their new life and she wanted to celebrate it. For a change, she would dress up for an outing, she thought. She opened her ward robe, and took out the green saree; this was her husband’s gift from his first salary after his promotion. Filled with a rare excitement, she prepared for her shower. The house had a feeling of freshness and the air had a new lightness. She walked up to the window and opened it wide for a breeze.
When she looked out, the sight on the roadside astounded her. Down the road, the familiar child ragpicker was walking away. But, he was wearing a shirt, with the logo, Little Master, in bright red. From the back, he looked exactly like their son.
Mrs Bhatnagar could no longer contain herself. She turned round to take a quick look at her hus-band and darted out of the door, towards the road.
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
I doubt, if he, who this is all about, would ever get to see it, let alone read. But, if by some stroke of luck, it happens, I would be over the moon.
Our college had a strange tradition. In the concluding session of the welcome ceremony for the new batch of students, the boys of the new batch would have to greet the senior girls, on the stage, with a red rose and “I love you”. To avoid embarrassment, many girls used to sneak out of the auditorium before this session began. But this year, under strict instruction from the principal, no girl was allowed to leave the auditorium until the conclusion of the ceremony.
This ritual was designed to make up for the month-long ragging by the seniors, the newcomers had to endure. The incoming boys were of a varied assortment of physiques. Most were thin, but a few were plump; the majority had curly hair, and some wore a butterfly moustache. It’s worth mentioning that they all had come groomed in their Sunday best, hoping to set our hearts to flutter.
As we thought the ceremony was drawing to a close, we were breathing a sigh of relief. But no, our ordeal had not quite come to an end. A slim boy came running from the side of the stage, almost gasping for breath, saying, “Excuse me. I am the last one”. He had a blood red rose in his hand. As I saw him, my impulse was to hide behind the chair I was sitting on, but the chair was not large enough for my girth. Suddenly, he knelt down in front of me to say, “I love you.” I had no idea what response, if any, he was expecting but I gave a bland “OK” and turned my face away.
Next morning, the day started at the college as usual. All the boys from the new batch were still trying to look their impressive most. After the last night’s introduction, meeting them off stage brought a smile on our faces. The skinny boy from last night with his butterfly moustache, sunken cheeks, and neatly combed hair with an abundance of oil, came along, saying, “Good morning”. His name was Kamlakant.
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In my college days, I had a streak of bully in me, letting me get away with whatever I demanded. In the classroom I preferred sitting next to the window and accordingly, throughout the college years, the window seat was reserved for me as if it was my entitlement. What I really enjoyed was watching the outside world: twittering birds on the telephone wires, frolicking monkeys on the trees, passing hawkers on the road and drifting clouds in the sky. The most interesting sight was that of a boy who would routinely come on a bicycle at exactly half past twelve to meet the girl waiting there for him. They would then walk together towards the river. From the back I could see her hair in a long braid, like a languid snake, wriggling lazily on her back, while they used to walk away.
I had seen Kamlakant many times, sitting under the mango tree, busy reading a book. Although he held no special interest for me, seeing him there, always alone, aroused my curiosity. One day, I decided to walk across to him. As he saw me from a distance, he stood up. When I asked what he was doing, his answer was “studying”. With a flicker of smile, I commented, “Studying hardly makes you a man; It has not got anyone very far.” I am not sure, if he got the irony in my remark, but he instantly replied, “But, studying is all we can, as if this is the purpose of our birth.” Perhaps, neither did I fully grasp the message in his answer. Thus ended our conversation and our meeting that day.
Nonetheless, during the two years of college, we got to know each other. Kamlakant addressed me as “Apaa," a term meaning “older sister”. He came from a rather poor family. The only son amongst five daughters, his family had pinned all their hopes on him to become somebody, capable of shouldering the responsibilities of the family. He was under strict instructions to put his heart and soul into studies, and not to while away his time, nor fritter away money frivolously. In our talks, he admitted that in common with his class mates, the desire to eat out in expensive restaurants and watch movies in flashy theatres, was not alien to him. But he was ill fated; with his meagre budget, he could barely scrape through. Talking about how he had to crush his desire for luxury or extravagance before they could take full shape in his mind, his voice would quiver under a heavy sense of resignation.
Our college course eventually came to an end. Kamlakant’s farewell gift to me was a pen. It was so apt; over the two years, he obviously had got to know my tastes and interests. His last words at our departure were; “Hope we will meet again Apaa, I am not sure when….” Without giving it much thought, I replied, “Of course, we will”.
Soon afterwards, I took up a job and then got married. Kamlakant gradually did recede to the back of my mind, until the day, the invitation for his wedding arrived. Busy at work, I could not attend his marriage and had to give it a miss. But I gathered, he was the college topper and had taken up a job in the income tax department. The news of his achievements gave me a special delight.
Although I did not get to see him for many years, during a visit to my sister’s place, I once travelled through the town, where he worked. I stopped by his office, with a view to giving him a surprise. From my car, I watched him at a distance, talking to a group of people. He had changed, making it hard to recognise him. He had put on some weight, which made him look rather handsome. I called out his name and his first reaction showed little excitement. Given his post in the department of Income tax, perhaps, he took me as one of many who used to approach him for favours. When I told him, I merely wanted to see him, his joy was instantly visible. We went for a long walk, talking all along, and spent quite some time catching up. I gathered, he had settled down with his family, now consisting of his amiable wife and their three year old daughter. He also enquired about me and I filled him with my life story. We were so engrossed in our chatting that we did not realise it had got dark. When it was time to part, he said, “Do you have to go now?”
“Of course, it is getting rather late….”
“I can’t send you off empty handed.”
“Now, come off it. Is it not enough that we met after so long?”
“I want to give you a parting gift but I have nothing to offer.” He simply looked around and then turned his gaze to the sky. With his outstretched arms, he made a plucking gesture of his hands, as if he was collecting some moonlight. Then he turned to me saying, “Here is a fistful of moonlight for you; Never let go of it; this would always remind you of me.”
I looked at the sky; the moon was bright and cheerful. Kamlakant’s gaze was now fixed on me. I returned, without looking back, touched by his gesture, the gift of moonlight safely tucked away in my heart.
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Not all memories survive the ravages of time; some simply fall away silently. After my return, Kamlakant and I remained in touch by phone for some time. I somehow lost his contact number and he gradually faded out of my mind. Three years elapsed and we lost all contact.
One day, I was in the Clinic for a blood test to check if I had diabetes. I was surprised to see the name Kamlakant ahead of me in the list and took a close look at the man in front of me in the queue. It turned out, the man was not the Kamlakant, I knew, but the incident jogged my memory of him. After returning from the clinic, I kicked myself for letting my inertia getting better of me and losing track of Kamlakant. I longed to see him again. Through our common friends I tried to trace him but to no avail. One day, I found myself setting off towards his office, where we had last met. There, I learnt, to my surprise, that he had quit his job. It was not too difficult to find his home address; it was not far from the office. But when I reached the new address, I gathered, he was no longer living there; he had left that house some time ago and had moved to Nilkanthapur. As I collected his new address, I realised, it was about sixty kilometres away. The prospect of travelling to an unfamiliar place, alone, was rather unpleasant. So, I asked my sister to join me in this search for Kamlakant. She was taken aback by my absorbing interest in Kamlakant and teased me about our relationship, with questions, “Who is he? Is he a celebrity, I have somehow not heard of?” Her remarks, seemingly made in jest, “May be he is an old lover” left me befuddled just as much. My earnest wish to trace Kamlakant was so evident but I could not put a finger on what he meant to me.
Nonetheless, I was in no mood to be amused by her banter. I implored her to come with me and she eventually relented to my request. Throughout the journey, my sister’s comments returned to my mind and I kept asking myself why Kamlakant was so special for me and what was behind my disquiet over him. On reaching the destination, we were directed to a house standing in the middle of the fields, away from the main road. As we walked towards the house, I grew alert with the prospect of finally seeing him.
On the verandah of the house, an elderly gentleman was reading a newspaper. After initial introductions were made and we mentioned the purpose of our visit, he got up and went inside the house. Soon afterwards, a young woman in her thirties came out with a little girl. Before I could speak, she cast a knowing glance at me, as if she recognised me from the past.
“Oh, it is you, Jharna Apaa!” I was surprised by the familiarity in her greeting as I could not place her at all. Then she proceeded to show her respect by bowing to touch my feet, introducing herself as Kamlakant’s wife, Swapna. She ushered me inside and served me with a customary drink. The joy on her radiant face spoke volumes.
She had got to know me through Kamlakant, who had told her all about me. She had seen my photos on Kamlakant’s album with pictures from the College days. It was hard to contain myself for long and I asked for Kamlakant. I told her about my visit to his office today to learn that he had quit his job. “How strange!”, I thought, “for him to give up such a decent job!” Swapna’s face turned sombre, tears rolling down her cheeks. She then narrated the sad story of Kamlakant.
“Yes, Jharna Apaa, Everything was fine, our life was rolling smoothly. I considered herself fortunate to get a husband like Kamlakant. My cup of happiness overflowed with the birth of our daughter. Kamlakant was a caring man, an affectionate husband, a responsible father, all rolled into one; he was goodness personified. He discharged his duties towards his family; he got his sister married and made arrangements for his parents’ comfortable stay in their ancestral village. While everything was going well, suddenly he changed. One day, he failed to return from work. I was worried sick but I had no way of knowing where he had gone. He returned after two days, saying, he lost his way while returning from his office. I simply did not believe him and took it as a joke. Perhaps, he had gone away on office business or had overstayed with friends for a few days, but for some reason didn’t want me to know about it. But it soon became obvious that he was getting increasingly forgetful. He struggled to find his underwear, handkerchief etc while getting ready for work, he did not know basic stuff like the monthly rent for the house. He also gradually grew quiet. Every little sound, from the television or the calling bell, irritated him. Then he stopped going to office altogether. One day, when she had taken our daughter to the market for shopping, he returned home without her, unaware that he had left her behind in the market. Fortunately, she was smart enough to get a call put through to me on the shopkeeper’s mobile phone. I shuddered to think what could have happened if it had gone wrong. From that day, I could not let him leave the house on his own. Medical opinion on his condition was inconclusive; I was advised to exercise patience and wait until he mended himself and turned around. But his condition continued to worsen. I tried to contact you and called your number several times but could not get through to you. I was hoping, you might jolt him out of his mental paralysis. Left to my own devices, I tried various measures to jog his memory, by using his favourite deodorant and perfume, and playing him his favourite songs and music. I tried to cheer him up by cooking his favourite dishes as well. But nothing seemed to work.”
The next event turned our life totally topsy-turvy. At night, I used to keep the house locked, with the key safely stored out of his reach. On that fateful night, I had forgotten to lock the house and next morning when I woke up, he had gone. He has remained missing ever since and despite all my enquiries, there has been no trace of him. I registered him as a missing person the local police station, put advertisements about him in news papers, and phoned around to all our friends and families for any news of him. But it drew a total blank; he never returned. As time went by, I found the household expense mounting and it was no longer possible for me to live in the town. I decided to return to our ancestral village. I hoped, if Kamlakant ever returned, he would most likely come here; his attachment to his ancestral village home was really strong. We have been living in hope ever since. I have enrolled our daughter in the village school, where I also have managed to get a teaching job.
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As I listened to the incredible story of Kamlakant, his dramatic down turn unfolding in my mind, I almost had to pinch myself to make sure it was for real. There was Swapna, talking in front of me, looking like a character from the realm of supernatural, and her daughter quietly listening to her. The little girl had suddenly grown up, and matured to take on the responsibilities of the household. In fact, that day’s entire lunch was prepared solely by her. The house was rich with the aroma of freshly cooked food. We all sat down for a meal together, but sadly without the person, I was in quest of. It was a bitter sweet lunch.
When I was ready to depart, Swapna handed me a small diary, saying, “What can I give you, Apaa? Allow me to present you with what is really yours.” When I looked at her with questioning eyes, she moved closer to me and answered, “This is Kamlakant’s college diary. It has many of his stories and poems, all meant for you. Perhaps, you did not realise, he had a crush on you; you were the girl of his dreams.” Startled by this revelation, I focussed on the diary.
“Yes, Kamlakant has already read all these to me. Now, it is all yours. Please take it with you, to read it at leisure. This is a gift from Kamlakant to you.”
I was speechless, my throat felt parched. I was totally unprepared for this bombshell.
I stroked the diary gently, it felt as if I was stroking Kamlakant’s head. I could see the lanky boy with an innocent face from our first encounter in the college welcome ceremony. After my last stroke on the diary, I turned to her, “No Swapna, I can’t take it. This diary truly belongs here; It would be a travesty to displace it from its home. In any case, without Kamlakant these poems are lifeless. They can be revived, only when I hear them from his mouth.”
When we were about to depart, his entire family assembled to say good bye. Our car was quickly loaded with vegetables of all sorts, from their kitchen garden. They carried the scent of their adoration for me. I could not miss the warmth of their parting gift. Their daughter walked wth me to the car, holding my hand. I gave her some money, meant for her chocolate. She reluctantly accepted the money, only after getting the nod of approval from Swapna. Her look of approval had a touch of rare intimacy. Swapna asked for my phone number and implored me to remain in contact. When I bowed to touch the feet of Kamlakant’s parents, indicating my imminent departure, Swapna said, “Do you have to leave so soon, Apaa…?”
Suddenly, I felt it was not Swapna speaking; I heard the words coming from Kamlakant. I turned round to draw Swapna close to me in a bear hug, saying, “Of course, I will be coming back soon, my dear. I still have to listen to the poems, written for me, from the writer himself.”
It was getting dark and the car was rolling. I kept thinking of Kamlakant, visualising his boyish face from out first encounter. The surge of emotion from inside was getting to overwhelm me. If only, I could cry out aloud, perhaps, it would give me a brief respite. My entire being was consumed by a feeling of listlessness, urging me to shout out, “Where did you disappear, Kamlakant?”
In the soft glow of the moonlight, the village looked enchanting. I lowered the car window and looked out. Ah, a fistful of moonlight streamed through the open window, once again drenching me to my core, in its flow.
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.
Varun boarded a bus to travel to St. Paul Boarding school in Mercara, a hill town known locally as Madikeri. His mother Prabha had come to see him off at the bus station. He was now a big boy; and his mother trusted him to travel alone. She promised to go over to see him when she had free time.
It was the first occasion he was leaving home, and he was nervous. His mother had schooled him to manage by himself. He put a brave face in front of his mother; but began to sob as soon as she left. Since she had work, she left before the bus started its trip from the terminal. His co-passengers looked at him with empathy; one of them nodded her disapproval. “How can the mother be so mean as to let her little boy travel alone? Does she not have a heart?”
“Don’t worry, son- we are there for you. Please do not hesitate to ask for help,” said one.
Many came to him and struck up a conversation. “Where are you going?”
Varun quickly recovered to converse with them. “I am joining a boarding school in Mercara; the classes start in a few days. I will be in 8th standard this year,” he said proudly.
“Mercara is a long distance from Bangalore. How do your parents have the heart to let you go so far- for studies?” asked another.
“My mother holds a big position in her company; she travels a lot,” he responded solemnly.
“At least one of your parents should have accompanied you. You are still young - kid,” said his co-passenger in sympathy. Varun kept his silence. They fussed over him and then retired to their seats, promising to take care of him on the long journey. Varun gave a weak smile and thanked them.
“You have excellent manners, kid; your parents must be proud of you,” said one.
Finally, Varun was by himself; the man sitting next to him put a towel over his face, slid back and took a nap. Varun looked out of the window; the cool breeze caressed his cheeks gently to give him relief. He was exhausted by the happenings at his home. He remembered his parents fondly from his growing up years. But things changed when his mother started to work. The relationship between his parents took an ugly turn when his mother got rapid promotions and moved up the corporate hierarchy. She began to travel extensively and had little time to spend with family or at home.
It seemed an insult - his father couldn’t reconcile to the new equation with his wife. Their ugly spats began to affect Varun’s health; he went into a shell and performed poorly in class, to his teachers’ surprise. They had considered him a bright, extroverted student. On enquiry, the teachers found the reason for his poor performance in class. They advised his parents to send him to a boarding school till they sorted out their differences. Varun had tried to protest, but his mother refused to heed his pleadings. So here he was off on a journey; its direction and destination shrouded in uncertainty.
A couple on the bus reached him to school and handed him over to the school officials. “Good luck Son, do well. This is a good school; we are sure you will come across some good teachers and students. We live close by; we will drop by to check on you,” said the lady and warmly hugged him. Varun responded in kind; he pecked her cheek. He promised to be a good boy and focus on his studies.
“That is my boy,” said the man and gave Varun a hearty tap on his shoulder. Varun smiled back.
***
Varun heard the warden’s instructions keenly and nodded to let him know he understood. He left his bag in the space that was allotted to him and looked around nervously. How would he cope in this school, amid so many people? He had to learn to do things himself- that would be a new experience. Since he had time on hand, he decided to explore the school. He hoped that his stay would be pleasant.
The hostel was at the rear end of the school. Varun saw that there were two dorms, one for the juniors and the other for the seniors. Classrooms numbered in order of the class grades made identification easy. He met a boy about his age. They introduced themselves. “My name is Akash, and I am in the eighth standard. Welcome!”
“What a coincidence I am also in the same standard, which means we could be classmates,” Varun said excitedly.
Akash nodded his head; they chatted nonstop - getting to know each other. “Do you like sports?” he asked suddenly. “Come on; I will show you around; let us go to the sports field first. It is a big one- you can engage in many types of games there.”
“How do you know so much?” asked Varun curiously.
Akash slipped into silence, but he quickly shook himself up, “If we are going to be friends, we should not keep any secrets from each other. I am an orphan. One day Father John saw me sitting and reading a book by candlelight at night. Realising I was alone in the world; he decided to bring me here. I promised him I would study hard to become a strong, independent boy.” He went on to relate many incidents from his stay in the school. “I dwell here; that is why you met me first,” he added.
The sports field was gigantic, just like Akash had described. Varun could see some boys playing on the field. Akash followed Varun’s look and said, “They are the seniors; their classes started a few days back.”
Varun and Akash walked along the boundary of the basketball court, chatting. They didn’t see a senior boy approaching them. “You must be a new entrant; can you play basketball?” he inquired.
Surprised at the sudden intrusion, Varun nodded without a second thought. “Come on then, let’s see how good you are,” said the senior and walked ahead.
Varun hesitated; he turned to his friend for help. But before Akash could do anything, the senior boy caught Varun’s hand and pulled him off to the court.
“Try blocking my goal,” said the senior, dribbling the ball and running with it. Caught in a tricky situation, Varun decided to give his best. He was no match for the senior who dodged easily and scored the goal. “Come on now; it is your turn.” Some more seniors joined in and watched with a smile as Varun put up a brave fight. Varun fell to the ground and dirtied his clothes; he hurt himself but didn’t give up without a fight. “Brave boy, I like your spirit,” the senior said, giving Varun a warm smile. The others joined them and applauded the lad.
The seniors were charmed by Varun’s genial personality. “What else are you interested in?” asked one.
“I don’t know; I have to find out,” Varun said with a disarming smile. They grinned at his reply.
“You are a smart little lad; we are looking forward to your active participation here,” a tall, slim boy; said, ruffling his hair. “Do not hesitate to ask us if you want help; we would be glad to assist.” Varun thanked them for their graciousness.
***
Varun was glad he had come a bit early; he got the time to get accustomed to the new environment; Akash was a great help. They had become the best of friends; they shared a great rapport. “Varun, I am so happy to have befriended you; I will learn from you. You are city-bred, smart and pick up things very fast; I am a slow learner,” Akash confessed.
Varun refused to accept Akash’s arguments, “We are all the same; we just need to work hard to get what we want.” Varun was hesitant to talk about his parents. Sensing the reluctance, Akash didn’t probe further. He suspected that all was not well for his friend on the personal front.
The students returned from their homes and settled down to a routine. Father Michael was the school principal; he met with the students during the assembly. The students respected him for his fair and liberal attitude. Varun loved the assembly sessions; he met students from the other classes. He liked the principal’s speeches.
Varun was in a class of thirty students, many of them had been part of the school for some years. The teachers enjoyed teaching the jolly bunch of students. Soon, Ram, Alex and Hari joined Varun’s inner circle. They did everything together. The teachers and the hostel warden were not too harsh with the juniors, as they were young.
One day their Physics teacher walked into the classroom; he was surprised to see students in class. “Do you have class today? Isn’t it Sunday?” he asked, puzzled.
“Sir, we don’t have a formal class today. Varun is good in math and science; he grasps easily in class. He is coaching us and clearing our doubts,” Akash said, coming forward.
“That is a very nice gesture, keep it up, Varun,” the teacher applauded and left.
Varun was preoccupied with the activities in the class; he didn’t have the time to think about home. His mother called to check on his welfare; she was relieved that her son was safe and liked the new school.
Adam was the sports star in their class; he was training to become an athlete; he came from a family of sportsmen, all excelled in some sport. Varun loved playing with him; Adam taught him well. Even the seniors watched Adam with awe. Varun and Adam often were paired together to take part in sports competitions.
There were three lady teachers in the school, and Ms Alice was one of them. She was the class teacher for the eighth class; she taught English and social studies. She took a particular liking to Varun; she was pleased by his performance in her classes. It is rare to see boys as well-mannered as Varun, she thought. One day she was called by the principal to talk about her student, Varun. She was acquainted with Varun’s personal life. “I did not suspect for a moment that Varun was going through a personal crisis; he has exhibited remarkable character and courage in conducting himself here. I have got very favourable reports from his other teachers too. Don’t worry, sir; he is my responsibility now; I will help him out if there is a need.”
One day Alice informed Varun that she had to collect the names and phone numbers of the parents of the newcomers. “Even if you give the contact details of one of your parents, it would suffice for now.” Varun innocently passed on all the information. Alice kept in touch with Prabha to keep her abreast of her son’s wellbeing and sought clarifications when in doubt.
There was a lot of buzz around the inter-school play competition. “Our school has consistently been winning the trophy for the last three years. The choice of the plays and the acting of the seniors have been awesome,” whispered Sunil in excitement. The juniors were in awe of some of their seniors, who were their role models.
The seniors wanted a young lad to play a specific role in the play. They thought of Varun and approached him. “I would love to do it, but I have never acted before,” he told them sadly.
“Don’t worry about that; what are we here for?” a senior asked. Soon, Varun was part of the group. He went routinely for rehearsals after his classes; he enjoyed the experience.
They won the competition; their play was far better than their adversaries. Huge celebration took place that day; the warden chose to be lax with the rules; he was happy that their school had won the trophy again. “Thanks, buddy, you did well,” one of the seniors told Varun. Varun’s heart gladdened at the compliment.
“Relieved that I didn’t embarrass you,” he said humbly. The boys cheered him.
Teacher’s day was fast approaching; Varun asked his classmates, “What’s the plan?”
“Only the seniors celebrate that day with their teachers; we only wish all of them in the assembly. This special day comes on the weekend this time,” said Hari.
“We should do something; we have been lucky to have got such a good class teacher,” said Varun.
“I agree with Varun; Ms Alice has been an exceptional teacher, and we should make that day a special day for her,” Tom said.
“Let’s ask our seniors for advice; they might be of help,” Akash said.
Touched by the eighth graders’ gesture, the seniors decided to help. They planned their entire schedule and got a cake and snacks for the day. ‘Enjoy.’
Alice was surprised to be asked to come on a holiday to school; she, however, obliged. She entered a room decorated with balloons, streamers and Confetti. “Happy Teacher’s Day, Ms Alice,” greeted her. She had a fun-filled day with her students. They sang, danced, put up a skit and told jokes. Varun spoke on behalf of his classmates. “Thanks for being our class teacher Ms Alice; we learnt a lot from you. You were compassionate and understanding, and we are grateful to you. You showed great patience in handling us; sorry if you found us obstinate. Some of us didn’t like English, but you made the classes so much fun, we changed our minds. You were tough when we erred; you made us realise our mistakes, we are indebted to you. I am sure my friends would also like to say a few words.”
After Alice spoke, they cut the cake and had snacks. She ended the day on a happy note, “I am overwhelmed; today is the best day of my life; I will long cherish it,” she said softly.
***
A year had passed by; Varun couldn’t believe it. He had a lovely time, learning a lot inside and outside the school. His teachers were all praise for him. He had built a good relationship with his seniors; it was sad that he wouldn’t see many next year when a new semester would begin. His classmates were his strength; he had formed a formidable bond with them.
He bid goodbye to his schoolmates, promising to keep in touch with them during the holidays. His mother came to pick him up. Varun introduced her to his friends; she had got plenty of goodies, which she gave out liberally. She made Varun wait while she met with the principal and Alice.
“The teachers are happy with you,” she said, pleased. “That is unfortunate because this was a temporary arrangement,” she teased.
“What do you mean, Mom?” asked Varun impatiently.
“This was just a stop-gap; I want you to come back to Bangalore to stay with me,” she pulled her son’s leg.
“Not a chance, Mom; I am happy here. I love the school! I love my friends!” Varun said stubbornly.
Prabha grinned and tweaked her son’s ear, “I was only joking!”
Usha, a gold-medallist with PhD from the Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, is presently an independent researcher. She is the author of four collections of poetry and two collections of short stories. She was conferred with the Literoma Author Achiever Award 2021, Asian Literary Society: Women Achiever Award 2022, Asian Literary Society: Best Poetry Book – certificate of excellence. She has contributed poems and short stories to national and international anthologies and has received several awards for her writing. Her mail id: ushasridhar1158@gmail.com
THE NIGHT OF DAGGERS
Satya N. Mohanty
Trivikram Rao was noticeably disturbed. Ayesha Bi, a long time maid in his house and an attender in Revenue Department in Chennai Collectorate wasn’t doing too well. She was admitted to Venkateswara Hospital and was on the ventilator, which meant it was a serious case. She had been in the ICU of the hospital for the last three days.
But the problem on hand was very different. Arif Khan, Ayesha Bi’s son, was advised by her before getting to ICU to contact Trivikram for any problem. The poor boy was forking out a lakh of rupees every day and the doctor on duty was telling him that on a ventilator, a patient can go up to a month, maybe two and that was worrisome. A two months stay would wipe out whatever little asset Ayesha had built as a single mother including a house on the land given by Veerabhadraiah, a former Collector of Chennai next to his house. His request was whether she could be shifted to the Government facility at Madras Covid Centre(MCC) at Kodambakkam which had been declared by the Government as a Covid hospital during the pandemic time.
?From Delhi, there were limitations on what Trivikram could do. But there were service juniors, and others he’d mentored and admirers who could be tapped into. After all Ayesha Bi wasn’t anyone. She worked in his household for fourteen years. Both the daughters grew up with her. It was true that Trivikram played his helpful role in her regularization and promotion as an attender in Revenue Department. But that was fifteen years ago. With a steady salary and security, she could educate her two sons and marry out her three daughters. She could be having some money deposited into her account. But Arif had no access to that. Mohd. The elder son was in Dubai and could be depended upon. But forking out a lakh of rupees every day required organizing which was a euphemism for borrowing money from friends, relatives and aquaintances. It wasn’t without IOUs of differing degrees including usurious interest.
?Trivikram’s wife was getting regular updates and he’d also called the Collector to ensure a substantial discount was obtained for her. His call to the Health Secretary produced an option to send her to Egmore Government Hospital. But when he sent the message whether ventilator would be available and safe transportation could be organized, there was complete silence. This was a trying time to run a rickety system and everyone was overwhelmed. At least the Collector had assured that discount would be organized. But with the hospital’s insistence on daily deposit of one lakh, finally discount would be function of whatever was outstanding. When he sought advice, the Collector had very sensibly advised that first she should stabilize before any thoughts of shifting to MCC hospital was entertained.
?This was the time of Covid’s second surge. Because of the laxity of the Government and profligate behavior of the public the surge was disconcerting. The new mutated strain which had come was affecting the lungs straightaway without giving time. The doctor had said Ayesha Bi’s lungs were badly affected and the heart was functioning at ten percent. Her co-worker in the Collectorate infected Covid-19 and died in three days’ time in the hospital. Then it was Ayesha’s turn. She was admitted into a private hospital. She was lucky to receive a ventilator, although there were shortage of oxygen ventilators and beds. Clearly the system was overwhelmed by the caseloads and the proportion of severe cases which required medical attention was higher this time around. In a belated flourish, the Government had converted a five hundred room hotel into a hospital. This was an unusual time when facilities were falling short of need. Anxiety of relatives led to several calls to people in authority to do something. Sometimes it worked but sometimes it didn’t.
?Ayesha was almost like a family member. Trivikram’s daughters in Chicago and Paris were disturbed and wanted to send money. Trivikram told them that he himself would take care and they needn’t bother on that front. ?They were students and how much money could they have sent?Trivikram had made up his mind after discussion with his wife to send one lakh rupees to Arif. The point was when and how.
?Now he talked to the Madras Covid Centre in charge Ehsan Khan. Arif was very keen that his mother should be shifted to MCC. The duty doctor had told him that the treatment would be the same whether in MCC or in the private hospital. On a ventilator, one could keep the patient alive for indefinite period which would be ruinous if Ayesha Bi didn’t bounce back. Ehsan had rooms but no free ventilator and he wasn’t sure by what time frame it would be available. Already there were thirty people in the queue and even if Ayesha jumped it, it would be available only when a person died or recovered. That was indefinite. Trivikram had already rung up to Dr. Muthuvel the Chairman of Venkateswara hospital whom he knew twenty years earlier. He was polite and said he would tell the billing person not to insist on daily payment. He’d also assured that he would ring back to give what was the actual situation.
?The anticipated call did not come. Next day Trivikram had rung up and he responded when he was in the puja. He promised to ring back, but the call didn’t come.
?Trivikram rang up to Arif and told him Dr. Muthuvel was yet to ring back. In any case, this wasn’t the time to shift her to MCC when ventilator wasn’t guaranteed. In any case she was much better off because she had a ventilator and an ICU bed. Arif went by the advice of wait and watch for some time. He was aware of what Saheb was doing from New Delhi as the ripple effect could be felt both in the hospital and official circle, more calls and enquiries, the doctors of the hospital being more attentive to him.
?Arif was on mobile call with elder brother Mohammad. Mohd had done his software engineering and was working in Dubai in a software firm. His salary was good and his savings were decent. Overall, he was doing well.
“How is Ammi?”
“Not very well, even though she is apparently stable now. The doctor says there is only a ten percent chance. I’ve requested Rao sahib. He checked up from Delhi, in MCC there is no ventilator available now. He has suggested we wait out for two or three days,” Arif said.
“If that’s what he says after checking up, we should wait.”
“But Bhai, they are charging Rs. one lakh a day. It is taking quite an effort to organize every day, particularly when on quarantine. Could you please send two or three lakhs rupees?Ammi has money in her account but we can’t draw it. Rao sahib has talked to the Chairman, Venkateswara Hospital to keep their billing on hold. But billing section is yet to confirm.”
“Stay in touch with Rao Saheb. Should I come down?”
“Why now? Ammi is in ICU. You can’t do much. Wait for some time. Once she comes out of ICU, you can come. But Bhai, I am worried. The doctor says she can be on ventilator for a month or even three months. That will mean we will have to sell the property.”
“Why? There will be reimbursement from the Government. Rao sahib will make sure that in two or three days she will shift to MCC. Don’t panic. Everything will be alright. I want Ammi to be fine. Don’t forget what she has done for five of us as single women.”
“I know. But with a ten percent chance it looks hopeless. Only Allah the merciful can help. I hope this calamity doesn’t destroy our household. Every morning organizing a lakh of rupees is exacting.”
“Don’t worry. Things will sort out. I will send some money tomorrow,” Mohd. Assured him.
*
Dr. Muthuvel had taken stock of issues that day. He’d offloaded fifty percent of shares to a Malaysian group, who were insistent on a return on investment.
?In addition, there was a long queue of patients to get into Venkateswara Hospital. Keeping the VIPs at bay would be troublesome later. He particularly wanted to help someone who was related to him. That gentleman had helped him in his career progression and his business. But so many people are on ventilators. There was a film star in queue too. Payment wasn’t a problem with him. But how to organize a ventilator bed was.
?Rao Saheb’s call was there for his old attender. The duty doctor said she had only a ten percent chance.The patient being a Government servant will face problem in payment as she went along. The Collector’s office will surely ask for the discount on the bill and that had to be conceded. In this seller’s market that is a loss to Venkateswara Hospital. Rao saheb had requested for intermittent billing instead of daily billing. That would be a problem once agreed to. He’d managed to stay clear of absolutely clear cut reply to him. But it couldn’t be staved off for long. Along with his case, the duty doctor told him there were two more cases where the patients would breathe their last anytime. One of them had only paid fifty percent today and the next day it was likely to be less. From experience he knew cases where the first signs of the flow drying up appear, they didn’t perk up as time progressed.
?Dr. Muthuvel thought to himself why prolong these cases when the probability of their survival was only ten percent. It will only impoverish the families. Other cases who had better chances they wouldn’t be taken in Hippocratic oath wasn’t a bother for him as he’d compromised it a long time back. He picked up the telephone to instruct the RMO.
“Dr. Senthil, please have three beds with ventilators ready by tomorrow morning.”
The RMO said, “Ok, Sir.”
The standard operating procedure was known to both. The code was deciphered without much explanation. Dr. Muthuvel put the receiver down.
*
Early morning, there was a call from Arif that Ayesha Bi had breathed her last. It was sad news for Rao and his wife. They silently prayed for Ayesha Bi’s soul to rest in peace. Rao promptly rang up to the Collector to effect reduction in the bill and to help the family in the medical reimbursement. A prompt reply came from her that she would get cracking. The system moved to facilitate the discharge of the dead body. Arif, who was in isolation, came over to take the body. The bill was settled. It was for Rs. 4,99,645/- of which Rs. 3,79,000/- was already paid. Of the remaining Rs. 1,29,649/- the hospital waived off Rs. 75,000/- in a show of generosity and pleased the district administration with one stroke. The bill showed blood bank bill of Rs. 30,000/-, drugs of Rs. 1,60,000/-, nursing charges of Rs. 40,000/-, Lab investigation Rs. 45,000/-, Bedside procedures of Rs. 60,000/-. Details of none were available to check veracity or to contest it.
The dagger had been driven in hard and turned too. The only thing was that there was no blood visible.
Dr. Satya Mohanty, a former officer of the Indian Administrative Service , was the Union Education Secretary as well as Secretary General of the National Human Rights Commission before superannuation. He has also held several senior positions in the Government of Andhra Pradesh, a state in the Indian Union. HE has authored a book of essay in Odia, The Mirror Does not Lie and a book of poems in English( Dancing on the Edge). He is a columnist writing regularly on economic and socio- political issues, Mohanty was an Edward S, Mason Fellow in Harvard University and a SPURS visiting scholar in Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, USA. He has been an Adjunct Professor of Economics in two universities and is a leading public communicator. His second volume of poetry will come out soon, He lives in Delh
A big full moon shone in the cloudless sky like a round plate of silver. Above it a few stars blinked sleepily at one another. Down below the river was a ribbon of sparkling blue. The ripples curled passionately when the cool breeze wafted over them.
The fairy looked at the earth below. She loved to roam about the moon washed forests. So she came floating down waving her fairy wings, her frilly white mantle billowing in the fragrant wind.
She landed by the river and sat down. The river sang sweetly to her and the gentle breeze caressed the flounces of her gown. She sat for a long time listening to the river-song
Then she dozed off.
A small sound that was somewhat a mix-up of a whimper and a moan brought her awake. She pricked her ears snd tried to listen while her curious gaze travelled around to detect the source of the sound.
It came from a near by thicket to her left. The fairy rose and wandered to the thicket. She looked closely at a tiny white bundle that lay on a partially shaded patch. The soft whimper was heard again, now more clear and more exact. It came from the tiny bundle. The fairy sat down beside it and tried to see inside. A newborn baby, swathed in white clothes moaned beating its tiny arms and legs as if complaining of the discomfort and hunger. The fairy picked up the baby fondly and held it in her arms. The baby stopped whimpering as if it could sense that it was in safe hands.
The fairy took off the white cloth the baby was tucked in. It was a baby girl, lovely and pink like a fresh bloom of rose. The fairy waved her magic wand. The trees bent down their branches and made a small leaf- cottage for her. The thick grass made a soft carpet of green. The fairy walked into the leaf hut carrying the baby girl in her arms. She waved her magic wand again and a silver bowl full of milk appeared instantly. She fed the baby girl milk with a silver spoon.
The baby smiled at her, the fairy smiled at the baby and the moon smiled at them.
The fairy made a baby bed with tender leaves and put the baby in it and sang a lullaby. The baby went to sleep and dreamt of the fairy. The fairy did not return to the fairyland above and stayed back.
She waved her magic wand and turned the modest leaf-hut to a big wooden house. She grew many flowering plants in the large patch of land in front of the house. There were roses of all colours, chrysanthemums, cannas, and jasmines. The fairy tended them with love and they grew lovely flowers. A big, bushy jasmine plant that grew large flowers was her most favourite. The jasmines looked bright and shone like silver sequins in the moonlight.
She named the baby Jasmine-Joy.
Seasons came and went. Days and nights rolled into months and months to years. Jasmine-Joy grew up under the care of her fairy mother to become a beautiful young woman. The fairy trained her in singing and dancing. The girl sang like a nightingale and danced like a sprite. She looked like a wingless fairy. The fairy never let Jasmine-Joy out of her sight fearing that some wild animal might bring harm to her.
Jasmine-Joy sang with the birds, danced by the river and slept tucked in the white mantle of her fairy mother.
She woke up to the bird songs,swam in the river, sprinted after the dears. She loved when sunlight filtered through the dense foliages of the trees and made patterns on the forest floor. She danced to the rain rhythm, sang under the magic shadow of the floating moonbeam. When the fairy watched her dancing and heard her singing she was overwhelmed with a strange rapture. She decked the girl with floral tiara, floral armlets, floral hair bands.
'Mother what is there beyond our forest?'
Jasmine-Joy asked as they sat together on the moonlit river bank.
'There are big cities and villages out there. There are big concrete buildings and motor- run vehicles. The automobiles rush along wide asphalt roads making a loud noise. '
'Who live in those buildings? Who travel in the automobiles?'
Humans like you live in the huge buildings. There are small houses too. Some humans live in those houses because they are poor.'
'What is poor, mother?'
'Because they do not have enough money to buy good food or good clothes.'
'We are living in this wooden house. We eat only what we get in this forest. We do not have that thing called 'money ' with which humans get good food and good clothes and good houses. Are we poor, mother?'
'We are happy, even if we do not have money. We are not poor because Nature has provided us all we need to live. Are you not happy?'
'Very!' Jasmine-Joy said. 'But I want to see the city. I want to see how humans live in the big concrete buildings and ride motor run vehicles. Mother, can I go to the city ? I will come back as soon as possible, ' Jasmine-Joy asked.
'No.' The fairy said firmly. ' Cities are dangerous places, and the humans are dangerous too. I can't put you at risk. '
'I will not be gone for long. I will hide myself somewhere safe and see the humans, the buildings, the streets and the automobiles. Please mother... just for a little while.'
Jasmine-Joy implored. There was such a deep yearning in her big eloquent eyes that the fairy could not refuse.
'But make sure to come back before it gets dark. ' The fairy said , a strange premonition gnawing at her heart.
'I will mother. Don't you worry' .Jasmine-Joy hugged her fairy mother, kissed her and sprinted away towards the edge of the forest..The fairy stood watching at the departing figure. She stood there in the garden a long time after Jasmine-Joy disappeared. She touched the big satin blooms of jasmine fondly. She came out of the garden but did not go inside the big wooden house. She sat on a wooden bench on the porch of the house and waited for Jasmine-Joy.
The afternoon sun dragged itself slowly to the west. The loud chirpings of birds filled the sky as they flew back to their nests. The fairy was a bit worried. There was no sign of Jasmine-Joy. The sun took.a plunge down. The fading crimson in the west melted into the gray black of the approaching evening. Soon it would be dark.
The fairy went in and lit the candle in the tall silver candle stand.
Where was Jasmine-Joy?
The fairy came out. She paced about the garden restlessly.
A strong wind began to blow. Would there be a storm?.The fairy's heart beat hard. She was sick with fear.
What had happened to the girl?
Had she lost her way?
Had she been harmed?
The wind whistled through the trees. Crooked lightning flashed continuously ripping apart the darkness of the evening. The thunder crashed with a vengeful violence.
A gusy of wind blew past the jasmine bush and the plant drooped helplessly I the slashing rain. The wind tore at the flowers and shoved them down to the ground. The fairy stared fearfully at the big white flowers. In the flitting light of the lightning something caught her eye.
A thin red line .....
......flowing slowly from under the bush. She moved closer and squinted at it. Her startling hand pressed her mouth tightly to kill the scream that was about to escape.
It was not a flowing red line!
It was blood!!
The jasmines were scratched all over and smeared in red. Her heart at her mouth the fairy peered into the darkness. The rain had slowed down. The thunder was a distant rumble. The lightning too had lost its force.
Suddenly she saw a white figure in a distance. It was moving towards the house. The fairy ran out of the garden.
Yes, it was Jasmine-Joy!!
She lurched towards the house. The fairy feared that she might fall any moment and ran towards her stretching out her arms. But Jasmine-Joy wailed loudly and pushing the fairy aside ran into the house. In the faint after-storm-light the fairy saw that the girl's wind blown hair was smeared with dirt and dust. There were unmistakable blood stains on the flouncy white gown. A thin scream escaped the fairy.
Jasmine-Joy entered the house and shut the heavy wooden door behind her with a bang. The fairy rapped frantically at the door.
Open up darling! She cried.
'Let me in. I will set everything right. Don't you worry at all my child!!'
But Jasmine-Joy did not open the door nor did she give any answer.
The fairy slumped on the wooden bench on the porch. She shut her eyes and prayed and waited for Jasmine-Joy's agitated mind to calm down a bit.
She smelt the smoke before she could see it. Thick clouds of black smoke were swirling out through the windows and from under the door. Then almost at the same moment she saw the ugly curls of fire and felt the heat.
Her heart gave a somersault and she screamed out loudly beating at the door with all her strength. She perhaps could have got the fire put out with her fairy power but her magic wand was inside the house. In a frenzy of terror she ran around the house to find out some way to save Jasmine-Joy. She could hear her muffled screams amidst the loud hiss and crackle. Her mantle caught fire and soon she was engulfed in the flames. She flapped her fairy wings and climbed up into the air. Below her the big house was an enormous blaze of red and orange and yellow.
The fairy tried to move faster, but her wings too had caught fire. The burning crumples of her white mantle and gown drifted in the air. She tried hard to soar but her broken and half burnt wings made it almost impossible. The fairy swayed in the air like a flaming silver bird for sometime and then disappeared in the vast emptiness between the earth and the sky.
Next morning a rain-washed sun shone on the huge debris of the house. Nothing was left of it. The garden with all its roses and jasmines and chrysanthemums had become a huge heap of black ash.
Below the debris something glittered in the early sunlight.
It was the half melted silver magic wand of the fairy.
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)
He was born normal like his two sisters. No C- section, no birth asphyxia, a complete full term baby. A son born after two daughters was absolutely overwhelming for the family. Sweets were distributed to the relatives and neighbours. Rituals of Nam karan, Annaprasanna and first birthday after completing a year was celebrated with much pump and show.
He was the heart throb of all members of the family. For grand parents he was the source of absolute pleasure and a reason to take their clan forward. Father was happy he got somebody to walk along with empathy and be his old age lathi. Sisters got a friend. But what about the mother?Yes she got a reason to stand bold in this patriarchal society.
He grew up encapsulated with immense love, affection and tenderness. He was the star in every member's eyes. When he became five to six years old he loved to play with his sisters like fake cooking in pot and coconut shell stirrers on an earthen oven and dressing the dolls. He would like to dress like a girl wrapping ribbon in his hair and nail polish on his nails and adorn himself with sisters' earings, kajal and bindi. Most often sisters cry seeing their brother wearing their frocks and decorated with their stuffs. All these activities were ignored by elders in the beginning because his sisters were his only friends woth whom he was closely associated. He joined in school at the right age. He could get a chance to get associated with boys and had ample opportunity to interact and play with boys in his leisure time. But nothing could restrain him from behaving like a girl.
His friends could not pay a heed at first as they all were in primary school. It didn't matter much whether you play with boys or girls and what category you choose to play, a bohuchori, punching, or chata, or you like to play cricket with rubber ball and wooden sticks - a passion in children even at a tender age to become a Tendulkar, or Kapil Dev. Problem arose when he joined the middle school and his gesture and posture to behave like a girl could not go unnoticed.
Vijay was his name, he was lovingly called Viju. His father was a promoted class two officer in state Govt, a mediocre family able to accommodate with the average needs.
The friends started teasing him. Teachers' scornful eye on him was incomprehensible to him in the beginning, but he could know this minimum that being a boy he should not dress or act like a girl which was like transcending the strict boundary of rules and regulations of the society. He became the center of humour and mockery among friends and relatives when he was only 11 or 12. years of age.
Few well wishers were sympathetic. It was unfortunate for the parents to see their only son 's peculiar behaviour. The aspirations, expectations they cherished for their son started crumbling. His father Amiya Babu started disliking the poor child. His love, affection transformed into hatred, anguish and desperation. He could go up to any extent to pursuade him to refrain from such behaviour. The innocent boy became the victim of his father's wrath but to get rid of his defective biological development was next to impossible. He was mocked at school, at public places, by the relatives who didn't leave a stone unturned to demoralise him whenever they got a chance. People would hear the shrill cry of the child bitterly bitten by the father in dead of night to keep away from his girlish behaviour. His mother Sova Devi's mental peace and tranquility was ignored. She would sob silently seeing her dear son tortured to the extreme for no fault of his and curse her destiny. Many a times she had to bear the contemptuousness of Amiya babu who would tauntingly blame her womb for bearing such an useless child.
Viju stepped to the age of puberty amid all mental and physical assault and tumultuousness with no fault of his. All the features a transgender holds revealed in his behaviour in addition to his passion for girly attire and attitude of sexual inclination towards boys not for girls as commonly happens to a boy in his puberty. He was aghast at such changes he could feel in his self, but he could not share it with anybody. It was just unnerving for him to stay at home and in society. When his father was returning from office he would lock himself in his room. His two sisters had to face the taunts of the class mates. That Viju was a gay was no more a secret and such matters usually take a lightening speed to reach every door of the locality. There was no dearth of people to demean the poor boy. By this time he got the offers from the boys of his surroundings to act as a female sex partner for them. Letters came to him secretly through messengers without his knowledge. Amiya babu was strictly vigilant about everything and his anger would rise to a crescendo at such incidence. Life was becoming tough for all. In this vast world Viju found himself alone except her mother who had given birth to her and could never turn her face away from him.
Amiya babu felt ashamed of being a father of a gay child that downcast his social prestige.
He came to a decision to leave his son at some place away from home where nobody was aware of his unusual behaviour. To him his brother in law was the most dependable person living in a village 200 KMS away from their present home who assured to handle the situation and will have no problem to keep Viju with them. There were one or two such people in village like Viju who were leading a comfortable life with proper understanding with the villagers. Amiya babu took a sigh of relief but Sova Devi was not in a mind to send him to her brother's house. She didn't like to put them into trouble but had to remain silent at Amiya Babu's pressure. He convinced her that at least Viju will be free from mental agony and breathe freely in an environment where nobody knew about him.
Viju was fifteen years of age. He had no voice against the decision taken by his father. Both mother and child cried embracing each other and Viju left for his new destination with his uncle.
When Viju was a child of only seven or eight years he had come to this village with his sisters and mother. He clearly remembered his fun and frolic with the boys and girls of the village. After that he had never come to his uncle's house. Her mother was coming alone or with one of her daughters to meet her parents and family and was leaving after a short stay. His maternal family were not ignorant about Viju's abnormal behaviour as a transgender.But the villagers were in dark. She had taken certain plea of Viju not accompanning her because of his continuous ill health. Everybody had the notion about Viju as an overprotected son of their parents.
Viju's life ran smoothly for few months.His uncle had no problem as he had a daughter with whom Viju was mixing freely and behaving as an elder sister. Grand parents, though much saddened about their daughter's turmoil, took it as destiny and their love and concern for Viju was not lessened. Aunty was happy to get a helper to assist her in domestic work. Viju learnt to help her in cooking, cleaning etc which normally a transgenders likes to do and they were pleased with Viju's soberness.
Time rolled on. Sova Devi was going to her village to meet Viju in between. Within a year the villagers could know Viju was gay. Viju had become used to tolerate people mocking at him. It was not that much tormenting as it was in city. He had the courage to gladly digest the sarcasm instead of brooding over it. Lightening fell on Viju when it came to his uncle's knowledge that Viju had sex as a gay with few boys of the village. How a timid boy like Viju fell a victim to such activity was difficult to accept. After a long interrogation Viju blurted out the truth how he was at first instance forcefully pushed to such activity by the vagabond boys and could not venture to disclose to anybody. Gradually it became a habitual practice for him to surrender whenever he was called for with a fear the fact may come to the notice of his uncle as threatened by the weird boys. Whole family were now ashamed at such unfortunate turn of event.
One day Amiya Babu was baffled to see his brother in law in his house with Viju. Viju was standing with his head down. Uncle narrated all incidents and expressed his inability to keep Viju with them any more and left. Amiya Babu sat down helpless. The whole world was revolving around him. What he will do now? Where he will leave this boy. He may throw him away from his home. But can he withstand the sight of seeing Viju clad with beautiful saree and jewellery begging for money at traffic stands like other transgenders? Can he lock him in the house away from the evil eyes of the society for the whole life? He could not think of more.The whole family was immersed in deep remorse. Sova Devi was crying bitterly and cursing her fate. How she was overwhelmed at the birth of Viju. She looked at her dear Viju who stood helplessly, griefstricken, his eyes brimmed with tears . A boy of fifteen who was still to understand what was happening around him from birth till now and what was his fault stood dumfounded.
Amiya Babu was bedridden out of mental trauma and refused food. Sova Devi was scared. What if her husband fell seriously ill? She had two grown up daughters who were in college. Their marriage was a bigger responsibility and the entire family to sustain. it was badly necessary for Amiya babu to recoupe soon and be free from all this turmoil. With Sova Devi's care Amiya babu recovered and gradually balanced himself. He was the head of the family. He had to use his discretion and resolve the problem for ever. He telephoned one of his distant related cousins of his village who was known as a Dalal and involved in transporting workers to different states to work under the contractors for their livelihood. His name was Laxman. Sobha Devi's heart sank when he heard Amiyababu talking with Laxman over phone. She had heard about Laxman who was from her in-laws village. He was staying mostly in Chennai and coming to village once or twice in a year. He was gathering youths and sending them to their workplaces with promise of lucrative salary. Once he had been allegedly arrested for illegal works like woman trafficking but released due to lack of proof. She tried to forbid Amiya Babu from his decision. But Amiya babu turned a deaf ear to her. He desperately replied "How long can we protect him and live a shameful life in society. Let him lead his own life away from this society where nobody recognises him as our son ."Own life? He is only fifteen. How can he tackle all the untoward situations that will come in his life?" Amiya babu was not in a mood to argue and warned her that it was his final decision and he will not be able to take more mental turmoil.
Laxman reached the house in the morning on the fixed date. On the same day two dead bodies of mother and son with suspected poisoning were seized by the police from Amiya Babu's house after breaking the door of the storeroom which was locked from inside.
Purnima took out her spectacle and wiped her tears. Till now she was lost in her thoughts after reading the news of a guy whose gender was changed from a girl to a boy by the team of doctors adapting all modern technology. The innocent face of her brother seemed to flash on the back ground of the photo of the guy published in the news paper. The reminiscence of the most dreadful incident she, her sister and father faced 40 years back shattered her terribly. If such technique would have been within their reach that time Viju would have been with them living though not as a brother but as a sister, may be under the name Vijayini or Vijaylaxmi. Two valuable lives of her mother and brother would not have met such tragic end. Was her father responsible whose aggressive steps provoked to such unfortunate incident ,or the social customes and restraints were the root of all evils not allowing them to lead the life of their own the way they wished? It was a connudrum to haunt her for infinity.
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.
Hakku!!,where are you?mommy cannot be chasing you the whole time,i have plenty of other things to finish, and moreover you always want to be part of my video shoots, it's not a done thing, you need to be more independent and amongst your tribe.
Incessant rains for the past one week, and finally some respite.
Heton Bouncy!!,i just want to let you know that you can now spend your leisure time in your favourite corner in the balcony.You can bask under the sunshine and get pickled."But first, you good doggy!!," stop chasing me for opening and closing of the sliding door to the balcony, simply because you want to chase the bumble bee, butterflies and that nasty skinny ratty(rat),who every now and then climbs up the jackfruit tree and targets our balcony, don't you dare let him come inside the house, mommy has already experienced a horrifying incident at chilka lake guest house when she was a kid, with a rat pulling me out most of my black lustrous shiny hair from my head .
Hushkoo comes to me wagging has tail and chuckles as he brushes his whole body against my leg and says to himself with a bounce in his body..."oh!!.... mommy hates him too."He walks into the balcony with much ego and pride and rests on the raised platform, waiting to be caressed by me and the man of the house,his ultimate passion in life.He just glances at me to start a narrative conversation with him as though he understands all.Moments best cherished by both of us.
Though by the end of the day, when I'm exhausted,i hate to open, close doors,but he his adamant energetic self, won't give up.He could be in any corner of the house,but the minute I open the balcony door to step out to inhale some fresh air,he could be in his deepest of sleep, snoring,he will make all efforts to get up and join us in the balcony surrounded by greens, just to have a conversation with me and get petted.
Hakku!!...." first you good doggy!!". it's been three long years,we haven't stepped out for a vacation," look up!! aeroplane soaring up in the sky.Mommy won't take you by Bistara or Hindigo,i heard they don't give gifts to doggies.Thingapore airlines would be better, ample leg space and gifts too,not sure if they will serve doggy food,but first you ought to behave well and be polite,calm and settle down on your seat.Dont you jump if you find other species out there."Oh mommy as long as you are there, what more could I ask for, other than watching Tom and Jerry.He wags his tail and nudges my son..... time for vacation!!
At this end only I know when that could happen, both of us with our busy schedules., but would hate to leave him behind, just the thought frightens me., moreover he would be so miserable.
These wagging tails are so so loyal,they care so much for you,that it hurts.
Meanwhile I go singing with my son... Rahul!!.... Ganpati Bappa Morya!!clap( he repeats with a smile)
Ganpati Bappa Morya!!clap(he repeats with a smile)
Ganpati Bappa Morya!!clap( yet again he repeats with a beautiful smile).
Hakku!! what about you?? you didn't sing at all,awwww!! Ganpati Bappa says,he decided not to give you modak, because you didn't sing along wooooofffhhhh......wooooofffffhhh!!
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
Our hotel was on the seashore. I was looking at the blue sea.The sun was pouring its light on it. The sky was clear and cloudless. The sea and sky were trying to merge with each other.
Urvashi and I were in the hotel room. Silence prevailed. She looked into my eyes. My look was vacant. She held my eyes in her palms. I looked at her closely. Her beauty was no less than that of Urvashi of Heaven.
Breaking the silence, Urvashi told me - Don't you like me ? Do I look ugly to you ?
I put my palm on her lips and told her - Your beauty is no less than that of the celestial nymph, Urvashi. I like you.
She - But, why are you looking at the unending sky and sea, without looking at me ?
Me - I see the tears of the sky in the sea.
She - Are you a poet ?
Me - No. I am a realist and looking at the stark reality of the world.
She - What did you observe through your empty look ?
Me - Tears of the sky have fallen down on the ground and run into rivers that are carrying those tears to the high sea. The sea is full with the tears of the sky.
She - I think you are either a poet or a writer or both. You are telling lies. Actually, you don't like me.
Me - Believe me….I really like you.
She - Then how is it I feel no romantic gesture from your body, mind and eyes?
I brought her to my arms.
She - Are you feeling shy ? Yes….you were saying….you are new to this. Shall I teach you the art of romance ?
I smiled. She took it as my consent.
She - You are so cold. How will you gain my love? .
Me - I have already gained your sorrowful feelings. Your tears have melted my heart. My heart is full of your tears.
She - You were saying the sea is full with the tears of the sky. Of course you have seen my tears. Inadvertently my tears came to my eyes out of my emotional mind. But, they have no relationship with you. They are purely mine…personal and private. Why are you thinking otherwise? All is well in love.
Me - But, as I understand from your language and tears, you are dating me under compelling circumstances. Am I wrong ?
She remained silent. Her smiling face was turning gloomy.
Me - All is not well in love in your individual, personal and private case. You are hiding something from me. Tell the truth or else let's go back.
She - Love is a luxury for you, but mine is a need. How can I continue my study without giving my services to you? It's against my principles to expect something from you without giving something.
Me - Please tell the truth. It has a price. And no one including me can debar you from your dues.
She - You want to hear the truth? You are so handsome that I have fallen in love with you. Of course, I am poor. But, I can't help loving you !
Her close presence was so intimate that I fell for it.
We were in a dream world, floating in a fantasy of our own, till we came down to earth.
We went into sound sleep, losing all sense of time.
And in that ecstatic, blissful, tranquil state I murmured, "I love you too."
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.
KNOW YOUR CUSTOMER (KYC)
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Rajani Ranjan, the young Manager of Daulatnagar branch of United Bank of India smiled benignly at Satyanand Shastri, the Chief Accountant, who was clearly showing signs of extreme panic. In his thirty years of service the latter had never heard of such a preposterous thing. He tried to persuade his boss to desist from what he thought was an act of clear, undiluted madness.
"But Sir, under what rules can we do this? We may lose our job! And there is no clearance from the Zonal Office for this scheme."
"Don't worry Satyanand Ji, you don't have to sign the transfer slips, I will sign them. So there is no risk to your job. And yesterday when I had gone to the Zonal Office, I discussed the proposal with the Zonal Manager, Kunal Sahab. His younger brother was a room mate of mine at Allahabad University ten years back. My friend and I had stayed at his house in Kanpur a number of times. He treats me like his own brother. He laughed his heart out when I told him of the proposal and patted me on the back. So you don't worry. Just go ahead."
"But Sir, why are we doing this? Where is the need for this outlandish game?"
"Think of it as an experiment, a part of our KYC exercise. Have you ever wondered who are the borrowers who default on bank loans and generate this huge NPA? My experience is, they are all rich people who can pay back, but love to tweak the system. It's an addiction for them to play with us, often asking big politicians, ministers, high officials to pressurise us not to insist on recovery. Let's know some of our customers closely. It will be a lesson for us. Here is the list of four customers picked up by me. Just transfer one lakh rupees to their account from our Suspense Account. Let's wait and see what they do with the money."
Satyanand Shastri looked at the list. A broad smile appeared on his face like the glowing rays of a rising sun,
"Sir, you are simply brilliant, you have selected four different types of customers. I know the first three - a lawyer, a school teacher, a Manager in a Government Corporation, but who is the fourth one Sir? Dinu Manjhi - the name sounds unfamiliar?"
"Ha ha, yes, he is the joker in the pack. You may not remember him, he had come to our bank only once to avail a government grant two years back. After that he never showed his face. His accountt has become dormant. But you can deposit money in a dormant account, can't you? So go ahead, bring the transfer slips, let me sign them and you remit the money in their account. And please tell the cashier to alert me if any of these account holders tries to encash a cheque against their account."
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Dinesh Patnaik, the busy lawyer looked annoyingly at Biswanath, his Man Friday, how dare he disturb him in the chamber? But something was clearly bothering the old faithful,
"Sir, when did you deposit a lakh of rupees in your account? Why did you take that trouble? You should have told me. What for this humble servant is there? The sole reason for my existence is to lie at your feet and serve you."
The great lawyer was not too unhappy at the show of this obsequiousness, but he was busy,
"Get lost, you idiot, can't you see I am busy? I don't have time for your drivel, why should I deposit money in the bank when you, my dog, are there to do the running around. Now, go away let me read this brief before I rush to the court. That Justice Bansal is unusually jovial today, must have had paratha and meat curry for breakfast. Let me try to wrest a good verdict from him."
"But Sir, it is true. I had gone to withdraw fifty thousand rupees. I got the passbook updated. There is a deposit of one lakh rupees in your account day before yesterday. See this passbook."
Dinesh Patnaik gave the passbook a quick glance, It showed a balance of two lakhs eighty thousand. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he wrote a cheque for two lakhs rupees and asked Biswanath to rush to the bank to encash it.
Ten minutes later he was still in his chamber when Biswanath called, his voice shaking with panic and anger.
"Sir, these bank fellows are refusing to give the money. They have taken away one lakh rupees from your account. I am with the manager, please speak to him."
Biswanath must have given the phone to the manager.
Dinesh Patnaik barked at the phone, his booming voice seemingly seething with anger,
"What is this hanky-panky going on in your bank? How can you take away a lakh rupees from my account? Who gave you the authorization to do that? You want me to file a case against you under section 420 of IPC for cheating me? You want to see what I can do to you?"
The manager chuckled on the other side,
"Don't get excited Sir. There was a wrong remittance of one lakh rupees into your account by a computer error. We have only corrected the error by transferring the amount back to our suspense account. There is absolutely no intention of cheating you. Rest assured Sir."
"Intention? No intention? What do you mean no intention? There is a clear intention of robbing me of my hard earned money. And what do you mean error? What for you are drawing fat salaries? To sit on your fat bottom and drink tea in the bank? Let me send a complaint against you. You better allow me to draw the two lakh rupees, otherwise be prepared to face consequences."
"Sorry Sir, can't do that. After I have transferred the one lakh rupees back to suspense account you don't have enough balance left to allow the withdrawal on your check."
"What do you mean, allow? Who are you to allow or not allow? Is it your father's bank? Do you know who I am, do you know what I can do to you?"
"Sir, you may do whatever you want. But your account shows one lakh eighty thousand and I can't encash your cheque for two lakhs against that."
"Hey! Do you know I am the President of the Bar Association here and we are affiliated to the ruling party? I can get you transferred to Malkangiri or Dantewada. And make the Naxals put a bomb under your chair. Do you know how it feels when the shrapnels pierce your bottom, can you imagine...."
Rajani Ranjan had heard enough. He disconnected the phone. He looked at Biswanath and returned the cheque to him,
"I have spoken to your boss, he doesn't have enough balance in the account."
With that he dismissed the flunkey. The parting words of the lawyer rang in his ears, the shrapnels jabbing his mind. He shuddered and air whooshed out of his mouth,
"My God, what a criminal and a bully! God save the bank from such goons!"
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Two days later, Arundhati Mishra, a school teacher, returned home in the afternoon, flustered and breathless. She had visited her bank on the way back from school. She went to her husband who was lying on the bed, waiting for her return. Nirupam had lost both his legs in an accident four years back and his legs had been amputated. He had taken voluntary retirement with full pension from the Postal department where he had been working as an accountant. Lying in bed, his time was spent in reading books and listening to music. His wife and two daughters took good care of him, never letting him feel frustrated or go into depression. The elder daughter Susmita was to leave them soon, her weddding had been fixed two months from now. The younger one, Anita, was still in college pursuing her B.A. degree. She wanted to be a teacher like her mother.
Anupam looked at his wife, a question mark hanging limpidly from his eyes. She was eager to blurt out what she had found.
"Was there some insurance or some other amount due to be paid to me? How come an amount of one lakh rupees has been deposited in my account? I had gone to the bank to withdraw ten thousand rupees for household expenses and got the passbook updated. Imagine my shock when I found our balance showing a mysterious credit of one lakh rupees. I have been worried sick ever since I saw that extra amount. I thought of asking the clerk at the counter but wanted to check with you first. May be some arrear was due from the insurance company."
Anupam was amused that his simple, innocent wife was worried sick to get a huge sum of one lakh rupees. She was flustered as if she had lost a lakh of rupees to some pickpocket or internet fraudster!
He asked for the passbook from Arundhati and took a good look at it. Being a former accountant he had perfect knowledge of credit and debit. He found that the credit was internal, which meant that the bank had credited the amount. With an average monthly balance of a few thousand rupees, there was no way the bank would have paid an interest of a lakh of rupees. So there must be an error somewhere. He smiled at Arundhati,
"Aru, don't worry, it's not a terrorist who has deposited the money into your acccount. It's probably a wrong credit by the bank. Go and meet the manager tomorrow. He will correct the error."
His wife stared at him. Wrong credit? But the money was already there, can't they use it for their daughter's marriage? Later, if the manager wanted it back, it may be a year, by that time they would somehow find some money to pay back. She put the proposal to Anupam. He laughed it away,
"No Aru, it's not our money, may be someone's account has been wrongly debited with a lakh of rupees. How can we take away his money? Are you forgetting you are a teacher, often giving talk about morals to your students? Can you show your face to them if you do something like this? Please, don't even think of it. We will conduct Susmita's weddding with whatever money we have. She is a gem of a girl, like you. She will spread happiness whichever home she goes to. Money is not important. Please go to the bank tomorrow and tell the Manager. We should not keep this amount even for one more day."
Arundhati always trusted her husband's judgment. With a heavy heart she got up and went to make tea for herself and Anupam.
Next day after the classes were over she went to the bank. The manager stood up and greeted her with a namaskar. He always had a soft corner for teachers and gave them the highest respect.
"Please come Madam, how are you, how is Anupam Sir?"
"We are fine Rajani Babu. Sorry I have to bother you. I find there is an extra amount of one lakh rupees in my account. I have not deposited that amount. I am worried and came to check with you. Here is the Passbook."
The manager looked concerned. He opened the computer, keyed in the account numbaer and exclaimed,
"Ah! A wrong credit Madam, so sorry about causing worries to you. I will remit it back to our suspense account. There, it is gone. Thank you so much for pointing it out."
"You should thank my husband for that. Being a former accountant he could know it was a wrong credit and insisted on paying it back."
Rajani Ranjan smiled,
"How about you? Don't you feel disappointed that the money is gone?"
Arundhati thought for a moment. Her face got clouded with worry, the worry of a mother about to perform a big function at home,
"Frankly, I hoped the amount was from the Insurance people, some arrears pending from the compensation we got for my husband's accident. Our daughter's wedding is just two months away and the one lakh would have been a great help."
The manager looked at the simple, honest school teacher,
"Are you falling short of money? Tell me, you are such an honest, well-meaning person, it's my duty to help you. How much money you need?"
Arundhati thought for a moment,
"About four lakh rupees. I have withdrawn six lakhs from my GPF account, but you know everything is so expensive these days."
"Yes, I know. Don't worry. I will give you a loan of four lakh rupees for a tenure of five years. Being a physically challenged person Anupam Sir is entitled to concessional rate of interest at four percent only. We will deduct around seven thousand eight hundred from his pension every month for five years. Is that ok?"
Arundhati's heart suddenly filled with relief,
"Yes, of course. You have taken such a big burden off my mind! What a kind person you are! God bless you,"
"Here, take these forms and get them filled up by him and bring tomorrow. I will credit four lakh rupees in his account tomorrow."
Arundhati left the bank beaming with joy.
The manager looked at her retreating figure and muttered, Nobility with humility, what an extraordinary combination! The bank is blessed to have such customers.
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Gangadhar Pradhan, the credit manager at the Industrial Development Corporation was a restless man. He slept for around four to five hours a day and rest of the time his mind played with money, lots of it. At forty years of age he had already amassed a fortune, but he didn't know where to stop. All his waking hours were filled with thoughts of money, even the dreams in the night gave him a high if they were about money. It was common knowledge that no file would leave his desk unless his itching palms were greased. Being obsessed with money he was in the habit of checking his bank passbook at least once a week and that's how he came to know about the mysterious one lakh rupees suddenly appearing in his account. He could guess there was an error. He immediately took out a piece of paper and wrote a letter asking the manager for a clarification:
"Dear Sirs,
Thank you for giving me a bonus of one lakh rupees on account of my long association with your bank. Please confirm my presumption. In case you need any financial approval from me for the said bonus please let me know within a week, after which I will presume your concurrence and withdraw the amount."
A week later he got a call from Rajani Ranjan, manager of the bank,
"Hello Sir, how are you? We haven't met for a long time. Hope all well with your projects. I meet many of your clients who also have account in our branch."
Gangadhar pretended to be busy,
"So, did you get my letter? I was waiting for your reply. Since I didn't get any response from you, I was planning to withdraw the one lakh rupees today. "
"Sorry Sir, you can't withdraw that money. In fact I called to inform you that due to a computer error the one lakh rupees has been wrongly deposited in your account, we are going to transfer it back to our suspense account."
Gangadhar became suddenly aggressive,
"How can you do that? You make so-called computer errors, then you don't reply to my letter, asking for a clarification."
Rajani Ranjan smiled to himself, he knew he was dealing with a rogue, a bully,
"Sir, what letter are you talking about? I haven't received any letter from you. Can you scan a copy of the letter and send it to me in WhatsApp? Let me see what clarification you have asked for. "
Gangadhar shouted at the phone,
"Why, you think I have no other work? I sent you a notice giving you a week's time. Now the time is over, so I am going to withdraw the amount."
"Sorry Sir, you can't do that. While talking to you I have just frozen your account. You send the scanned copy of your letter, let me take a look at it. And then I will make your account operational."
With that he disconnected the phone.
Ten minutes later, he called again. He was laughing his heart out when he started talking to Gangadhar Pradhan.
"Sir, you are so smart, so so smart, no wonder you are one of our richest customers!"
Gangadhar sounded irritated,
"Stop drivelling and come to the point. When are you going to defreeze my account? Do it before I get really mad."
"Hats off to you Sir! You have addressed your letter to Union Bank of India, Daulatnagar branch, whereas we are United Bank of India. And you claim you have sent us a one week's notice!"
"It could be a spelling error. If you can make a computer error, my computer can also make a spelling error."
"Yes, of course, now let us rectify the errors. I have seen your letter. There is no way I can let you keep that amount. So I am going to return the amount to the suspense account."
"Wait a minute, tell me what for the bank is paying you lakhs of rupees as salary if you make errors with your funds? Or is there a scam going on in your branch? How many such errors have you made? How much is the total loss to the bank? Should I lodge a complaint with the higher authorities? You don't know what I can do to you and your bank, I can go right up to the Finance Minstry. You better allow me to withdraw that one lakh rupees, otherwise get ready to face the music.There will be an inquiry when I close my high-profile account from your branch."
"Sir, calm down. Many of your clients are customers in our branch. They come and tell me how you make an accounting error with all the loans you disburse and put away five percent of the amount erroneously into your pocket. In fact it is quite well known that you are called Mr. Fiive Percent by everyone who had a dealing with your office. Imagine what will happen if some of the clients lodge a complaint with your higher authorities, the vigilance department and the income tax department."
In a moment Gangadhar became subdued, like a deflated balloon. His tone became soft, oily,
"Listen, Rajani Ranjan Babu, why should we quarrel, when we can be partners? Tell you what, there is no need for you to transfer the one lakh rupees to Suspense Account. Your bank will never miss such a small amount. Let us share it half-half. If you agree I will come to you in the evening with fifty thousand cash, you let the amount stay in my account."
The bank manager chuckled over the phone,
"Sir, if amount could be pilfered from suspense account so easily, then all bank managers in the country would have been billionaires. I just transferred the amount back to suspense account and made your account operational...."
Before he could finish Gangadhar Pradhan growled like a tiger who had lost a prey,
"You! You scoundrel....."
The phone got disconnected.
Rajani Ranjan heaved a sigh of relief.
A cunning fox and a dangerous cobra. O my God! Such a vicious combination. Hope he caries out the threat and closes his account here.
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Dinu Manjhi, the mysterious fourth customer, the joker in the pack, was completely unaware of the high flying activities in the bank. Seven days a week he was happy to leave home with his dholak and go round the streets of the busy town playing his drum and entertain the curious onlookers. He would thrill them with his acrobatics and the music from his drum had a mesmerizing effect on them. They would throw coins and sometimes a currency note at him. He would often stop at strategic places like the entrance to parks, bus terminus and railway station. He would return home late in the evening, his stomach filled with country liquor and tasty snacks at the liquor shop. He would be drunk like a pub-trotting kangaroo and his wife would put him to sleep, carefully stowing away the drum at a safe place, and removing the balance amount of money from the pocket.
The bank had sent two notices to him, informing him of the error in remitting a lakh of rupees in his account. His elder son, a playful boy of five years, had taken the piece of paper, made a boat out of it and floated in the canal abutting their thatched cottage. When the second notice was delivered by the postman Dinu's wife was looking for a piece of paper to wipe the soiled bottom of her nine months old child. She did that and threw away the paper into the canal. The bank never knew of the fate of the letters. The money in Dinu's account was lying idle. So one day Rajani Ranjan called the peon of the bank and asked him to locate Dinu Manjhi and bring him to the bank at any cost.
It was quite a spectacle when Dinu Manjhi rode on the back seat of a bicycle, holding on to the drum for his dear life. He had been doing an acrobatic dance near the railway station with great gusto and was visibly annoyed to be disturbed in the act. He had already fortified himself with a glass of the golden elixir in the morning to add a zing to his steps. But a sight of the official badge of the peon sobered him down. Riding on the pillion of a bicycle was a great dampener to his spirits but he was convinced that he had been arrested by some law-enforcing authority and was being taken to jail.
The moment Dinu Manjhi entered the bank he acted like a man possessed, falling at the feet of everyone he saw. He vaguely recollected, this was the same bank where he had come two years back to collect fifteen thousand rupees to replace his old dholak with a new one. There was some photograph taken but he didn't remember where he had kept it, along with the pass book issued by the bank. He was now convinced that he had been arrested for not returning the amount paid to him. So he kept on falling at everyone's feet and shouting "Mahapru, (Supreme God), please forgive me, I promise I will return the full amount. Please don't send me to jail".
While the other customers looked on in amusement, Dinu was led to the manager's room. The poor man felt as if he had enetered the sanctum sanctorum of Mahapru and with a loud thud fell at Rajani Ranjan's feet, tearfully pleading for mercy. He kept wailing that he wanted to repay the entire amount in one year, but how could he do it if he rotted in jail. He rummaged in his pocket and dug out twenty two rupees sixty paise, his day's earnings till then, and offered it at Mahapru's feet, promising to pay more in the days to come.
Rajani Ranjan, a stout-hearted, jovial young man had never imagined his summoning the poor chap will produce such shocking results. He called the peon, asked him to pick up Dinu and the money lying on the floor. Dinu refused to sit on a chair and preferred to keep standing with his hands folded, head bent, waiting for whatever punishment the Mahapru will impose on him.
Rajani Ranjan wanted to put him at ease,
"Dinu, do you know why we brought you here? Because you didn't reply to our letters sent to you."
Dinu was shocked, when did he become so important that Mahapru would write letters to him?
"What letter Mahapru? Was it asking me to return the amount I took for my dholak?"
"No, no, Dinu. That amount was a grant which the government had given you. The bank doesn't want that money back. The letter was about a wrong remittance to your account. Didn't your wife show you the letters?"
"My wife? Mahapru, my wife is a xxxxxxx and a xxxxxxxx (both unprintable words). She must have wiped the soiled bottom of our son with those pieces of paper. That xxxxxxxx does it all the time."
The bank manager was shocked, not only at the highly pungent words used by Dinu to describe his wife, but at the fate the two innocent pieces of paper from the bank had suffered in the hands of the xxxxxxxx and xxxxxxxx woman. He wondered if the letters from the bank sent to other customers sometimes ended up in a similar fashion. He returned to the crux,
"Dinu, by an error of the computer your account has been credited with one lakh rupees. We want to transfer it back to our suspense account. We want your permission for that."
All this of course went over Dinu's head like flying saucers in search of their sauceresses. He had a vague idea of a lakh as some number and rupees as something he badly needed to buy his elixir of life. Rajani Ranjan probed a bit deeper,
"Dinu, do you know how much is one lakh rupees?"
The drummer shook his head, but ventured a question,
"How many bottles it would fetch Mahapru at Mangu's den?"
The young bank manager had no idea what was the price of a bottle of joy. It was his turn to shake his head, as if they were two Arab sheikhs negotiating across each other, and each shake of the head will result in change of hands of an island in the Mediterranean.
"I don't know exactly, but may be a thousand or two thousand bottles."
There was another loud thud and Dinu collapsed on the ground. It was his way of falling at the feet of Mahapru and show his protest,
"Mahapru, Mahapru, save me from damnation, save my bottom from being fried on a hot plate in hell. Take away all that money. My eyes will go blind just looking at them. I need only about fifty rupees every day to buy some rice and dried fish for my family and a bottle of the golden liquid that will inject a new life into me whenever I take a glass of it. Rest of it all belongs to you Mahapru, you keep it."
Rajani Ranjan looked longingly at the twenty two rupees sixty paise lying on the table,
"But Dinu, you are a model customer. In fact you are the only customer in the history of banking who tried to repay a loan which he had not taken. You are an example for others. I want to give you an award on the Bank's annual day function one month from now. Please come with your wife and kids to accept the award of five thousand rupees."
Dinu's eyes popped out,
"Five thousand...? How many bottles...."
The bank manager cut him short,
"No, that money is not for buying the golden liquid at Mangu's. You will keep that amount in your account here and spend later for your children's education. Now, go with my peon. I am giving him two thousand rupees, he will buy a decent shirt for you, a saree for your wife and two pairs of dresses for your kids. Come to the bank function properly dressed, like a model customer, which you are."
With a loud "Mahapru" and a resounding thud Dinu again collapsed on the floor till a couple of peons lifted him and took him out.
Rajani Ranjan looked at his retreating figure. Ah, pristine innocence and crystal honesty! What a fanatastic combination. May the tribe grow. The bank certainly needs them.
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.
ANECDOTES & OTHERS
LIVING OVERSEAS AND THE OTHER SIDE OF DOMESTIC SERVITUDE.
The outrage on Social Media over salaries paid to domestic helpers overseas by Indian government officials has a spate of 'holier than thou' undertones. While no-one is above the law and indeed, must respect the law of the land, let us look closer home.
Why do some of us get so upset when the maid fails to come, one day in a week or month? Maybe she was tired, had caught a cold or was ill with fever, or perhaps her child was sick? Or maybe her husband ill-treated her and she had bruises on her face and did not want you to see them? Or maybe she lied. How many of us feel that what we pay our domestic helpers is adequate? Inside a 'society' compound, salaries are usually on par. The younger generation is advised to pay the average salary so there is little room for discontent among the domestic workers. Then, as they arrive for work, we make them remove their footwear, even in winter. True, in ancient times this was the norm and still is, in many South-East Asian societies. The inside of the house ought to remain clean and the dust from the streets should remain outside. However, we all walk in with our shoes on. Then the constant drill begins: "do this properly, you never sweep under the chairs", "dust properly", "I can't find something, you must have taken it" and on and on until the end of the working day (whenever that may be, after 12 hours maybe?)- tinnitus voices. We pile up dishes in the kitchen. We dump clothes in buckets. We leave the cleaning-up for the domestic helper. Circumstance, not choice is what determines a person's life of domestic servitude.
Woe betide the helper if she "answers" back. This is not acceptable, for as a domestic helper, she apparently must remain mute. She must not display friction or any emotion (tears are acceptable) that would upset the lady of the house, even the children.
Do we even think of sitting her down for five minutes, with a cup of tea and talking to her as a human being? Perhaps we do, but never seem to find the time to do so regularly. I do not think the topics would always revolve around money. Perhaps the dialogue would focus on the ups and downs that life imposes on each of us, in varying degrees. To listen is to help a person through her sorrows. How many of us actually give our helpers money for healthcare, hospitalization or an amount as pension, when they too old to work? Yes, the odd paracetamol tablet is usually given out of a selfish motive, so that the helper recovers quickly (however temporary the relief) and completes all her chores.
What are average salaries in the cities of India? Do corporate executives who earn five times the amount government officials do, pay their domestic helpers five times extra? And overseas?
Over the past three decades, I have usually hired local helpers for a few hours daily, or three times a week, depending on the country my husband was posted in and abiding by its laws. This is of utmost importance. I do not believe in signing a contract in India stating the monthly wage, while the minimum wage overseas is at variance. Many countries insist employers pay monthly Social Security instalments for domestic helpers. This is checked prior to a person's departure from the country and receipts from the Social Security office are required for the full tenure in the country. For example, over twenty years ago, we paid the average salary of US 300/= per month to Rosa, our helper in a Central American country and forever breathed easy, as this was the 'going rate' locally, for all diplomatic families. However, this was far more than the allocated amount given to us, in the foreign allowance.
People do not understand what it takes to work for one's country, for average salaries, especially so in past decades, where the young ones are making five times the amount! It is a certain 'bent of mind'!
The sorry state of affairs created by the 'wrong-doings' by many in the 'service' is disheartening to the rest of us.
The media too, plays its part in highlighting certain issues that trigger a long-list of complaints in other areas that have remained dormant, or there are comparisons to other matters (often divergent) that need to be addressed.
An Indian diplomat overseas is still your average Indian at home. Cries of 'foul', in having certain cases fast-tracked, show the lack of understanding of India's foreign policy, the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties and other matters of Diplomacy.
If only it was that simple!
Only those of us within the system know how 'diplomatic' affairs must be addressed overseas, by our representatives, at all levels and how immense patience and tact are required, while awaiting results from the host-country. It is not that one matter precedes another by dint of the person's position in the mission or in 'life' ---- far more serious considerations are taken into account. We need support from our own! Life overseas is not just a series of diplomatic parties, sipping champagne or apple juice, clutching crystal stems and wearing designer clothes! Life is often hard, as we live our personal lives too and miss our extended families, our friends and really do not have 'shoulders' to cry upon.Some of us mere 'spouses' look after residences, plan menus, cook, lay tables, wash dishes at times, for free!
Jai Hind.
The Touchstone for Complaints
As dawn breaks, the Indian housewife of today cannot shut her eyes and go back to sleep, to finish her dream, whether wistful or happy or tragic, in a busy urban Indian household. There are a hundred diverse thoughts milling in her mind. Has the milkman come? Will the domestic helper come today? No one wishes to be a domestic helper these days. Are the children awake?On a one-salary household, there is just one helper to sweep and mop this two-bedroom flat, with 2 bathrooms and 3 small balconies. When the helper is unable to come, it falls upon her to do the needful. It is time to make chai, prepare breakfast, pack lunch-boxes. Never mind if her head hurts and she has not slept well, as the family mocks her snoring, as she serves their breakfast. "You call this food?", "I don't want toast", "I don't want parathas".
The urban young Indian housewife is the Touchstone for Complaints.
Her older version is often not spared either!
"You don't earn anything, so don't talk about holidays or travelling!"
How does one justify the lack of jobs or the mismatch of skills that present-day jobs demand? It's a losing battle.
She sighs, thinking, I am tired. I am not a certified chef or cook.
Heaven forbid she says this out loud again, as all kinds of accusations would be hurled at her.
"You don't have anything to do, so why can't you cook properly?"
The conversation and laughter encircle her, but she is left out of it. If she ventures a comment or two, she is cut short, curtly. She has a mind, but because she does not work outside the home, her comments do not matter. It hurts, this belittling of her intelligence, this underscoring of her 'non-identity'. When she reacts in anger, she is faced with much wrath from her spouse and children, but how often may one listen to constant rebukes and not be allowed to complete a sentence or participate in a lively discussion with guests?
"You can sleep the whole day";
"You can watch TV the whole day".
Define 'time management'. Define 'schedule'. Define the non-payment of a monthly 'salary' for all the household chores done daily, for the family. The money given to cover household expenses just does NOT count!
7-9 AM (2 hours) Morning duties: make tea, prepare breakfast & 'serve', then 'clear'.
9-10 AM (1 hour) Drink a cup of tea, read the newspaper, listen to the news, or watch on the TV.
10 -11 AM (1 hour) Load the washing machine.
Then, Bathe, Pray, Eat? Perhaps.
Then dry the clothes outside, as the helper does not have the time to do so. She can only work for 2 hours in the morning. She needs to work in 3 households to manage her household and we are grateful for her services.
11- 3 PM (4 hours) If required, go out to buy groceries, vegetables, fruits. Perhaps meet a friend for coffee out somewhere, for a change! Try to read! Or sew or watch some TV, maybe sleep for a little while. What luxury!
Return home, then it's back to the kitchen to chop vegetables.
3-5 PM (2 hours) Children return at different times; prepare snacks; spouse returns, prepare tea and snacks.
Do not disturb anyone as they need to 'unwind'.
5-7 PM (2 hours) Start to get dinner ready.
7-9 PM (2 hours ) Dinner-time.
9-10 PM (1 hour) Clear up, put things away, wash the dishes.
10 PM - Midnight (2 hours) Perhaps get to watch some TV if the remote control is free or read; use the computer, if it is free... always the last, because she is a housewife and has the whole day to watch TV, use the computer and sleep!
Usually, that is almost 16 hours of housework daily, being on call 24X7, 365 days a year.
No 'salary' really required, just a touch of appreciation.
Everyday, for at least the next 30 years, she will wake up early to this routine perhaps in the future she may sleep as much as she wants, as a senior citizen and that too, only if her spouse is supportive; only if her adult married son lives with them and her daughter-in-law helps in the kitchen, before going to work. But that's an unlikely scenario.
So, one day, do sit her down, help put her feet up, make her a cup of chai, put on her favourite music (she must have some choices, have you ever asked her?), or the TV soap she faintly chuckles at and even cries. Do tell her sometimes that she is worth much more than being a touchstone for complaints and see how her smile will reach her eyes!
(First published online News18 INDIA Blogs)
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. Her books include Trips and Trials, What Not Words, Two Minute Tales in Verse for Children Everywhere, Uncertain Times and The Sorrow of Unanswered Questions. Online blogs are on Huffington Post India Archive and News 18.She includes her maiden surname in her writing, as the eldest of five daughters.
KANAKA'S MUSINGS :: WHERE HAS IT GONE- The Virgin Glory and the Beauty of our Sasthampara ?
I happened to watch a video on the upcoming Eco tourist centre Sasthampara and was really surprised at the changes that had occured in Sasthampara. It was our childhood haunt from the time we settled in one of the lower hills in the 1960 - ies. It was our favourite trekking area too until it was acquired by the Government and turned into an eco tourist centre by 2013. Sasthampara is located at a distance of 14 kms from Thiruvananthapuram city. From the city, you can reach Sasthampara through the. Peyad Thechakkottu-Moongode road.
The place is situated 2 kms from Vilappilsala.
Sasthampara as we knew in our childhood was a sprawling rocky region with a monstrous sprawling rock spreading out over three or four acres with a few huge rocks jutting upward towards the sky. Standing atop one of these rocks one can see Thiruvananthapuram city, the Shangumugham beach, the kovalam beach and the vizhinjam coconut groves.
There was a Lord Sastha temple and we were forbidden to go there. There was also a pond in the shape of a huge foot. And the legend goes that it is the footprint of Bhima. It is always filled with water and it is believed there is a natural spring in it, which would never go dry. We were also warned not to play near it, so we gave it a wide berth. So that was Sasthampara with tremendous appeal for us in our teens, when we couldn't be contained at home by our parents on weekends.
Usually on Sundays after a delicious, sumptuous meal cooked by my mother, almost always rounded off with Ada payasam, we children, five of us, plus our friends, who visit us on Sundays, would make a trek to Sasthampara. No adult would be there to supervise us. There was no road or even a regular path. We walked through the sprawling hilly area dotted here and there with small huts whose inhabitants looked at us with curiosity. If at all we came across people who work in our farm they would point out an easier path. Never scared of snakes or foxes with which the place was riddled with, we walked blissfully, fearlessly with just stout sticks to beat the grass to either side to make a path. I was always the reckless leader. My youngest brother would be behind me. At the fag end my sister who had a limb, supported by my yougest sister and brother. This was the order in which we walked. Now when I think about it I feel dizzy. The recklessness of children!
The path was rough, but nimble footed like sheep, we climbed the hill. It was a steep climb then. When we came to the bottom of the sprawling rock the climb was steeper. No steps or anything on the rock then. We would search for natural ledges on the rock and cling on to it and pull ourselves up. Now in my sixties when I look back I get goosebumps. How did we make the climb?
It was our private pride. It was our playground, where we would sit till evening on sundays. We were not allowed to go anywhere outside our small farm during the weekends but we were allowed to invite friends to our village home. Friends who were very close to me, had stayed in our house too, a remote farmhouse, rough, unpolished, with a touch of wilderness. For them it was like staying in a remote forest area. A novel experience. Until I got my teaching post and flew off to make my life I never missed a Sunday trek.
Now, almost 58 years have elapsed since my father settled there. We started climbing Sasthampara in our teens. Now it has attained the status of an Eco tourist centre.
Once my daughter remarked "Amma, the pristine beauty of the lush green fields and rippling streams have disappeared forever from our homeland. Villapilsala had lost its enticing charm." When we were children there were no roads, only narrow, grass laden paths, between paddy fields. Even the Chittathodu, the stream we have to cross, even now had no bridge to boast of, then. It was a balancing act walking over the coconut tree trunk, laid across, as a bridge, to cross over. Or we had to wade through knee deep water to cross to the other side. When we went to colleges and schools we walked balancing on the coconut tree trunk which was the bridge across the stream, in the morning. In the evening, we would wade through the stream when the water was low. We used to carry our footwears in a bag, the shoes and the leather chappals, so that they wouldn't be soaked by the early morning dew on the grass and wore them only when we reached the straight mud path that led to Vilappilsala Junction.
During the monsoons our fields would be flooded and the whole valley filled with water would look like a lake and we would be marooned on the hilltop. Appa would help Amma to go to her office by crossing the hills. We children had to remain at home till the water subsided.
Vilappilsala junction too boasted of only a handful of shops. And everyone knew everyone. I left Villapilsala in that pristine stage in 1985. There were very few changes when I came down for vacations. I remember my daughter, hardly five then telling my Appa once, "Thaatha ( grandpa in thamizh) let us go to the coffee house." Referring to the only small tea shop, the village boasted in those days. Appa would take her there and she would skip along the narrow mud path, clinging on to his hand carefull that she doesn’t slip and fall into the paddy fields on one side and the water canal on the other side. And walk almost two kilometres to reach the junction where he would treat her on vettukaikku or madakissan or vazhakkappam pure and unadulterated local delicacies. But everything has changed now like the Sasthampara. Vilapilsala has grown into a mini town.
Now when I think of what a life we had led, I feel really enriched - one of wild beauty and innocence, close to nature. How many can boast of such a wild life, on the lap of unadulterated nature? We were blessed then.
Everything has disappeared, the glory and the beauty of wild, pristine Sasthampara is no more. Like Margaret Mitchell, I too lament "Gone with the Wind."
Now to reach these breathtaking places you should make an uphill trek of 400m. There are well kept roads now . You can save the two metres walk from the junction by taking an auto if you come down by bus. If you come by car it is an uphill drive through well kept roads.Until you reach the bottom of the hillock.
There are steps hewn out of the rock which makes the climb easier. There are tea stalls and other facilities. A fee is collected at the entrance. The rocks are all fenced with pipes to prevent accidents. There is a children’s park and a Kalamandapam (an enclosed stone structure) where you can settle and let the time ebb away. Thus a new order has come in. More and more people are coming over to experience the beauty as it is now, with modern additions in cement and iron rod structures added in the name of safety and comfort .
I am also learning to accept the changes in the name of progress and development.
(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)
I don't generally plan pilgrimages as I am often inclined to believe work is worship. But once I am on one, thanks to my husband, I enjoy every moment. It was to Tirupati at the start of 2019. We left our footwear in the car. I was anxious about walking the long course barefoot as I was nursing a lone corn on my left foot. The gait was awkward. I had to walk on my heels to avoid the prick of the corn. It was just on the place, a little away from the toes. To tread on my toes would have been easier and lighter, but that was not to be. I even mulled that if trekking the mountain with suitable shoes could get us closer to the entry point it would have made a better plan! However, after some time, I found my composure.
"Stop complaining and quietly enjoy this journey. Let pain do whatever it has to do. It's ok if it hurts," my mind muttered within, and I slowly turned away from the feeling of pain. I could feel it, and yet not feel it. A weird but comforting nothingness was creeping in, which was enjoyable. I did not care when this journey would end. I did ask my husband how long it would take to reach the sanctum, yet I did not worry about the duration. I was feeling a sense of balance.
And before I knew it, we were at the last turn, and the sanctum was to be visible from our end. At first, I did not register the proximity; silly me was looking sideways. But I soon turned and propped my head sensing the fervour around and lo and behold, it was the deity at the far end! I instantly fixed my eyes straight on the lord. But the movement on this final track was the fastest. All you got was one glance to absorb the vision, lock it there and quickly move on! Move on with life, too, the same way? I couldn't help muse with a smile!
On the walk back, he was chanting 'OM'. The powerful sound reverberations made me believe it to play on some speaker outside. He does have that textured tone; they call it baritone! One of the reasons I fell for him long ago! Sadly he never used it to hone his singing skills, and he, too, must be thinking about not using his assets well. After a while, I had compounding doubts about the 'OM' sound! Taking a quick swirl, I hopped backwards, moving a few steps ahead to fix my gaze directly on his face and then realised it was indeed him, my husband chanting! I fancied copying him for the rest of the way, which kept the fatigue at bay!
We held hands all along lest we lose each other in the Govinda-chanting crowd. No mobile phones to connect for at least three hours, three waking hours! An impossible feat in the outside world. Not even in a movie theatre is it observed. Checking the mobile happens by default!
We slowly reached the laddu counter. There was a queue on the opposite side for purchasing plastic carry bags to hold the laddus. I knew not its price. They could get away with any price, knowing that this shrine's pious and god-fearing visitors would be ready for anything. But it would have been more meaningful if they had given cloth bags instead of plastic, free or priced. Knowing how rich this shrine is, either way would work. So much for the sake of the environment would be a good thing. Why no great person within the managing committee thinks about this is worrying. No one goes home without buying laddus from Tirupati! Even if a stall planned at the start of the queue sold cloth bags, it would be grabbed by all, just as booths at the exit speedily sell caps for people who have tonsured their heads.
I had my long-standing cloth bag in my handbag, which had a few light stains after repeated use. Should we or not drop the laddus in? That was a good question. But not buying the plastic carry bag was also a clear decision. Finding a way to line the cloth bag with our tickets—which were A4 sheets—was the solution!
All done, we had no means of calling our driver after coming out as who memorises the number these days. There was no phone booth in sight, and we did not want to make people uncomfortable by asking them to lend their phones. It would have become a roundabout approach at that; to call my dad and ask for the driver's number! We got into a passing Jeep, and the driver charged us Rs.100. I was open to walking this time but observed as we rode that it was quite a long distance to the parking lot. We had to reach home before midnight to get some rest and start to work the following day.
I concluded after this trip, like I often do after such excursions, that I am not a very devout person. But I would like to make every visit to a temple or any holy place a transforming experience of some nature. And that's the beauty I love to experience in all cultures.
My last trip to this place was 15 years ago with my family, including my late mother-in-law. She was so pleased to make the trip. We went temple hopping to Padmavati temple, Kalahasti and Tiruttani on the way back. Our driver then was also very enthusiastic about the whole journey. Sadly he, too, is no more. The children joined us and participated unconditionally, staying overnight on the hills at Tirupati and waking up at three in the morning to bathe, all in perfect behaviour! But today, we don't call them at all. For one, they are busy, and for another, they have personal views about religion, spirituality and morality. And we respect that because, any day and time, integrity and compassion are the hallmarks of a good human being, refusing to transfer any pressure or guilt built by society onto them.
Sumitra Kumar is a frequent writer for a lifestyle magazine called 'Women Exclusive' or WE, which has published many of her articles, poems and travelogues. She is a passionate blogger and poet; a constant love for writing saw her contribute as an editor in Rotary bulletins, which extended into a magazine in her time. She has won many awards in national writing contests conducted by Inner Wheel, a branch of Rotary. Her first published book of poems, Romance with Breath, was launched in April 2022. A second poetry collection and a first novel are on their way. Her varied career stints include being a software programmer, a flight attendant in Air India in the early nineties, and later self-employed as a fashion boutique owner and futures and options trader. Sumitra presently makes her home in Chennai, India, working jointly with her husband as Directors in their packaging and automation business. You can reach her at sumitrakumar.com and follow her on http://www.instagram.com/writer.poet.sumitra https://www.facebook.com/Writer.poet.sumitra/
The moment New year arrives everyone starts looking up at the list of holidays. We wish for as many non-Sunday festivals as possible. And closer to weekend national holidays are considered extra bonus. The celebration of long weekends irrespective of our plans starts the moment we get hold of the calendars in assorted shapes & sizes the common thing being holidays are printed in red.
Then comes the most tedious task of choosing a place, not in terms of distance or time but for it to become an unanimous choice of the family.
Once the place is decided upon the next challenge is to book the travel tickets. Well, our Indian Railways no doubt, is one of the largest network covering miles and miles criss crossing the whole country.
But when it comes to getting a reservation for a desired route on a desired date, it can be really frustrating to not reserve for suitable available seats.
Thanks to social media even before the banks are aware of their holidays it is made well known to the public how long a holiday you will be getting almost like a warning or a curse ? Only thing is they combine all the states holidays in one list and make it look as if the banks don't function at all. "Foolish, jobless guys " my hubby would say.
Please forgive my deviation of topic towards the banks, it is just a long heard complaint, being a banker, from my husband, when he sees these messages. The public gets to see a list of the long festival and/or national holidays combined with weekends.
Having said about the bright red coloured days that we watch out for, the moment we set eyes on a calendar, I am no exception to this. :)
I used to start planning, sorry did I say _planning_ , no that is meant for a confirmed travel. I shall say, I used to start _booking_ train tickets multiple classes, multiple dates, multiple travellers ensuring to not leave out any permutation and combination.
If at all they had given a special concession or privilege to maximum tickets cancelled I think I would have been eligible for it.
My favourite logic and reasoning everytime would be at least we should not be in want of train tickets in case we decide to make use of the red letter days.
And, if we are lucky, we are done with the booking of tickets and hence manage to arrange for accommodation too. The D Day arrives and last minute shopping and packing all done we travel to the planned destinations, sometimes to unplanned ones too.
Looking back after so many years and so many trips I am glad I didn't flinch away from the IRCTC ticket booking ordeals and the pre booking arguments sulkings, unforseen situations, convincing, nagging, last minute changes, cancellation many a times, surprises, disappointments, joy, the list could go on ,
but which all ended in not only making use of the holidays but also managing to go to the places intended or functions attended.
In doing so we have travelled a long way not only in distance but also in life.
Now, I don't see any colour in my calendar. I just turn the pages of time and look back thinking of the good times.
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.
“Weather forecast for tonight: dark”
-George Carlin
To be invisible, to feel invisible, as if light could pass right trough you, as if you could disappear right now and no one would notice. To be in a crowded room all alone, to talk to people yet feel disconnected. Loneliness.
I’m sure, most of us have felt like this at one point or another. It’s pervasive, this loneliness that I write about. It’s a fertile ground for all sorts of evils. But I want to focus on just one right now, one that becomes quintessential and needs to be talked about especially in the wake of the world suicide prevention day.
Now, I won’t bore you with statistics but just so you know, India has one of the highest rates worldwide. Its disheartening, yes, but comes off as a surprise as well. Someone once told me, mental health issues especially those that stem off of loneliness, shouldn’t be such a big deal especially in a country like ours, there’s just so many people to talk to when you feel low. Back then, I remember thinking, yes that should be the case ideally. People live so close to each other in physical proximity, its hard to not at least smile at a stranger time and again. So, I grew up with the notion that I could talk to anyone I felt close to and I wouldn’t be as lonely as the rest of the world maybe. Until, the world came shattering down on me. A host of personal demons made themselves known during my teens, demons that only became worse with time.
I remember this turning point in my life vaguely, almost like looking at someone’s else’s memories. As things started going downhill, I started getting exhausted often, losing my temper, breaking things and throwing tantrums. All of a sudden, I went from a sweet, nice girl to angry and aggressive teen. Those who I thought understood me, started distancing themselves from me, saying that I have anger issues. My family thought that I was just being like every other teenager.
Then, I stopped going to school. For four years, I struggled with attendance issues, academic issues. From a top prodigy, to barely passing, in fact failing once or twice.
The later years of my teens, I spent isolating myself from the world. I stopped taking showers, lost my appetite, would sleep most of the day. I started engrossing myself with movies, songs, novels that were on the dark side. I went from social butterfly who was her teacher’s favorite, who would talk to her friends for hours, to a social pariah. An isolate. I felt like an alien, out of place.
What I still struggle to wrap my head around is the fact that I didn’t live in isolation. In fact, I was always surrounded by people. My fall was clearly visible to all. In my fits, I would scream and shout that I was in a lot of pain, that I didn’t fit in. I remember saying that I was sleepy not because I was lazy but because there was no point in staying awake. But all this to no avail. I was still called the troubled manipulative child who took advantage of others, took things for granted, a disappointment, a failure.
What happened next, was that I grew up. I got help for myself and I followed through the treatment regime. When people found out that I was under treatment, that I was not exactly well, I was bombarded with a host of messages asking me, imploring me to talk to them. They would say that I was not alone, that if anything happened, I could always count on them, that they would listen. So, I thought, sure, I’ll try this then.
Recently, when I was in one of my lows and I felt like withdrawing again, I decided to talk to people about it. I was feeling awful and I was hurting. My body felt heavy and I barely managed to get up from bed. Everyday was a struggle. So, with a lot of effort, I decided to talk to those around me about it.
We must meet at the middle of the bridge, after all.
I put my feelings into very simple words when you were on your phone. I told you I was hurting and you said ‘hmmm.’
You were telling me about the struggles and fights of others, when I told you I can barely breathe. You said ‘you need discipline in your life’
I told you about it when you came to me in the morning and I told you I don’t want to get up. I told you about it when you were busy planning about your future that I can’t see mine. I told you every single day that I was hurting and I needed your presence, your actual presence. I needed you to listen.
But you weren’t there. Your body was here, but you weren’t.
This is the tragedy of our lives, isn’t it? We don’t actually hide our emotions from others, they fail to see it. What’s worse is that we fail to see it ourselves. How long does it take for us to type ‘talk to me’ or ‘you can always count on me’ into our keypads and then forget about it? I can’t really seem to put my finger on it, but it feels like we are living somewhere else. Not here. Our real lives no longer matter to us. Real lives of others matter even less.
What happened? When did we stop noticing the world around us, the people in it? What are we running away from?
I asked this to myself again and again until I found the one that I was looking for. We are running away because its uncomfortable. It was uncomfortable for those around me to imagine their little girl to be sad and depressed. It was easier to blame it on hormones, easier still to imagine that what I was going through was a phase shared by every single teenager. Their need to conform, to not deviate too much from normalcy, blinded them.
This happens to all of us. It’s easier to blame than to accept. Its our defense mechanism. To dissociate from a reality that is unyielding, unforgiving. We forget that we are the ones who make up our reality. If only we decided to stop running away, to see things for what they are, to not be in denial, things would be much healthier right now.
This is true, not just for mental health but for society and the world in general. If our ancestors weren’t in denial of global warming, if religious masters weren’t in denial of evolution, if policy makers weren’t in denial of the repercussions of their decisions, things would be better than they are right now.
All of us need a reality check as. We must come back to the here and now. I beseech you, beg of you to look within and without, and when you look, to actually see and when you hear, to actually listen. Change must begin with you.
You don’t want someone to be waiting all alone on the bridge, for they might jump. And then it’ll be too late.
Punyasweta Mohanty is a 1st year student of MA Psychology at Utkal University. Apart from seriously pursuing her studies to build a career as a child psychologist, she is passionate about literature. Her forte is creative writing. Her articles have been published in online magazines ‘Hashtag Kalakar’ and ‘Utkalayana’. She will welcome feedback on her present article at punyasweta@gmail.com.
During my growing up years, Sitakant Mohapatra was already an icon in Odia poetry. Although he happened to be a bilingual writer he chose to script his major contributions in his mother language. Born in pre-independence India in a remote village he graduated from the historic Ravenshaw College and had his post-graduation at Allahabad University.
After a brief stint as a faculty member at Utkal University he topped in Civil Service Examination in 1961 and became the first from Odisha to achieve this rare distinction. He then joined IAS and served a long inning occupying key positions in the Government of India and the State Government. He was the Union Culture Secretary before his retirement in 1995. He was ex officio Chairman, National Book Trust. He had visited a number of countries and developed friendships with many eminent poets and intellectuals across the globe.
As a distinguished poet, he bagged Central Sahitya Akademi Award in 1974, Jnanpith Award in 1993, Padma Bhushan in 2002, Padma Vibhushan in 2011, and SAARC Literary Award in 2015. He had also the distinction of heading the Gyanpith Award Committee for many years. Most of his major writings have been translated into various Indian and foreign languages and he has himself translated and edited many works of writers of international repute. He is an acknowledged scholar in tribal languages and documented some of their oral literature even translating it into English.
My first encounter with the great poet was when he was posted as Secretary of the SC&ST Development Department under the State Government. It was sometime in 1980 and one of my friends went to his residence to invite him to an upcoming literary event on the University campus in Vanivihar, Bhubaneswar. He was perhaps busy with some important work and therefore regretted our request instantly saying that he had no time for such meetings.
Then we were in our prime youth and we could not digest his blatant refusal. After returning to the campus I rang him up from the hostel telephone and expressed our displeasure. He realized our sentiments and tried to pacify us in his own style. Finally, he invited me to his residence on a weekend. Accordingly, I visited him on a weekend later and enjoyed his warm hospitality as well as got glimpses of his poetic mind. I was then involved in a civil society group and we were undertaking some activities in a tribal area. I met him in this connection as the Secretary of the SC & ST Development Department and he assured me all help for the project.
At the same time, I was associated with the publication of a literary journal ‘Sahitya O Samalochana‘ with one of my teachers in the college late Dr. Gokul Chandra Mishra. We met him in this regard. He was always cordial and affectionate towards us. His encouragement and advice meant a lot to us.
Sitakant Mohapatra
As a poet, Sitakant is exceptional in the sense that he is very economical and innovative in choosing words and images and is brilliant in using myths in his poetry. He is a master at expressing contemporary consciousness in a philosophical overview. He identifies the past with the present and craves a spiritual answer in his poems. The rivulet Chitrotpala, a branch of river Mahanadi, reminds him of his childhood reminiscences and he looks towards the myriad hues of the sky for inspiration. He appears more to be a pragmatic philosopher than an emotional poet in his poetic narratives and no wonder he has never written love poems. His contributions to Indian literature can never be undermined. At the age of 85, he is still active in his creative journey in spite of physical deficiencies.
One thing I have observed about him is his caring attitude towards his friends. A few years back, there was an event in Satabdi Bhawan, Cuttack in memory of the late Barrister Gobind Chandra Das, the legendary author of the famous novel Amabasyara Chandra organized by his illustrious daughter Mrinalini Padhy. I was one of the guests on the occasion along with the late Debasish Panigrahi, an IPS officer and noted writer. Then I was not in touch with Sitakant Mohapatra for long although he used to pass on the road in front of my residence in Unit-9 area in the morning walk every day and was staying not so far in Satyanagar.
Suddenly, in the evening before the event, he called me over the phone to thank me for accepting the invitation to the meeting and then narrated his close association with Barrister Das and his family. On another occasion two years ago Japani Babu, a former Chief Engineer, and a noted writer passed away from a massive heart attack. Shri Mohapatra, then himself suffering from health issues during the Corona pandemic, made it a point to personally visit the house of the departed friend to offer his tributes and console the family members. This shows the humility and compassionate attitude of his personality.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
A SENSATIONAL SEIZURE OF 11 MT IMPORTED SILVER BARS.
In the second week of october1989, I had been to Mumbai to procure Narcotics tasting kits for our commissionerate’s anti smuggling formations to strengthen the anti drugs drive in Odisha. On return as per schedule, an intelligence sleuth received me at the Bhubaneswar Airport to facilitate the kit’s safe transportation and deposit at the departmental strong room. While receiving me at the airport, my junior colleague informed me that the commissioner had drafted me into the special team that would mount surveillance at the north Balasore coast next day. Though exhausted after a hectic schedule in procuring the narcotic tasting kits in Mumbai, I was excited to be a part of an anti-smuggling team jointly constituted with intelligence officers of DRI Kolkata. On the appointed hours the team left for Balasore in the night to be on prowl at the selected spots in the coast line of Bay of Bengal. On our arrival at the Betanati inspection bungalow we were briefed by the team head about the possible landings of imported silver ingots at some jetties in the wee hours of 20th October. As per the intelligence, a consignment of silver ingots, sourced from Singapore is likely to be smuggled into the country through the porous Balasore coast. Admittedly the east coast outlying the Balasore district had become vulnerable to smuggling syndicates, since the Sunderban delta and the Bengal sea coast are heavily guarded to mount surveillance over the Bangladeshi infiltrators infamous for smuggling and illegal immigration. All the team members were instructed to fend themselves as members of a central team conducting survey for establishing a defence unit and to keep strict vigil on Kolkata bound transport trucks. A truck number was given to keep watch on its movements. We, posing as surveyors of the central project, were secretly eyeing for the suspect truck number with the help of search lights. Past midnight three teams were formed to catch the contraband cargo-loaded truck. I was dispatched, to the Solpata jetty area at 23.30 hours, in a Maruti Gypsy driven by Gobardhan our departmental driver. While our vehicle was crossing the approach road to the jetty, I could locate the truck having the regd. No –WMK 7717 parked at the left side of the road. Seeing the suspect truck, I got utterly thrilled and immediately indicated to our driver to proceed further and take a turn towards Rupsa crossing on N.H-5. A police officer stopped our vehicle and asked about our identity, when I informed about the survey being conducted for a defense project, the officer allowed us to move. After reporting the location of the impugned truck being parked at Solpata Jetty to the team head, strategic arrangements were made to intercept the truck at Rupsa crossing. We selected a spot 500 meters towards Balasore where an opera was performing in full swing by the side of National Highway. Another team was deployed at the Haladipada market to report about the movement of the truck WMK -7717. At about 03.00 hours the first team informed about the truck moving towards Baripada via Rupsa crossing. We were put under high alert and kept strict vigil on the moving trucks on NH. We could notice the truck escorted by two persons in khaki uniform on a bullet motorcycle. As soon as the truck came nearer to us we were to stop it by putting our Gypsy blocking the road and signaling to stop using the search light. By this time the first team deployed at Haladipada reached the spot as they were following the truck from Haladipada. As the truck was surrounded by armed preventive officers, the Khaki masquerading men on motorcycle vanished within the twinkle of an eye. On interrogation, the driver, one Gurbox Singh and his assistant-helper Md. Haziruddin could not produce any documents as to the cargo under transportation to Kolkata. The driver and the helper were asked to remove the tarpaulin cover from the top of the truck. We found the truck was loaded with empty tin barrels. We were baffled seeing the empty barrels but after some barrels were removed from the truck, we could see some gunny wrapped heavy substance which we could not lift easily. After removing the gunny cover from one of the packets, it was noticed a brick size white metal bar and we were thrilled and overjoyed at the prospect of a spectacular seizure case of imported silver. On further confrontation with the driver vis- a- vis the silver ingot, it was ascertained that 349 pieces ofcontraband silver bars were being transported from Solpata Jetty to the warehouse of one Rupak Dattani, M.G.Road, Kolkata. By the time we could ascertain the quantity and about illicit transportation of contraband silver, the sun had arisen in the eastern horizon. The truck driver was asked to cover-up the truck top and move towards Bhubaneswar, as per the decision of the team head. The contraband-carrying truck was escorted to our Commissionerate headquarters building in Bhubaneswar for safety and smooth conduct of seizure formalities. On reaching Bhubaneswar, the truck was parked inside the office compound, nearer to our high security Customs Godown. Some armed sepoys were deployed to guard the contraband loaded tuck till the seizure formalities were over. The exhausted preventive officers were asked to freshen up in the department guest house within one hour so that the seizure formalities could be completed before noon. At about 11.00 hours, the barrels used as conceal material to cover the contraband silver ingots were offloaded under strict supervision of the preventive officers and the gunny covered ingots were unwrapped and counted. It was found each brick shaped silver ingot bore a serial number and its weight marking. Total number found on counting to be 349 pieces weighing 11048 kgs. Valued at Rs 7. 73 crores (@Rs 7000.00 per kg). (The present valuation may stand at Rs.60.76crores.) A seizure list was prepared in the presence of two independent witnesses and after completion of seizure formalities, the contraband silver ingots were deposited in the customs strong room. Statements of the driver and his assistant–helper were recorded and both of them were served with grounds of arrest for their complicity, illicit possession and illegal transportation of silver bars of foreign origin. As the driver and his helper failed to vouchsafe any valid documents in support of the licit importation of foreign marking silver bars and having admitted the fact of illicit transportation of these impugned silver bars, they were arrested and lodged in the local police station lock up for adequate security and safety, temporarily for the night. They were to be produced before the court of ACJM (Special Court), Economic Offences, Cuttack, next day. As advised by the IIC of Police station two able-bodied havaldars were deployed to keep watch on the accused persons, interned in police lock up, in order to prevent any untoward situations. As a follow up action, raids were simultaneously conducted by our counterparts of Kolkata customs at some properties of Rupak Dattani who denied his involvement and disowned the consignment of imported silver bars.
Next day at about 10.30 hours the arrested economic offenders – the driver and helper were produced before the designated court for economic offences at Cuttack and the learned court rejected their bail plea and remanded them to judicial custody for fifteen days. As the I.O (Investigating Officer) of the case, I was directed by the learned court, to hand over the custody of these accused persons to the Superintendent of the circle Jail, Cuttack. In obedience to the court directive, both the arrested economic offenders were made over to the Jail Superintendent under proper documentation on record. Since it was a spectacular seizure of more than 11 MT foreign origin silver ingots and reported in all leading news papers and telecast by TV Channels, lots of congratulatory message came to our Commissioner, who graciously preferred to pass on the accolades by issuing commendation certificates to all the participating officers involved in the record breaking seizure of contraband silver ingots. The commissioner didn’t stop there, he recommended for advance reward of Rs 1 lakh to each participating officer, to the Central Board, under Ministry of Finance. The Ministry accorded sanction for Rs 14 lakhs as reward to the participating officers and supporting staffs . The seizure case was adjudicated by the competent authority within record time as nobody claimed the contraband silver and the 349 pieces of silver ingots were confiscated along with the truck WMK- 7717 as per the provisions of Customs Act, 1962. On confiscation the contraband vests in the central government and was to be deposited in the India Government Mint, Kolkata. A fool-proof arrangement was made with the help of Odisha armed reserve police to escort the transport vehicle carrying the confiscated silver ingots to Kolkata under the supervision of central preventive unit officers of Bhubaneswar. In order to avert any mischief by the inter-state looter gangs operating between Jamsola-Lodhasuli areas, a team of Kolkata customs officers escorted our motorcade from Jamsola chek-post up to the India Government Mint situated at Alipore, Kolkata. Thus the modus operandi of money laundering by procuring silver bars from foreign lands and smuggling into India, a threat to our country's economy, was stalled to some extent.
Gouranga Charan Roul (gcroul.roul@gmail.com) : The author, after completing post graduate studies in political science from Utkal University, Odisha in 1975, worked as a senior intelligence sleuth in the department of Customs, Central Excise & Service Tax and retired as senior superintendent. As a staunch association activist, he used to hold chief executive posts either as General Secretary or President of All India Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha for 20 years. Presently in the capacity of President of Retired Central Excise Gazetted Executive Officer's Association, Odisha, coordinating the social welfare schemes of the Association. Being a voracious reader, taking keen interest in the history of India, Africa, Europe and America. In his globe tottering spree, widely travelled America and Africa. At times contributing articles to various magazines.
LITERARY PURSUITS : POWER OF COMPLIMENTS
It was Mark Twain, who famously, said: “I can live for two months on a good compliment”. That’s a perfectly sane desire propelling a creative artist, be he a painter, a musician, a poet, or an author. At the end of the day desire for appreciation goes to motivate us into writing creative literature, and trying to publish them. Of course, there is a much deeper desire to stimulate another mind by evoking emotions akin to those prevailing in the poet/author at the time of writing the particular piece. Words are the basic materials in the hands of a poet out to make a bridge with sympathetic souls. A reader’s appreciation- much more than that of a critic- is a surefire way of knowing that his message to humanity has hit the target, and he has been able to build the bridge. It can get any writer elated.
Things get complicated when poets have to vie with critics for carving a public space and thereby reach a larger audience quickly. There come the roles of editors/critics. There are plenty of instances to show that editors can be pretty erratic in their judgments. A writer like Jane Austen had to wait for almost a year before being recognized and published. Some instances are cited (in a lighter vein) to illustrate how the whims and fancies of editors/critics could build or mar many a literary career.
In July 1943, at the height of 2nd world war, two friends named James McAuley and Harold Stewart( names may not be that material with reference to the anecdote) got bored with their army life in barracks and decided to play a prank of a literary kind. Their victim was Max Harris, the editor of the reputed Australian poetry journal “ Angry Penguins”. As part of the prank the two friends went on to compose seventeen poems within a single day. They were consciously nonsensical written in a vacuous, impenetrable style. They sent the poems to the famous journal under a fictitious name of one Ern Malley. They were accompanied by a letter, purportedly, from a young lady, who claimed to be Malley’s sister with a sob story of how she had just discovered the poems after the death of her brother at the age of twenty-five.
Now, poets who die young, have a different aura difficult to resist, be he anyone, whether he is a plain reader, or a reputed critic. Max Harris swallowed the bait- hook, line and barrel- and he not only published the poems, but also brought out a special edition eulogizing how the young deceased poet named Ern Malley could be treated as the discovery of the century. He compared him to the great poets of the earlier era, who had also died young. Obviously names like Keats, Shelley, Byron and a host others reverberated. Of course, the hoax was soon exposed and it became a great literary scandal.
In earlier years, a similar experiment had been conducted by I.A.Richards, the celebrated Cambridge professor in his class, as mentioned in his book “Practical Criticism” (1929). Richards sought to demonstrate how erratic and whimsical literary judgments could be! The professor gave a bunch of poems from various poets to his students for evaluation and appreciation. Neither the titles of the poems nor the names of the poets were disclosed to the students of his undergraduate class.
Results of this experiment: the students went on to appreciate some obscure poems from the list, while remaining unmoved by the more celebrated poets and their outputs. It was not that the students lacked sensitivity to appreciate good poetry. They were qualified enough, sensitive enough to judge without preconceived notions, without bias. The results of this great experiment are often cited in academic circles to argue that words of the critics are not the final word on the worth of any particular work. It is the readers who are the final arbiters, whose stamp of approval can ensure the immortality of an author beyond the times in which he gets published.
There is a hilarious story on the subject by late Ram Chandra Mishra (more widely known under his penname of Faturananda), an eminent Odia author, who was also a great humorist, who often poked fun at abstruse modern poetry- particularly of the vacuous, pedantic kind that befuddle an ordinary reader. The story titled ‘Kruddha’, which forms part of his story collection- “Mangalbaria Sahitya Sansada”, runs as follows:
A young painter of promise participates in a contest and enters it with a painstakingly made portrait of the Buddha(the Enlightened One) in a languid pose. But unknown to him- since the painting was packed by his wife in haste- his two year old son has splashed an entire inkpot thereon while playing. The painter stands aghast when the painting is opened in the presence of the jury seated in the art gallery. But, nevertheless, he wins the first prize. The critics eulogize how his is a unique piece of creation, how Buddha has lost his usual composure in modern times and is annoyed at the turmoil. They go on to rechristen the painting as “The Kruddha”(the Angry One) in place of Buddha.
It is a rare artist, or a writer, or a poet, or a painter who does not want to leave his/her footprints and try to live in the minds of the posterity! Their cravings for appreciation from the reading public should be understood from this perspective. Hence the desire for publication is quite strong, almost universal. Yet, there are cases where an author desired to destroy most, or some, of his works and erase his footprints. In some cases the desire could not be fulfilled, thereby leaving his works for the enjoyment of posterity. One such example (there are many more) can be cited here for an appreciation of the inner psyche of the author, who desires to destroy his work after painstakingly creating them.
Franz Kafka(1883-1924): His literary importance in the context of his outputs, containing his nightmarish vision of humankind, and extraordinary depth of his thought, his books like The Trial, The Castle, his stories like The Metamorphosis needs no elaboration. Yet, he left most of his unpublished manuscripts to his friend and literary executor, Max Brod, with an instruction to destroy the unpublished works. Kafka had tried convincing Brod that he did not want to pass on his dismal vision to the posterity, a vision that gives little hope. Brod understood the complex personality of his friend, yet disobeyed the instructions of his friend by preserving all the works of Kafka a nd took steps to publish them after his death. That’s how we get to read most of the master’s great writings. That opens up a question: why would some authors –subsequently proved to be great- want to destroy their own writings? Can it be a dissatisfaction at the creation, like a parent producing an imperfect child and failing to gauge its true potential? Or, a moral dilemma, like that of Kafka, who was honest enough to admit the dismal message contained in his works might upset the posterity, and hence conclude that hard truth beyond a point could be too much for their constitution! In any case, his integrity is unassailable.
The issue of appreciation of literature is full of ambivalence over several such issues. Compliments can be balm to creative artists. But they need to be genuine, built on solid foundations, and thereafter they can be expended, like visible structures above earth. And critics, particularly contemporary ones, are not the best authority to decide on the worth and/or appeal of a literary work. Appeal of a good story, a good poem shall live on beyond the confines of the age in which it is created. In the meanwhile we can be liberal with our comments and appreciations, and criticisms too, if due. The whole purpose of literary pursuits is to break through the mental ghettos and create congenial spaces.
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.
Found the “Buddha on the wall” – in the divine calm form. Eyes closed in deep meditation.
The wrought iron box grills have always been there for the last 25 or more years but the “light” got “reflected” only recently making the Buddha design on our yellow wall at home – as if these outer lights set up for major repairs in our housing society complex were specially done to ignite the inner light from within - and one realised that God has in fact enveloped our home all through.
Play of physics or Play of mind……….Whatever it is…Buddham Saranam Gacchami!
PRANAYAM
Seethaa Sethuraman
It ain't easy but letting go of our expectations of others is an effective way of letting in tranquillity and happiness within us!
Maybe, that is what our natural breathing rhythm is also silently telling us...and regular breathing exercises (pranayam) aid further in that process…
Let us start investing in ourselves…..and not only focus on investing in gold today!
I'm sure the former will yield far higher returns than any other asset!
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
‘Swaraj is coming, Mohan!’ , he had muttered words in his death bed some seven years before it truly came. He dressed like an Indian in dhoti and kurta and would part with his woollen garments and warm clothes when he came across any poor or needy not able to fend himself or herself against a biting cold or a chilly winter. He also gave away money at the cost of going penniless many times. How he survived is a big puzzle. It was the Englishman, Charles Freer Andrews, who, as it is said , devoted half his life to the cause of India’s freedom.
He called Mahatma by his first name Mohan ! Gandhi fondly called him ,Charlie !
Andrews born in 1871 in United Kingdom was a teacher, Christian missionary, priest a social reformer and most significantly friend of India during its crucial freedom struggle days. He earned the title Dinabandhu which means friend of the poor for his love and compassion for the poverty-stricken people not only in India but all over the world. Charles had thirteen siblings and their family suffered a financial instability due to a fraud done by a friend. Charles underwent hardships for his finances and it is from there he developed his kindness and compassion. Andrews came to India to teach philosophy at St Stephen’s college. He taught there for 10 years. He was appalled to see the injustice done by the Britishers, and therefore supported India’s freedom struggle. He had connections with influential people in England and he tried to bring to their notice the undue dominance by the British officials on the Indians and their harsh sufferings.
Andrews had close connection with Gandhiji. He was asked by Gopal Krishna Gokhale to visit South Africa and help the Indian community there to solve their political disputes with Government. He first met Gandhiji (lawyer then) in Durban, South Africa who was leading the fight for the rights of Indian communities against the racism faced by them and police legislation that infringed their Civil liberties. He was seriously impressed by the Doctrine of ahimsa (non-violence) by Gandhiji. He was an integral member of Gandhiji’s ashram in Natal and helped in publication of the magazine (The Indian Opinion). He played a major role in persuading and convincing Gandhiji to return to India in 1915.
Andrews visited Fiji, Kenya and Sri Lanka and many other British colonies to take stock of the conditions and report on the treatment of Indian laborers. He was aghast to see the conditions of indentured Indian laborer’s in Fiji (another British colony then). He interviewed various workers and made a report which highlighted the ill treatment of the laborers which led to the end of further transportation of Indians to British colony in 1917. The system of Indian indentured labour was formally stopped in 1920.
Andrews also had excellent bond with Rabindranath Tagore. He was part of Tagore’s VisvaBharati, the experimental educational institution. A big fan of Tagore’s poetry works, he translated many of Tagore’s work into English. Andrews was given the task of collecting due money from parents of their children who were enrolled in Visva Bharati, but Dinabandhu being kind hearted and compassionate, it is said, he hardly pressurised them and as a result many dues remained unpaid.
He often acted as an intermediary between the British administration and Indian Communities in British colonies.
He was the unifying link between Gandhiji and Tagore. In Gandhiji he saw a leader with the capability to help India gain independence from the British and in Tagore he saw creativity that could make age old conventions stand, survive and progress. It is very interesting to see how the man came initially with perhaps the agenda to spread Christianity but later felt in love and played an active role in India’s struggle for freedom. He was well read and had a deep understanding of Hindu & Buddhist traditions and literature.
Andrews was elected President of the All India Trade Union Congress in 1925 and 1927. A leader against the untouchability, he also worked with BR Ambedkar for formulating the demands for Dalits in 1933.He also wrote about the atrocities against the peaceful Akali Sikh protesters by the British Police.
In 1931, he assisted Gandhi at the Second Round Table Conference in receiving him at London, setting up his office close to the Conference and putting up other logistics. During this time, he wrote letters and gave interviews to the press to highlight Gandhi. In his message to the British government, he had urged them to take the ‘essentially truthful man’ i.e. Gandhi (whom he knew across his 20 years in India) into confidence for right settlement of India’s political issue of freedom. He wrote about Indian developments every now and then for British, American and Canadian news agencies.
Interestingly he was looked upon with suspicion by the Arya Samajists as a “missionary spy’, Also the British colonial administration equally suspected this dhoti clad and Hindi speaking Briton whose name was struck off from the list of fellowship at Punjab University in 2007. His popularity among Indians had led one member in British House of Commons demand his deportation and trial for sedition.
After his versatile role in India’s struggle, he had returned to England in 1935 and came back in 1940. He was ill then and got admitted to Calcutta’s hospital. He refused to receive special treatment and died like a common man. On the day of Andrew’s death Gandhiji told, “I have not known a better man than CFAndrews.”
Tagore also paid a tribute through a song:
Love came to my life/Walking softly, silently/
Love came to my life/I mistook him for a dream/Didn't care to greet him
(translation of the Bengali version )
Andrews, a prolific writer and journalist, he wrote a number of books on India, Gandhi and Christ. The earnings from his autobiography, “What I Owe to Christ” (1932), were donated to Tagore's Santiniketan.
To pay gratitude to Andews , certain institutions have been named Dinabandhu after him. Two undergraduate Colleges of University of Calcutta, the Dinabandhu Andrews College, and the Dinabandhu Institution (Shibpur Dinobundhoo Institution) and one High School in Salimpur area of south Kolkata are named after his name. In South some hospitals have been named as Deenabandhu. One such is Deenabandhu Hospital, Thachampara, Palakkad, Kerala.
There are two versions about his earning the title of Dinabandu (the friend of the down trodden) . One is that Gandhi bestowed it on him .But the other one would say that he earned it in Fiji for his social justice work.
During the celebration of Azadi ki Amrit Mahastov, it is worth remembering this Dinabandhu !
Mr Nitish Nivedan Barik,who hails from Cuttack,Odisha is a young IT professional working as a Senior Developer with Accenture at Bangalore
THE UKRAINE IMBROGLIO: GEOPOLITICS AND SOVEREIGNTY OF A NATION
August 24 happens to be the 31st National Day of Ukraine and the world wishes the Ukrainian spirit of endurance and perseverance to preserve their freedom and sovereignty. Karl Ernst Haushofer (1869-1946), the German General (and Professor of Geography) and one of the fountainheads of Nazi philosophy is back—reincarnated in Russia, the name is Alexander Dugin of Moscow and now the fountainhead of the new Russian Unification under a new Peter the Great and in turn, much like the Trump’s America—it is to Make Russia Great Again (MRGA.
Let me try explaining the complex history of nationalism we live through now. Karl Haushofer was a brilliant academic and in the true German tradition of the 19th century tried to make science out of all humanities, whether history, geography or psychology or politics trained in the great traditions of Humboldt, Karl Ritter and Friedrich Ratzel minus the humanity aspects. However, the Ratzelian determinism, the land and environment as a key element in determining human progress apparently influenced the nationalism in Haushofer and his philosophy of state. The other important influence was of Halford Mackinder, the British professor of geography and political theorist (geo-politics).
Haushofer’s theorisation of the state had five elements:
- State organism: The political state grows out of the nationalistic feeling buttressed by the land and environment bringing in homogeneity in culture and unity of identity, much in the manner of a living organism. Two elements of the organism appears important to the formulation, (a) the organism grows and (b) the Social Darwinism of the success of the more powerful (Survival of the Fittest or Might is Right).
- Lebensraum: Literally means “living space” is an extension of the state organism and that argues that if the state is a living being, it grows and for its growth it would need the living space—around its neighbourhood and thus logically, demanding space from its immediate and weaker neighbour by all means, if required by force and war (Germany’s claims of Gdansk of Poland—thus, the September 19, 1939 beginning of the World War II).
- Autarky: The polity must be self-sufficient—atmanirbhar, in another sense, “anti-globalisation” a philosophy now is common across the globe in many countries, especially the larger ones, closing doors to international trade and commerce (and upturning all comparative advantage theory).
- Pan region (alism): This essentially means, political, economic and strategic influence of the state around its region of influence, more so into areas with ethnic populations in sizeable numbers. Such claims have become louder not just from the powers of the past (Britain and France), but the USA and the challengers like PRC and the Russian Federation into the Pacific, now Indo-Pacific, Central Asia and the Indian Ocean Region and Africa.
- Geo-politics (Geostrategy): Exercise of hegemonic power over weaker neighbours and strategic postures against powerful adversaries (Geopolitics of the Pacific Ocean: Studies in Relationship between Geography and History Tr, Lewiston, New York, 2002). His emphasis was on the sea-power (as against the Heartland theory of Professor Mackinder), that provides the blue navy and a moving frontier to the state to safeguard its strategic interests—something that is quite visible in the contemporary PRC strategy of gaining the second most important Blue Water Navy (after the USA) as opposed to the BWN of the former Soviet Union and the considerable downsizing of the RF Navy after 1990s.
Haushofer’s formulation during the tumultuous inter-War years became elixir to Adolf Hitler and his political formulations in Mein Kampf (1933 Eng.ed.)and the source of Nazi philosophy of ultra-nationalist power politics around a single political figure, Herr Hitler. All owes of Germany of the day was because of the Jews (and necessarily, to be exterminated from Europe). Now, all owes of Russian Federation is because of Ukraine and the Ukrainian Nazis (!) and therefore, need to be exterminated too. Elsewhere, such war cries could be for eliminating the Muslims, the African-Americans in the USA or the Armenians or the Uyghurs and the like. One needs to invent an enemy to rally the nationalists and then march on a pogrom of annihilation or war.
We learn from history, also how to repeat it (to make a farce)—all ultra-nationalists are about living in a golden past—reliving the past is the greatest threat to our present existence. For the Nazis, it was the invented Aryan legacy and for the Russians, the Don-Dnieper heritage and Slavic history, or the pre-history for that matter. What best way therefore, is not to bring back the “living state” and its needs of Lebensraum by discovering the entry by the back door, Alexander Dugin, the principal ideologue of a resurgent Russia with Vladimir Putin at the helm and holding its own mirror to Ukraine as a fascist state!
Alexander Dugin is an academic from Moscow State University but unlike Haushofer is neither a direct political activist nor connected with Russian armed forces and therefore, his credibility flows from the non-political credentials. But non-political is not ‘apolitical’—indeed, very deeply political of philosophy and especially, a dangerous one versus Europe and the rest of the western world. The main tenets of his philosophy flow from apparently three formulations:
- The philosophy of Neo-Eurasianism: It essentially discards Russia’s traditional identification with Europe throughout its modern history, post Peter the Great and consolidation of the Russian Empire during the end of 17th and early 18th centuries. Post-1991 collapse, especially after the influential lecture of Nur Sultan Nazabayev in 1994, calling for the post break-up Republics to look at their Asian heritage than to search for an European one—that Russia can try retrieve its past glory only through solidarity with Asian powers, brotherhood and identity than the European one—an important sore point with Ukraine was its growing European identity than its Asian one. Eurasianism, thus is broadly searching for an Asian identity though located in Europe.
- The Fourth Political Theory: This book of Dugin (2009) lays the philosophical foundation much like Haushofer his notion of the living state (state organism), though through a different phenomenalist philosophy of Heidegger, the concept of Dasein (sein: being), literally mean “being where”, the ontological identity formation of the individual, then the community and the state for that matter. It rejects liberal democracy, dictatorship, communism and fascism—but, in a pragmatic sense is rootless—without a foundation to ground a state and sustain it—all living states need the ground. It is farther from the historical “geo-body”, a nationhood seeking a ground. Here, the ground defines the nationhood—falling back on deterministic geography of Ratzel and by the same logic Haushoferian nationalism.
- National Bolshevism (NazBols): Thus, the answer to (ii) lies in this ultra-nationalist stance, of unifying and influencing and controlling all Russian concentrations outside Russia, whether in former Soviet Republics and no doubt much in Ukraine itself. The historical territory of the Ruskies had been around the Black sea, Crimea and Don-Dnieper interfluves. Thus, what else but to destroy a pretentious European Ukraine seeking NATO umbrella and retrieve both the Slavic and Asian identities by severing its connections, physical, economic and cultural with Europe and the West. PRC, India, Turkey, the Saudi Arabia, Iran and African nations are better bet than the snobbish Europe and its liberal culture and a decadent democracy(!).
What stakes does India have in the raging conflict? India being an old friend and a big-time customer of Russian arms has been restrained with an apparent balance between our western partners and Russia, especially the Chinese simian on our back—the mighty Himalayas no more looking protector against the Chinese, the spectre of 1962 still hurtful in our national psyche. At one time though the Tsarist Russia desperately looked for a route to the Indian Ocean through the South Asian corridor for geo-strategic reasons, but now the Russian solidarity also seeks out India, both as a market for its enormous natural resources and also to seek out great industrial potentials and trained manpower India possesses. Now, PRC has usurped the Pakistan’s South Asian route with CPEC under B&R programme. Russia earlier has burnt its fingers quite deep in the Afghan mis-adventure of the 1970s and 80s and Iran, is too Islamic and powerful for any foray in the direction of the Gulf. The Black Sea outlet to Mediterranean and to the Indian Ocean was snatched badly with the emergence of Ukraine as an independent nation. For a resurrecting power under Putin, Ukraine has been a geostrategic imperative with its new-born positioning of Eurasianism. It is Time to retrieve all that by denying Ukraine of its nationhood—that is NazBol for you—with the capital Z in the front.
Avaya C Mohapatra is a Retired Professor, Served North Eastern Hill University, Shillong (July 1976- September, 2017). He is a freelancer in academic writing and a blogger (acmohapatra.blogspot.com). He can be reached via email: acmohapatradr@gmail.com.
BOOK REVIEW
THE CUCKOO SINGS AGAIN by HEMA RAVI
I picked up the colourful slim book titled "The Cuckoo Sings Again", by Hema Ravi.
The author straddles multiple roles - poet, writer, reviewer (to name a few) - with elan. A good administrator, she nurtures many aspiring poets and writers and hones their creative skills esp youngsters.
The layout of the book is unique, and each story is laced with a picture to suit the story line, while a few poems have been introduced in some stories to make it more meaningful or to drive home the essence of the story. A few quotes add clarity to the message in the story.
I guessed that the title must relate to one of the short stories in the book. I moved to the contents and located the story from the list of sixteen short stories.
This story talks about Seena, who silently handles deftly, the travails in her daily chores but not finding time for her passion to blossom. Until one day, listening to a very popular tamil song in Carnatic, being played in a radio from a road side tea stall, she too involuntarily starts to sing loudly, not realising she was on the road. This drew 'tremendous applause from a few morning walkers. This brought out a spring in her step, singing along to her heart's content. All the others had no choice but to listen to the cuckoo's song'.
This rang a bell in me. On analysing the cover picture I visualise that the picture depicts a woman as a broad tree, with the outstretched arms representing the branches of the tree, which effortlessly balances her daily chores, she addresses, while carefully nurturing her family under her umbrella. Perched on her arm is a silent Cuckoo, waiting for the opportune moment to break into a fitting melody.
Needless to say, the protagonists in the first few stories represent the Cuckoo who find avenues at some point in their lives to showcase the latent talent, when the opportunities present itself.
Nupur, the introvert, finds her voice in 'An Orator is Born' and her speeches send the audiance into rapture. Brimming with confidence, she extols, 'Hold on to your dreams, dream big and achieve them all, little by little'.
Due to force of circumstances, Thangamma who works in a crematorium in 'Beyond Stereotypes' is not able to make both ends meet but she yearns to provide a better life for her young child. Due to a sudden turn of events, she is blessed with a windfall and a mentor, which helps her to plan for a better life for her son even though it means a sad parting.
Saudamini, the protagonist in 'Quintessential Woman' hones her skill in her culinary capabilities and becomes an expert and much sought after. This inspires her to share her recipes in print and convert it into a commercial proposition, which improves her financial independence.
Some of the stories touch the emotional chord very strongly.
'The Train Journey' depicts the perceived pangs of fear/ dangers lurking in the minds of the mother at night, while travelling all alone with two infants on a long train journey.
The Cuckoo in Seena, shares her tumultuous life's journey with Ranga, her school mate and now the Principal of the institution (sharing on his retirement), in which she's the Vice Principal in 'Survival Against Odds'.
Our Indian culture of sharing, espoused even in not well to do families, is very well portrayed in 'Atithi Devo Bhava'.
The emotional bonding and family ties is well documented in 'Letter from Mother to Daughter' and adds variety in presentation.
Our Indian tradition and culture of enjoying a meal on a banana leaf is well brought out, with scientific reasoning in the story 'At The Wedding Hall', which readers will cherish.
'Lessons from Children' provides snippets on the capabilities of children, which most of us fail to recognise and appreciate.
'The Red Car' takes the reader on a ride with the twenty two month Adhya, 'excited at the assortment of vehicles and sights ahead'.
Cheating and dishonesty, in later years, between so called friends right from school days is the theme in 'Obsessions Stain' which concludes with the message 'Cheating on a good person is like throwing away a diamond and picking up a rock'.
The irreparable loss of young Narain in an accident, leaving the parents Parvathi and Mahadeven, grieving, is brought out as an anecdote in 'Memories in a Slate', with a very touching poem handwritten on a slate by Narain as an epithet.
The popular story of King Midas is elaborated in 'Fairy Tale Retold : The Golden Statue'.
The purchase of sarees from shops was an event in itself in those bygone days and the anecdote is well pictured in 'Nostalgia', with a twist at the end.
The age old adage'Adversity brings out the best in you', is the message in 'A Thief Meets ;His Mettle', where Parvathi braves the odds to scare away an intruder out to snatch her mangalsutra.
To sum up, the stories are based on real- life incidents, with occasional twists and turns that are fictional and carry a distinct message.
There is a latent Cuckoo in each one of us, which is bound to sing at some stage in our lives.
After reading this collection of short stories, the Cuckoo in me has awakened to pen this review.
My best wishes to the author Hema Ravi.
S. Sundar Rajan is a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy. He is a published poet and writer. His collection of short stories in English has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada and Gujarati. His stories translated in Tamil have been broadcast in community radios in Chennai
and Canada. He was on the editorial team of three anthologies, Madras Hues, Myriad Views, Green Awakenings, and Literary Vibes 100. He has published a unique e anthology, wherein his poem in English "Full Moon Night" has been translated into fifteen foreign languages and thirteen Indian regional languages.
An avid photographer and Nature lover, he is involved in tree planting initiatives in his neighbourhood. He lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon.
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.
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