PUJA SPECIAL
Title of the Painting: EXPRESSIONS OF DEVI
Each day of Navratri is dedicated to the various avatars of Goddess Durga with different colors and expressions. Yellow symbolizes that omnipotent Devi abiding in the form of Memory, green - in the Source of Life, grey - in a form of Peace, orange - in the form of Motherhood, white - in the form of Modesty, red - in the form of Power, blue - in the form of Forbearance, pink - in the form of Prosperity and purple - in the form of Wisdom.
Each form she takes over the 9 days is showcased and mirrors the roopams in the shloka Devi Suktam.
Ms Neeraja Sundar Rajan is a healthcare professional with a Masters in Chemical Engineering. She is multifaceted with a passion for art and Carnatic Music. She is an animal lover and cares deeply about their welfare.
Dear Friends,
I have great pleasure in offering you a Special Edition of LiteraryVibes on the occasion of the holy festival of Dussehra. Hope the brilliant and entertaining stories contained in this Puja Special will fill your holidays with abundant joy.
Please share the link https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/457 with your friends and contacts in true festive spirit.
Your feedback and comments will undoubtedly bring a smile to the writers. Please use the Comments box at the bottom of the page for the same.
Let me wish you a Happy Dussehra. This is the beginning of the festive season, with Sharad Purnima, Deepavali, Christmas and New Year waiting around the corner. May you have lots of joy and tons of blessings in the coming days.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: PUJA SPECIAL
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
WHO WAS KAKOLI?
02) Sreekumar K
MISS YOU
03) Ajay Upadhyaya
TO SPEAK OR NOT TO …
04) Ishwar Pati
THE EXQUISITE BLISS OF DUNKED BISCUITS
05) Chinmayee Barik
A CUP OF SUGAR
06) Krupasagar Sahoo
DIDI FROM DUM DUM
07) Prasanna Dash
ANADI SARDAR
08) Meena Mishra
WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH?
09) Jairam Seshadri
BOZO AND WIZO AT THE FANTASY ISLAND ZOO
10) Satya N. Mohanty
WHEN GOD WAS A BUSINESSMAN
11) Sundar Rajan S
THE CAR RIDE
12) Shruti Sarma
DEVI
13) Sulochana Ram Mohan
RECIPE FOR A FAMILY DRAMA
14) Punyasweta Mohanty
THE UNDEAD
15) Gita Bharath
LOCKDOWN TIMES
16) G K Maya
TRANCE
17) Archee Biswal
NATURE’S BEST FRIEND
18) Subha Bharadwaj
NAVARATHRI
19) Prof. (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
AS YOU WISH O MOTHER DIVINE!
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE EMBER
WHO WAS KAKOLI?
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
‘KAKOLI’, as a word, means ‘the sweet chirping of a song bird or chirruping of birds collectively’. For knowing Kakoli, as a person, a girl, or a woman, one is to listen to at least two personal reflections.
***
Anubhuti’s Story –
I came to Banaras to work as an IT engineer. Before that, I knew the city as the seat of Lord Kasi Vishwanath. I knew this old city also for its famous ghats on the holy Ganga where corpses were brought from far and near for cremation, as those holy ghats on the river Ganga were believed to be gateways to heaven.
My love for the city, however, was for a different reason. My mother was sent here by her in-laws’ family after she became a widow around thirteen years ago. She had to live here and was supposed to be conducting penance for her sins that had brought her the widowhood as a divine punishment upon her. She, in my understanding, had been a sinless woman all her life.
By my twenty-second birthday, I had an IT Engineering degree and a campus selection in my portfolio by an IT company. I had made a specific request at the time, if selected, my posting might be considered for the IT compay’s branch in the city of Banaras. My attraction was to stay in the same city where my mother had been living.
After I came to the holy city, I found my mother living like a shadow of herself in a widow shelter home under the management of a monk who ran a monastery also. I learnt from my mother the painful journey of her life moving from the small town, Naihati, in Bengal on the bank of the holy Ganga to an alien coastal village in Odisha after getting married there, and then moving finally to Banaras as a widow for doing penance.
She showed me the secret postcard size photograph of her heartthrob, and to my surprise, the man in the photograph was not my father. The fellow in the photograph looked like any of my handsome college day male friends. He had a lean face with a suspicion of soft facial sprouts on the chin and a shock of bushy black hair on his head. He was smiling in a vague way. But he had remarkable shining eyes.
The same photograph, I recalled, she had shown me at the time of her departure from my paternal village in Odisha for Banaras as a young widow. I had been a girl of nine at the time, and hardly understood the significance of what she had babbled to me about it.
I would recall from my childhood, she had been a constant babbler in my father’s house, but because of the low volume it was difficult to understand what she was saying. All her in-laws disliked her, but my father loved her. He was much older to her. He would call her affectionately ‘Meri Pagli’, meaning ‘my mad woman’.
At Banaras, she told me all about that boy in the photograph claiming that he had been her heartthrob all along from her unmarried years, and she loved him to that day.
She whispered to me one day that I was the fruit of that nubile love between her and the boy in that photograph. I was dumbstruck to know that my father Dhanwantari Das was not my biological father, but instead, it was one Subbu alias Subrat Mukherji. She also told me about her tragic life-story, the turn of events that had suddenly whisked her away to Odisha from her Bengal home to marry an aged stranger in an alien land. She cried like a child in my lap for her Subbu.
She had whispered pointing to the young fellow in the photograph, “This is your papa, your real papa. Danwantari only married my body, but my soul was already married to Subbu. You know, you came inside me in a dark wet bathroom that was illuminated only by the heavenly chandeliers of our love, Subbu’s and mine. In that happiest hour we were on a slippery wet floor like a pair of mermaid and merman.”
She would add with a smile, “In fact, your father, Subbu, on entering the bathroom, had the first impression that I was a mermaid that had escaped from the nearby Ganga and had taken shelter in our bathroom.”
To my question, “Why didn’t you marry Subbu?” She would shrug her shoulders, “He went away to Bombay after his holiday to join college. I bore his memory in my loving womb. Then your grandma died and my uncles sold me forcibly to an agent. I sent a letter to Subbu but no reply came. I was married off that very month. Dhanwantari my husband never guessed I was pregnant. He accepted you as his child.”
She would lower her voice further, “Subbu had kept a name for me that he used in our private meetings.” To my inquiry about that name, she would shy away, “Ish..ishish.., don’t ask. I won’t tell you. I am bound by my oath to Subbu not to tell it to anyone.”
Then turning serious, “If you ever find your father, don’t forget to tell him that his wife and soul-mate ‘Mouli’ had transformed the dream into reality, the dream seen together. I have named his daughter as agreed between us. Also, tell him that his child-wife Mouli treasured his memory to her last breath and remained loyal to him.” I thought my mother and her Subbu might have pre-agreed to name me ‘Anubhuti’.”
She would often walk her memory lanes, “The people of Odisha are heartless, otherwise, why should Dhanwantari Das buy me, a girl from Bengal, to marry when he had two wives already? And when I became a widow for none of my fault, why should my in-laws send me to Banaras to live in a widow home, beg for my food and do penance for sins that I never committed?”
Then her voice would turn angry, “In fact, my greedy in-laws were afraid, I might ask for a slice of the late Danwantari’s vast property as his third widow. How did his two senior widows live there as sinless women? It was because they were from the local Odia stock with maternal family living in nearby villages and would not tolerate injustice to them. But I was a poor Bengali orphan bought by Dhanwantari to marry from a marriage-broker. Ha!”
I learnt that like all other widows driven out of homes and gathering at holy cities like Banaras, my mother lived in the dormitory of a widow home, paying for her stay and food from her alms that she collected from begging at different temples.
I learnt from my mother the misery of widows that chased them their whole lives, at their own houses after the husband’s death, then at the holy places where they were sent. They were sometimes victims of sex-rackets at the hands of fake-holy men, at times willingly in exchange of a little better amenities of life, but mostly forced into it. Their female body was their enemy.
I decided, along with a few of my like-minded friends, to start an NGO for alleviating the condition of widows. We started planning, collecting from crowd funding, and saving funds for it. I thought that would be the best gift from me to my mother.
I had to pay a little to the monastery authority to free my mother from her from them. She came to live with me in my rented two-room accommodation. By then, she was suffering from an ulcerated stomach developed and worsened by prolonged starvation and anxiety. She would at times mumble about her grandma’s generous ways, and eating with her the crispy kachoris with succulent rasgullas at her grandma’s house.
She would whisper, “You look like my split image, my child, in every respect except my eyes. Your eyes are pretty like your father’s, not ordinary like mine.” I couldn’t find anything special about my eyes in the mirror.
After living around five years with me, she took to bed because of malfunctioning of various body parts because of earlier long neglect, and in a year, she peacefully passed away in my lap, clutching to her lover’s photograph to her bosom. I got her cremated at Manikarnika Ghat as per her wish.
I had the consolation of giving her, at least in the last few years of her life some comfort and dignity as a woman and mother, at home with her daughter, and her love and attention. I put my mother’s treasured photo of Subbu into a small decorative frame and kept it by her photograph on my study table along with mine.
I would go and spend some time, once or twice every week, on the steps of Manikarnika Ghat by the Ganga where my mother had been cremated, to think of her. One day, an uncle, looking like a tramp, wearing a pair of creased and soiled jeans with a half-sleeve shirt with flying unkempt salt-pepper hair, came running from the top of the steps, shouting, “Kakoli, O’ Kakoli, my Kakoli….” I got startled and stood up.
But he stopped short of taking me into his open arms, stood transfixed, and blurted out sadly, “I am so sorry my child, to have startled you. No, you are not Kakoli. You just resemble her from a distance, but your eyes are not as lovely as hers. Also, you are too young, just a kid, to be my Kakoli. She would be around your mother’s age, late forties. Anyway, I know she is no more and the registers here confirmed that she has been cremated here. Sorry, my child.”
At once his looks struck a note. I guessed, perhaps, I had met my father Subbu. His age and neglect had ravaged his visage. But from his features, he seemed to be the exact grownup version of my mother’s heart throb in the photograph. Rising anger in me for the man, who had left my mother in a lurch, was choking me with abuses that I wanted to hurl to his face. He perhaps stayed away because of this ‘Kakoli’, and didn’t even respond to my mother’s distressed letter.
Had he another affair with ‘Kakoli’ after leaving my mother, Mouli, at Naihati? Or was it the name of his runaway wife whose body was cremated at Manikarnika ghat? I walked away from the ugly scene, leaving him to his devices.
Surprisingly, I found him there on the same spot on the Ganga-ghat each time I went there during my intermittent visits. As if, he was coming there and waiting for me the whole day, every day, just to have a look at me who had a distant resemblance with his Kakoli. The moment he would cast his eyes on me, his whole visage would light up with a rare shine, people associated such flushed state with epiphany-experiences.
But slowly, the man’s politeness and misery won me over. We became friendly. At least for my sake, he started keeping himself clean, washed, brushed and attired decently. He was not poor. He had just lost the fun of living. He was slowly opening up to me. He had a way of talking haltingly and disjointedly.
I had already learnt that his line was IT, the same as mine, and had collected information that he had been considered a genius of IT sector and he lived in Mumbai. I had to piece together what he said into a coherent narrative to understand it logically. Let me narrate his story as spoken by him, in first person, by stringing together his disjointed utterances and putting aside his intermittent fantasies and self-flagellations as far as possible.
Subbu’s Story -
I lived in Bombay, a kid of six by the name Subbu, with my parents and paternal grandma. My grandfather had passed away, I knew him only from his large garlanded portrait photo, hanging in our sitting room. He was white dhoti-kurta clad like any Benali bhadrolok, or a gentleman of Bengali Stock, that he was.
I studied in St. Joseph’s High School in Wadala located at a stone's throw from our bungalow by the Five Gardens area. I was enrolled as Subrat Mukherji, a rather grand sounding name for the little kid Subbu. During my initial days in school, when the teacher madam roll-called ‘Subrat Mukherji’, I would not respond until my bench-mate jabbed me in my ribs.
I was the only child of my parents. That made me sad and a lonely kid. My grandma was my only playmate those days. I was a nervous child. I presume, that made me stammer a lot and talk in a halting manner. In school days it brought me frequent punishments but later people in my vicinity considered it as a trait of my being a genius, a mannerism common to many super-intelligent people. Even ‘Mouli’ said so. (Here I, Anubhuti, would think, the fellow at least can recall my mother’s name!)
We lived in a rented old bungalow owned by a Parsee gentleman, Khosravi uncle, who was my father’s chum, a very close friend. The arrangement was a Pagree system of the Metropolitan Rent Rule. The Parsee uncle was not married and his parents had died long ago. He had no siblings or relatives. He would visit us in all festive occasions, enjoying it with us like a cousin.
Once the Parsee uncle fell very ill. We took care of him at our home and then put him to a hospital. During his hospital days, he expressed his desire to do a will of the bungalow bequeathing its ownership to myfather. But my father was a man of ramrod principles in matters of dignity and fair play. The Parsee uncle’s offer received no response from him.
My practical mother however was furious for my father’s non-committal gesture. But her ‘meow’ was silenced before my father’s ‘roar’, “Won’t it look like a quid pro quo for the little care that we are extending to him when he is so unwell?”
Then he would reason with my mother, “Listen my Lata. If I say ‘yes’, it would appear that all our care and attention for him is for acquiring his bungalow, which is not a fact at all. If I say ‘no’, it may hurt his dignity, as he is an honorable man. He may consider our care for him like a charity bestowed on a helpless man. He may be crushed under the burden of obligation. To keep quiet, saying neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’, would therefore be the best course.”
I would feel proud of my father for not only taking care of our family dignity, but also caring for the dignity of the Parsee uncle, an outsider to our family. That left an indelible mark on my conscience, I think, and I have tried to live to that benchmark my entire life, a ramrod fairness. (Here, I, Anubhuti, would think, “Where was your sense of fair-play Subbu, when you probably left my mother, Mouli, in a lurch for your ‘Kakoli’?”)
Our relatives from my father’s side, lived at our ancestral place, Naihati, a small town in Bengal, on the bank of the river Hooghly, considered the same as holy Ganga. The small town was around fifty kilometers from the city of Calcutta. There lived my two married cousins, my father’s nephews, much older to me.
There we had a one-storey brick house on an acre of homestead land. The compound with a low boundary brick-wall had a lily-pond, coconut trees besides a few Mango and Chikoo fruit (sapodilla) trees. A riot of jasmine bushes kept the compound fragrant through the year. We had also a few acres of rice fields in the outskirts of Naihati. Both the house and the farm land were looked after by my cousins.
I would notice my mother not treating my grandma well. That often choked our household with sulks of my grandma. My mother’s behavior towards her was like a slow poison, doses of abuse every day. It was killing my grandma slowly. Finally, grandma expressed her wishes to leave Mumbai and live in our Naihati house. She brought it up very obliquely taking care not to hurt my father’s or my sentiment. But we two knew where the shoe was pinching.
I had just got promoted to my sixth standard. I sadly observed that all commiserations of my father with his mother and wife had failed. I had considered my father as the best negotiator who could reason with any adversary, and I would hold him almost equal to Don Vito Corleone of the ‘The Godfather’ fame, who could, the novel said, reason even with a dead man to rise from his casket. But for the first time I saw defeat writ large on my father’s face. He looked ill at ease, rather squirming with embarrassment helplessly before me, his son and his mother.
Finally, my father left for Naihati with my grandma to get her settled there safely and comfortably, perhaps, he wanted his mother to live away from his wife’s slow poisoning. When he returned a month later, he looked like having grown twenty years older.
After that he talked to all only the bare minimum, mostly in monosyllables. He had apparently left behind at Naihati three quarters of his heart with his mother, especially the quarters of his heart that loved food, jokes, family life, and his hobby of reading. I found him like a peanut shell without its nuts. He just lived with one quarter of his heart that kept beating to keep him alive.
Father would bring grandma to Bombay if she got unwell, get her treated by the best doctors, get her back to health, and drop her back at Naihati personally. I loved those visits of grandma, quite a few times a year. During those comings and goings, grandma would talk a lot about a girl, Mouli, almost of my age, who was adopted by grandma. In fact, Mouli was grandma’s granddaughter by distant relations and had become an orphan a few years earlier.
She would always have a few words of praise for the precocious child, Mouli, who was put by Grandma into a nice local high-school. She was studying in standard nine, a class lower to my tenth standard. She had stood first in her class when getting promoted from her standard eight to nine. Grandma would regale me with Mouli’s naughty antics.
When I had completed my Matriculation examination of the tenth standard, grandma was returning to Naihati from Bombay after a stint of treatment. I expressed my desire to spend that summer vacation with grandma at Naihati. My father was very happy, as he always wanted me not to forget my native Bengali roots and links. I accordingly boarded the Mumbai-Calcutta Mail along with my grandma for Naihati.
After getting down from train at the Howrah Railway Station, we took a taxi to Naihati sent for us by Mouli. When we arrived at the Naihati house, a dusky, slim, tall girl with chiseled features and a sweet husky voice, clad in a sari-blouse ensemble in Bengali style, opened the gate of the compound for us. There was no need for formal introduction. I knew she was Mouli, and she knew I was Subbu. My grandma had been sounding her about my accompanying her over the telephone before we departed from Bombay.
A smile of greetings was exchanged between me and Mouli, my smile was open and frank, hers, shy but with a hint of tease, as if saying, “Hello, smart Alec city boy! Keep your legs hidden. If I find one, I will pull it.” Her unspoken words didn’t escape my amused eyes. My silent mocking smile teased her back, “Let’s see how long you wear your ‘Plain Jane’ shirt sleeves. My name is not Subbu, if I will not bring the naughty little brute out in the open soon!”
The fragrance of a riot of jasmine bushes that perfumed the air, welcomed me and led me inside the compound and elicited a ‘Wah!’ from me. We entered the front room and a faint breath of jasmine was hanging in the air like an invisible mist, either filtering from the outdoor bushes, or emanating from a thick string of jasmines worn by Mouli in her hair. Defying my young scientific mind, I felt a strong magnetic force in Mouli for the iron contents of my inner being. For no apparent reason we looked at each other repeatedly and our eyes locked each time.
From the day one, Mouli took over to be my raconteur about Naihati town and my tease to keep me amused. She would tell me all that were of fun to her childish minds, such as pleasure of swimming in the Hooghly River, the incomparable taste of Hooghly Hilsa fish, eating the local spicy Kachori with juicy sweet soft Rasgulla etc.
When I said that fine bones of Hilsa fish were beyond me, Mouli teased, “Ish..ish.., my smart city boy!”, but then she added giggling, “The nibble fingers of this foolish small town girl would teach the dumb ones of the smart city boy the fine art of eating Hilsa.” In fact, the Hilsa brought us closer when, while looking for Hilsa bones in fish curry, our fingers entwined naughtily.
We became friends, and I kept a new name for Mouli that I would use between us only and extracted an oath from her not to divulge it to anyone, not even our grandma. She would jump into my arms whenever we were alone. Hilsa and hugs were our first steps of falling in love. Grandma would be vastly amused by our mutual liking.
One afternoon, grandma was visiting her lawyer. Mouli was home because of a local holiday in her high-school. She was tinkering around inside the house with some work grandma had given her and I was finishing a Bengali novel lying in a hammock on the outside veranda.
After the excitement of the climax in a situation of magic-realism, the hot and sweaty day drove me indoors to have a cool shower. Wrapped in a towel, I entered the semi-dark bathroom. Inside, I took the towel off and hanged it on a peg. I turned around to the shower-corner but had the shock of my life.
There stood a mermaid by the wall in the semi-dark. The mermaid’s torso was of a human-size silver-colored fish, topped with a woman’s face, as a mermaids looked in fairy tales. It had upper two flippers and it stood on its two tail-fins.
But my spell broke as eyes adjusted to the dark. It was Mouli standing, her lower half above the breast level wrapped in a wet white Turkish towel, giving the impression of a fish-torso in the dark, as did her hands and feet that of fish-flippers and tail-fins. Her coming out after her shower and my entering had coincided at the door. So, she had retreated back to the wall.
That moment served as our moment of reckoning. Inexplicably, Mouli’s towel slipped from its knot to the ground making her stark naked. Gasping in panic, she sat down in a heap, as did I did the same thing simultaneously to hide my nudity from her.
What followed next however was a heavenly course in any human annals that rewrote our destiny. The next one hour on the wet slippery bath floor was an awakening and ecstasy for both of us. Two mer-people, a merman with his mermaid, wallowed on a wet dark slippery floor in heavenly joy.
I would recall later that this tryst with destiny in our lives made us inseparable forever, binding us in an invisible bond of unexpressed commitment. We were head over heels in mutual love. Our coy behavior and magnetic attraction seemed to dismay the old relative; our grandma, who seemed happy as well as worried.
I returned to Mumbai after spending a month with grandma and Mouli. I had left a postcard size photograph of mine with her and carried to Bombay a similar photograph of Mouli as her memory. Years ago, my father had left behind three-quarters of himself at Naihati with his mother, but I returned leaving all of my heart’s four chambers with my Mouli back in Bengal. I felt terribly lonely and unhappy at Bombay.
A few days after my arrival in Bombay, I overheard my father talking to grandma over phone. I could make out that they were discussing about a match-making between me and Mouli for marriage. My joy knew no bounds.
But my spirits sagged when my father concluded, “Ma, Subbu is too young to marry now. He would need time to finish his studies and settle down. I agree with you, ma, it would be a very good match. But all in its own time, please.” But I hoped all would be well in due course.
Grandma came for treatment to Bombay, turned serious and was hospitalized. She passed away leaving us all heartbroken. Father sent a messenger to bring Mouli to take part in our family mourning and to stay with us to continue her studies as she had no support after grandma’s demise. But the messenger returned without Mouli.
He brought a very disturbing news. Mouli was not there and my cousins told him that after the news of grandma’s death reached Naihati, the maternal uncles of Mouli took her away. But after a few months of my worried waiting for news about Mouli, a news sadder than grandma’s death shattered me.
I heard my father reporting to my mother, “See Lata, the bad luck of the orphan. Her cousin uncles sold her for a price to a marriage-broker who in turn sold her to a rich man, Danwantari Das, in an Odisha village. Dhanwantari Das, a rich man of her father’s age, has married Mouli. What a travesty!”
I went berserk after hearing the news. I would know later that I suffered from a severe nervous breakdown and underwent a year long Psychiatric treatment to return to a state they called ‘lucid but wobbly’.
In fact, I felt I was an automaton humanoid, a digitized machine tool, a robot. I rejoined my studies. I restarted where I had left. My teachers were dumbfounded, “Subrat has developed capabilities of a genius. He had been just good at studies earlier, now his faculties are super-human. He seems having a supercomputer’s memory bank and the innovative power of the great mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan. We presume, the medicines while repairing his brain have rewired it to greatness.”
I heard the praise but felt no jubilation. My parents were temporarily jubilant but slowly I noticed them talking with dismay. My mother was saying, “This Subbu is not our old Subbu, but a stranger. He is so indifferent and callous towards all except his studies. Perhaps, grandma’s death has brought the change.” Then I saw my father shake his head like a man absent there, and muttering to himself, “No, it is for Mouli.”
That very soliloquy of my father brought Mouli back to my mind and I cried and cried for days together missing my classes. I was allowed my ways. Tears were great healers. Crying nonstop helped to connect, less with the living world but more with a world of nostalgia and fantasizing, often, bordering the supernatural. My professors reported, day by day, my brain was getting stronger and pithier, more innovative. I had a supper connect with computers.
I was selected to enter the Computer Engineering degree course at MIT, Pune, and passed out as the topper of my batch, breaking all earlier records. I had another course on scholarship in USA with top results. Returning to India I joined a top IT company. I was called a walking, talking and thinking robot, knew nothing about real life, but all about hardware and software. My programing expertise for my company’s clients in India and abroad brought applause to my employers in Mumbai.
I cultivated my secret world behind everybody’s back, to which now had joined the souls of my Parsi uncle, my grandma, father, and mother. The last two having passed away, one following the other, when I was in USA. I had not come from USA to attend to their last rites because both of their souls came there to me in USA after their deaths and we had a gala time in my room.
In my secret world, Mouli was always there by my side. She would sit on an arm of my chair or on my lap, and would whisper me the solution when I would be racking my brain on a programing issue. It was strange, for she had not studied any computer course. But if I confided in anyone about her supernatural help, he took it as blabbering. So, I learnt to keep my experiences to myself.
In the meantime, Bombay had changed into Mumbai; and I had a meteoric rise in my IT company’s hierarchy to become its Managing Director in a little more than ten years. I had now to report to the founder- chairman of the company only. I didn’t know why, but various media reports would portray me as a cranky computer genius. Breaking a taboo of a superstition among IT engineers, I tackled hardware as well as software with equal dexterity like a rare Medicine-cum-Surgery-cum-Psychiatry expert in medical parlance.
I took my company to one of the best levels of excellence in the world digital arena. But I had little social respect in my neighborhood. My neighbors rumored that I walked all night in our rambling old mansion muttering to myself. In fact, I was suffering from chronic insomnia, and putting my sleepless hours to better use. I kept myself busy in creating new and advanced logic gates and composing algorithm in my mind for my software experiments.
Of course, I admit, often I discussed things with my Mouli who helped me in my advanced computer experiments. People took it as talking to space and the starting of madness
My bungalow lying in disrepair got submerged in a jungle of planted flower beds, trees and all-pervading weeds in its compound: dead, dying, growing, depending on seasonal and unseasonal rains. I had little time for those trivial details. I found this natural turn of events rather more interesting and to my liking.
Indoors, the house was kept clean and a little food was cooked for me by my old house-maid who was appointed as a young woman by my mother. The walls were peeling, windows boarded-up to prevent falling down out of disrepair. My neighbors, on their own accord, got my bungalow a new name as ‘Bhoot Kothi’, or ‘haunted house’, though its proud nameplate read ‘Khosravi House’, Khosravi being name of the original owner.
At around that most disturbed time of my life, when I had stepped into my late forties, I got news from one of my Calcutta contacts that Mouli, my heart throb, had passed away of tuberculosis at Banaras. I could not make out how and why at Banaras, because she had been married in Odisha? I was also told she had left behind her daughter who had joined an IT company at Banaras.
I was missing Mouli by my side for the last few months and was heartbroken. Now her absence by me, made sense. But why didn’t her soul come to the secret world of my grandma, Khosravi uncle, and my parents. I strongly desired to go and persuade Mouli’s soul at Banaras and convince her to come with me to Mumbai, now that she was free from her marital encumbrances.
I also, felt a strong urge to find out Mouli’s daughter at that holy city, she would carry at least some of Mouli’s magnetic powers for the iron contents in my inner being and would feel my presence in some uncanny way. I also decided to look for her in all IT related firms.
As both my two projects were likely to take time and attention, I begged my chairman for a year’s sabbatical, and he said, “Go ahead my boy, enjoy and know the life that lie outside the bits and bytes. You would be welcome back, anytime you decide to return. I have just chosen you as my successor in the company and the bequeathing deed, signed by me and all the directors and registered, is lying with our company’s law firm. It was supposed to be your surprise gift on your birthday next month. But as you would be away, here is a self-attested Xerox copy for you.”
Anubhuti’s Story Continues -
When I put together the odds and ends of the mad uncle’s story into a coherent chain, my guess, that he could be my biological father, became confirmed. But the name ‘Kakoli’, possibly the woman who made him ditch my mother, remained a blot on his character that I couldn’t overcome. I therefore couldn’t reveal to him that I was not only his Mouli’s daughter he had been searching but also, I was his own daughter.
He had failed to find Mouli’s daughter in any of the small and big IT firms around the city of Varanasi, because he had no references like her name, her father’s name etc. Only Mouli’s reference elicited little response. Also, his unkempt appearance and halting and mumbling way of talking were his bane. He would also avoid giving his real identity that could be of great help.
We met almost every other day at Manikarnika Ghat and spent friendly hours. The days he didn’t meet me, he would tell me, were ironically spent in searching Mouli’s daughter, i. e. me-myself, out of the holy city’s crowd. It pained me but ‘Kakoli’ still influenced me not to help him in his search.
But once his absence lingered on and on. The third day of his disappearance, I started a search for him in nearby lodges. I found him suffering from malaria and lying very ill in his bed in one decrepit lodge. Fearing the worst, I forcibly took him home. I put him in my outer room, in the same bed where my mother had slept. He was delirious with fever but sniffing the clean bed immediately reacted, “Kokoli, are you around?” I took it to be his delirious mind and ‘Kakoli’ made me angry again.
He recovered quickly. One morning he made tea in the morning before I left bed and carried the tray with our cups to my bedside in the inner room. To his call I got up and gratefully accepted the cup from his hand.
He sat down on a side chair to sip his tea. His eyes fell on the photograph of my mother by my own and young Subbu’s photos. I found his face flush with a rare light and eyes well up with tears. “Kakoli” he shouted at my mother’s photograph, got up, put his cup with a shaking hand on the table. He took my mother’s photo from the table and sobbed like a child over it, repeating, “Kakoli…. Kakoli…. Kakoli….”
He then looked at me and perhaps noticing the resemblance again and putting two and two together, he came to me with open arms. By then I had realized that Kakoli was the secret name that Subbu had lovingly kept for my mother, Mouli, because of her melodious voice. I responded jumping into his arms.
I whispered into his ears, “Papa”. His eyes went up in surprise. I told him, “My mama said you put me in her mermaid womb on a wet and dark bathroom floor, and she named me ‘Anubhuti’ as agreed by you both. She loved you to her last breath, lying and breathing her last on the same bed you are sleeping these days. That’s why my papa, you found its smell familiar, even the faint smell after the laundry. Perhaps love is like that.” He looked like the happiest papa in the World and simply said, “Anu, pack up, we are living. My sabbatical is over.”
***
The old genius is back in his den. As well his great organized and logical mind. Our bungalow in Mumbai has been added with many rooms and lot of living space, hosting around a hundred of dispossessed widows and above the big letters of ‘Khosvavi House’, the billboard of the bungalow has been painted with ‘KAKOLI WIDOW NEST’ with still bigger letters.
Our trust, in which I and my father are also trustees, finances the Kakoli Widow nest for their living with dignity. The widows self-manage themselves. We, father and daughter, live in a small flat, built over the bungalow. Subrat Mukherji is so busy these days in pampering and spoiling his new found little Anubhuti, yours truly, besides his ‘Kakoli Widow Nest’ and his chairmanship that he has little time for his secret world.
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.
For days I had been romancing that fancy vase.
On my way to the office, every morning and evening as the bus slugged beyond the water works office to a stop, I eagerly looked out to see it was still there.
I never missed it. It sat right there on the pavement along with an assortment of other pottery. A family, nomads for sure, of three old women and two young men, was there. An old woman and a young man were in charge of sales while the other three were tinkering with the unfinished products.
They probably slept on the pavement, ate what they cooked there used the street tap for their daily routines. There was nothing remarkable about what they wore, so there was no way of knowing whether they ever changed, and they appeared to have never taken a bath.
I lived in a small apartment, all alone. My parents had gone forever and my wife had gone for good. After my office work, some of which I brought home, I cooked, managed my home, read the newspaper, and watched old Hindi movies.
One day at the lunch table, I mentioned the vase to Sharika, the computer operator, one of my very few friends. She laughed at me.
“Are, they look great for sure but don’t buy them. They will crumble to dust in a week. It is that plaster of Paris. You can buy better ones on Amazon seconds.”
“What is Amazon seconds?”
“Oh, there they sell goods which people have rejected and returned for no apparent reason. I have bought so much stuff from them and never found any fault. Not even once.”
“Do they sell vases?”
“Well, I don’t know. You will have to check.”
“Sounds good. I will try that.”
After that incident, I was very careful not to bring it up again.
Actually, I was in no need of a vase. No garden, no visitors and no time. What use was a vase for me?
But, I wanted that one vase like mad. It was like being in love with a plain homely girl. People may wonder why, at times you may also wonder why.
“The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of... We know the truth not only by the reason, but by the heart.”
Yes, it is Pascal. I had studied an essay about it in college.
Days went by and one day I got down at the waterworks to check out the vase. I had some cash with me. I thought that should be enough.
It was not enough. The old woman spoke some language I hadn’t heard before. But she told me the price in perfect English. It was too high. But, I would have bought it without bargaining, paying the same amount, if I had that much with me.
I checked my purse and found I was short of over a thousand rupees. I walked away without looking back at the woman or at the vase. It was like saying bye to some dear soul at a railway station.
The whole of next week, the vase possessed me. I thought about it the whole day and eagerly stared at it as my bus went past it. It had become a towering city monument which everyone revered.
One night I had a dream in which my mother came home with an empty flower pot. My father liked it and he immediately pulled out a couple of marigolds and planted them in that pot. Both of them tended to it like a baby. I was sitting atop a wall munching some snacks.
The next morning I was shocked to see the nomad family packing up. Most of the wares were gone, and a young man and a woman were also missing. The old woman who had spoken to me, the other old woman and one of the young men were still there. That vase was still there. I heaved a sigh of relief.
At the office, I could not focus on my work. I thought of feigning a headache as an excuse to leave. I didn’t have to. By lunchtime, I did have a headache.
I applied for a half day of casual leave. The section officer gave me a paracetamol and told me to wait till three o’clock. I could go home after that without wasting a half day's leave, he said. I thought that was fine and thanked him.
The pill worked fine and by three o’clock I left my office. I rushed to the bus stop as if I had to visit a dying patient at the hospital.
I got down at the waterworks. They were still there. I heaved a sigh.
They had packed up and were ready to leave. I could spot my vase wrapped in a rag.
My vase? I had not yet bought it, I reminded myself.
I had a hard time telling them I had come for that vase. Finally, they got it. In mock seriousness, the old woman gestured to me that it had gone. The others joined her in her laughter cracking more jokes about me.
Finally, she whisked it out of the rag like a magician and I faked an expression of surprise to thank her for keeping it for me. I told her through gestures that I still had to go to the bank and collect some money to buy the vase.
They together made it clear to me that I had to return soon. Their train was at five o’clock and it was already four.
I rushed to the city centre where I knew there was an ATM.
I went to two ATMs, but they didn’t work. I ran around for a third one. It was like all the ATMs had vanished by some witchcraft. I panicked.
A third one too failed to pay me.
I caught an autorickshaw and went to an ATM near my bank.
There was a queue. I stood as the fifth person.
My heart was pounding. My BP was skyrocketing. I thought of murdering all the four of them who stood before me in the queue.
Finally, I got the money. I was so happy I almost fainted.
It was really late. The pick-up van would have taken them to the railway station.
I caught an autorickshaw. I told them to go to the railway station by the waterworks road.
“That is a long route, sir. If you are catching the fine o’clock, you will not make it.”
“Just do it !” I shouted at him.
He shuddered as if he was confronting a murderer. Well, he was. I was so desperate.
They had left. The pavement was deserted.
For me, it was a whole empire which had vanished.
I asked the autorickshaw driver to hurry. He turned around and stared at me as it to ask: Didn’t I tell you dumbo?
At the railway station, I checked the platform number. The third one. I had to cross the overbridge. No time to buy a platform ticket.
I ran like the wind, past stares from other passengers. At the bridge I saw the signal changing.
I don’t know how I went down the stairs. I ran down the platform towards the general compartment along the slowly moving train.
Now I was running along the general compartment, cash in hand looking in through the window.
The woman was sitting on the floor. She was still clutching the vase wrapped in rags. The train was gaining speed.
She saw me and got up with the vase. She came to the door and offered it to me. All the kindness in the world was there on her face.
But the train was now rushing away from me. I tumbled down on the platform, still clutching the cash.
The woman was now waving at me. The train was about to disappear totally,
I waved back at her.
Soon it was all a blur. I sensed tears rolling down my cheeks.
Two porters rushed towards me and helped me to a platform chair.
“Did you miss the train, sir?”
“No.” I smiled at them. “I missed the flight.”
They joined me in my laughter as if they understood my wisecrack.
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.
“Here is an unusual request, or, call it a challenge, if you prefer” my friend, DSP Harish Chander, was on the phone.
As a child specialist, I am used to my friends and family contacting with concerns over children’s health issues. Harish is my college friend, who is the local Deputy Superintendent of Police. His request was hard to categorise. Firstly, It was not about a child, known to either of us. Secondly, it was not exactly a health issue, as we know it. If it qualified as a health concern, it certainly was not a common one: fever, chill, vomiting or a rash. It was about Pinky, a nine year old girl from Sishu Bhavan, the local orphanage.
I have been visiting Sishu Bhavan on a regular basis, attending to ailments of the children it housed. Over the years, I have got to know the Matron, Miss Joseph, rather well. Typically, I got a call directly from her, if a situation there needed urgent attention. As she had not called me about Pinky, I sensed, the problem, Harish was calling about, was not straight forward.
In the local news, I had read about a recent conflagration in the town. A large godown had been burnt down, with everything in it reduced to a rubble. Although it was by no means certain, rumours were rife that it was the local liquor depot. No one knew, how much money went up in flames; the estimates varied wildly. Intriguingly, the cause of the fire was unclear. Some said, it was an accident but many thought, it migh be a deliberate act. If it was an act of arson, speculation over the motive and the identity of the perpetrator became fodder for gossip in the town.
The mystery surrounding the fire entailed another twist. Police had apprehended from the scene, two suspects, both young men, who hailed from the neighbouring village. They had been missing for a few years without any trace until they were caught icy the police fleeing from the scene of the fire.
“You must have heard of the fire in the warehouse in the town,” Harish said by way of introducing the problem. “Pinky, a young girl, from Sishu Bhavan, had absconded from the orphanage in the night of the fire and was found wandering near the godown in a daze.”
“Is she all right? I hope, she did not sustain any injury or suffer any burns from the fire.”
“No, there are no worries of the kind. She is safe and free from any injury, whatsoever.” Harish reassured me.
“What are you calling me for, then?” I implored.
“When Pinky was picked up by the police, they were relieved to find her alive and unhurt. She had been registered as a missing child and they were worried about her safety. In this day and age, you always imagine the most horrible fate for missing girls. Most are never found. By the time the alert is raised, they would have been smuggled out to somewhere completely out of reach of the local police. If they are ever found, it is usually their brutalised body.”
“So, what is the problem with Pinky?”
“She looks all right, if not hundred percent normal. She is certainly not in distress. There is a strange look on her. Mysteriously, she is mute. She has not uttered a word for last 24 hours.”
“Is she fine otherwise?”
“Yes, she walks, eats, plays and sleeps well; no problem at all. But she is totally mute.”
“She is probably in a state of shock. The scene of fire must have overwhelmed her.”
“Yes, that is what we suspected too. We thought, we must allow her time to recover from her shock. But, as time has gone by, we realise, Pinky’s case is bizzare.”
“Perhaps, she needs more time to recover from the trauma.”
“But there is a look on her face, difficult to describe. You have to see her to appreciate it. From her look, you think, she would burst out talking any minute. What is holding her back is hard to guess. Perhaps, you can make her talk.”
I was beginning to appreciate the problem Harish was struggling to convey. But my first thought was, this was a job for a specialist and beyond my expertise. But Harish insisted that I should at least have a crack at it. In any case, child psychiatrists are not easy to find, except in metropolitan cities. Rather than continuing with this telephone interrogation, I decided to visit Sishu Bhavan and meet Pinky.
xxxxxxxxxxx
Pinky turned out to be an ordinary looking girl, average in height. Dressed in a frock with large white polka dots against a red background, she had her hairs braided neatly in one ponytail. She had a confident gait with brisk movements. If you were not told that she was mute, you would not suspect it from her demeanour. Strikingly, she showed no emotion at losing her faculty of speech; it did not bother her at all. Far from showing any sign of distress, she was carrying on, as if nothing had happened.
I collected from Miss Joseph, all that was known about her background. I was hoping, this would give me a hint of what made her response to the fire so dramatic. Unfortunately, information on her parents or her past life was sketchy. She was picked up by police from a railway carriage and nobody ever claimed her as a missing person. She herself spoke little about her parents, except that she had lost both of them, in quick succession, a few years previously. She had been staying with an uncle, who never made her feel welcome in his house. One day, Pinky did run away from home and travelled by train hundreds of miles, surviving by begging and kindness of strangers. She was so distressed, talking about her family, that the kindest thing they could do was to avoid probing into her past.
Although she revealed little about herself, she took a keen interest in the lives of all other children, In this regard, she was ahead of her age , showing a maturity uncommon for a girl of nine . Considering the horrors of her home life, her behaviour in the orphanage was surprisingly normal. She rarely showed any bitterness and her mood was always upbeat. Looking back, there was no discernible change in her behaviour or mood, leading up to her sudden disappearance on the evening of the conflagration.
All my attempts to make her talk proved futile. So, I decided on an alternative approach, communicating through pictures. I left some sheets of blank paper and coloured crayons with her, while I was discussing some other issues with Miss Joseph.
When I returned to Pinky after a while, she had drawn an outline of what looked like a house. It had a slanting roof and a chimney on the top, and a door and windows in the front. Inside, there were three figures. and from their contours, it looked like the picture of two adults and a child.
I returned to Pinky the next day for resuming our pictorial communication. It was gratifying to see Pinky had worked on her drawing. But, it looked as if she had smudged the neat sketch from yesterday with wavy blotches of bright red. No amount of coaxing or cajoling would yield any hint on what she had drawn. The following day, she had added something more to the her artwork. She had drawn, in bold lines, a bigger box like structure around the house. There was more red colour; now they were all over the paper. You had to peer really close to see the tracing of the small house, she had drawn in the beginning. There was nothing visible any more of the original neat human figures inside the house.
This was an encouraging sign; she was clearly saying something, though not in words. It was now up to me to decipher the symbolism of her drawing. Probably, this was her account of what she witnessed in the night of the fire. Although I remained hopeful, the hints were still far too cryptic.
xxxxxxxxxx
Before my next session with Pinky, I wanted to share my progress or the lack of it with Harish. At the same time, he gave me an update on the two suspects held in custody. Notwithstanding some promising signs, I was nowhere close to getting Pinky’s testimony on the fire. Perhaps, it was time for me accept that the task was beyond me. In any case, I suspected at the outset that it was a job for a super psychiatrist, not an average child specialist.
“What do the young men say about the inferno?"
“They deny any involvement in the warehouse fire. They claim , they were simply passing by. They came across nothing suspicious at all and deny any knowledge of who might have done it as they saw nothing.”
“Are there any other suspects?”
“No, but the issue with the young men is complicated. It is not their role in the inferno, which is important now. Search of their bags showed documents on bomb making. Police suspect, the duo might be a part of the local Naxalite gang. In fact, the focus of investigation had moved on from the fire to their involvement in terrorism.”
“What about the case of the fire; is it closed?”
“Not exactly, but it is no longer a major event in eyes of the police. It has been overtaken by the new angle of terrorist links. Fires like this are far too common. Possible links with terrorism have pushed the investigation to a different level, up by several notches.”
“You mean, the case of fire is left unsolved?”
“If so, this will not be the first of its kind.”
“I have been working on some clue from Pinky towards solving the incident of arson. And, I think, I am getting somewhere.”
“That will be a bonus. But your primary task was to make Pinky talk.”
I was back at the orphanage with Pinky, for, what I thought, would be my last session. There were clues in her drawing to something she witnessed that night, which could potentially solve the puzzle of the arson. So, I decided to make one final attempt, before I admit my failure and cease my involvement. I looked at her drawing and could not find any major change from yesterday.
I sat down on the chair, waiting for Pinky to add more to the drawing, which would give some clue to work on. But she was quiet and still, seemingly in no mood to do any more drawing. I pretended to immerse myself in the newspaper, deliberately blocking me out of her view by the paper. I was secretly hoping for more revelations to come from her drawings, if she was not distracted by me.
I suddenly heard Pinky, screaming, “Sir, they did not do it.”
I jumped out of my skin. Startled by her shriek, I looked at her asking, “What did you say, Pinky?”
“They did not set fire to the godown.” She was pointing at the photo of the arrested men on the newspaper, which I had just put down on the table lying between us.
“How do you know?”
“I know, because I did it.”
I scanned her face for some visible emotion, when she repeated, “I set the godown on fire.”
I turned my gaze at the drawing she had been working on over last few days. Although the paper, by now, was almost covered with red, I remembered the neat contours of the house and the picture of three people inside and a large featureless box surrounding it. The house looked like a family home and the bigger box resembled a warehouse. The central figure of her drawing, between the two grown-ups, looked like a child. That must be Pinky, I thought. Then, the wavy blotches of red perhaps represent the fire, starting in the family home and spreading to the godown.
I wanted to put my theory to test and asked her, who was the child in her drawing. She pointed a finger to herself. Next, I asked what the big box like structure was and to my satisfaction, she replied, “The godown.”
While I was mulling over my next line of questioning, she embarked on a monologue.
“My father was a caring man and loving father, except when he drank too much. The problem was that he was drunk most of the time. Liquor at the end killed him and destroyed our family. My mother killed herself and I was left an orphan. After coming here and talking to other girls, I realised I was not alone, in my misfortune. Liquor has been the constant villain, wreaking havoc in lives of so many honest and hard working families.
On our occasional day trips, we used to go past the big building and I learnt, it was a godown, for storing things, before they are distributed far and wide. Someone told me, it was a liquor depot. Since then, every time, I passed by the structure, I could feel the rage burning inside me. Gradually, a desire to destroy it grew and my restlessness did not ease until I decided to burn it down.”
“Are you ready to confess to the police?”
“Yes Sir, but not before these men are set free. You have to believe me, they did not do it.” again pointing to the newspaper.
“By telling the truth to the police, you would have done your duty. Don’t worry about them. If they are innocent, they would be set free anyway.”
“No, Sir, you are a gentleman and I trust you. When it comes to the police, it is a different matter. So many innocent people suffer in the hands of police, simply because they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I know the police quite well. I went to them first, when my uncle tried to force himself on me. They did nothing. The day, I ran away from his house, I went to the police again, hoping they would help me. But they turned out to be worse than my uncle. I was lucky, I managed to escape from their clutches and I vowed I would never go to police again.”
On one hand, I was relieved to see her talking, although her story was heart breaking. Nevertheless, her insistence on the innocence of the suspects left me baffled.
“Who are these young men, by the way; do you know them?”
“Sir, you are a man of influence and you have high connections. Otherwise, the police would not have entrusted you with this delicate task.” Sensing my scepticism, she continued, “Take it from me, Sir, they are good people. What makes you think, they are guilty of anything?”
I was beginning to appreciate her deep insight into the complicated workings of police in the real world. I did not expect it from a child of her age. But, she was not an ordinary child. She had a maturity, foisted upon her by cruel fate. Nonetheless, I could not see how these two men in custody fitted in her version of the fire. Something was amiss with her account; there was probably more to what she had revealed so far.
Her furtive glances at the newspaper photograph continued, fuelling my suspicion that she had not told the whole truth.
“Do you know these men, Pinky? Who are they?” I repeated my question.
“No, I did not know them until the night of the fire. I met them for the first time at the fire scene. But, I know, they are good people.”
I waited for the next revelation from Pinky.
“They must be set free. I have given them my word. I promised them……”
“What word? What promise did you make to them?”
“I had planned it carefully. I set out that night, fully prepared to burn down the godown. It was the storehouse for the poison, that had killed my parents and destroyed my childhood. I could not rest until I did something about it. Before I could reach there, from far I saw it was already ablaze. I could not believe what I was seeing. The flames were high, the heat was fierce and the fire was blinding me. I had no idea, the fire could be so enormous; I ran in blind panic. That is when I saw these men, who were also running away from the scene.
They could have hurt me or even killed me, if they wanted. But they were genuinely worried about my safety. They told me that the godown was their enemy number one. They knew of countless men whose lives were blighted by drinking. Horror stories of liquor destroying families and ruining marriages were common place in their village. Demolishing the godown, they considered, was their civic duty and they had set it ablaze as a service to the public.
Everything worked perfectly to plan. I was all set to burn the godown and was certain to accomplish it if they had not beaten me in getting there first. It was as if they had read my mind and carried out my wish. As the plan was mine, I am responsible for the act, no matter who executed it.
I promised them, I would take the blame for the fire. I asked them to run away as fast as they could, But it seems, they were not fast enough and could not get away. As they did it for me, I must, in return, keep my promise and surrender to police. In the court, I will explain to the judge why I went down this path. At least, the judge should have some sense of justice and he will understand.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
“My confidence in your skills has never betrayed me.” Harish was congratulating me.
“What about the two young men in custody?”
“I don’t know, what evidence police have gathered, towards their links with Naxalites, which is now the focus of investigation.”
“But, we know, what constitutes a terrorist act is open to interpretation. As per Pinky they did look like decent people, certainly not dangerous.”
“The investigations are still at an early stage and no decision on charges is made yet.”
“As you said, godown fires are mostly accidental, from faulty electrical connections. There was no death or serious injury in this fire. As to these young men, their guilt, if any, may be a matter of opinion. Pinky says, they have rendered a valuable public service.”
Harish fell silent. But, I continued, “You wanted me to make her talk. I have done my bit. Now, Pinky has spoken; you must listen.”
September 2022
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
THE EXQUISITE BLISS OF DUNKED BISCUITS
Ishwar Pati
‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ is a famous American chain of coffeehouses. It originated in Boston shipyards in 1950 serving coffee and doughnuts, a quick and cheap lunch option for the shipyard workers. Take a doughnut, ‘dunk’ (i.e. dip) it in hot coffee and eat it.That’s how the name stuck. A rustic practice of dunking doughnuts in coffee made an enterprising young man realise his American dream! Unlike the boastful Americans, the British are stiff upper-lipped about their own custom of dunking, though Queen Victoria herself was said to enjoy dipping her biscuits in tea, a German custom inherited from her younger days.
I love dunking my biscuits in tea to make them soft on my palate. But my wife frowns on what she calls a ‘dirty’ habit. “You are such an uncouth pig!” she hisses, turning up her nose when I drown a biscuit in my tea! It reminds her of a drowning man flailing in murky waters, she says. I adore the way she twists her face when she says that. I wish I could bequeath this ‘rich’ practice of dunking to my children, notwithstanding my wife’s distaste. But she would hear nothing of it. Isn’t it enough, she thunders, that she has to tolerate one pig in the house? Do I want to convert my home into a pig sty?
In course of time our children have grown up, got married and produced their own kids. I may not have been able to‘brainwash’ my children.
But nothing prevents me from grooming my granddaughter as an ‘uncouth dunker’! She looks bored with her mandatory cup of milk anyhow. I made my move as she came out while I was sipping my morning cup alone in the garden. I asked her to touch the outer surface of my lukewarm cup. She hesitated before tentatively extending her hand. At the last moment she drew her arm back, giggling with the challenge. Again I asked her and again she extended her small fingers. When her skin made contact with her mug, she withdrew instantly with a cry. But soon her curious fingers returned to make more exploratory touches. I took a chocolate biscuit, dipped it in the tea and offered it to her. The attraction of chocolate was too great and overrode all other concerns. She snatched the biscuit from me and bit into it. Yummy! Sounds of satisfaction emanated from her throat. I had won!
But my triumph was transitory. Who should walk into the garden just then? My wife! Needless to say, she succeeded in depriving even the next generation of that uncivilised but heavenly bliss of dunking biscuits in tea.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
A CUP OF SUGAR
Chinmayee Barik
(Translated from Odia by Ajay Upadhyaya)
The calling bell rang when I was in the bathroom. I was in no position to attend to the door immediately. Annoyingly, the bell rang again. I was forced to run to the door, hastily wrapping myself in a towel, with my wet hair loosely held together in a clip. Holding the door slightly ajar, I peeped out. The face at the door was not familiar; a young man in his early twenties was standing with a cup in his hand.
“What do you want?” The irritation in my voice was hard to hide.
“Could I have a cup of sugar please?” He stood there, rubbing his eyes, as if he had just woken up from sleep. Then, he greeted me with a Namaskar*.
“But, do I know you?”
“I have just moved into the flat next to yours. I am yet to fully unpack my luggage and I can’t find the sugar jar. Went to buy some sugar, but the shop is closed. I get a severe headache if I miss my morning cup of tea. Hope, this isn’t too much trouble.”
I was not sure how to respond to this unorthodox introduction from my new neighbour. Nonetheless, I picked the cup through the open door and shut it before turning to the kitchen. I returned with a cupful of sugar and passed it across the slightly open door and shut it back with a thud. The clock on the wall announced the time as quarter past five. I had to hurry and finish my morning ritual in time for my office. When I was walking briskly to the bathroom, I slipped and fell.
The backache from the fall lasted for the next four days. My resentment was directed at the young man, whom I held responsible for this accident. I never saw him again in those four days; he simply disappeared. Today’s youngsters have no sense of manners, I lamented. I enquired about him with a few of our neighbours, but no one had any idea of his whereabouts. It was better, I thought, to keep quiet about the incident.
A month passed by. One evening, at about eight, suddenly, I heard some sound of activity coming from his flat. I listened intently to confirm that I heard it right. Yes, it was unmistakable, he was in, perhaps, doing some cooking; the clattering sound of pots and pans was coming through the walls. With the hope that soon he would be returning my cup of sugar, I kept waiting. But I was wrong; on the contrary, he was back, after a couple of days, ringing the bell, this time, to briefly borrow the gas lighter. Apparently, his lighter had broken down. While I handed him the gas lighter, I could not help thinking of the cup of sugar, half expecting him to at least mention it. But no, there was none. He simply handed back the gas lighter and left. Although a cup of sugar was no big deal, his behaviour struck me as distinctly odd. I used to see him occasionally in the lift, when he would treat me like a stranger. But he had no hesitation in turning up at my door, again and again, asking for small items, like vegetables, cloves, mosquito coil, a polythene bag or a ballpoint pen. Strangely, there was no sign of him returning any of them. “Was he taking me for a ride?” I wondered. With time, as the list of items became longer, my sense of irritation towards him grew.
On twentieth of March, Mr Mishra was celebrating his son’s birthday. The entire colony was invited to the party. I don’t enjoy big or noisy parties. But Mr Mishra was insistent on my coming, so I reluctantly did attend the party. As expected, the venue was crowded. The birthday cake cutting was already over and dinner was about to be served. The guests made a beeline for the food with a plate in hand. I did not fancy standing in a queue and after handing over my present for the birthday boy, I was about to exit, when the young man caught me. He enquired if I had had my meal. When I told him that I would rather skip the dinner because big crowds made me uncomfortable, he offered to fetch my meal to a table nearby. I politely declined his offer but, ignoring my plea, he marched across to the food hall. So, I had no choice but to wait fro him at an empty table. He returned promptly with two plates of food, followed by two glasses of water. While we ate silently, I could see all the eyes of ladies in the crowd focussed on us. I felt uneasy by this glare, as if I had been caught committing an offence. Anyway, we carried on and finished our meal. As he walked away with the used plates, a group of ladies led by Mrs Bose descended on me. They were inquisitive about how I knew the young man. When I told them, he was my new neighbour in our block of flats, they did not seem to believe me. They kept probing as if he was more than a mere acquaintance, perhaps a relation of mine, as we shared a table for our meal. I found their innuendoes irksome and asked them to come straight to the point.
Finally, Mrs Bose gave me the scoop about the young man. He is Hrideyansh, a film actor. He used to work in Hindi films but he is now trying his luck in Odia film industry. No doubt, he is handsome, but his vanity knows no bounds. “Once, while returning from the market, I was looking for a lift in his car but he pretended not to see me. God knows, what film he is busy making, but he is puffed up in conceit.”
After listening to the ladies, I cast my gaze towards him. He was washing his hands at the time. Oh, yes, he is indeed good looking. How didn’t I notice it before? Anyway, I kept my thoughts to myself and left the party. On the way back home, the sugar incident kept returning to my mind.
While I was unlocking the door to my flat, I heard a commotion nearby. When I looked around, I saw Hrideyansh engaged in a heated conversation with someone. I figured out, it was his landlord, who was demanding an immediate payment of two thousand rupees towards his outstanding electricity bill. Hrideyansh was negotiating with him, promising to pay up in two days time. As I approached, I could see him lowering his head in embarrassment. Even, I felt uncomfortable with this situation. I took out two thousand rupees from my purse and quietly handed over to the landlord. After he left the scene, I indicated to Hrideyansh that he could return my money at his convenience. He did not utter a word but his eloquent eyes spoke of his gratitude.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Five months elapsed. The saga of the cup of sugar gradually faded from my mind, but the matter of money didn’t. It was difficult to write off the sum of two thousand rupees, which was never returned. It was disconcerting enough to make me consider confronting him directly to ask for the money. To this end, I walked up to his door a couple of times but returned without ringing the bell. It seems, he was not home most of the time anyway and we never had an occasion to meet. I tried to console myself that two thousand rupees wouldn’t really matter in the end. I should just forget it and he would have to live with the debt on his conscience.
On that day, I had a splitting headache. I returned home early, took some strong pain killers and slept off earlier than usual. I woke up around 11 at night and could not get back to sleep. I turned on the television and flicked channels, looking for something to watch. I settled for a ghost film; it kept me engrossed and I lost track of time. This is when my concentration was broken by the ringing of the door bell. It was quite late, about one o’clock in the night. I was somewhat alarmed by the bell and went to check through the keyhole. When I saw Hrideyansh at the door, my anger shot up and I lost my last shred of decency and etiquette. I jerked open the door. There he was standing, unsteady on his feet. “Is he drunk?” I wondered. My rage now reached its peak. I screamed at him, “You rascal, what do you want now? Vegetable, sugar or money? Don’t you have any shame, turning up so late in night asking for things you never return?”
He was about to say something but I slammed the door on his face. It seemed, the ghost in the movie, I was watching, had taken possession of me. The sight of him was enough to let loose the demon inside me. Incandescent with rage, I gulped a glass of water and retired to bed, without switching off the TV. When I woke up next morning, it was already late. The TV was still blaring. I rushed into the bathroom to get ready for office. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see two thousand rupees lying on the floor. It seems, it had been pushed through the gap at the bottom of the door. As I remembered the incident from last night, I could not help feeling embarrassed by my own behaviour. After locking my flat, I looked at the flat of Hrideyansh, which too was locked. Perhaps, he has gone out already. I thought, I must apologise for my rudeness, on my return from office in the evening. That day, I remained rather preoccupied in the office.
In the evening, I saw his door, still locked. Perhaps, he had not returned home, I thought. Anyway, one day, I will sure meet him and hope he will accept my apology, I said to myself. But he was never seen again. I gathered from his landlord that he had ended his tenancy and was gone for ever. Although my first reaction was “Good riddance,” a sense of void soon enveloped me. From time to time, I would hear the door bell ring but when I rush to the door, there would be nobody.
In life, we can’t expect everyone to like us all the time. But we invariably need someone to nullify the loneliness in our life. Even if it is mainly headaches, they bring, perversely that could lend a purpose for living to a bankrupt existence.
Hrideyansh never returned. I had no contact address or phone number for him. But my waiting for him did not end. One day, suddenly, I heard rattling noise coming from his flat. Expectantly, I rushed to the door and pressed the bell. But it was not Hrideyansh; a new tenant had moved into the flat.
Gradually, I gave up all hope of seeing him again. With passage of time, I was coming to terms with the situation. But, it all changed one day, when upon returning from office, I found an elderly gentleman waiting for me at the door. He looked at me with knowing eyes, and said, “You are Rachna Madam, Aren’t you?” When I nodded in affirmative, he looked me up. I was slightly discomfited by his scrutiny and said, “Sorry, I can’t somehow place you.”
“You do not know me, but I know you. I am the father of Hrideyansh.”
I promptly invited him inside the house. He carefully sat down on the sofa. As he sipped his tea, he handed me a large packet, saying, “This is for you, from Hrideyansh.”
The bulk of the unexpected packet stood out. “Where is he now?” I asked him.
“He is at home, recovering from a fractured foot, he sustained in an accident.”
“Why did he leave this place so abruptly?”
“He simply made up his mind to run a restaurant in the village.”
“What! I thought, he was into film making.”
“Life does not always unfold as per our wish. We have to adapt to its vagaries and learn to manage what is meted out to us. He was so passionate about acting that I didn’t have the heart to raise any objection, let alone put barriers in his path. But he himself has now decided to return to the village. Yes, he has told me everything about you. I am sure, he was quite a handful during his stay here. Your patience and understanding is admirable; you not only put up with all his antics but you came to his rescue, in his hour of need, as well. I can’t thank you enough for all that you have done for him. Now he has permanently relocated to the village. As I was visiting the town today he requested me to bring this across to you.”
He soon left my house, as he had to attend to some other business in the town. I could not wait to open the packet, he left behind. Inside the packet, I found everything he had borrowed over the span of his stay. At the sight of the packet’s contents, I almost cringed. How mean it was of me to chastise him for these trivial articles! Perhaps, I was too harsh in judging his character; he had meticulously returned every item, with the singular exception of the cup of sugar. While I was stroking the contents of the packet, a letter dropped out. It was addressed to me and I hastily opened it.
Madam,
Here are all the things I had borrowed from you. I admit, they are returned rather late. I also know, my repeated intrusions into your privacy have caused you immense grief; now, I can only ask for your forgiveness. But the purpose behind my shameless behaviour was simple; I wanted to see you in person to make sure that you were safe and sound. Let me come straight to the point. When I first arrived in this block as a tenant, I heard cries coming from your flat late at night. At first, I got really scared, as it sounded like someone being tortured inside. I tried to investigate into it by listening through the door of your flat. Then I gathered that you were living alone. After many such nights, I guessed, you were making these noises in your sleep. I was pretty confident in my conclusion, as I had seen this in my mother, who had the same malady. She used to scream in her sleep and do bizarre things in the middle of the night, of which she would have no recollection next morning. She too was uncomfortable in crowds and avoided gatherings. At the same time, she also hated to be left all alone. We did not appreciate the seriousness of her disease, until that tragic day, when we found her body floating in the pond behind our house. Only after this disaster, we came to know of the dangers with this affliction. We learnt that during these spells in sleep, you scream and shout nonsense and do bizarre things, but you are totally unaware of your behaviour and you have no recollection afterwards. The truth was, you reminded me of my mother, even though you are much younger, and you have hardly any resemblance with her. Although the logic behind my treating you like my mother was feeble, the feeling was irrepressible.
So, every time I heard some noise from your flat, I could not restrain myself. But I had no excuse to enquire about your health; we were not close enough. So, I made a habit of checking on you, with the pretext of borrowing small household items. Meeting you at your door periodically was enough to quell my concerns over your safety and dispel my fears about your well being. I admit, I have been sloppy and negligent in returning your items.
I know, you are not fond of socialising, nor are you inclined to seek favours from others. I also gathered, you were quite different from the other ladies like Mrs Bose in the colony. I remember the incident of the other day, when I spotted you walking from the bus stop; I think, you were returning from office. For some reason, you did not have your scottie that day. It was raining heavily. You were thoroughly drenched in the downpour, your white saree soiled by the muddy rain water. The shopkeepers on either side of the road were ogling you. I stopped for you and was expecting you to accept my offer of a lift but you did not even notice me. Nonetheless, I kept following you till the end. That made me the butt of jokes in the local circle but I was least bothered.
For long, I nurtured the dream of making it big in films and invested so much of my time and energy. By nature, I pursue my dream with scant regard to others’ opinion. My craze for an acting career in movies did cost me a big chunk of my life. But a time came, when I knew, I could no longer be oblivious to the reality. My old father had been struggling in the village, all on his own, supporting me in my pursuits. But he was all alone, with no-one to help him, materially or emotionally. So, my chase of the mirage of grand success in film world had to end; I decided to return to my village to support him.
My father used to run a major restaurant in our village, but since it got burnt down in an accident, he had been heartbroken, bereft of purpose in life. He is no longer young and his health has been in decline too. At his age, rebuilding the business all by himself has been a daunting prospect. Nevertheless, he had been actively exploring various options and lately working in another restaurant in the village. Watching him struggle for years, with a brave face and without a grumble, made me realise what a polished actor he was. Despite all his woes, he has not lost his sparkle and always wears a cheerful front. “Why not lend him a hand and be part of his dream?” I wondered. I decided to join him in his venture.
I was hoping to share my life story with you before my departure, but sadly things got out of hand. That day, I injured my foot in an accident. By midnight, I woke up with a swollen and painful foot and I badly needed some pain killers. The pain was unbearable and I could barely walk. So, I was forced to disturb you that night, but I could see how you flew into a rage. There was no chance of talking to you that night, let alone explaining my situation or returning your money. So, next morning, I slipped the money under your door and with help of my friends went straight to the hospital. From there, I returned to my village for good. My friends in the town rallied round and arranged to get my stuff transported to the village. Now, I have been bed ridden for several weeks, slowly recovering from the injury and the fractured foot. As my father was coming across to the town for his own jobs, I took this opportunity to return your items through him. It is a pity that we could not have a proper farewell. If you don’t mind my advice, you should see a specialist doctor for a checkup about your sleep problem, before it becomes too late.
Bye for now.
Yours
Hrideyansh
Stunned by the contents of the letter, I sat down. My eyes became tearful at the thought of how he cared about my welfare. It is hard to imagine a total stranger taking such keen interest in someone but perhaps Hrideyansh had his own reasons. I read the letter again. After extensive treatment by a number of specialists, I thought I had been cured of my problem. My brimming eyes reminded me that I was still nowhere near normal. For the first time, I could see how apt was his unconventional name, Hrideyansh. I noted his telephone number and dialled it instantly.
From the other end, his soft “hello” came though.
My voice was excited, “If you think, you have returned all the stuff you borrowed, where is my cup of sugar?”
There was silence at the other end. I could hear myself, crying out, “Hello, hello,” regardless.
* Namaskar: A traditional Indian greeting, Hello, A gesture of respect.
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.
(Translated by Sumana Ghosh from the Odia short story ‘Dumdum ra didi go...’)
Kamli didi rushed to meet me as soon as she heard I had come home on leave.
She is my second maternal uncle’s daughter. A couple of years elder to me. During her marriage I had accompanied my mother carrying some of the gifts for her marriage. I had not met her after that. It was not possible to maintain contact with my maternal uncles as my job kept me outside Odisha most of the time and I regularly got transferred. And once the girls of the village get married into another family, most of them tend to get out of sight and out of mind, isn’t it?
I had somehow got the news of Sanaa bhai working in Kolkata. The rumour was that he had been living with a Bengali woman there, in his quarters.
Finding me alone in the study, Kamli didi made a weak attempt to smile and sat down on the cot placed near me. Didi’s wheatish complexion had turned a darker hue. There were dark half circles under her eyes. As a matter of formality I queried, ‘How are you didi?’
The faint smile vanished from her face. She said, ‘Aru, you must have heard about my sad story.’ I feigned ignorance and asked, ‘Why, what sorrow would you have?’
With great difficulty she tried to control the teardrops welling up in her eyes and posed a counter question to me, in a very philosophical way – ‘What could be the biggest sorrow for a married woman?’
Then she provided her own answer. ‘For a woman, there is nothing more sorrowful than her husband neglecting her.’
After that she blurted out her stories of misery one by one.
‘Your Bhai has not come home for the last three years. Neither has there been any letter nor any news of him. He has kept one Bengali woman in his house. When he last came three years ago, he collected the dues from the share croppers in our fields, got together some rice and grains and went off, never to return."
I interrupted her and said, ‘When Bhai came here, why didn’tyou go back with him to Kolkata?’"Where was the question of my refusing to go with him, he didn’t even agree to take me with him. He said, ‘You will not be able to adjust to that lifethere. And then, who is going to take care of the house, the land, the coconut trees and the mango orchard here? It’s going to be grabbed by strangers.’ You tell me, can a lone woman like me take care of all this? I have to just waste money on the labourers."
She continued saying, ‘Earlier he used to send some money through Money Order once in a month or two months. But even that has stopped now. I somehow manage to satisfy my needs with the little rice that is harvested from our fields and the coconuts that I get. But can my miseries come to an end only by satisfying my hunger? God has not even given me a child to take care of. Who shall I look forward to? To add to my woes, people passed remarks that I was barren, which is why my husband had left me and gone.’
She could not control her flow of tears anymore. Wiping her tears, she said in a choked voice, ‘I feel like taking some poison and ending my life.’
I caught hold of her hand and said, ‘Don’t even bring such thoughts to your mind. Ok, tell me, what can I do for you?’
‘You have now been transferred to Kolkata. Take a letter and go. Perhaps my cursed fate might change because of you.’ She went on rambling, ‘So many Raja festivals came and went, so many Holis went by, so many Durga Pujas passed, but he never turned up. The Corona virus spread. So many people left Kolkata to return here – the plumbers from Kendrapara, the vegetable sellers and the labourers from these flooded plains. My untiring eyes kept watching and waiting for him to return and the tears dried up. But he did not come. Forget about me, at least I should get some news of his well-being.’
I proposed, ‘Why should you send a letter through me, why don’t you come along with me to Kolkata?’ ‘What kind of an idea is that, Aru? Earlier I had sent a letter through two men who sell vegetables in Bhabanipur. I don’t know how they twisted matters and presented to her that she was about to beat them up. Her shouting and screaming brought the entire neighbourhood at her doorstep and these ignorant villagers had a tough time running awayfrom the scene. And if I, as the co-wife go there, can you imagine what she will do to me? You have become an officer so she cannot behave like that with you. I have that faith, that’s why I am telling you.’
‘Ok, give me your letter. I will go and meet Sanaa bhai.’
She gave a dry smile and said, ‘You know how bad my handwriting is. And then, I don’t even know how to write letters. You write it for me,’ she begged.
I got paper and pen and said, ‘All right, tell me, what should I write?’
‘Write- ‘Dumdumer didi go.’ (Dear didi from Dumdum)
I stared at her bewildered. I said, ‘What is this? Am I not going to write to Bhai, but to the other woman?’
‘Yes, my dear little brother. Please write to her with caution and care, don’t agitate her.’
‘Ok. Keep saying.’
‘Write….’
I kept writing as per didi’s dictation and when I finished, she placed her hand on my head and said, ‘May God bless you and take you to greater heights.’
At the end I said, ‘Why did you have to be so solicitous to her in the letter?’
‘What else could I do? Should I run to the court for justice? Don’t you know the condition of court cases? My father and grandfather got exhausted fighting a case all their life for a small plot of land with a house. They finally passed away but still there was no verdict on the case.’
‘Then who will give you justice, you think?’
‘God is there,’ she said and touched her forehead with folded hands.
This Kamli didi was the liveliest among all the brothers and sisters in my maternal Uncles’ house. In our childhood, under her leadership we would go to the mango orchards and pluck mangoes, catch fish and crabs from the canals, pluck water lilies from the ponds. That happy-faced didi had turned into a teary eyed didi now. That’s why instead of getting irritated with her, I sympathized with her and said, ‘Didi, you are great.’
On my way to Dumdum, I was thinking – This Sanaa Bhai is a jackal in disguise. He was so innocent in looks but a real crook at heart. The woman living with him in his house is a maid!! Yuk! Even though he was my elder sister’s husband and my senior, to be respected, I was determined to give him a piece of my mind on meeting him and ask him - Are you a human being or a beast? Don’t you have any conscience? Or any compassion in your heart? Your legally married wife is withering away in the village, and you are enjoying your life here? I thought of asking for an explanation for this filthy behaviour of his.
My knowledge of Kolkata was limited to the triangular area of Howrah Station, BNR and Dharmatala. I only knew that there was an airport at Dumdum. I was worried that it would be difficult to locate Sanaa Bhai’s address but the official jeep driver being a local person, brought us smoothly up to Belgachia. Once on Jessore Road, we had little trouble in getting to the Jessop staff quarters.
Under a huge and lush banyan tree sat a few young boys playing carom with the board placed on an empty tar drum. They indicated the direction of the staff quarters. The boy holding the red queen asked, ‘Who do you want?’
-‘Sanatan Mahapatra.’
-‘The guy from Odisha?’
-‘Yes, yes, from Odisha,’ I answered. He pointed to the lane on the left and said, ‘Go straight. Quarter no.9.
Realizing it would be difficult to reverse the Jeep if he went ahead into the lane, the driver parked it under the tree and became the sole spectator of the ongoing game of carom.
I swung the Shantiniketan bag on my shoulder and went on foot, towards completing my mission. At one place the leaking water supply pipe was gushing out water into the drain. This water was being well utilized by people busy in completing their delayed morning ablutions of brushing, bathing and washing clothes. Some kids were engaged in sailing paper boats in the drain.
The rows of company quarters seemed to belong to some ancient era with red plastered brick walls and tiles on the roof. There was a rough looking woman sitting with a sewing machine on the veranda of quarter no.9. A tin signage hung on the wall of the house – ‘Rekha Ladies’ Tailor’.
Hesitatingly, I asked the lady, in Bangla, ‘Eta ki Sanatan Bhai’r badi? (Does Sanatan Mahapatra live here?
The whirring sound of the sewing machine stopped. I got the answer – ‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘I am Sanatan Bhai’s brother-in-law. Kamli didi is my Mamu’s daughter. My name is Arun. Are you Bhai’s …….?’ Unsure of the dubious relationship between her and Sanaa Bhai, I swallowed the last part of the question.
‘I am his Mrs. – say, what do you want?’
I knew I would have to have a hold over the local language if I was going to work in Kolkata. So, I was making vain attempts at speaking in my broken Bangla. She spotted my weakness and the embarrassment rising out of it and said, ‘I know Odia. You can speak in Odia. What work do you have?’
Her remark in sotto voce - ‘They have sent another Akrur’ -did not miss my ears.
She said aloud, ‘Say, what exactly have you come here for.’
‘Kamli didi has sent a letter through me.’
She suddenly erupted like a volcano and in an acerbic tone, said, ‘What has your didi written? Has she cursed me? Has she written that like the witch in the grandmothers’ tales I have turned her husband into a sheep? Has she sent an advocate’s notice? Will she complain against me? Earlier also she had sent two men. They had whispered into his ears ‘You cannot have two wives according to the Hindu marriage law. If your wife slaps a case against you, you will lose your job and both of you will land up in jail.’ This time too, she has threatened me, isn’t it?’
‘No, no. It’s not that. You will understand once you read the letter.’
She quietened down and said, ‘I can understand Odia, speak a little but I cannot read it. So,you read it out for me.’
I asked, ‘Isn’t Sanatan Bhai at home?’
‘He is. But he is not keeping well, so he is sleeping.’
On hearing my faint voice and our conversation, Sanaa Bhai coughed a little and asked, ‘Who has come, Rekha?’
Didi raised her voice and said, ‘You lie down quietly. You don’t have to worry about anything.’
Silence prevailed inside but I was sure that Sanaa Bhai would prick his ears and listen to our talks.
I was amused to learn that her name was Rekha, the namesake of the beautiful Indian filmstar, whose heart shaped face, slim figure and the long-braided hair like a baby python was a complete contrast to this woman’s flabby frame. Apart from her big eyes there was nothing attractive about her. God knows what Sanaa bhai saw in her to have fallen for her. In comparison, my Kamli didi’s features were far better.
I gave a smile and said, ‘Won’t you ask me to sit down, Didi?’
‘O ma!’ she said and extended the chair she was sitting on, and got a stool for herself from inside and said, ‘Now read what your didi has written.’
I read out the letter at one go.
“Dumdumer didi ke Ram Ram,
I don’t know your name. I don’t even know whether you are younger or older to me. According to the custom of Bengalis, I am addressing you as ‘didi’.
Didi, three years have passed since my husband has been staying there. I have neither seen him nor received any letters from him. Look at my cursed destiny – I have not even been able to spend three years of my married life with my husband. I don’t even have any close relatives. Neither do I have a child to call my own. When a tree grows big and it bears no flowers or fruits or hears no chirping of birds on its branches, how do you think it would feel?
I don’t know what it is that you have, which I could not give to him. You might be very fair and very pretty. You might be a well-read lady. I am not much educated but the only quality I have is that I love him with all my heart.
Sometimes I feel I would even be ready to share him with you, didi –he could stay with you for a few days and with me for some. This disastrous pandemic has torn the country apart. He didn’t even want to know whether his Kamli was alive or dead. The threat of Corona is once again round the corner, we hear. If he doesn’t come now, when will he come - to cremate me? Or do I not have even that good fortune?
My brother is carrying this letter. I am sending a couple of gold bangles of mine, one gold bead chain, a pair of earrings, and a pair of silver anklets through him. The rest of my ornaments I have sold, in order to survive. These were given to me by my in-laws so I had kept them safely. They will suit you well. You keep them. And leave my husband for me.
Yours affectionately,
Kamli.’
I took out the small package of the jewellery out of my bag and extended it towards her. She didn’t even glance at it. Her nostrils flared, the glass of water in her hand started shaking. Her voice turned emotional.
In Kamli didi’s letter there was not a line indicating any grudge, anger or any hint of derision. Really, it seemed to be an earnest appeal to a Goddess for compassion. Now I too was surprised –is this possible? How can a woman forget the venom of her jealousy and intolerance and surrender herself before her husband’s second wife? While taking the dictation of Kamli didi’s letter mechanically, I had not paid much attention to its implied compassion. Now that I read it out slowly, I was perplexed at how a helpless woman could give up her self- respect in order to save her marriage. I could visualize Kamli didi’s helplessness. How, in order to get back her husband, she would have lit lamps at the altar of various deities, pledged offerings to Ma Gajabayini in return for the fulfilment of her wishes and offered a ‘chadar’ at the Pir Baba’s dargah at Pattamundai. Once these prayers went unanswered, she would have decided to appeal directly to her husband’s co-wife.
This didi sat motionless. I thought that if I, as a man, was so affected by the contents of the letter, then wouldn’t the pain of a woman move her heart? Did it seem to her not like a letter but a paean to Ma Durga? The next moment I doubted my own assumptions. Two co-wives are, without exception, always at loggerheads. If the two have a chance to meet, then the end result would be a catfight- quarrelling, scratching and pulling of each other’s hair. So, I kept staring at didi’s face, speechless.
Then she gathered herself and said, ‘Tell your didi that I do not know how to bargain. She will not blame me. Had I known that your dada had a wife in the village, would I have accepted him? After my useless and cheat of a husband left me, I started working in a few houses and was managing well. I would just come and make some rice in the evening at your dada’s house. He would soak the leftover rice in water and eat it as ‘paanta bhaat’ the next day.
'This happened three years ago. One day I came and found him lying in bed and coughing badly. The neighbourhood doctor could not diagnose whether it was malaria or pneumonia. So I took him to a bigger nursing home. He stayed there for fifteen days. I would guard his house. During this time the municipality came and broke our slum, in order to lay rail tracks. I had nowhere to go. Then your dada said on his own, ‘Come and stay here.’ And then on, I continued to stay here. What more can I tell you?’
She paused for a while and said, ‘Last year he was infected with the Corona virus. When it became known, the neighbours called the police and sent him to a hospital. Now he is again down with fever. This time I have simply covered him up and kept him at home. I am treating him with home remedies like lemon tea, decoctions, liquor tea, some double boiledsoft rice. There’s a lockdown in his factory too. So, there is no salary. Even I was not allowed to work in the apartments for six months because of Corona. Modi said that even if there was a layoff, the workers should be given their salaries. But everyone is not so generous that they will listen to Modi. Some of my employers did pay me for three or four months, may God bless them.
‘Now it’s very difficult to meet the household expenses. That is why I purchased this old sewing machine. How else could I take care of your sickly brother or feed my children? No, it’s impossible now. I am drowned neck deep in my misfortunes.’
Having spoken this, she started sobbing loudly holding her head in her hands. She said, ‘My fate is doomed. Whichever straw I clung to, slipped from my hands. What am I to do now?’
At this time, a small boy holding a baby in his arms came out. Seeing his mother sobbing away he put his arm around her neck and looked at me askance as if I was the perpetrator of his mother’s woes. I was embarrassed seeing the two children. I didn’t have the idea that there would be kids at Sanaa Bhai’s house, or else I could have brought a packet of sweets or some chocolates for them. I remembered that there was a packet of biscuits in my bag. Having a touring job, I always kept a packet in my bag. I took it out and gave it to the boy. Their mother wiped her eyes with the end of her sari and instructed them, ‘You both eat the biscuits and play here. Don’t go out. I will serve your rice after some time'.
She then asked me, ‘I forgot…. what did you say your name was?’
- ‘Arun.’
- ‘Arun, just sit for a while. I’ll make some tea for you.’
- ‘No, don’t bother about the tea. I’ll leave soon.’
- ‘You are my brother-in-law in relation. So how can you not have anything in our house?’
She went inside to make the tea and there were various thoughts dancing around in my head. I thought, who was responsible for this kind of an extramarital relation? Was it Sanaa Bhai or this didi? Did Sanaa Bhai knowingly step into this quagmire or was didi responsible? Or was it just a fortuitous turn of events like a couple of birds with broken wings landing in the same nest on a stormy night? My mind revolted. Whoever was responsible for this situation, why should Kamli didi have to be punished so miserably? What kind of injustice had God given to the wife whose husband had to stay away from her?
My thoughts were interrupted on hearing the conversation between Sanaa Bhai and didi, inside.
‘Here, take the tea.’ In a trembling voice Sana Bhai said, ‘Can’t I see Arun once? He has come such a long distance to visit me.’ Once again there was an outburst of some sharp and vexatious remarks, ‘No. Drink your tea and lie down quietly. Do you want to infect that healthy person?’ Sanaa Bhai acquiesced without a word, like an obedient student.
Both didi and I were immersed in our own thoughts while drinking our tea in silence. I could only visualize the darkness of misery all around me – Kamli Didi’s misery, didi’s misery, and the unending misery of the whole world due to the Corona pandemic. The words of Buddha, the Enlightened One – ‘This world is full of sorrows’ – was being experienced by me perhaps for the first time. But the words about renunciation that follow this quote, how far could they be beneficial for Kamli Didi? Will she attain peace by giving up the hope of getting back her husband? Is that possible?
My train of thoughts was broken by the sharp sound of didi’s cup being kept on the floor. All of a sudden, she exploded, ‘Take him. Take your brother away from here. I think he is going out of his mind. Neither does he sleep at night nor does he let others sleep. He wakes up and sits as if he hears somebody calling him from afar. He keeps throwing about his arms and legs and makes attempts to run away. He may not survive the polluted atmosphere of this place. This sickly man might survive the clean and clear environment of the village.
‘You tell your didi that there is no need to bribe me. You use all these ornaments to treat your brother. I won’t die. I will survive.’
After this outburst, she started crying again. Pointing to the rolling and crawling baby near her, she said, ‘But this girl will die. She is your brother’s blood. She doesn’t leave her father for a second. Whenever she is wth her father she is the happiest.'
Although I did not support Kamli didi’s soft approach, still, I could not think of garnering enough courage to take any precipitous step.
I knew, in such cases, law has very well-defined guidelines. Before such strict laws, Kamli didi’s meting out of Solomon’s justice would be dismissed as a mad woman’s ranting. The Court would definitely rule in her favour. Then why was she hesitant in establishing her rights to get back what was legally hers? That the consequences of one person’s victory could bring about unlimited misery in another person’s life – was this going against the sensibilities of my ‘less educated’ Kamli didi?
My thought process was numbed. For some time, I just sat there not knowing what to do. Then I thought, the wise men have rightly said that Time is a great healer. Maybe time will slowly unravel the knots of this strange problem.
I stood up and said, ‘Didi, I will take leave today. I work in Koilaghat here. I will come some other time again.’
I could not meet Sanaa Bhai.
While going towards the car, I turned back. Sanaa Bhai was standing, holding the iron railing of the window on his side, like a man caged in his own guilt-ridden prison, his eyes glistening with tears threatening to spill over.
Krupasagar Sahoo, Sahitya Akademi award winner for his book ‘Shesh Sharat’ a touching tale about the deteriorating condition of the Chilka Lake with its migratory birds, is a well recognized name in the realm of Odiya fiction and poetry. The rich experiences gathered from his long years of service in the Indian Railways as a senior Officer reflect in most of his stories. A keen observer of human behavior, this prolific author liberally laces his stories with humor, humaneness, intrigue and sensitivity. ‘Didi from Dum Dum’ is one of many such stories that tug the heart strings with his simple storytelling.
Translator- Sumana Ghosh, an educationist, is a former Principal of a city based High School in Bhubaneswar with a long and successful career as an administrator, Teacher of English, a teacher Trainer and currently a translator. She has enjoyed translating a few short stories and a novel of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo. Ms. Ghosh along with her varied hobbies, is also a voice over artist and has been doing the live commentary of Shri Jagannath’s Rathyatra in Bangla, over Doordarshan Kolkata, for the past 5 years. She lives in Bhubaneswar with her husband and enjoys the company of her three grandchildren from her two children.
Around 1950 Khuntpali was well-known for its many notable personalities – Sara, the renowned astrologer who could even tell in which diga a lost cattle might be found; Indra Master, a Teacher in a government school but an outstanding Document Writer owing to his beautiful calligraphic handwriting and mastery over legalese; Manbodh Gauntiya, the soft-spoken and almost humane money-lender for Khuntpali and neighbouring villages; Chatur Pujari, the star gambler who several times won immense fortunes and lost that soon enough ; and last but not the least, Anadi Betara, the fabled Sardar of a gang of highly skilled and successful thieves, much feared by the wealthy.
He was a thief, but a thief with many strict principles. His old accomplices were well-versed with his rules and principles. For the new recruits, he clearly enunciated his eight commandments:
‘No theft from Khuntpali which has given us shelter.
No petty theft. Only from the rich – the zamindars and sahukars.
No theft from a family on the eve of a wedding, especially of a daughter. It’s ‘paap’ to touch a daughter’s dowry and cause humiliation to the family.
All expeditions will be by the gang only. No individual operation permitted.
Entire booty must be declared and handed over to Sardar for further disposal and sharing. No one to pocket any item for his individual benefit.
Conduct your ‘business’ with skill, in stealth and silence. You’re inept or reckless or both if the family members wake up and raise an alarm.
Never get caught.
Never hurt anyone. No violence at all, not even when you’re caught and the other party is violent. Endure it in silence. That’s a professional hazard, the peril of our trade.’
Anandi was almost Gandhian in his strict adherence to non-violence so far as thievery was concerned. In his personal life, and in dealing with his own community, his policy was totally different.
An imperious dictator, he ruled with an iron hand. He recruited new members to the gang; fired the weak of muscle, mind, or heart; divided the loot as per the remuneration structure decided by him for each member of the gang according to their skill, seniority, success rate, etc.
No one ever questioned his decisions. No one dared to. If anyone ever muttered even a minor difference of opinion, the incipient rebellion was instantly quelled merely with a fierce gaze from his blood-shot eyes. Any greater intransigence invited deterrent physical violence, rarely administered by Anadi himself, but by his loyal deputies, at a wink from the Sardar. Occasionally, even his own sons received the same ruthless rough end of Justice.
~~~
Whenever a major theft took place anywhere within the jurisdiction of Bargarh Police Station, a Constable wearing his khaki shorts, red turban and maroon leather boots rode his bicycle to reach our village. He’d summon the Village Chowkidar who came running in his blue sarkari vardi with a wide leather belt, a matching topi and wielding a long staff with a pointed iron tip, looking like a spear but never used as one.
Both proceeded to Betara Para, the settlement where about twenty Betara families had their hutments at the end of the village opposite the Primary School. A jute-string cot was hastily put up under the big mango tree, refreshment was requested from Gauntiya’s kothi, and all able-bodied men of the Para were summoned forthwith.
Where were all of you mother-fuckers on Saturday night?’ the Constable made his stern query.
‘Where else but in our jhopdis, Huzoor?’ replied Anadi. He had strictly instructed all his tribe never to answer any query. All queries would be suitably handled by Sardar only.
‘How about the theft in Bijepur zamindar’s haveli? Where have you hidden the stolen items?’
‘Not our work, My Baap. We went to Friday haat at Bargarh, sold our baskets and returned home. How could we have travelled all the way to Bijepur, there just was not enough time?’ said Anadi.
Durga Prasad, the Constable, knew enough about Anadi and his gang to accept his protestations of innocence. All houses were thoroughly searched. Nothing was found. The betaras knew better than to keep stolen items at home.
Durga Prasad could not return empty-handed to his Thanedar. He had a long and sturdy rope on his bicycle carrier. The Village Chowkidar was ordered to tie one hand each of Anadi and five of his senior associates with this single rope and walk them to the Thana, six kilometres away, while Durga Prasad rode his bicycle to report forthwith to the Inspector.
Anadi and his colleagues never thought of resisting or running away. They knew that the hand of Justice was long and strong and would catch up with them eventually. They were ready for interrogation including the usual third-degree method, prosecution, and jail terms – all part of professional hazard.
When presented before the Court, the Judge would ask,
‘Anadi, it is you again? Weren’t you released from jail only a few months ago after serving a six-month period?’
‘My bad fortune, Huzoor. Any theft under Bargarh Police Station, only Anadi is blamed. Always. I’m growing old, Sarkar, no longer having the strength of my youth. I and my family now eat a little pakhala with tamarind, onion, and salt only from our meagre earnings from selling bamboo baskets. When we are unable to sell our baskets, we stay hungry, Huzoor. But, if My Baap orders me to go to jail again, who am I to question your wisdom?’
~~~
Betaras hailed from eastern Odisha where they traditionally worked on ‘beta’- the slender, supple, but strong cane abundantly available in coastal areas. They made cane baskets and other items for household use. They were itinerant, moving from village to village to make and sell their wares. When cane supply diminished, competition increased and business dwindled; they began travelling to western Orissa where bamboo was abundant and demand for bamboo house-hold products robust.
During the day, they worked on bamboo- the men chopped and sliced the material with very sharp implements to make thin, supple strips; the women wove dexterously- to make kula, changhri, bhuga, bhugli, dala, tupa, tupli, etc.; all items of daily use in every home. Everything the women and men manufactured was bought up by the villagers. If they made more items than the village needed, they took it to the Friday weekly haat at Bargarh to sell.
Marriages brought additional business since the bride had to take to her in-laws’ place several bhugas of home-made sweets and condiments- lia laddoo, mugia khaja and mithai – all nicely packed in brightly coloured bhugas.
No chemical color or paint was used- red came from finely ground burnt brick, black from charcoal, and green from leaves. Each strip of thinned and smoothed bamboo was manually and separately coloured.
The more number of bharias with bhugas the bride brought with her, the greater her welcome and prestige.
~~~
At the farthest end of the village, opposite the Government Primary School, in Manbodh Gauntiya’s aata; Anadi, his four married sons and his extended family including his sons-in-law, in all about twenty families, had made their temporary, makeshift homes. With due permission of the Gauntiya, of course.
Anadi was middle-aged, of medium height and solid build. He had the strongest arms and legs in all Khuntpali. With his short neck and broad, muscular shoulders he looked like a bull and had the strength of one.
He was quick to rage and ever ready to strike. He had a loud, booming voice which he used often to much effect. Usually after his visit to the shundhi shop for his daily quota of mahua, he often stood under the huge Peepul tree at the entrance to the village and challenged his adversaries from his own community to a duel to settle a dispute. No one was his match, so no one took up his challenge. He was the undisputed strongman of the clan, much feared by his family, relatives, and all others.
Everyone knew that bamboo weaving was the day job for betaras; at night under the able leadership and guidance of Anadi, the men went on their nocturnal expeditions.
Anadi’s territory comprised more than forty villages in a radius of about twenty-five kilometers from Khuntpali. With careful recce, the target house had been selected. They made a sendh, entered the house, gathered all valuables they could without waking up the household, and came away with the booty.
The gang hardly ever came across any sizeable cash. Not even very rich families kept much cash at home. So, the valuable items had to be sold, and then the proceeds distributed among the group.
Anadi, it was believed, never himself entered a house for theft. In his younger days, under another patriarch, he did. But, now having reached middle age, and having gone to jahal twenty times or more, he was the revered Sardar. No one had done more jail term than him. He revelled in his job, spotted potential targets, and led the missions.
~~~
True, Anadi never entered a house for theft; but he coached and guided the young, strong, nimble, and intelligent ones to execute a flawless operation. His role was more crucial. It required intelligence and maturity.
He dealt with the buyers. Not everyone was willing to buy a stolen item. If Anadi was selling a valuable item, it was of course stolen goods. Police often came to question Anadi and his cohort. Sometimes they questioned suspected buyers also.
So, spotting potential buyers and negotiating with them for a good price was a highly sensitive job. It required knowledge, intelligence, skill, maturity and ability to negotiate. Anadi had plenty of these qualities.
He knew that Gunanidhi worked in a sarkari office, received a monthly salary, and had an eye for fashionable items. Anadi once showed him a slim, rectangular watch.
‘I’ve brought this specially for you,’ he said, ‘how much will you pay?’
Gunanidhi did not have a watch. He was hoping to buy one soon and had surveyed the market. Sadly, a decent watch cost at least one hundred rupees. He did not have the money to buy a new one. So, while feigning lack of much interest and muttering audibly about the risk in buying stolen goods, he tentatively examined the offered item. It was used, but a real beauty. Made in England. It showed correct time, too.
‘Well, I am willing to take a risk. I don’t wish to disappoint you so early in the morning. I will pay thirty rupees for this second-hand, stolen item,’ he said.
‘No, Babu. That is too little for this item. Cannot sell. I’ll try my luck with a bania at Bargarh,’ Anadi made his counter-move. He had no idea about the price of the watch, but he had rightly guessed it’d be a lot more than what Gunanidhi had offered.
The negotiation continued for a while and a deal was finally clinched. Anadi sold the watch for forty-five rupees, which was way higher than the initial offer price. He was happy. Gunanidhi was also happy. He knew a new imported watch like this would cost two hundred rupees or more.
~~~
One fine morning, Anadi was seen angrily pacing the tri-junction under the large Peepul tree near the Club House, roaring like a tiger and directing a volley of choicest expletives for the offenders, none other than his close relatives. Though it was still early morning, he was stone drunk and had blood-shot eyes.
‘Which motherfucker dares to kill Anadi? Don’t hide behind pantakani of your wives. Come out, you slimy foxes. I will wring your necks with my bare hands. One who can kill Anadi is yet to be born.’
Soon, Machi, his youngest daughter’s father-in-law came out with a huge lathi. He had been a close confidant and associate for decades, but had fallen out of favour ever since he began demanding a more equitable share of the heist.
‘I will kill you today, you foul-mouthed sister-fucker. You are mean and miserly. Why should you retain the lion’s share and the rest of us be content with the left-overs?’ challenged Machi. They had quarrelled again the previous evening on this issue.
Anadi was amazed as well as amused at Machi’s audacity and stupidity, for he was far stronger than Machi. He had several times thrashed him badly and Machi had always taken it in the right spirit as just punishment from the Sardar.
‘You lily-livered son of a bitch, did you go and suck your mother’s breast this morning to gain extra strength and courage? But she is already dead. Come, I will send you soon to meet her,’ Anadi beckoned Machi to approach and hit.
Anadi knew, and Machi, too, that Anadi could easily stop a lathi-blow. With his powerful arms and brute strength, he would grab the lathi before it could hit his head, snatch it and teach the attacker a lesson or two on how to defend and how to attack.
Yet, Machi made his approach and raised his lathi to strike. Anadi rushed menacingly, ready to snatch the lathi. At this point, from behind the Peepul tree emerged four men, two with scimitars and the other two with razor-sharp tangias. They were Machi’s sons, one of them, Nada, being Anadi’s son-in-law.
They rushed at Anadi from his back, and from a safe distance the men with the tangias struck first, hitting the back of Anadi’s neck.
Anadi was entirely focussed on snatching the lathi from Machi. He didn’t see or hear the weapon-wielding assassins approaching from behind.
Jets of blood spurted out and streamed down his body. Anadi shrieked in agony and turned back. The ones with the scimitars sprang upon him and hacked him to death.
Job done, the four men threw down the blood-stained weapons, and Machi his lathi on the spot. They spat upon Anadi’s still twitching body and returned to their jhopdis to wash off the blood.
The Village Chowkidar ran to Bargarh Police Station to report the matter. The Thanedar, with a few constables, arrived by afternoon. None of the assassins tried to run away.
‘We did kill the tyrant, the mother-fucker. We were done with him fucking us all our lives. The bastard did not deserve to live. He will rot in hell,’ confessed the murderers.
A panchnama was made, statements recorded. The corpse was loaded on a bullock cart and was taken to Bargarh for post-mortem. The murderers were handcuffed and walked to Bargarh by the Village Chowkidar and a Constable. The Judge awarded life-term to the five who murdered Anadi.
The murder was so gory that for several years no woman or child would alone pass that spot, the tri-junction, especially after dark. Even today, people in the village talk of Anadi Sardar and his sensational day-light murder.
*****
Note: This story is from the author’s ‘Tell A Tale and Other Stories’.
Glossary
aata -fallow, barren land
Baap – father, My Lord
bania – a trader, shop-keeper
Betara- a community of basket weavers in Odisha belonging to Scheduled Caste
bharias - men who carried a ‘bhar’ - a sturdy bamboo pole carried on shoulder with the load equally divided and hung with rope at either end- and walked to their destination
bhugas – bamboo baskets
Bijepur – name of a village
Chowkidar - guard
diga - direction
Gauntiya- responsible for management of land and collection of land-revenue from a village for deposit with the government
Huzoor – Your Excellency
jhopdi – small hut
haveli – mansion
jahal - jail
Khuntpali – name of a village
kothi – mansion
kula, changhri, bhuga, bhugli, dala, tupa, tupli –miscellaneous items made of bamboo for daily house-hold use
lia laddoo- a home-made sweet made of parched rice and jaggery
mugia khaja - a home-made sweet made of lentil and jaggery
mithai – sweets
paap – sin
pakhala - rice in gruel, generally eaten after fermentation
panchnama – a detailed description of a site of crime or dispute to which five or at least a few witnesses present will be asked to append their signature or thumb impression to corroborate what a constable or any other official has recorded.
pantakani - the small free end of a saree often used by mothers to wipe a child’s face or running nose or tears
Sardar – Chief
sahukar – a wealthy person, a money-lender
Sarkari – governmental, official
sendh - a hole dug expertly in a mud-wall to enable able-bodied thieves to gain entry into the house
tangia – a very sharp scythe attached to a long wooden stem, and held with both hands for greater force, to hack something from a distance
Thana – police station
Thanedar – Officer-in-charge of a police station
zamindar- the largest land-owner of the village, a man with a very large land holding
*****
Born and educated in Odisha, India, P. K. Dash taught in G.M. College, Sambalpur and had a stint in the State Bank of India before joining the Indian Administrative Service. He superannuated as Additional Chief Secretary to Government of Madhya Pradesh. He lives in Bhopal.
Books by the Author :: Short story collections:
- Tell A Tale and Other Stories
- Invisible Poet and Other Stories
- The Mysterious Ladies and Other Stories
- Fiction
- Kathapur Tales
- Essays
- Pink Diamond and Other Essays
- Self-Help
- How To Be an Author in 7 Days: A Beginner’s Guide to Self- Publishing
- Story books for children:
- Cave of Joy: Anand Gufa
- Two Tales, Three Tellers: A Fairytale & A Fable
Poetry
- O Krishna, O Son! Yashoda’s Sublime Song of Sorrow
- River Song and Other Poems
- Songs of Soil: Selected Poems of an Unschooled Bard: Padma Shri Haladhar Nag
*** Note: The books are available at Amazon.in, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai. Ebooks are available at Amazon Kindle.
WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH?
Meena Mishra
The sky was coloured with the pink-purple shades of a sultry spring evening. The clouds seemed to be swollen with laughter, as Bipin sprinted down the spiraling office staircase, and rushed to his best friend’s desk. It seemed as though giggles were bubbling behind his lips, and one could almost see them rippling like sea waves, softly changing shape.
“Hey Ashish! Megha ma’am has called you to her cabin. She wants to see you right away,” he called, with a simper on his face. “I think she wants to give you some perks for this breaking news. May be a trip abroad,” added Rita, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Rita was a bright-eyed, fair-cheeked girl, the epitome of life and energy. Her voice was high-pitched and shrill, and her laughter was boisterous and it welled from deep within her, in short, staccato bursts. Ashish looked around at them and rolled his eyes. Despite their constant mocking and teasing, he had a great fondness for them, and his heart filled with a sense of warmth and belonging whenever they were around. After all, they were his colleagues at The Leader’s Newsroom.
Ashish rushed towards Megha ma’am’s cabin, brimming with excitement and vigor. He indeed deserved some perks. He had a huge network of friends and many a time he would be the first one to get the bytes for his news channel. He was the face of The Leader (the best news channel of India). As soon as he reached inside the cabin, he could feel a somber air within. Megha ma’am seemed to be very serious. “Please lock the door behind you, Ashish,” she instructed, looking at him with stony eyes. Her spectacles teetered on the tip of her pointed nose, and she looked at him from over the glassy rims. He felt like a balloon that was all set to soar up but was pricked with a needle, most unexpectedly. He could not comprehend what had gone wrong. He rubbed his hands together and began biting his nails.
His momentary reverie was interrupted by Megha ma’am’s harsh voice. “Are you sure, absolutely and certainly sure, that the news is truly confirmed?” The way Megha ma’am emphasized on the word ‘confirmed’ made Ashish jerk to a sudden halt, “Confirmed? Oh, most certainly! We were eyewitnesses to it, ma’am. I was under the impression that I was the only one who knew about this but as soon as we broke the news, I could see other reporters too frantically running their own marathons to get their hands on the news. Since there was no time to inform you, we directly went live. Now all the other news channels have plastered their otherwise ordinary faces with the brightness of this news, but you see we were the first ones,” he said his voice touching the zenith of excitement and enthusiasm, in massive leaps and bounds.
Megha ma’am’s expression remained the same, grave, thoughtful, rather anxious. She picked up the phone and spoke, “Stop running the news of Mr. Sadashiv Shetty. Our channel should shift the limelight to capture other important issues that our country is facing. O, there’s a plethora of issues that we must capture! There’s Covid-19, lockdown, China, America, Pakistan, our scientific achievements, the Prime Minister’s efforts. Instead of focusing on these grave issues we are broadcasting about a bigwig’s personal affairs?” Ashish swiveled around; his cheeks taut with tension. He was absolutely shell-shocked. Before his eyes, he visualized the effort he had invested, as he darted on the streets of Mumbai, his camera in one hand, and his ID dangling around his neck, struggling to tighten his grasps around what he had assumed to be the next newspaper headlines. But, devastatingly, all the perspiration that he had shed beneath the Sun that blazed so immensely, that every cloud was alit with a flamboyant flame had seemingly gone in vain.
Mr. Sadashiv Shetty was a business tycoon cloaked in mystery. He had a sense of obscurity surrounding him and radiated the aura of a spy – a person who would often visit accommodations alit with a faint, mysterious yellow light, with tables creaking under the weight of slender-waisted wine glasses, and clandestine messages sewn into silver-threaded pockets. He hated making public appearances. He would meet the people only during his company meets and functions and as expected, paparazzi were not allowed to cover the event. There were many stories woven around his personality – that threw light on his physical and abstract outlook. According to his employees, he was an absolute stickler for discipline in both personal and professional life. He was endowed with a healthy physical frame, and muscles thick and swollen like ripe oranges. His physique belied his age. His multi-faceted appearance which composed of his strong athletic body, handsome demeanor, deep green eyes, silky hair, impeccable dressing sense, flawless skin, and his strong command on the English language, that the words and sentences rolled off his tongue in a most attractive American accent, which made him the most sought-after bachelor. He would be the first one to reach his office and last one to leave. His employees considered him to be a workaholic.
His company was listed among the third best companies of the country. He wanted to see it on the top. He was also a taskmaster. His employees often quoted him, “In Shetty Enterprises, incoming time is fixed for all but there is no fixed outgoing time. You can leave the premises only when you have completed the assignment given to you.” There were no reports of his drinking or smoking. Some people believed that he was a Casanova and had got into romantic and most often, sexual relationships with many women. He was well known for his amorous attention to women. There were innumerable promiscuous stories mushrooming every second day, by the women fired by him, even though none could be authenticated. All of those women were stunning, gorgeous, and extremely good at work. They were fair and had smooth and glowing skin, with sharp features and elegant limbs, and posed an uncanny resemblance to the princesses nestled within the glowing pages of fairy-tale books. No one was successful in catching him red-handed due to his political influence, and the plausibility of these rumours was thus, most often, doubted. This was for the first time that the reporters (and he being the first one) were successful in covering such a spicy story live. He rubbed his hands together, the excitement of the entire process rushing through his veins again. “What exactly did you see when you went there?”
He was brought back from his entanglement of thoughts by Megha Ma’am’s point-blank question. “Ma’am, we have already been broadcasting it on our channel. His stunning secretary moved out of his office with scratches on her neck. There was a bruise on her wrist – and not just one bruise, but multiple small bruises, and it almost seemed as though her wrist was decked with bangles and bracelets of a pattern of blue and purple bruises. As soon as she saw us, she tried to hide her face, by draping the ends of her scarf around it, and run away from there but had to wait for her car.
Listening to the hullabaloo created by the reporters, a silhouette peeped through the window. After few minutes, a car pulled up and his lawyer came with the police. Police asked the reporters to leave the venue. The lawyer refused to comment ma’am.” “Did the secretary give some comment?” Megha ma’am asked. “As usual, no comment, no complaint lodged. Everybody is scared of him ma’am. His presence is sufficient to make people tremble,” Ashish said. “You may go now, there is absolutely no need to discuss this with anyone. I will call a meeting shortly and address everyone. Till then, not a word about this.” He was utterly baffled.
A cyclone of endless questions swirled in his mind, as he crinkled his eyebrows in bewilderment. Everybody knew about Megha ma’am’s heartfelt loathing towards this man. She would never attend any of the functions or parties organized by Shetty Enterprises. She would always send someone else as her representative. The parties were always so high-profile and would have benefitted the news channel, but she was always successful in coming up with a valid excuse. The mere name ‘Shetty Enterprises’ would make her screw up her nose, as though she was exposed to a scent of rotten eggs.
Megha ma’am was the uncrowned media queen, the owner of the biggest news channel of this country - The Leader. Every move of hers was news, something that had to be mentioned, and pushed within the constricted dimensions of a report. A special corner of Page 3 in all the leading newspapers of this country was reserved exclusively for her. It seemed as though the news reports were vessels, and the news pieces spooned into the reports were food items ladled into the vessels in superfluous amounts, so much so, that they escalated the boundaries of the vessels and spilled out. The news pieces encapsulated her contribution to NGOs; the charity functions attended by her, film premiers, book launches, chat shows, panel discussions, her interviews in foreign magazines and TV channels, her being invited as a judge for various events everyday there was something about her to be talked about. She was a busy bee, no, actually a butterfly, fluttering from her office to various events. Despite leading a busy life, she looked as fresh as a lily because she loved the limelight. Not because she was a show-off but simply because she was an inspiration for millions of girls, and she had put in lots of efforts to reach this zenith. She had a strong PR skill. Her employees loved working with her. She was a kind, polite and respectful boss but when it came to work, she meant business. Her physique also radiated a sense of power, ambition, and dominance. She was five feet, nine inches tall, and wore her long, thick hair tightly tied on the top of her head in a small bun. She was most often seen wearing long, diamond-crusted danglers and an emerald and sapphire necklace clasped around her throat. This attire of absolute, crystal resplendence was complimented with the solitaire bangles on her wrists, and wherever she went, she seemed to shine.
Whenever one would look at her, it would seem as though the Sun and the Moon had mingled together, and all that one could see was a dazzling amalgamation of bright gold and brighter silver. Ashish was wondering what the meeting would be for. He was back at his seat, and had just begun to relax, when all the crew members were summoned to the conference hall. Many of his colleagues inquired about his recent meet with Megha ma’am but he just managed to evade their questions. These were signs of a serious issue.
All of them assembled in a hushed manner. Megha ma’am connected her cell to the huge TV and played a video of the girl they had been running on the news so far. She was seen with some other man in the parking lot and when she saw the watchman approaching towards her, she ran out of that place just to be welcomed by the cameramen and reporters. While the entire office was engrossed in watching this video Megha was answering a call received from a private number. Just as the call notification flashed on her phone’s sleek screen, it seemed as though a million suns had risen in the sky of her eyes. “Did you get the video recording from my office parking?” asked the man. “Yes, I did,” she replied. “What was she doing late at night in the office? I have given a standing instruction for all the female employees to leave latest by 7. What the hell was she doing in the parking lot?” asked the worried voice.
“Don’t worry sweetheart. That lady will not be seen in the city tomorrow. My secretary has forwarded her video to all the TV channels,” Megha said in an assuring tone. “But I don’t want that video to be played anywhere. She is a woman and might fall into trouble. She won’t get a job anywhere in this industry. It would ruin her life,” he cried out, exasperated. “Why do you always try to protect all these women? What about your reputation?” Megha said, her voice sizzling with rage and anger. “You know those are rumours. Don’t you?” he said with a chuckle. “I am the only person on this earth who knows this. “That’s the problem,” Megha blurted out and both of them dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Are you free for a video call tonight? I want to tell you what stories are being woven around you. Or to be more specific, I want you to examine every stitch, every intricate weaving in the cloak of rumours that covers your shoulders. It is a beautiful cloak that you wear, ever so colourful and ever so striking, but like all things stitched from rumours, it does not have a strong base. It can rip anytime,” she spoke.
“You know me. I always take time out for you no matter how busy I am’’ he whimpered. It seemed as though a young Romeo had emerged from the chambers of his heart, a Romeo that had been tucked away years ago. His voice was laced with chocolate-honey romance and clad in the costume of schoolboy romance. “Is midnight fine for you?” she put in. “Anytime is fine for me when it’s about spending time with you and you know that. I know this time the screen will be in front of us – or rather between us, posing as an unfortunate restriction. But well, I will assure myself, despite being confined behind the screen, with the thought that at the end of the day, it is you, my chestnut-eyed princess on the other side,” he said with a naughty smile on his face. He had stars in his eyes, and these stars had rainbows heaped onto their shoulders. The stars poured out of his eyes, dancing and leaping to the soft, subtle tune of heartfelt love
MEENA MISHRA is an out of -the box-thinker, inspiring hundreds of students, teachers and working professionals across the world, turn into published writers and poets. She is an award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and magazines.
She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been working as the International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 10 years. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions and lit fests including the Lit fest of IIT Bombay and NM college fest. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 100 books. Her books include- The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas , Within The Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2.
BOZO AND WIZO AT THE FANTASY ISLAND ZOO
Bozo, 5 years old, still a youth, full of firing energy - running hither, running thither, always looking to thrill and delight himself, now on the ropes, then on the branches of trees, jumping here, jumping a roll, jumping from and toward, beating his chest often, just so for one more high, an attempt to peak the peak of moments before. Never still, always on the move and never on one ‘task’ for long! Competing with himself, seemingly, on these mad excursions, often in the vain hope, in the fond hope that this time around, on the ropes, or on the branches, on the slide or in the water pool, he will experience a bigger boost, experience a higher high, a greater thrill than before.
Wizo, (pronounced Wise-Oh. Be careful for he does not respond if you mispronounce his name!) on the other hand, is seen to move deliberately, slowly, always conserving energy. He may look as if he is tired, but no! He is as agile as any of the chimpanzees. And more mentally alert! He has a no-nonsense look about him, serious on the outside, inside - he is cooingly content. To maintain that bliss within, he is alert, keeps his mind in check. It shows!!
He always has an air about him!
For Wizo, once he has experienced a thrill, say on the hanging tyre or swinging upside down on the ropes, he leaves it alone. And this trait became more pronounced as the years rolled by. Once in a while he will still amuse himself, but not with any craving, nor longing, but merely to relax his mind or to seek exercise. For his limbs do need to be flexed and moved. Or he would use the ropes and the swinging tyre to get from one end of the enclosure to another.
Wizo, nowadays, almost never runs to the ropes or the trees merely to titillate or caress his thrills. He uses these most of the time for a greater purpose, not as ends in themselves.
Nowhere is the differences in their behaviour more in evidence than when ZooRo , the zoo keeper, comes and dumps the customary buckets of apples on the ramp for the two. As soon as ZooRo does so, Bozo comes bounding to the pile of apples and starts to frantically scream and collect his share. Bozo invariably reaches first and collects the sweetest, the juiciest, crunchiest. He chooses the shiniest, the reddest, the ‘orangest’, the yellowest, the most luminous. He picks the largest and the freshest.
And he does so, greedily, often stuffing his mouth also, in addition to having his hands full, with more apples than he can possibly chew. Hurriedly too, so as to make his move and choose his apples before
Wizo and others got in on the act.
Wizo lets Bozo forage and foray first, letting him grab whatever and as many. After Bozo retreats into his corner with his hands (and mouth) full, Wizo ambles down to the heap of apples and picks up no more than what he can consume, walking back to his high perch, sedate and within, in a secluded corner in the shade, for his repast. Sometimes he would pick only one apple. Most times though, he picks two or three at random not spending too much time choosing from the pile.
On rare occasions, Wizo stays completely away from the heap of apples. Even ZooRo cannot tell the reason for this. Wizo just seems, at times, to want to keep away from every thrill, even that of satiating his hunger. Bozo would look curiously and wonder if there was something wrong with the apples that day. He would inspect his apples, scrutinise them thoroughly, even taste-test them several times. And he’d look up at Wizo, with a furrowed forehead, scrunched up, narrowed eyes.
On most days though, Bozo is in his corner with his pick of apples, (by the time Wizo reaches the pile of apples) and would have taken a bite from each of his apples, hardly tasting any of them fully, yet dwelling on the expectation of thrills of a higher peak, a greater thrill to be felt on his taste-buds. When he finds, as he invariably does, that some apples are not as sweet as he expects, or just not sweet, he invariably throws a tantrum, a temper-fuse short-circuits. He spits chewed apple. He runs about screaming. He, at times, invades Wizo’s apples, who is serenely munching on the few apples he picked. During such emotionally traumatic forays, Bozo, sometimes, even attempts to steal the apples of Wizo. Wizo easily fends off such invasions with an indifferent wave of his backhand. Very effective too, this back-handed wave, in keeping Bozo at bay.
Looking at the serene Wizo munching his apples though, ZooRo never figures out whether Wizo’s chosen apples are sweet or sour, ripe or raw, crunchy or mushy. Wizo always finishes the apples he takes from the mound and does not come back for more. Well, not unless he inadvertently picks some that were rotten to the core. Wizo’s serene face does not register sentiment. All he does is chew the apple.
Almost as if he is anchored in a sweetness in his heart that no outer tastebuds can alter, ZooRo muses.
Bozo though! Bozo! Once in a while he gets a lucky break and the sweetest of sweet apples. He does after all get to choosing first! Sweeter, juicier than
ever! At these times, as is his wont, he runs wild with delight, celebrating! His memory registers the heights of pleasure his tongue experiences and the next time anything less, tasted by the tongue, Bozo’s shrieks and wild runs and screams are heard, just as wildly. This time in disappointment, of course.
One can never tell whether he is screaming because of tasting a very sweet apple or crying because of a very bitter one.
And oftentimes, during such wild screaming runs, whether in glee with tingling tastebuds or in disappointment with bitterness, he hurts himself, running into a stray rock or a fallen log or slipping on the puddles. Once he almost drowned in the pool during such wild shenanigans. Luckily, he clung to a floating log and ZooRo pulled the log to the bank.
Lately, though there has been a change in Bozo.
During these moments of pain after tripping and hurting himself, (which were more often than he would care to admit if he were able to count) he sits back and seems to be thinking whether such outward reactions to the sweet and bitter are really worth it. Even more recently, on one such occasions, when he tasted an apple that fell way short of his high standards, he still screamed, he wailed but he did so looking at Wizo
Bozo, for the first time, wonders why Wizo never seems to react to any apple in the least…
What is Wizo’s secret?
Why is he always so quiet and unruffled as to the kind of apple he eats?
Bozo, has begun to look at his apples more...
Really look at them!
He notices the patterns on the skin. And the shapes of the apples!
He holds them up and tries looking through them!
He smells them turning them around and lingers on the smells!
He tastes them more intently.
He realises that sweetness and indeed even the bitterness of some apples stay only for a short, fleeting moment on his tongue.
Why delight so much over tasty apples?
Indeed why scream when I get a bitter apple?
Apples are given for hunger.
Why not get rid of the hunger and not care so much for taste?
Why be affected so much by the sweet and the bitter?
(Wow Bozo!)
Concentrate more on becoming alert, so as to fend off those baboons who scuffle and scream and pick quarrels when they stray into my open enclosure.
He turns to look at Wizo sitting serenely above, in the distance.
Wizo realises, immediately, that Bozo is looking at him.
He beckons Bozo, with an imperceptible nod, a little closer to where he, Wizo, is sitting, high up.
Bozo feels a strange thrill that Wizo actually acknowledged his looks! Even calling him closer!
He scrambles up to be with Wizo.
But Wizo stops Bozo from climbing any higher and closer to Wizo when Bozo had scrambled up a good few feet, with a mere long stare and an extension of the forefinger. That was enough to stop Bozo in his tracks.
Bozo was hurt.
But Wizo looked at him with a love he had never seen or felt, ever. Indeed this was the first time his eyes had met Wizo’s eyes deeply.
It was then he knew, one day he would sit close, very close to Wizo.
He could feel it. Wizo was his friend.
Right now though ZooRo was stepping in with a sack full of apples. Bozo rushes to greet him but stops himself short after running a few yards.
He immediately looks up at Wizo.
Wizo just nods a nod.
And then, several nods!
Bozo wants to scream in delight.
But again, he looks at Wizo, smiles. He had checked his scream!
One day, he thought...One day!
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.
WHEN GOD WAS A BUSINESSMAN
Satya N. Mohanty
Laxmidhar Majhi parked his bicycle in front of Hanuman temple, got off and raised both his arms in unison with devotion. The aarti was going on with cymbals and drums in background. Somehow, he felt comforted. It was the comfort of someone very powerful being with you. The aarti ended and he saw a portly man in clean white pajama kurta with angavastra surrounded by a posse of gun-toting policemen coming out. He just moved his cycle away. If he hadn’t, they would have forcibly moved it anyway.Maybe they would have kicked it and given him a volley of abuse.
He had his last five hundred rupee note. There were a few tens and twenties left still, but they didn’t amount to more than Rs. 200. All provisions at home were finished. No atta, no rice, no dal. All his basti neighbours purchased these necessities in excess four days before. But he just brought what was necessary for the next three or four days. First of all, it was the last one third of the month when money always finished off miraculously. Secondly, he didn’t have too much left after settling house rent and sending some money home. Finally the price looked exorbitant, at least fifty percent more than the normal price. He thought it was the Covid scare, Janata Curfew and panic buying which was pushing the prices up. He chose to wait out for a few days for a somewhat reasonable price. This he did out of habit; but his experience was whatever looked pricey to begin with became and felt normal after sometime. After all, Janata Curfew was there for a day. There was another option, he could have taken the train home to Bihar like so many people did. There was the scare of contacting Covid-19 on the train itself, but more importantly Annapurna, his wife was suffering from mild fever with body aches. It was prudent to take care of her by staying back rather than lugging a sick person around. He took her to a local clinic; the doctor gave some paracetamol and her fever was managed .She felt better. But now a week long shutdown was announced.
He went to the grocery store. This time around he thought he would buy for the left out period of the month, the full eight days, until the shutdown ended. The shopkeeper quoted the price that was double of the price four days ago. Aloo was Rs. 80/- a kg., rice: Rs.40 a kg and onions were Rs. 70/- a kg. He asked why it had gone up so much. The answer was the wholesalers, mostly businessmen from Western India had hiked up the price.
The shopkeeper was a businessman himself but a small businessman. He appeared less greedy and more accommodative. Sometimes, he used to give on udhaar what was popularly known as credit. He negotiated a ‘credit’ this time as some money was required for Annapurna’s treatment. The shopkeeper made the bill of Rs. 460/- rounded off to Rs. 500/-. Laxmidhar normally didn’t like the idea of profiteering in times of difficulty, But this was tolerable. He was thankful even. What would he have done without this arrangement? He would have been left with around couple of hundred only. Of course, he can borrow from his neighbour Raghuveer , an auto rickshaw driver, from Nawada like him. But these were difficult days for all. No one was going to work because of the lockdown.
Raghuveer was a jolly good fellow, very helpful but how much could he do when times were so grim? Laxmidhar thanked Almighty God for coming to his rescue. The grocery store owner might have contrived the scarcity and the increased the price but he finally helped. Had he not, it would have been tough. The construction site where he was a mason was closed now for a week. There won’t be any daily earning. The Chief Minister had announced that all workers would be paid by their employers. But its impact was unknown. In any case politicians’ announcements were like promises written on water. If pressed for, It wouldn’t be there. Finally, almighty God would take care, although he didn’t exactly know how He would. Faith in God was like an umbrella, what if it leaked when it poured? Sheer availability was so reassuring.
His thoughts went back to conversation in the grocery store. People were talking about the Corona virus, the sole reason for the lockdown. They were talking about lack of testing kits for confirming Corona patients and how the order for purchase had been given to some crony firms by the government. What if they didn’t function properly? But why should he bother himself? He wasn’t a busy body after all.
In a small cubicle in another part of the city the rotund wholesaler and his munshi were discussing details about pricing. The wholesaler wanted the sale price to the retailers to double during the lockdown. It was an opportunity not to be allowed to pass by. The Munshi had reservation because he thought the retailers would object.
“Tell them to enhance their profit margin by one hundred percent. When maal was in short supply, the price could go up. The police would stop the lorries and there was a price for it. People couldn’t survive without these essentials. Poor was poor because of their past life karma,” clinched the wholesaler’.It was followed by a nonchalant question. “How much will be our profit be after the increase in the price?”
“Sir, it will be Rs.50 lakh per day. Hanuman temple and Sparsh NGOs were trying to contact you,” Munshi blurted out.
“Oh! I forgot about it. I promised them a donation each. O.K. give Rs. 20,000/- to Sparsh & Rs. Two lakh to Hanuman temple.
Munshi wanted to know how to deploy the extra earning. The Seth was very clear headed. If the retailers wanted loans they could take Rs. one lakh each at twenty percent interest per quarter repayable over a period of three months. If the cycle went beyond three months, interest rate would be reset. The Munshi was clear now.
Karma and compounding interest looked like two sides of the same coin.
?????
Laxmidhar was distraught now. The month had ended, and the lockdown had continued for a period of three weeks. There was no payment in sight.The contractor he worked with when contacted on mobile explained his own problem. When no payment was made to him how could he make payment to his workers?
To add to Laxmidhar’s problems, Annapurna’s fever was high most of the time. He needed to take her for a Coronavirus test. But he’d completely run out of money. The test was for Rs. 4500/-. But he didn’t have even Rs. 50/- then. Covid-19 was a severe acute respiratory disease caused by Corona Virus suspected to have originated from a Wet market in Wuhan, in China.
He went to Raghuveer who gave him a loan of Rs. 2000/-. Not having a facility to support gave lot of flexibility to Raghuveer apart from having some surplus squirreled away. Laxmidhar still required Rs. 2500/- for the test.
Must God test him every time? How would he organize the money for the test? Life was becoming like the game of getting out of a maze.
He would try his luck with the grocery store owner,”thought Laxmidhar. It was believed that the grocer was helpful.
Grocer.“You want rations? It is all exhausted. I can only give Atta and Potatoes.”
Laxmidhar replied, “No Seth ji, my problem is my wife’s health. She needs to take the test. I required Rs. 3000/- for her test. Can you please lend me Rs. 3000/-?”
The grocer answered,“Well it is difficult, I will give you Rs. 2500/- but at thirty percent interest per quarter. You will have to put in some gold ornament as a collateral.”
Laxmidhar looked at the gold ring he was wearing on his left index finger. This was given to him as a gift during his marriage. Going by what people said, the value of it should be Rs. 20000/- at present price. But he decided to give it as a guarantee as he didn’t have much time to check, and what else could be given as a collateral? He kept his ring as guarantee and collected Rs. 2500/- loan at thirty percent interest per quarter. Anyway, next month he would get it back. Not too much of a risk then.
On his way back home, he felt relieved. A weight has gone off his shoulder, although the test and treatment were still ahead. As usual the cars were parked on both sides of the road. But now the roads were empty. No driver was around and the cars were standing there accumulating dust. This being the month of April, the patjhad meant lots of dry leaves were there on the cars. The conservancy staff of municipal corporation cleared the kerb regularly but the cars stood there untidily. That was when Nirakar came out of the gate of the house where he was working. He was from the neighbouring district of Gaya and was working as a man Friday for Mr. Malhotra, the house’s owner.
“Saheb has sent me to fetch someone who can clean the car during the lockdown. What are you doing these days? If you aren’t doing anything, why don’t you come and talk to Saheb?”Nirakar said. For Laxmidhar it was agodsend. He wasn’t doing anything. Cleaning a car is a twenty minutes job.” At least he would earn some money, he argued to himself.
Nirakar took him to meet Mr. Malhotra.
“How much will you take for three weeks? After the lockdown is lifted the driver will return and he normally does this work.”
“Rs. 2500/- , Sir.”
“That is too high. I will give you Rs, 2000/-. But do a good job. These are all costly cars.” Malhotra was agreeing because it was for a short period and not many people were available. Laxmidhar knew the going rate was Rs. 1500/- per month. For three weeks if he was getting Rs. 2000/-, he was profiteering too. But he didn’t feel bad about it .God would understand, he justified to himself. What else would he do when he had no earnings and his wife was sick?
He came out quickly. Soon he bagged the job of cleaning four cars. It was a seller’s market and Laxmidhar had nothing to complain about.
In the party Presidents’ office, the Health Minister was making an impassioned plea for immediate purchase of two thousand ventilators by import. The ventilators were in short supply. The portly party president had a deliberate and measured way of speaking. There was a framed photograph of Lord Ram and Hanuman on the wall.
The contention of the Party President was why to import instead of domestically producing them? The Health Minister was all too aware that they didn’t have the luxury of time. Finally the president of the party came out with his idea that the manufacturing could be done by some supporters of the party and what better time was there than a crisis to stand by their friends.
“ But there is no one with experience. They will not qualify; how will we give it to them? Anyway, it is an SOS, we need them in the next fifteendays’ time,”the health Minister emphasized..
“Bhaiji, don’t forget that a crisis is an opportunity. Don’t do anything now. Allow it to snowball into a crisis. We will offer to PSUs to do it.”
“They may not be able to do it.”?
“That is precisely the advantage we will get. We will declare that PSUs are inefficient and then we can offer it to our friends. They will deliver, make handsome profit and claim patriotic action.” Now there was a smile on his face.
“ But they can’t manufacture so quickly.”
“Why do they need to? They would import SKD kits, assemble them and give it to the government.” The President had everything planned out. The Minister had a premonition that newspapers would dig and would write all about it. But the president was confident that during the lockdown it wouldn’t happen. Finally he spewed wisdom.
“Remember the Matshya Nyaya --- the big fish will always eat the small fish. Our job is to make big fish out of small fishes from among the people who are with us. Eventually the existing big fishes become smaller.”
The minister explained about large scale shortage of masks, gloves and surgical coats. There was a suspicion that wholesalers were hoarding it was imperative to organize raids on them.
The answer of the President froze him. “Not at all. Suppliers are our supporters. We should allow them to make some profit. Profit is the oil that drives the world. Let’s not go against it. We will have to help in the construction of New Hanuman temple. Your department will have to play a big role.”
Going by what TV showed Annapurna’s could be having symptoms of Covid 19. There was no auto, bus or taxi service. But she must see a doctor, collect prescription and go through with the test. Raghuveer came to Laxmidhar’s rescue. He brought his mobike to take them both. He knew the inside road to hospital where the police wouldn’t be there in deployment. Both of them were chatting waiting for Annapurna to come out of the house. Raghuveer’s face became intense as if he was concentrating on something else.
“I will be back in a minute from my house,’’ Raghuveer said.
He came back with a newspaper wrapped packet and kept it on the storage bin of the mobike. Annapurna came and all of them started. It wasn’tdifficult for three persons on the mobike to travel on deserted streets.
A kilometer earlier to the hospital, Raghuveer spotted a constable,but proceeded regardless. The cop stopped them and told them to go back. Raghuveer explained they were on the way to hospital and Annapurna was running a fever.
“You will have to stay indoors. Go back. I can’t permit you to go. That is the order,”the constable said.
Raghuveer said something to him, came back,took the packet from the storage bin and gave it to him, The constable let them go. Laxmidhar enquired what the stuff was.
“It was only a bottle of rum from Army canteen, I had collected it before lockdown. Very cheap.’’
Laxmidhar was awaiting the test report. Annapurna again got a fever. The neighbours who were otherwise ready to help had already stopped coming. They said it wasCovid-19. Laxmidhar was cooking and sleeping outside on the verandah. Some people advised them to wear a mask. The stock of mask had run out in the market. He improvised a handkerchief as a mask.
Everyone avoided meeting him and somehow they didn’t like Laxmidhar coming close to them. Even Raghuveer wasn’t keen on visiting him often. It was a relief when the test report came and the ambulance came to take Annapurna to the special ward of the hospital. She had tested positive.
How strange? Bad news sometimes felt like good news.
He wasn’t allowed to visit her. The good part was that the govt. hospital took the whole responsibility for her upkeep. Somehow, he felt relieved. The relief one gets by placing a valuable part of their life with someone else, although that person could lose it. It was comfort of moving the responsibility. In the hospital, they were talking about something called ventilators not being there. They were also talking about gloves, masks and aprons not being there in adequate quantity. People in the hospital weren’t very happy. Clearly the hospital was overwhelmed by the events. What if Annapurna required something and that item wasn’t there? Laxmidhar thought. But the Govt. would take care of the problem, and that was his comforting thought. For him Government was the reservoir of all correct action and wisdom.
On the way, there was a Hanuman temple, one which he visited off and on. Laxmidhar went into the temple. The aarti was taking place. He fervently prayed that Annapurna recovered soon. People said the disease was dangerous and can lead to death. But the doctor had said she had age in her favour. He sat down and prayed. He even thought that after recovery, he would have a small puja done. Though they didn’t have children yet, Annapurna was his support. She cooked food, took care of the house and prepared his lunch of Roti and Dal before he went to the construction site every day except on Sundays. In this city, it was easy to get work but not easy to get friends. He felt lucky that he had a soul mate and companion. The Pandit came with his aarati thali now. The man standing next to him was a rotund man. The priest stayed in front of him. He looked a rich man. He took out a five hundred rupees note and put it on the thali. The beatific smile the priest wore rivaled the God’s. When Aarati came to him, he also felt like giving something. He didn’t have much. But everyone was putting money on the tray. He didn’t understand whether it is for thanksgiving or for buying insurance during the time of Corona epidemic. The tray was brimming with money now. But Pandit was expecting a default response of putting money. He also put a Rs. 10/- note as everyone was putting money there. He didn’t want to appear miserly.
After Aarati was over everyone turned back to go. The rotund man put a bunch of Rs. 500/- note in the Hundi. Others too put some money, mostly fiftyrupees or one hundred rupees notes. He groped around in his pocket. There was only a twenty rupee note. He was only left with Rs. 50/- in his house. Hewondered whether he would put some money into it or not? On impulse he took out twenty rupees note and put it in the Hundi. After all, Annapurna needed to get well soon. Instead of thanksgiving it was better to give it up front. That made him penniless that very moment.
He started walking out of the door thereafter. On impulse he turned back to look at the deity. The deity was smiling, he thought. It was a smile of satisfaction.
Now a portly man surrounded by police man was entering the temple. Someone was carrying a heavy brief case. He looked radiant, almost like an extension of God. This was the first time he saw him really and felt humbled and scared at the same time. He moved to the left to give way. He must have been an important person to sail in like this, not even deigning to look at anyone including him. He didn’t even notice him even if he was in the line of vision.
Laxmidhar thought he saw a beatific smile on the portly man’s face like the God’s.
He turned back again see the God’s face. The smile appeared wider now.
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
Dr. Kripa, specialising in Community Medicine, had come to Hyderabad to attend a conference on Mental Health and Talk Therapy at the IT Convention Centre, organised by a leading NGO in Hyderabad.
Addressing mental health is the primary need of the hour and the conference with eminent speakers reached out to a good cross section of the society. At the commencement of the programme, the speakers were at the mike and there was no participation from the audience. As the programme warmed up, Dr. Kripa and a couple of other doctors from the panel shared their own experiences on depression and how they had weathered the storm. This broke the ice and one by one, the participants too started to share their difficulties. The confidence level also grew, so much so, the conference had achieved its objective of reaching out to those who required support.
Dr. Kripa got ready to depart, once the conference came to an end. She glanced at her watch and realised that only if she started immediately, would she be able to take the flight back to Chennai. She realised that she had to contend with bumpy roads on the way coupled with heavy traffic at this hour in the evening. She dialled for a call taxi and very shortly the taxi arrived to pick her up. A young driver in his mid twenties was at the wheel.
He got down from the driver’s seat and said, “Good evening Madam, I am Praveen”. He opened the rear door of the car and said in a pleasant voice, “Please get in Madam. I will take you safely to the airport.” With a smile, he closed the door of the cab and got in at the steering wheel.
Dr. Kripa glanced at her mobile and called out, “Praveen my OTP no is 2674.”
“Thank you, Madam”, said Praveen and started the car.
As the vehicle picked up a steady pace, Dr. Kripa was deep in thought, trying to recollect the take home from the programme.
Suddenly, the vehicle swerved to the left, as Praveen applied the brakes to negotiate the pot holes on the road. Dr. Kripa was jolted and she frantically tried to steady herself by holding on to the car door for her safety.
“What’s the matter, Praveen? Is there any other alternate road which may be slightly better?”
“No Madam. The road till we reach Masabtank are with pot holes. The road after that till Mehadipatnam is slightly better. On nearing the Narasimha Rao flyover, the ride from then on will be smooth till we reach Shamshabad airport. I will safely reach you at the airport well before time, Madam”, said Praveen. He turned round and gave her a smile.
Dr. Kripa looked up and said, “I understand Praveen. But please be careful. A couple of more jolts like this will aggravate my migraine.”
On hearing the word migraine, Dr. Kripa found Praveen turn stiff and his face turned pale.
“What’s the matter with you, Praveen”, asked Dr. Kripa.
“No Madam. I am ok”, replied Praveen.
Dr. Kripa became alert and she straightened up and said, “Look Praveen, I am a doctor specialising in Mental Health and can quickly assess a person. Look at me as your friend and I can help you out.”
“Yes Madam. It is a long story in my short life of twenty five years. I have experienced everything in life and there is nothing more left for me to live”, said Praveen, blocking his tears. “I have gone through a very rough patch, which should not happen to anybody else. I am now trying to come to terms with reality. Since I feel comfortable with you, I will share my travails with you, Madam”, said Praveen.
“I am a native of Telengana and the only child of my parents, who are agriculturists. After my schooling, I came to Hyderabad for my under graduation and enrolled in a reputed college for Computer Science. In college, I fell in love with my class mate, Pavitra. In the three years in college, our love life blossomed. She had also introduced me to her parents as her best friend and they also came to like me and treated me as their family member. On completion of our degree, we got secretly married in a temple. We promised each other once both settle down in our career we would inform our parents and get married formally.”
“After college days, we were in touch regularly over the phone and would meet frequently. A few months back, I had taken a break to visit my parents for a week. I was in a remote village and I did not have proper connectivity. We also decided to stay away from phone so that we would begin to long for each other. When I came back to Hyderabad, I called up Pavitra. She was very downcast and I came too know that she was down with spluttering headache due to migraine. I persuaded her to approach her doctor which she promised to do without fail the next day. But the next day was disastrous. Early in the morning I received a call from her father informing me between uncontrollable sobs that Pavitra had suddenly passed away in her sleep. You will understand Madam, how painful it is, when we were planning for our happy days ahead and all of a sudden death has snatched my beloved from me just out of the blue. I was shell shocked and numbed. I vehemently controlled my emotions and attended to the last rites but could not do anything beyond that. As the family were also crestfallen I had to be of support to them.”
“I was employed in a company in Information Technology for sometime but sitting in front of the screen all alone for hours together only brought back fond memories of my beloved Pavitra which distracted me from my work.”
“Further, I had also started to keep away from my family. I soon quit my IT job too and started to look round for other avenues where I will be mobile. So I took up a job as a cab driver as I felt I would make a decent earning by working long hours and which will also keep me diverted from my calamity as I would be meeting various types of people I chauffeur round.”
“I feel very sorry for you, Praveen”, said Dr. Kripa. But these things are beyond our control. If you ask, ‘Why me’ I have no answer but I admire the efforts you are taking to face the ground realities to overcome your irreparable loss, which time alone can heal.”
On reaching the airport, Praveen got out of the driver’s seat to let Dr. Kripa out.
Dr. Kripa settled the cab bill, took out her visiting card and handing it over to Praveen said, “My dear Praveen in this trip we have become friends. You need not hesitate to call me any time if you are depressed or down. I find you to be mentally strong and I am sure you will bounce back. Take heart.”
Praveen said, “Thank you, Madam. You have been so patient to listen to my sorrowful tale and empathise with me. This has really given me the courage and confidence to face the world.”
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.
“So Dhriti, this is your hostel. “ Her mother said as Dhriti stepped out of her car and stood on the ground, gazing at the large hostel campus of her college. Dhriti had cleared the medical entrance exam and was able to secure a seat in one of the reputed medical colleges of the country. Since childhood she aspired to be a doctor and help the needy. She was a gentle girl who loved to stay positive always and felt utmost joy when she was able to help someone.
Her parents helped her to shift her belongings to the room she was alloted, a three seated room it was. Her roommates had already shifted and occupied their respective places across the room. After settling down completely, putting every object in the right place, Dhriti decided to introduce herself to the other two girls, Shreyashi and Dikshita they were. Shreyashi was from Bihar and Dikshita was from Odisha. Dhriti was from Guwahati, Assam. The three started sharing things about their place, culture, food habits, clothing styles, hobbies etc. Dhriti started telling them about the famous Kamakhya temple situated on the Nilachal hills of Guwahati. The story of Ma Kamakhya goes like this,
During the creation of the universe Brahmadev requested for Ma Shakti's assistance for she was the source of power and creation of every thing. Ma Shakti is the eternal consort of Bhagwan Shiv so she couldn’t stay separated from him for long. So after the creation of the universe, Brahmadev asked his son Prajapati Dakshin to meditate on Ma Shakti and seek her a boon to be born as his daughter so that when it’s time she could be married to Bhagwan Shiv, thus reuniting Shiv and Shakti. Prajapati Dakshin did as asked by his father and Ma Shakti took birth as his daughter. Prajapati Daksh and his wife, Rani Prasuti named their daughter as Sati. However with passing time, the arrogant Prajapati Daksh forgot that Sati was the incarnation of Ma Shakti. He did not want to give her hand in marriage to Shiv for his appearance. Bhagwan Shiv dresses in tiger skin, has matted hair, serpent Vasuki coiled around his neck, roodraksh garland and ashes smeared all over his body. However Sati had already fallen in love with Bhagwan Shiv and married him against the wishes of her father which he took as an insult. In order to avenge his insult, Daksh organized a huge Yagya and invited everyone except his daughter and her husband. However Sati reached her father’s place without an invitation and started questioning everyone present why she and her husband were not invited. To this Daksh started insulting and rebuking her and her husband and Sati being unable to tolerate it, ended her life by jumping into the Yagya Kund. Bhagwan Shiv was devastated at his wife's death and gave up all his divine powers. Out of sadness, he carried his wife's corpse and started travelling all around the universe. Seeing his condition and to free him from his grief, Bhagwan MahaVishnu lopped Sati's body into fifty one pieces with his Sudarshan Chakra. These pieces fell on earth and transformed into Shaktipeeth. Kamakhya Dham is also a Shaktipeeth where Ma Shakti resides as Shri Kamakhya. Here, Devi Sati's womb and genitals fell. The Shaktipeeth is surrounded by a puddle of water. Every year the goddess goes through her annual menstrual cycle and the puddle of water turns red. This festival is known as Ambuvachi. Each year lakhs of pilgrims travel from all around the world to have a glimpse of this miracle and have Darshan of Devi Ma Kamakhya.
It took a few months for Dhriti to adjust to her new hostel life. She was an only child and was not much accustomed to the outside world. This was the first time she was staying in a hostel, away from home in a different state of the country. At first everything seemed alright but gradually she started noticing that something was different. She noticed that her roomates were gradually ignoring her. They started behaving rudely with her for almost no reason at all. They would secretly make plans for outings but never included Dhriti nor did they ever care to ask her. Whenever she went home on vacations they would not even bother to call her or text her how she was doing. It was as if their third roommate never existed. The once positive, lively and happy Dhriti found herself to be lethargic, drained out and she did not feel like doing anything but always wanted to stay in bed and never get out of it. They would hardly notice any good thing she did to them but would start whinning, complaining and shouting at her even for the smallest things. It was as if they were there to pinpoint the slighest mistakes of her. They would create issues out of small things and start shouting at her. She too would defend herself by arguing back with logical reasonings. She noticed that the whole day, the two would stay busy in social media. The two would be glued to the screens of their phone till almost 3:00 a. m. and would wake up at around 12 o clock everyday. On the other side, Dhriti was trying to concentrate on her studies. Her roommates felt drained out and depressed due to their own unhealthy lifestyle and seeing Dhriti carefree and without any tension made them more jealous.Out of jealousy they plotted a plan and accused her of stealing their belongings. They hid their belongings inside her closet on purpose and tried to put all blame on her. That day there was such a great chaos that Dhriti decided to change her room for her own mental peace and benefit. After a few days she shifted to a new room. Her new roommate was a junior. She loved her new room and it was much better and more peaceful than the previous one. She was a devotee of Ma Shakti and her forms such as Ma Kamakhya, Ma Durga, Ma Kali etc. After shifting to her new room she was able to concentrate on her studies properly. No more chaos, no more dramas. Her dedication and her strength increased several folds after she escaped from that toxic environment. It is believed that Ma Shakti resides in every woman and every woman was a part of the mother goddess. This change which occurred in her gave her the feeling of some divine energy inside her. She felt that the Devi inside her had awakened and was providing her the strength and determination, for Ma Shakti was the source of all power and creation of this universe.
Four years after this, she graduated with very good marks in MBBS. Wearing her convocation gown and her degree in her hand, she could see the proud smile on her parents’ face. She could see all the happy faces of her friends clapping for her achievement. She could also see her two toxic ex-roommates clapping reluctantly with a scorn on their faces, still jealous of her but now she no longer cared for her haters. She was free and indomitable. She gave all her efforts and the universe had paid her back what she deserved.
With a triumphant smile on her face, the scene of Ma Durga (Ma Shakti) killing the tyrannical demon Mahishasur with her trident floated in front of her eyes.
Shruti Sarma is currently an MBBS student of IMS and SUM hospital, Bhubaneswar. She is from Guwahati, Assam and is also an artist, a Sattriya dancer and a writer. She completed her schooling from Delhi Public School, Guwahati and her higher secondary studies from Sai Vikash Junior college, Guwahati. She has also been awarded the Mofizuddin Ahmed Hazarika Literary Award in 2016 for the best junior Assamese author.
“I think today I shall make a traditional Sambar – My grandma’s recipe—”
Padmam was talking to herself as she sorted out the available vegetables to plan the menu for the day.
“But Amma, your traditional Sambar tends to turn into sayal – neither true sambar nor fully a theeyal ..’’
Her daughter-in-law, Sabi, commented with a laugh, to make it sound like a family joke and not a criticism of Padmam’s cooking. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the new stainless steel flask Padmam had purchased to keep the coffee hot because none of the family members got up and had coffee at the same time and she had grown tired of heating up the coffee time and again and serving each one individually. Sabi made a face as she sipped at it because the coffee did not have the fresh taste of Padmam’s fitter coffee taken straight from the stove. Ignoring her displeasure, Padmam lined up the vegetables for sambar -cucumber, drumstick, brinjal, ladies finger….
“Dear Padmam, please don’t add these vendakkai to the sambar, your sambar is so squishy now-a-days.”
Padmam turned to see her husband back from his morning walk, looking fresh and energetic enough to begin fault finding, the hobby he had developed to perfection in the retirement he was enjoying thoroughly.
“Where is my lime juice?” He enquired rather peremptorarily. He had seen in a health programme on television that is was better to drink fresh fruit juice after your daily walk rather than taint your system with caffeine on tantin. Padmam put up with his health freaks because secretly she thought he was close to becoming a couch potato—literally, because he had nothing to do once the morning walk was successfully completed, he sat in front of the TV and went on crunching on chips, pappads and crackers.
Padmam took out the lime juice—that too, along with the coffee, was prepared first thing in the morning when her hands were free—from the fridge, went to the kitchen to fetch a glass, poured the juice, took it out to Vasudevan who stood under the fan to cool his sweat encrusted healthy body. It must be from the TV programmes that he had assiduously learned that only brisk walking in the open air could be termed ‘exercise.’ He deemed it totally unnecessary to put even a foot forward for domestic purposes once his quota of exercise was done early morning.
He sipped at the juice and made a face, remarkably similar to Sali's when she drank her coffee. Padmam stood a moment, admiring the mobility of the faces before her. ‘Remarkably expressive!’ She silently congratulated both father and daughter-in-law.
“Padmam this juice is sour like your face. I think you forgot to add sugar." He complained. Padmam thought she heard Sabi smothering a gleeful giggle. She refused to let her hackles rise. Instead, she meekly took his glass to the kitchen and added a good amount of sugar. 'There goes all the calories you shed so adamantly in the morning', she thought. Now-a-days she used such trivial methods to take her revenge. And to her surprise, once she embarked on that path, new and better ways opened up before her. In fact, she had become quite inventive and her creativity in this matter had become a matter of pride which took out the spike from her daughter-in-law’s caustic comments.
“Oh, oh, are we having sambar again today?”
The third and last character in the family drama appeared on the scene, her darling son, Aneesh.
“Amma, don’t add brinjals to the sambar, please. I hate to see it float on top displaying its ugly insides. I can’t understand why you go on buying this tasteless vegetable!”
Padmam looked at the brinjal sitting placidly on the table. She imagined it was looking up at her with soulful eyes. She adored its colour. It was not just violet. May be a mix of violet, deep intense blue and black? And what about the shape? Starting from the stalk it came out in an imperfect elliptical way resembling a flower but closed instead of open. And Sathyabhama always brought fresh ones, not a single spot or speckle marred its perfect sheen. She said she brought beautiful looking vegetables just for Padmam—not just these spotless brinjals, but also lush red tomatoes, long, dark green chillies, fresh yellow plantains lined up in a row.
“Somebody here buys vegetables for their outward beauty, not for their usefulness.”
Sabi put in another jibe as she placed her used cup carelessly on the dining table next to the lime juice glass Vasudevan had brought over and waited to see whether she would get a chance to snatch the Hindu tucked under her father-in-law’s arm.
“And you know, father, that Sathyabhama asks for double the price in the market. She goes on and on about how fresh the pumpkin is, how easily cooked the tapioca is, how no one can get such a bargain for such good things and so on and hikes the price without Amma’s knowing.”
Vasudevan was hooked now. This was one of his pet subjects. He was unaware that Sabi had snatched the paper from him to go to the toilet as he embarked on the debate.
“Padmam, I have warned you again and again not to let Sathyabhama in. She is a fast one you know, we cannot trust her at all. See, our Menon Sir wa saying…" He came up close and whispered into Padma’s ear, “that she is a little too forward – you know – goes to any length to get her business done—and you must admit she looks so – hm- not her age anyway –hee hee – ’’
Padmam made no response as she looked at the cup and the glass forming a new queue for washing up..
Aneesh had come down to have his coffee earlier so that he could use the toilet and leave it free for his wife. He had got into the habit of taking care not to upset Sabi’s time table. May be he felt it was the least he could do for the well-being of the house hold now that he was staying there in wedded bliss. Padman did not know whether he noticed that she had changed her tactics in dealing with Sabi’s insistence on having her own time table, even when it put others in trouble. She got up late, came down for morning coffee and paper and manipulating both at her convenience shut herself in her room till it was time to go to the office. Padmam had to get all the morning chores done by herself because the maid made an appearance only at nine o’clock. And even then, refused to do cooking, dusting and washing heavy clothes.
Padmam had tried to get a cook through the grapevine Sathyabhama maintained. But to her surprise, Sathyabhama herself advised her against it. “See Chechi, don’t misunderstand me. But you are way too soft for a mother-in-law. If you go on bowing down to all the demands your daughter in-law makes now, you are never going to have any peace in life. Because I know all these modern girls very well, oh very well indeed- I have three of my own, two daughters-in-law as well as several nieces and nieces-in-law too! They are all so selfish – you know why? Just because they know that they can get away with it. Are you asking why? Ah, there you must know something of feminism. Yes, that is what said, Chechi, FEMINISM. That means women being aware of their rights! Yes, I heard it at our Kudumbasree meeting and understood it all very well. When women have the power to make money, men will learn to keep their place. If you remain a housewife with no income of your own, they will beat you down, make you lick their feet, Bastards!’ Sathyabhama spat out the betel leaf juice from her mouth.
Padmam had sat open mouthed at this extraordinary long speech, quite taken aback by the strong opinions Sathyabhama voiced so vociferously. She didn’t know what to make of it.
Sathyabhama laughed and said, “No Chechi, I am not trying to change you into a feminist. It won’t suit you. No, not at all. Even I can see that. You are too soft, too sweet.”
Padmam wondered how much money she was being cheated out of by the eloquent flattery but put it down to fee being charged for counseling and regaining self confidence.
“Chechi, all you have to do is ease off on domestic chores. You just do what is necessary instead of taking time to pamper each and every one. Get up in the morning – make coffee once, make breakfast – once, lunch, once and for dinner only leftovers of the lunch. Plan everything—including the menu—for a week in advance.
If anybody doesn’t like what you cook, let them do the cooking; If anybody wants hot fresh food let them go out and buy it. They will grumble and mumble, sulk and fast, but you must not react. No, no talking back, no explaining why you are doing so. Just go about the daily routine like clockwork. In a month they will get the message—this is the only way you can manage the household!”
Vasudevan had no idea that Sathyabhama was his wife’s advisor and counselor in such matters, but with the peculiar intuition handed down through generations of male chauvinistic attitudes, he saw a rival in her, one who could influence his wife much more effectively than he, the master of the house. So he was always keen to sniff out her failings and lay them down before Padmam. And, as in every other matter concerning the household, he was never eager to pursue the results, he felt his job was done with the laying down the law. In the early years of marriage, Padmam had tried her best to follow all his orders to the letter, but gradually found that he was not impressed with her best, neither did he notice, when she wavered. So, over the years, she developed a docile facade, much admired by his family but did things in her own way, with no fuss or call for praise. But now-a-days, after Aneesh had got married, she felt that she been way too docile, never raising her voice for her rights. So much so that her son took it for granted that wives were mere doormats just there for wiping dusty feet on. But Sabi had soon put him right about that. She was no doormat, no way, but a personquite conscious of her assets and how to look after them well. She had learnt the new generation way of thinking for oneself first and foremost and never took up any responsibility that could rightfully be shelved on to another head.
They not just against her, but against this exploitation already established in your house, with your silent permission. No, no reprieve for her anywhere now. She just had to go on as she did till fate intervened and Sabi came to her senses.
Padmam heaved a resigned sigh as she put the ladies finger and brinjals back in the vegetable tray. Why all these men folk had to interfere in her cooking, cleaning and day to day routine was quite beyond her. She always imagined that if she were a man, she would have gladly left these mundane chores to her partner and taken a keener interest in her job, career, whatever. A little voice inside her reminded her, isn’t that what Sabi is doing? Shouldn’t you admit that feminism has actually turned the tables in that way?. But no, wait, Padmam, argued with the voice, Sabi is making use of me, another woman, not the males in the house. Isn’t that your problem, madame? She just makes use of what is available. It is you who should take a stand, not just against her, but against this wholesale exploitation already established in your home, with your silent permission granting it authority.
Padmam looked at the rest of the vegetables, patiently lined up before her. Cucumber, Drumstick, what else? ‘Oh, I can add some tomatoes, onions and potatoes. That will do for now.’ Padmam was against using onions and potatoes in place of fresh green vegetables, but felt that she had no choice when others’ stale palettes dictated so.
Padmam took pleasure in cutting the vegetables symmetrically and adding them one by one , according to the time each vegetable needed to be cooked to the correct texture, to the dal boiling with enthusiasm on the stove. She added a little bit of asefoetida and turmeric powfers, a drip of pure coconut oil and a stalk of Sathyabhama brand fresh curry leaf. Then stood a moment, ingaling the smell exuding from the mix, in a mood of ecstasy. When the vegetables Sathyabhama brought cooked in the earthernware pot, the fragrance was intoxicating. How could one put an exact price for it, for this cooking that one could enjoy to the core?
Padmam often pitied her husband for his ignorance in such matters. He only valued those things that had a fixed price. Cars, TVs. Mobile Phones, Computers – all those that could be bought in shops with guarantee cards and receipts—he fancied them all. But when it came to the servant’s salary, the price of vegetables, sarees or jewellery, he complained that there was a considerable amount of cheating involved. The servant never worked enough, the price of vegetables varied according to the shop or shop owners’ whims, sarees were either of cheap material or poor quality, one could never ascertain whether jewellery was pure gold or mixed with too much copper and so on. Padmam always lost her enthusiasm to buy anything by the time. Vasudevan finished enumerating all the follies involved in buying such fickle items. But in Sathyabhama’s case she had put her foot down. She needed her presence as well as the fresh look, smell and taste of the vegetables she brought from suburban fields and farms.
Vasudevan too had conceded, though not openly, on this matter after a rather sore experience, when they had all gone to Sabi’s house for dinner. Sabi always praised her mother’s efficiency in handling the kitchen. Seeing that Padmam rarely used the pressure cooker and never the non-stick pans, she wafted eloquent on how much fuel could be saved when heavy weight iron pans were replaced with light and smooth non-stick ones. ‘My mum is an expert in these things. As soon as she gets up, she puts the cooker on the stove, rice in one vessel, dal in the next and all the vegetables in the top one. In one whistle, everything is ready!’
Padmam knew that both father and son were highly expectant when they were invited to taste this super efficient lady’s cooking. Padmam could never understand this very male characteristic of finding other women better cooks, financial experts, efficient hostess, and what not, white putting down the women at home for her insignificant deficiencies. May be they knew at heart that what was wrong at home was due to their total non-co-operation in household matters.
Sabi's mother had cooked everything the day before and took things out of the fridge to microwave and serve. Padmam covertly watched her men’s faces as they tasted the ‘cooker sambar.’ So very different from the ‘sayal’ she made with fresh vegetables and freshly ground masala mix and laughed inwardly at their bewildered expressions. Even Sabi was tongue tied when confronted with the actual thing in front of her. Having tasted Padmam’s cooking she wouldn’t look her right in the eye and praise her mother’s speed-cooking tactics anymore!
Padmam also realized why many cooks refused to add brinjals and ladies’fingers when making sambar. They couldn’t be put in the cooker. Sabi’s mother deigned to give the status of vegetable only to those things that could be pressure cooked and microwaved without spoiling their original form and flavor. All the others were deemed sub-standard. She preferred to shop in supermarkets where all the vegetables were cleanly enveloped in polythene bags. On Sabi’s insistence, Padmam too had gone there once or twice but she felt that the vegetables were mourning the sunlight and fresh air denied them as they sat imprisoned in tightly wrapped polythene splendor. She looked at the peeled onions, cut drumsticks, cauliflower separated by stalks, frozen peas crammed into airtight packets and felt desolate. She thought of the open, round bamboo basket resting proudly on top of Sathyabhama’s dark curly hair, filled with plump ripe pumpkins and long, uncut snakegards in their natural, uninhibited size, sitting in simple grandeur, laughing up at the azure sky spreading out so far above them. Only then did she really understand the cool serenity fresh green running beans, un-split drumsticks, dainty looking small plantains, bright hot chillies, tangy tawny lemons, all picked from the fertile soil of suburban farms not yet industrialized, provided for her eyes and mind. How could Sabi or her mother understand the part played by these in the boring mundaneness of the domestic chores a housewife went through day after day?
Sabi had selected a polythene bag containing vegetables cut in size for ‘sambar’ and ‘aviyal’ glad that it cost only Rs.20/-, a very good bargain. But the next day when Padmam took it out, she was dismayed to see that all the vegetables had lost their natural colour. She spread them out on a paper and sat, staring at nothing, not able to start her work. She felt rebellious, not liking the authoritarian nature of the globalized market, dictating as it did, what vegetables she used for her curries and in what shape they be sliced. A housewife’s freedom lay in these little things, the small changes made on the spur of the moment, very much like a writer changing words he thought of at the last moment, making his story different from what he had started out on. The creativity that marked good cooking from easy or efficient cooking was unknown to many. Padmam, at that moment, thanked God that she had the sensitivity to grasp such elusive facts that made life worthwhile. She felt that one had to be in tune with nature and its natural products to garnesh this type of knowledge, un-conceded by people like Vasudevan and Sabi’s mother as anything important. But Padmam learnt everyday that life was the sum total of all these unimportant and unrecorded details of daily living rather than just a once-in-while success that earned public praise.
In the end, she went Sabi’s way, took out her ill used pressure cooker, put in the dal and vegetables with enough water, salt and turmeric powder and put it on the stove. She had bought a packet of readymade sambar masala, to be used in emergencies. From the array of masalas arranged in picture perfect rows in the supermarket she had chosen the one Mohanlal in the advertisement promised would make the best sambar. With one whistle of the cooker, sambar was almost done. She just had to mix in tamarind juice and the masala. Such easy work! And such a gain in fuel and vegetable price! May be she should take to her daughter-in-law’s advice and turn into a multi-millionaire?
But no one commended on the sambar that day. And Padmam was left to wonder about the profit and loss equation when a big pot of sambar, having spoilt easily, went down the drain gurgling in hilarious contempt. Vasudevan had stopped complaining about Sathyabhama’s vegetables for a while. Not that he could drop the subject forever, no way, how could he, when all these generations of pure male chauvinism ingrained in his blood cells urged him so?
While the dal and vegetables bubbled on the stove, Padmam lit the other burner to fry ingredients for the sambar masala. She always added a bit of coconut to the traditional mix of red chillis, coriander, fenugreek and asafoetida. The taste of fried coconut reminds one of theeyal. That was the reason for Sabi laughing at her curry as a mixture of the two. Padmam afforded a grim thought – though my daughter-in-law has no grasp of the ABCD’s of cooking, she has the sharpness of the CBI for sniffing out these minute discrepancies!
Padmam took out the fried ingredients to the ancient grinding stone placed conveniently on the raised platform of the work-area. Inherited from her Valiamma (mother’s elder sister), who was considered a great cook in her time, Padmam had never let it go, even when Vasudevan wanted it condemned when they moved to their new house with its modular kitchen. He had bought a new mixie as a gift for her. (Padmam often wondered why men thought women preferred kitchen items to personal gifts) and was irritated when Padmam said she needed her grinding stone more than the latest model of multi-purpose grinding machine. Padmam did not bother to enlighten him on the multi-purposeness of grinding on the stone. Also inherited from the same Valiamma, Padmam had learnt that pushing the stone rhythmically to and fro soothed her nerves, frayed from the displeased morning faces of her dear nuclear family.
Just as Padmam washed the stone and placed the fried ingredients on it, the phone started ringing inside the bedroom. ‘Padmam’, Vasudevan’s stenotorian voice rose above it. It was an unwritten law of the house that the wife had to fetch the cordless phone and bring it over to wherever the husband sat in uncrowned glory. Padmam often felt that one of the determining ways of deciding wifely love and dedication was the interest and speed displayed by her in discharging this modern wifely duty. Both her son and husband were duly impressed by the eagerness with which Sabi greeted the telephone ring. Wherever she was in the house and whatever matter she might be involved in, she never lost time in getting her hands on the telephone within two rings, enquiring politely whom the caller wanted, asking them to hold the call and getting the cordless phone to the person it was intended for. Just like the Computer and the pressure cooker, the telephone and the mobile were Sabi’s divine entities. And so gradually, Padmam had reserved the job of attending the telephone to her.
As the ingredients were ground into powder and then mixed with a little water to become a paste, a whole new smell emerged. Padmam breathed it in.
She loved the moment when the single ingredients lost their identity to meld with the others and become a whole new thing, all the flavours of chilli, coriander, fenugreek and asafetida flowing into each other mellifluously.
‘Oh, Ams, why are you struggling with this ancient stone so early in the morning? Why strain so Ams? Why not put it in the mixie and just press the button?’
Aneesh came up behind her and wrapped her in his bear lug. Padmam knew that both the hug and endearment of Ams meant that her son wanted something from his mother. Even so, she felt her maternal instincts awakening. Just as the men had ingrained characteristics of chavimsm, so were women bound by all these feminine urges of mothering their men folk.
‘If I don’t strain like this, I will have to use this time to run up and down the stairs taking the phone to and fro, making more cups of hot coffee and noting down orders for lunch! And if they feel time still remains, I am sure, my three men army (albeit, Sabi is a woman) will find other domestic tasks for me since their sole aim in life is to turn me into model wife and mother!’ Padmam did not speak aloud her thoughts, adhering as she did to Satyhabhama’s adjunction that a word uttered is like a stone thrown, you can never take it back. So she swallowed her words and turned a pleasantly maternal face to her son who immediately encashed on it.
‘Ams, I can’t find my new yellow shirt, you know, the one with those pencil thin black stripes?’
Even though he was employed and now married too, Aneesh still left it to his mother to see that his wardrobe was perfectly maintained. But when Sabi had complained a couple of times that the maid did not scrub the collars of shirts diligently and the ironing man never applied proper heat, Padmam had stopped seeing to such things. So now Sabi used the washing machine on the weekends to clean her clothes as well as those of Aneesh and Padmam never interfered.
"Why are you asking me son? You know Sabi does your laundry now. She irons your clothes because she is not satisfied with the way our ironing boy Kesavan goes about it. She thinks he doesn’t use enough heat to ease out the wrinkles.”
Aneesh whispered into her ears,
“What the hell! He was doing it well enough for me before I got married. So why change him now? If you want, I can add a tip and ask him to take more care with my office wear. Sabi puts all the shirts together into the washing machine on Saturday and irons only one each morning. So I don’t have any choice as to what to wear each day. I like to change my attire according to what I have to do, where I have to go, who I see. You know all that Ams, so why am I going on explaining? Please, Arms do this for me. I shall bring down my office wear so that they are washed daily and dried in the sun. I hate to see a whole week’s wear lounging in the bedroom, stinking of sweat and stale perfume.”
Padmam sighed, tempted to ask her son why he did not tell all this to his wife’s face. Even after marriage Aneesh tended to ask his mother for all personal services like hot coffee in the morning, his favourite dishes for lunch on holidays, finding lost things like pen or watch or matching socks or cleanly folded handkerchiefs… Padmam used to think Sabi would be upset if she catered to all of her son’s demands, after all no wife wanted the husband to be attached to his mother more than herself. But Sathyabhama had studied the girls of this generation very well – she advised Padmam to do whatever she wanted to do for her son, but no personal services whatever for the daughter -in-law. “But that’s so mean, I really don’t want to be a nasty soap-opera type m-in-law.” Padmam had declared, horrified. But Sathyabhama just laughed and said, “Even if you don’t want to be nasty, Amma, your daughter-in-law will picturise you as one if you are so servile to her. And your son and husband will be on her side, not yours. So better keep a distance and keep your status as the mother-in-law from the beginning itself". She aired the practical wisdom she had accumulated merely by living her life, however small scale in other peoples' eyes, fully and consciously. How accurately she had analyzed the youngsters' way of thinking, alleviating responsibility and prioritizing ones' own convenience to achieve success with minimum effort and maximum speed?
Padmam was thankful that she had listened to the rural life lessons passed on by the incorrigible village vegetable vendor. Slowly but insidiously she was establishing a household routine that was convenient for herself.
Now, as she cleanly smoothed out the fine paste of sambar masala from the grinding stone, she felt a surge of satisfaction. She mixed tamarind juice to the masala and poured it into the tuvar dal-vegetable combination bubbling on the stove. She inhaled the savory fumes rising off the curry and adjudged the ingredients just right. She loved this final part of the cooking when everything merged and melted into each other to make the final product perfect. Putting a small frying pan on top of the second burner she poured in a spoon of coconut oil, a handful of mustard seeds, a red chilly halved and a stalk of fresh curry leaves. Wow, how energetically the mustard seeds burst and sizzled! And the scent of the curry leaves frying coconut oil – no amount of sunflower or groundnut oil could guarantee this flavor. But who would appreciate it other than Padmam alone in her kitchen? If at all Vasudevan were to come in and witness this culinary exercise, he would only complain on the rise of cholesterol coconut oil was responsible for.
By the time Padmam had laid the table and filled the casseroles with her fluffy idlis and hot fresh sambar, all three of her family had assembled around it. Sabi chique in her expensive churidar set, ironed to perfection, her hair brushed till it shone, her face immaculately made up. Aneesh, smart in his work day attire, tie and shoes and briefcase, his laptop slung over his shoulder, cheeks smoothly shaven, moustache clipped, Vesudevan, clean and fresh after his long warm bath, dressed in pure white dhothi and jubbah, all ready to rule the roost from his favourite arm chair in front of the indomitable T.V. set.
As Padmam cleared the table, Sabi went off into the free, open world, her hands hugging Aneesh as she sat behind him on his brand new bike. Her darling husband settled on to his arm chair, T.V. remote in hand and stifling a yawn, admonished her ,“Padmam, why are you looking so sweaty and dirty? Go and have a bath and wear a clean saree. What if someone drops in and sees you like this?”
Padmam felt like throwing the water she was using to clean the mess on the dining table straight at his face. But just before her anger reached its peak point her attention was diverted by the sound of someone opening the gate. Padmam’s eyes were locked on to three golden coloured pineapples standing out from the round basket settled on Sathyabhama’s curly hair. The green thorny spikes on top of the fruits formed pyramid like crowns that rose up into the sunlight with unsurpassed glee.
Padmam put away the water and dish cloth she had used to wipe off the dining table and walked to the gate, seeking the healing greenness of Sathyabhama’s vegetables as well as the solace of her rough, rural life experience.
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
The mouldy scent of rot follows her everywhere she goes.
The world, a cold shade of grey and pain, the only unswerving proof of life. Being alive in a world that thrives on your sadness isn’t such a great thing. If she could be anything, she’d rather be dead.
She looks out the window. People going about their daily business, having a sense of purpose, alive. Alive and oblivious to all that she has been through. She’s been burning and screaming her whole life, waiting to feel a touch of happiness. She tried. She really did give her all to feel something, anything but the emptiness that she’s been feeling her entire existence.
The pain that comes with being a disappointment, a mistake. Failure. A waste of space and time. A waste of oxygen. A waste of life.
Its time to set things straight.
She sighs and takes one of the many magic pills that she had been hoarding. Swallows it. Tasteless. Takes another one, there’s a slight tingling sensation.
After the seventeenth one, she doesn’t feel a thing. Her movements become flaccid and sloppy, her body, jelly-like. Her eyes droop and breathing becomes difficult.
She watches her hand move with fascination as it continues picking one pill after the other in slow motion. It all feels so unreal. It’s not her hand. Its not her body.
With the last pill, she swallowed all the life left inside of her.
I couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night. The minute I let my guard down and my eyes droop, it would be at my door, banging and scratching, trying to claw its way in.
It’s trying to get in.
I’ve locked and bolted my door. I have been vigilant and on edge for most of the time. No matter what I won’t let it in. I cannot let it in.
I am terrified.
They say, it’s like a beam of very bright light, so bright it burns right through your eyes. It comes with a deafening sound that vibrates your very bones. And the accompanying warmth is hot enough to melt your insides.
Being here as long as I have, one tends to lose their sense of time and space. Nights, the same as days. I am suspended here in this emptiness, void of anything at all.
This place has no use for time.
When it found my neighbour recently-it might as well have been forever or just a minute ago- I heard a heart-wrenching scream coming through the walls in the utter darkness. I could hear the guttural screams of pure agony. I couldn’t see, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what must have happened. I could hear the beast throwing him against the wall and onto the floor, climbing on top of him, suffocating him. Pressing my ears hard against the wall, I could hear my neighbour gasping and scratching and then finally, letting go.
I am terrified, alone in this damp darkness. There’s nothing here that can protect me from It. I have bolted my door and kept up my guard. I’ve managed to build a wall; no one get through. Though it may not hold for much longer, it’ll buy me some time.
I need time.
I am not ready yet.
The world outside was chaotic. I was always afraid of the things that lurked in the shadows, just waiting to pounce upon me. So, I hid. To protect myself, I hid.
It wasn’t always like this. Before the darkness seeped in, there was sunlight. Beautiful warm rays of the sun lit up my room. The walls were covered with pictures, memories of a happy time. Smiling faces. But then, a mould creeped in. Unnoticed, until it was too late. It spread all over my walls, the pictures. It sucked the smiles out of the pictures, the light out of my life.
All my memories disappeared, what remained was the grey of life.
Now, the smell of rot follows me everywhere I go.
A meek voice told me what to do when I felt helpless. It said, hide, hide until you can breathe no more.
I did just that. I hid behind my walls.
But I’m getting tired.
My vigil has kept me up for most of my time here. My legs are numb. My arms, weak and heavy. Someone is sitting on my chest, pushing me down with all their might. My shoulders have been carrying the weight of the world, the burden of my head. I can’t move.
My pain and sorrows have left behind a hollow space. I feel nothing at all. Except perhaps, exhaustion.
It has been here a couple of times since the last. I believe it’s getting tired. Tired and impatient.
With a huge effort I took one brick at a time, dragging myself from one end to the other slowly. Lining one brick against the other, on top of another holding it all in place by the strongest adhesive I could find. My pain and sorrows holding the bricks together, making a fort out of mere burnt earth.
No matter how tiresome it is, I’ll never give in. No matter how many walls I have to build, I won’t ever let it in. My walls will keep me safe until they come crashing down.
No matter how many times this mind has been let down, it is its own curse to hope again and again, a vicious cycle. And I am my mind’s slave, locked up in here, bound to follow its instructions. I hope no one finds me here. I am tired, I need to rest. But I’m terrified of closing my eyes. What if it comes back?
My eyes are getting heavy. Deep inside I know I can’t hold on much longer. I know I shouldn’t close them, but what if I rest just a bit? I’ll close my eyes for an instant.
A moment…
I am woken up by a blinding light, a scorching heat. Almost as if I am struck by lightning.
No! No! No! it can’t be!
Did I let It in?
Did I sleep too long?
What do I do?
I can’t see a thing! I can’t tell what’s going on. My body feels weird.
I can’t feel a-
A sudden jolt, like a spark shot through my body. I can’t breathe. I am suffocating. This is it. The end of me.
I gasp.
Nothing.
I scream.
Nothing.
I can feel my legs give away. But instead of falling, I rise. Up and up I rise, into the blinding light until it engulfs me completely.
Where am I going?
What lies beyond?
I can’t resist anymore. I spread out my arms and give myself up.
I don’t remember what’s up there. A vague memory of falling down a hole. A blunted feeling, I can’t quite place. Pain? Sadness? Regret? A bitter taste in my mouth. My throat’s burning.
Pills. I took the magic pills didn’t I?
I tried to end it, didn’t I?
What have I done? A sense of guilt washes over me. Tears betray me.
I am terrified of the light.
I don’t know if I’ll fit in anymore.
I am not ready yet.
I am sore and not strong enough.
I needed more time.
I’m not ready to live yet!
The deafening beeping of the monitor. The blinding hospital lights. The jolt of the device that brings back the dead.
She was brought back by angels in green. She could not run away forever.
Life found her after all.
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.
“What a bore!” Exclaimed Suresh, staring out of the window. No school except that online class for three hours. No swimming, no running together in the park!”
Sushma and Suresh had moved into the community recently. Till then, they had lived only in single family houses. That was fun, in a way. But to live in the midst of two hundred families, with a pool, big playground and lots of children was something they had been looking forward to very much.
But then, the coronavirus had happened. No one, not Appa or Thatha, their grandfather remembered or could have imagined such a shutdown of all schools,offices, shops….
Their school was nearby and Appa, their dad, had told them, to their delight, that they could cycle there every morning with their friends. Almost twenty children from this community went to the same school. Their old house had been too far from the school to walk or cycle, so their mother had to drop and pick them up everyday. If she was delayed at work,they had to sit around in the empty building till she came.
“Look, there!” Sushma pointed to the empty road that ran beside the wall that circled the community. A small black patch moved under the tea shop that was shuttered and closed.
“ It’s that pup we saw on moving day, remember?”
“Amma said it had been left alone near our gate. The tea shop guy offered to feed it milk. The gardeners also used to give it a bit of their lunch.”
“ But now, even our gates are closed and there’s nobody to feed or look after that poor pup. Maybe it will die!” Suresh said, horrified.
They ran to where their Amma was working on her laptop, and told her about the pup.
“ Well, think, children. What are you going to do about it. Can you plan a ‘Strategy’?”
Amma was a manager so she was always talking about strategy, targeting and so on. They could see that she would help, but they needed a proper plan. They truly wanted to help the pup.
“ Let’s call a meeting on the terrace,” said Sushma, dialing her friends. Suresh, too, immediately called his friends, and soon they met on the massive terrace, all glad to get out of their apartments for a while, even though they had to wear masks.
There were Aditya and Ashwin , the twins, Ria, and Varun , Vijay and Karthik. They had been told that they could play on the terrace everyday. The only problem was that, in Chennai, the sun blazed overhead till six o’clock in the evening. The children sat down in the shade of a water tank.
“ Well, why did you call us so urgently?” Asked Varun, who, at thirteen, was the oldest.
“ Stop pushing, Ria, Karthik, and listen,” Sushma called. “You guys must have seen a little black pup living near the tea shop outside our community. Well, it’s all alone now, because the shop owner has gone away to his village and there is nobody on the roads now because of the lockdown. That poor pup will die if we don’t help. That’s why I called you.”
“But we can’t go to feed it, we’re not allowed out of our gate, silly,” objected Ria, Sushma’s classmate and best friend.
Vijay frowned, thinking hard. He kept tightening his mask, because, otherwise,his breath fogged his glasses.
“ What about the delivery boys? I am sure they’ll help. I know to at least two of them really well. You must have seen Ramu, he brings the milk and Chotu, who delivers newspapers. Of course, now they leave everything outside our lobbies, and we go down to pick up stuff. I don’t know the grocery or veggie guys as well. They are not even allowed inside the gate, even the heavy packages are left in the shed by the entrance. “
“What about the four security men?” Piped up Ashwin, and his quiet twin Aditya, nodded.
“ I think they take turns at the gate and sleep in that room below the community library. They cook on a little stove and wash their clothes. I don’t think they’ll….” Trailed off Sushma.
“ They shoo away stray dogs, I’ve seen them!” Said Karthik angrily.
“ But these are special times, I’m sure they can help. Why don’t we go ask them?” Suggested Ria sensibly.
The seven friends trooped down to the gate. The room nearby which had the security screens and tables and benches scattered around. This morning, all the flat surfaces were covered with parcels, letters, bags of take-away food. There were even lots of cardboard boxes on the floor.
“ Don’t crowd in here, you kids,” Came a gruff voice.
Ria turned with a smile, “Oh, it’s you, Satish uncle. We just came to ask if someone could help take care of that poor little pup who lives near the tea shop.”
Satish, the security guard on day duty, frowned as he thought. “ I love dogs. But you know we can’t have one in the security room, or in any of the lobbies. It will mess up the place, and anyway, what about its food?”
“Why are there so many parcels today, uncle?” Asked Varun. “ My dad picks up our stuff every morning by ten. Now it’s past lunchtime and yet there are even a lot of food parcels lying here.”
“ Well, you see, these people working from home lose track of time. Some even come at four pm to pick up their lunches. Poor things. I feel especially sorry for the three old couples who ask me to help carry their deliveries to their apartments.”
“ Is there anything for Laxmi paati from B block?” Asked Suresh. He always called her paati, for though she was not his grandma, she always gave the children biscuits and cool water, as her room overlooked the sandbox and she watched out for any child who looked tired or thirsty. All the children were very fond of her. She also sat on the playground bench sometimes and told them stories from the newspapers and magazines. These were about the Indian space program, Gaganyaan, undersea missions of the Ocean Studies institute, archeological digs, and interesting wildlife facts. She lived alone as her husband had passed away and her son lived in America.
Satish pulled out a few packages and a bunch of newspapers. “ That’s odd, “ he remarked, “ I haven’t seen her for two or three days. I assumed she’d picked up her things when I was off duty. She doesn’t seem to have come down, though.”
“ Let’s go check on her, “ said Sushma, “ We can take up her groceries as well.”
The children trooped to B block. Laxmi paati’s apartment was on the ground floor and they rang the bell. After ten minutes, they heard some movement, then the door slowly opened. Laxmi paati stood there, but not the cheery old lady who was always smiling. She looked tired and weak. Instead of her neatly tied hair and pleated sari, her hair was tangled, uncombed and she had on an old housecoat. She was limping, and told them that she had twisted her ankle two days ago. She had been in bed the whole of the previous day. She was very glad to see the children.
They rushed around, Ria, who liked to boast that she was the first of them who could cook, made tea and brought out four cups. The twins and younger children had refused tea, though they all had chocolate biscuits from a tin Ria had found in the kitchen. They’d made Laxmi paati sit in a comfortable chair. Sushma softly combed the old lady’s hair and made a plait to prevent further tangling.
“ Yuck!!” Exclaimed Karthik, who had taken a sip of tea. “ This tastes so terrible.”
Laxmi paati tasted the tea and burst out laughing. They saw that she looked almost like the cheerful person they were used to. “Child, there is salt in this tea, not sugar!”
“Oh, no,” groaned Ria. Then she, too started laughing. The twins and Varun had meanwhile, swept out all three rooms. Vijay had watered the drooping potted plants. The groceries had been neatly put away. Sushma washed up the cups and made some fresh tea, along with sandwiches for Laxmi paati.It was lunchtime now, and they all had to go home. They promised to return in the evening and set up dinner and maybe breakfast too, insisting that the old lady rest as much as possible.
It was while they were telling their parents what they’d been up to that morning, that Amma asked, “What about the puppy, did you manage to feed her?”
Dismayed, the children realized they’d forgotten all about the pup in the excitement of helping Laxmi paati.
It was that afternoon, when the children met again, that Aditya the quietest of them, had his brainwave. Stammering slightly, he said, “ You know what? I have just had the most humongous idea! What about becoming delivery boys ourselves?”
Varun looked puzzled, and Ria burst out,” What do you mean? We can’t possibly go out of our gate during this corona lockdown.”
“ Listen,“ Varun insisted, “Remember the stuff sitting in the security guard’s room? Well, why can’t we deliver it to the apartments and help everybody… and.. this is the best part—- we can ask people to give us maybe five or ten rupees for each delivery and use the money to order dog food for the pup. We can ask Satish uncle to feed the dog near the shop, or even under the steps of the shop. The space there even looks like a kennel or small cave. I have an old blanket I can give him to put there, so the pup will be cosy even if it rains.”
Now they were all interested. Everything started moving very quickly once they had a ‘strategy’, as Sushma’s mom would say. Vijay’s mom sent a message on the resident’s group asking if people would sign up for a door delivery service by the children. There was enthusiastic response from almost fifty of the apartments.
Karthik’s dad ordered in a supply of dog food and Vijay brought a plate and dish for the puppy’s food and water. Satish was only too happy to look after the dog, which he named Tommy.
Laxmi paati soon was much better ad Sushma and Suresh, along with Karthik,had a lot of fun learning trying out new recipes which she taught them . She’d told them to practice making whatever they wanted in her kitchen.
They all got used to collecting deliveries at the gate and dropping them off at various apartments. The lonely feeling was completely gone and they got to know even the people who’d been too busy to talk to them before. The pup Tommy grew sleek and plump. They watched him from the terrace everyday, enjoying his antics as he chased flies and sometimes his tail, too!
“Now I’m never bored,” grinned Suresh one morning . He was wheeling out his cycle. Although the children couldn’t cycle down to school just yet, they were able to deliver the larger packages in the baskets or on their carriers. They also found that they could use the walking paths for cycling. In a week’s time, everybody seemed much happier— the puppy, the children, the grown ups who got their deliveries as soon as possible. The senior citizens were especially delighted.
The childrens’ math teachers, too were very happy and helped in keeping the delivery money accounts in order. In fact, the children made so much money, they decided to order new story books for each of them.
“ We should think of creating a library of our own, too..” said Karthik thoughtfully. But that’s another lockdown story!
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,
"Why don’t you write a story for the Durga puja edition of 'Silver Line '? “
The voice at the other end was that of Prof Mehta, my revered guru cum mentor.
I wanted to say “No , Sir. Don’t you know the labyrinth I am in? My head is as jam packed as the bogey of a Mumbai suburban train. There is no room for a creative idea. Please spare me”
I summoned my energies and started “Sir, I…”.
He clinched it “Yes. I know you will. The deadline is 25th. This month, not next month, mind you. “
That s all. I was stuck. Beautifully nailed.
“What are you brooding over, Amma? You are not listening to me.”
Ít was my teenage daughter Meenu. She had taken part in two prize winning items in school, Group Music and Group Dance and was in an excited mood. Her eyes and tongue were sharp and none could escape her scrutiny. She was an expert with solutions. Her own homemade remedy to every problem.
“Prof Mehta wants my story for his magazine this month. My head is blank”.
Blurting out the truth is the best survival tactic when at the other end you have a precocious no-nonsense teenager quizzing you.
“Shame on you. Such a silly problem. You can write our Chandrika aunty’s story. You are anyway listening to her daily episodes . Alcoholic husband who doubts his breadwinner wife. How he peers into her first floor bedroom with a painter’s ladder held against the tall mango tree. Terrific story with loads of masala…’
Chandrika was our long standing domestic help.
I gave Meenu a killing look that made her stop on her track
“Ökay! I just gave you an idea. If you don’t like it, leave it. But for God’s sake don’t write about Gods and Goddesses. You are simply spreading andavishwasam” (superstition)
“It s andha , not anda. The da is not Divya’s. It is Dhanya ‘s.
Both girls were her classmates. Through the corner of my eye I could see her making a monkey face at me but I ignored it.
I was not a writer but as an antidote to my banker’s stress, I used to jot down at random, my old memories in the form of short stories. Prof Mehta encouraged my creativity by publishing them in “Silver Line”, his online magazine.
What my daughter observed was a half truth. Some of my stories had a dash of spirituality, a Believe it or Not kind of theme. True, it may not be appropriate for the new gen readers.Well, this time I shall try a different track, as she advised.
Wasn’t it Wordsworth who wrote “Child is the father of Man”?
Not father, it should be ‘Teacher,’ perhaps he had his teenaged child in mind when he wrote it, I mused, my attention riveted on the freshly rolled out puris tossing their heads and sprightly dancing in the cooking oil.
September 25th was a good two weeks away. Jaane do. Let me take care of my aloo bhaji now.
At office the next day, the courier brought me a cover. It was a proceedings from the Regional Manager directing me for a three day residential training on Recovery Management at the Staff Training College at bank’s headquarters.. It meant I have to be away from home but Chandrika will prove her worth as a friend in deed. No need for alarm bells.
Suddenly my spirits lifted. I would be revisiting my childhood locales. The Staff Training College was set right in the middle of a vast property which was close to my grandpa’s ancestral home. It was a rustic locality. The lush greenery around , the beautifully maintained flower beds and the cashewnut and mango trees lent a pastoral air to the College campus. No wonder it was a favoured destination for the bank’s employees.
I reached the campus early afternoon,. It was Sunday. Except for the occasional sound of vehicles dropping trainees, the campus was still. Two years of Corona induced serenity had left its mark. The verdant vegetation had trespassed all boundaries. It almost resembled a bird sanctuary now.
The hostel caretaker and cook were old familiar faces. Their welcoming smiles passed through the glass partition like rays of sunshine. I was soon comfortable in one of the big double rooms in first floor. The other occupant was my friend Philomina Thomas from Kannur whose train would be reaching only on Monday morning.
I was alone and free. What a change! I could feel my taut nerves unwinding inside, my heartbeats getting slowed down and a nice, cosy sensation of comfort descending through my spine. I decided to take a stroll down the meandering garden path.
It circled the building and then went down the slope to the outer boundary. There was a gate at the back and beyond it, a road that somehow looked familiar. The gate wasn’t locked. I ventured out.
I recognized the place instantly. It was the road leading to the local Engineering College and midway, a familiar building seemed to smile at me.
The big wrought iron gate was painted dark blue as before. The rajamalli plants were in full bloom , their boughs of yellow and red flowers peeping above the granite wall. The mango tree had more branches now, it almost hid the sky blue coloured board whose letters looked faded. Jeevanprakash Ashram. I murmured aloud before my eyes could actually read the nameboard.
As I stood outside the big blue gate, a flood of emotions engulfed me, nostalgic memories of a bygone age, as it were. My mother’s paternal cousin Leela was a frequent visitor to thisplace. Leelakkan - my mom used to call her. We kids too followed suit. She was an ageless spinster with long black hair extending up to her knees . She had a round moonlike face, replete with the pockmarks – remnants of early smallpox. The thin gold chain with small gold beads, the nose ring of single white stone and the tiny stone studded studs - those were her only adornments, She wore neither bangles nor bindi. The two piece off white starched set mundu (dhoti) and the tulsi leaves embedded in her hair were her trademarks.
Her first love was books and the next, kids. She could resist neither. She used to stay with us in between her pilgrimages to temples. While at home, she spent her time cooking delicacies for us kids and telling stories, both of which we savoured heartily. As mom was a high school teacher with not much time for children, Leelakkan’s presence was a boon.
During holidays she took me along, when she went outdoors either to visit an ailing relative or to buy a book or some similar errand of hers. The visit to Jeevanprakash Ashram was a frequent ritual. She was a devotee of the Yoginiamma , the Head of the ashram. It was mandatory that she should visit her guru, her Amma , as often as she could. I remembered the sense of awe I experienced during one of my visits there, when she pulled me into the sanctum sanctorum , the pooja room of Amma. And the wonderful sense of relief I felt when the grandma like Amma took both my hands in hers and stroked my cheek.
How long ago it seemed! Amma must be gone, years back. She was already very old then. Vaguely I remembered a middle aged lady, the heir to the title. Leelakkan addressed her “Cheriyamma”(choti maa). Would she be there now, anointed as Amma?
As if in a trance, I took a step forward to the familiar European styled portico and rang the old metallic bell hanging from the clamp on the roof near the winding wooden stairs.
A wide eyed young girl opened the door and looked at me, questioningly.
“Am..Amma…” I stuttered.
“Amma is in her bed room. She will see visitors after 4.30”
Her voice had a clear note of finality.
“ Can I come inside…visit the temple..?”
“ Of course. Please come inside”
She held the door open for me. I stepped out through the open French window on the other side into the sandy courtyard. And then I stood standstill like a statue.
It hit me like a current of heady perfume.. So strong that I shut my eyes and took it all in….the fragrance all too familiar…the cocktail of rosewater, holy ash and camphor…the childhood memory of the sibling of Ganesha - Skanda - who I met here for the first time, nearly forty years ago.
It was here, that I was introduced to the child God with vel ( spear) and a peacock. The whole picture flashed before my eyes. The two small temples, adjacent to each other, one that ofSubrahmania or Skanda as he was called , the other that of another child God Krishna. Suddenly I had an urge to revisit them.
It was like walking in a dream. Nothing had changed, except for the people. The 5 feet tall brass lamp with its canopy was still there as a centerpiece. The black cemented floor was polished and shining. The walls of the meditation room were lined with old photographs as
before. An elderly lady in a white sari was circling the lamp, clasping a small thampuru, her lips moving in silent prayer. The only change was the soft , solemn audio chant in the background , a male voice, rhythmically chanting
“Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare
Hare Skanda Hare Skanda Skanda Skanda Hare Hare”
I remembered asking Leelakkan “ Who is Skanda?”
“He is Subrahmania or Muruga, brother of Ganesha.”
The founder of the ashram , Swami Prakashananda, was a devotee of Lord Subrahmania and he had started the ritual of chanting the prayer with thampura in hand. The brass lamp was perrenially lit up . It had never been put out even once, in the last 72 years. The thampuratoo . It was never put down at all. The devotees took turns to perform the 24 hour chanting of mantra. Even casual visitors queaued up for the ritual as it was akin to penance.
“It is a prayer for Peace, for mankind, across the world….”
Was it my aunt Leelakkan whispering in my ears?.
The temple courtyard was lined with tulsi plants, the lush green Ramtulsi, in contrast to the blueish green Krishna tulsi at the gate. I sat down, leaning my head against the white pillar of the hall and closed my eyes. The solemn slow chant of that deep male voice was reverberating in my ears. It was ethereal. I felt light as though floating.
Someone gently touched my shoulder and I woke up. The young girl who met me earlier was standing before me.
“ Amma is waiting for you in the parlour”, she said with the hint of a smile.
I pulled myself up and followed her to the main building.
I was not prepared for the sight that met my eyes.
There, in the low, cane armchair, sat a lady in saffron robe stroking two cute, black and white kittens on her lap. She was dusky, with an oval face and big sparkling eyes. Her curly black hair was tied behind her neck in a knot but the unruly tresses were falling all over her small forehead. She had a chain of rudraksha on her neck and an intricate bracelet on her right arm. This too must be rudraksha, must be panchamukhi. So exquisite, I thought.
She welcomed me with a big smile that lingered in her eyes. when she raised her hands in a silent Namaste.. It was difficult to guess her age. She must be anywhere between 40 and 50..Had it not been for the saffron robe, she would have passed off as a smart working woman, a techie perhaps. For a second, the fair, wrinkled face and saffron sari covered shaven head of the old Amma flashed in my mind
“Come, come”!
The voice was no less surprising. It had a sprightly feel, full of energy.
“Tell me. What brings you here?”
Yogini Amalapraana , as she was called, was a scientist turned sanyasin who was educated abroad. She had come to the ashram with her parents on a vacation and was enchanted .The ashram cast a spell on her , as it were. Its quiet sanctity and idyllic solitude seemed the perfect Shangrila to her. She could never return to her old life She realized the purpose of her life and took deeksha (initiation) from the old Yoginiamma herself before her Samadhi. Well trained by Cheriyamma, she was ready to take up her role as Amma when Cheriyamma achieved Samadhi at the age of 65.
“Your profession must be bringing you lot of tension. That is what the media say. So many suicides due to work pressure. Is that really true?”
It was a good opening remark. For the next few minutes we discussed the stress of working women in banking industry. Amma was well read and practical , I could make out. She had started a self employment training centre in the Ashram where women were undergoingtailoring classes. There were two other institutions – an old age home for women and an orphanage for children.
“Management is a tough call, especially for people like us, who are not used to dealing in money. That’ s why we have an Administrative Committee here. They manage things ,withsupport from lot of good people. During the pandemic, our children missed their classes , until the MAD crowd came”
“Who?”the question had popped out from my mouth
Amma smiled “Of course, the Make a Difference NGO. Youngsters who are madly enthusiastic in bringing about changes. They do voluntary service here as teachers, nurses, doctors - even plumbers and electricians”. Manav seva, Madhav seva… isn’t that a good ideology?”
Time was flying. I felt I was in the company of a beautiful human being who could understand her fellow beings. Try as I might I could not see her as a sanyasin with a spiritual aura chanting mantra and giving darsan to devotees.
Would she have acquired the powers of a divine soul, the like of Sri Sri Ravisankar or Mata Amrutanandamayi?
She appeared so grounded in reality . Very human with both feet planted on the terra firma.
Wasn’t she just an astute administrator, a wise teacher and a caring mother ?
Isn’t she here, on earth, or is her head high above the clouds, in Heaven ?
What is it that lies behind those two beautifully curtained eyes?
She was talking to me, more like a friend or colleague, narrating anecdotes and eliciting smiles from me She had a wonderful sense of humour .
What an irony! Is she really a divine soul with an irresistibly human personality?
Or a charming well educated lady donning the robe of a guru?
My brain was working overtime. I was intrigued by Amma’s personality.
Is she the new age Guru? Let me think rationally.
Gone are the days where spirituality was equated with aloofness and mystery. The omniscientGodmen who performed miracles were an extinct tribe. We don’t need saints with divinity. We only need saints with humanity, after all. Humans…not Gods.
My mind was racing, trying to decipher the persona of the divinely human lady, arguing at once as defender and prosecutor.
Is she?
Isn’t she?.
I found no answer.
It was getting late. I bent down to touch her feet before taking leave.
She put her hand on my head and closed her eyes .
When she withdrew her hand, I saw that she was removing her bracelet. She took my right hand and gently placed the bracelet and folded my fingers over it.
When she spoke, it was in a soft, soothing tone, almost secretive.
Her voice was solemn as though in prayer and her eyes were half closed.
She seemed elsewhere.
“Take it. It is from Himalayas. Genuine panchamukhi rudraksham.
I know you like it. It has powers and you will be relaxed.”
She stopped for a moment to look into my eyes and as an afterthought, said with a smile -
“ Not andhavishwasam with the dha of Dhanya. Rest assured, the suburban train’s bogey will soon be cleared”.
I lost my senses .
When I regained my consciousness she was gone.
“Chechi (didi), Amma has to start her preparation for evening pooja. She has left”…
I couldn’t catch the words of the girl….I was in a trance.
G K Maya took to writing after she retired as General Manager of Canara Bank. She has done her Masters in English Literature from University College Trivandrum. Her passion for books and interest in people led her on and she ended up as a writer by accident.
“Whoa!” I screamed as I saw an enormous bird flying towards me, its lively, extravagant feathers reminding me of the brilliant hues in the Aurelia Borealis. As I ducked just in time, the familiar chuckling of a man echoed in the open forest.
An hour and a half ago, I had stepped into this forest, with a lot of plans for photography. All kinds of animals and birds were present here, from cute, tiny sparrows to grand Indian Elephants. The air was filled with various kinds of chirpings, from sweet, pleasant ones to shrill, violent cries. I was thoroughly enjoying my summer vacation in my grandparents’ farmland, in Odisha.
Just as we had entered the lush, green land, the caretaker had come out to greet us. He was tall, dark and had muscular arms due to years of working on the farm. He was a bit thin, but looked like he had adequate strength. He had a few brown strands of hair on his otherwise bald head, and when he smiled one could see his crooked teeth. He looked to be about sixty-five.
“Namaskar sahib!” he greeted us when he saw us. Despite his wild appearance, his behavior towards us seemed amiable enough. He was chuckling, as if very pleased to see us.
“Hello! How are you? How is the farm?” My mother asked him.
“What should I say dear? It was only yesterday that we found such a huge poisonous snake right here!” He stretched his arms to show how big it was. “I had to gather all my friends, and make it go away. What a scary thing it was.”
I could feel my throat becoming dry. A snake, right where I was standing right now? Oh no, I thought and started looking all around me. I had jeans on and a full sleeved T-shirt, and boots as well. I figured out I was safe. The caretaker noticed this, and started talking to me.
“It was so dangerous! What should I tell you, every other day I find one. I had to burn all the grass on the other side of the river today, to have them flee this land!” He told me this with much more animated gestures. I nodded, but the worry was evident on my fear-stricken face.
I looked at my father, but he was smiling at me. Almost smirking. I was confused, as to why he would find such a tense situation funny. My mother and my grandpa went with the caretaker to see the crops, and my father then told me the reason for him smiling.
“He says that to every person that enters this land. It’s a hoax, to prevent us from coming here often.”
“You mean to say he is lying? But why would he?” I asked, surprised.
“If you come after six months too, he will repeat exactly the same story. Let’s just say, after staying in this place alone for more than forty years, he thinks of this land as his own, and doesn’t like it when we exert our right over it.” My dad replied with a faraway look on his face.
“How do you know all this?”
“When your mother’s aunt came here last month, he had said the same thing. She told me.”
Wow, that’s interesting, I thought. Well, at least there was no venomous snake to hide from now.
We walked further, till the lake. I stopped for a moment, to savor the elements surrounding me. It felt like I had stepped into an oil painting. The sky was clear, with a tint of azure blue. Some birds were flying above me. In front of me, lay the big, clear lake. Believe me or not, it was cobalt in color. Civilization hadn’t much touched this hidden jewel of nature, so thankfully, its beauty was still intact. I could see tiny fishes swimming puckishly. Behind me lay the wheat farm, its golden hands outstretched towards the sun. On my sides stood trees of various sizes, from short, newly-planted ones to tall, seventy year old. Far into the distance, I could see a number of mountains, on which were dense forests with trees displaying various shades of green. God knew what lay over there; I shuddered as I thought this. It was a reservoir of knowledge, I realized. Oh nature, if only we humans were as kind…
There was a very calming, homely smell in the air. The brown aroma of the earth and the cool breeze that flew from the west made me want to lie down and take a rest! The atmosphere was eerily silent now, as if all the birds and animals had suddenly decided to take an afternoon nap too. I felt far, far away from other human beings, and this break felt kind of relaxing. It felt like someone had put a blanket on all the exuberance, and all lay in a deep, peaceful sleep. This silence made my senses feel incomplete, yet it made my soul feel complete, like I was one with all the living things on earth and Mother Nature was pulling me into her loving hug. I closed my eyes to grasp this feeling.
Just as I was experiencing this calmness, a rapid movement of feathers very close to me made me open my eyes in a jolt. I screamed when I saw what was happening.
“Whoa! Wait- NO! Don’t, please…Ah! Someone save me!” My words came out in a jumbled manner due to the shock.
A magnificent peacock was flying towards me, with full speed, and all I could do was duck and cover my head with my hands and hope the peacock wasn’t going to peck me. Just then, I heard a familiar chuckling, and then some weird, chaotic sounds. After a second, I had the courage to open my eyes, and I saw the same peacock now standing on the ground with a royal poise and the caretaker talking to it in a quick tone. I found it very strange, as I had never seen a man and a peacock ever talk before, that too as if they were friends.
The beautiful peacock seemed to understand and nod in sync with what the caretaker was saying.
“Yahum gygy huruhu!” The caretaker told the peacock. The peacock then walked away slowly, showing off its feathers as it was doing so. After some time, it flew up and sat on a branch. I looked at the caretaker. He was smiling at me, and looked like he would burst into laughter any moment now.
“He wasn’t going to attack you, but I asked him to not come swooping down on anybody in the future! Hahaha! He was just trying to play with you!” He laughed one last time and then went in the direction of the rice field.
I stood fixed in my place, as I could still not process what had taken place in front of me right now. I looked around but couldn’t find my parents anywhere. I decided to follow the caretaker.
He was walking in a jolly way, and three dogs came running towards him. He started talking to them too. Moreover, he had a different language for them! Then he went inside a shed, and I could see baby lambs. He noticed me, and said “Why don’t you come too? You should feed them!” I followed his advice, and spent the next half an hour with some of the cutest lambs I had ever seen. And to add more to the excitement, the caretaker started talking to them in a different language too.
After some time, my parents and my grandparents came and it was time to go. I said bye to all the animals and promised to meet them soon. I looked at the caretaker, and wondered what kind of life he was living. He was all alone in this farmland, with minimum requirements for survival, in a jungle with no electricity, and no friends to talk to.
No, I realized with a smile. He had a lot of friends with him, who never made him feel bored. They were not his friends, rather they were his family. Was that a sad life he was living? No. It was the best life one could possibly have, right in the heart of nature!
Till this day, I don’t know his name, but I feel he only deserves one name: Nature’s best friend.
Archee Biswal is from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is currently pursuing MA in Analytical and Applied Economics at Utkal University. Her dream was to be a writer ever since she was 9 years old. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines such as Chandamama and Kloud 9. She likes dancing, painting, and playing instruments such as the keyboard and guitar. She speaks 6 languages including German and Spanish, which she learnt while staying in Germany. Her favourite wish is to travel all over the world and collect new experiences.
Excitement mingles with the divine smells in the air......
"U will wear this pavadai(skirt) on day 1", says amma
'I want the muthu malai', says akka (elder sister)
"Patti ( grandmother), you will dress me up as krishna first!", chirps the little one.
The lady of the house patiently listens to all this banter but her focus is on unwrapping the dolls.
The trunks are taken down from the attic. The wooden planks come up from the shed. The wooden stairs are set. Pristine white veshti (dhoti) is draped on the wooden stairs and pinned to stay in place. The stage is set!
Now comes the players from the trunk, each one wrapped in a newspaper. Carefully, the paper is unwrapped and the doll taken out. The paper is arranged in a stack for future use. The whole place is strewn with dolls of various sizes and shapes.
Idols of Gods, dancing ladies, band sets, thematic dolls from Ramayana, Mahabharatha, divine and demon all co-existing inside the trunk, along with policemen, army men, freedom fighters, modern technocrats along with the traditional grocer, the chettiar and his wife, all of them come out to be revered in the nine days of festivities.
Each day, puja is done in the morning and evening, daily one sundal (a snack made of pulses or lentils) is offered as prashaad.
The stair stage is set. It is minimum 3 steps and more odd number steps can be added. Each step is decorated with dolls. Starting from the bottom most step , the dolls get a place for themselves up to the top. The top most contains all the divine dolls along with the kalash at the center. The space around the stairs are also decorated, sometimes with a park or a tank or any theme that we choose.
Then comes the lights and floral decorations, no no, not real flowers, paper or cloth flowers made in-house by the women and the children learn how to make these too.
The piece de resistance is the Rangoli!
What should be the pattern, the colour combinations, everything is a discussion where the whole family participates. Some years, the kids win and get cartoon designs too for the Rangoli.
The 'Golu' as the festival is called, is set on the day after the mahalay amavasya. The yearly, nine day celebration dedicated for women. The 'Tridevis' are revered and shows the importance of women in everyones life.
Also, a 'Me' time for women.
The women meet each other dressed up well and visit each other's Golu. The singing, dancing and dressing up their children in the form of various Gods, pirates, any character from the puranas and itihasas, police, probably the first fancy dress tradition, the variety of rangoli they make, the creative ways in decorating the Golu brings out all their latent talent to the fore.
The streets of 'agraharam' (the four streets around the temple complex in Tamil Nadu is called an agraharam) takes a festive look with children milling around in various costumes, hopping from house to house, collecting their friends too and meeting more friends.
The ladies also put on their best clothes and jewels all the nine days and visit neighbors and relatives Golu and exchange haldi kumkum, sing devotional songs on the Godesses.
The Navaratri is dedicated to Godesses Lakshmi, Parvathi and the 9th day, Navami is dedicated to Godess Saraswathi. The day all children love, as they have to keep all the books, pen, pencils, notebooks for worship and remove them only on Dasami day. The whole day, no studying, no playing instruments, only playing.
Dasami day or the 10th day is called the Vijaya Dasami, victorious day! This day the dols are put to sleep on the stairs and then removed, wrapped in paper or cloth and stored in the trunks for a year, waiting g for the next Navaratri.
An auspicious day for new beginnings School reopens for all. New admissions are made on this day too.
This is how I spent Navarathri during my childhood in Chennai.
Today, this has become an appointment based visits and gift exchange program. No child dresses up as Rama, Sita or Krishna, Radha, durga, raavan, a favorite hanumaan with a tail! The children made their own bow and arrow, flute, the mace and the tail too.
Many do not even keep a Golu. They just invite friends and relatives for haldi kumkum and snacks.
I keep a Golu every year but miss all those nostalgic moments of festivities.
But, change is the only constant in this life, I suppose.
Subha Bharadwaj, environment and safe food activist, poet.
AS YOU WISH O MOTHER DIVINE!
Prof. (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
It was autumn morning. The rains had not ceased and the early morning showered dews on the glass blades. When I pedaled my confidante, my bicycle, a peace dawned on me. Ahh! From every patch of the road the smell of the environment changed. The transition was from the fragrance of Tagara (pinwheel flower) to the bakery shop to brewing of morning tea in the corner betel shop who juggles between serving tea, making paan (betel) and offering small grocery items to the locales. Crossed a group of people standing in a circle and discussing their views on current Government’s decisions in muffled tone. No words were clear but could sense their confidence in their own judgements. Smiled to myself and crossed past the Puja pandal.
This year due to COVID restrictions the pandal was fully covered from all sides and there was hardly any chance for me to peep in as I had started from home without taking bath. Just then I could hear someone sobbing somewhere, seemed like a woman’s sob. Nay, it must be my delusion. Thinking that, pedaled ahead but then the sobbing intensity increased.
It jolted me out of my reverie and I was swayed to my memory of last night’s ghost story watch. “No, ghosts don’t exist”, I said to myself as if reassuring this timid self. Just for fun I did watch the movie and was quite amused with the horror face paints. Now, the sobbing sound increased and someone started crying incessantly. I parked my cycle and slowly inched towards the covered pandal; yes, the sound came from inside. Though not taken bath, I was tempted to know the source of crying. As if someone really wanted me to take care of her. Yes, clearly it was a woman’s voice.
There was a small gateway for entering the pandal. When I got into the arena I found bits of coloured papers, prasad, shredded flowers on the dust-filled carpet scattered everywhere. The area smelt of Jhuna dhupa (a dhoop offering to Gods using resins of certain plant), ghee, camphor of last evening’s Puja. My eyes were trying to adapt to the darkness. Somewhere a small light was flickering. I was searching for the source of the crying woman. Nope! No one was to be seen anywhere. Just as I turned to exit, the crying sound enhanced. Suddenly, my gaze went up to the Mother Divine’s face. Oh! How beautiful! Though it was already Nabami, and every day I had gone past this pandal, I couldn’t stop to bow in front of Her.Probably, that’s why I was dragged here.
But wait…what am I seeing! There were two streaks of tears trickling down the Mother’s eyes! I blinked again thinking it to be some visual hallucination. No, truly The Mother was crying! There were contusions on her cheek, a small drop of dried blood was seen at the angle of her mouth, a black-eye on the left side. My Medico eyes scanned from top to bottom and saw a big scratch on her right arm and streaks of blood dried up. She was standing on one leg and the other leg was seen to be hurt and took support of the other leg. Again, my eyes scanned upwards and found that though she was wearing a crown, the hair was disheveledand the Divine Mother winced in between.
“Why Mother, who has done this to you? Am I seeing this correctly or is this some kind of delusion! So, it was you who was crying! Incredible! Who has done this to you Maa?” I was shivering in anger.
Mother’s face looked very pathetic to me and she winced in pain again. Very strangely, she was not moving her lips, yet I was hearing her voice.
She sighed heavily and started, “You must be knowing Pradeep Mangaraj who is conducting the Puja this time. He had collected good amount of donations from the colony here. Though he had promised you all that the left-over money will be utilised for serving the COVID-affected families, nothing of the sort actually is happening. He sits late night just behind my pandal with his hooligan friends and keeps boozing well past midnight.”
“Yesterday when he staggered back home, over a tiff he got enraged and punched on his wife’s eye. His wife cried out “Maa” and fainted. I took all her pain on this clay-body.”
My anger changed into pain and tears rolled down my cheeks…”Oh! How brutal!”
Then I couldn’t suppress my inquisitiveness and asked, “O, Mother! What about this scratch on your arm?”
Again Mother’s voice echoed in my ears- “Have you noticed the tree protector mesh on the road divider? It had tilted towards the road after “Fani” cyclone and till date no one has bothered to erect it back. During daytime people are somehow managing to get saved being hurt. But yesterday night, unaware of the tilted wire mesh, a biker boy was speeding at midnight to attend his father in the hospital.. He hit the mesh and fell down. I embraced him and lifted him aside. He incurred some minor injuries but I took most of it unto me and hence this deep cut wound."
I wiped my welling tears and thought to myself- “Aah! How many times we have cursed the Gods and Goddesses for facing minor accidents but in fact we are being actually saved from far bigger threats to our lives." My heart was filling with gratitude. Spontaneously, I bowed down before the Mother divine.
I had observed this tilted wire mesh so many times and had thought why can’t the Traffic police take care of it? Traffic police said it is the job of Forest department. NGOs didn’t find any charm in erecting them either. When I took the matter to the local political leaders, they laughed and said – “you people can just join hands and lift it up”. Frustrated, I too thought, why should I bother so much! After all it is Public property!
Now my gaze was diverted down to Mother’s legs as if the position shifted a bit. “Why Mother! Your leg seemed to be badly injured and deformed too!” I looked in horror.
Mother started, “There is a drain at the end of your colony, where two slabs are missing.Surabhi’s young kid was riding his bicycle. He was excited with his newly found skill. But splash! He fell down in the drain and started getting washed down the drain. I had to jump in and save the child. How can I have allowed such a small kid to bear the pain of bone fracture. I took it again on myself.”
Suddenly, Mother turned Her back to me and I could see the impression of baton, as if someone has thrashed her very badly. She showed me many bruises and contusions at multiple sites.
And She continued- “I get a clay body for these ten days and try to help people as much as possible taking their pain on my ephemeral body. After all, it’ll melt in water after the immersion day!”
She continued,
“People took me amiss and know not from where the practice of animal sacrifice came up! Can a mother ask for the blood of its own child?”
“Have you ever asked me what I want? What started as a community Puja, has become a show of power and pomp and extravagance and literally people have taken my Puja as a war of their egoes. Have you ever thought how will I be happy when my living form in the form of women and girls are being abused every now and then! Everyday news of domestic abuse, rapes, female feticide floods the newspapers and TV channels.”
“If you adorn me in jewelleries of gold and silver, will I be happy! Where is devotion? In the name of enjoyment, people are making girls dance in seductive manner and en masse people devour those. Is this what all my Puja is about!”
Had there been no COVID restrictions, you all had gone on increasing my idol height every year as if the size of my idol and my adornment with expensive jewelleries are the parameters to measure success of my Puja. But where am “I” in this entire process!
“Finally, I have sent “COVID-asura” to bring you back to the original idea of my Puja.”
I was going on listening wide-mouthed. Then asked-“Mother, were you really successful in instilling any changes!”
Mother sighed and said-“Far too less than my expectations. When people were confronted with death, their thought processes were elevated a bit. But you know, they have also samskaras from the past births and the changes won’t be there overnight. The selfishness, indiscipline, anger, avarice again and again take the people into their clutches. I guess, this agent of mine didn’t get as much success as I calculated.”
I echoed Mother’s sigh. “O.K. Mother, I must take leave now. Please allow me. If I get late, then everything will be topsy-turvy at home. Pranam.”
My hubby was irritated to the core and was mumbling- “Ummmh….anyway you wake up everyday at 4:30AM. Must you put that alarm to spoil my precious sleep!”
“Oops! Was that all my dream! Terrific!” Stopped the snoozing alarm and jumped out of the bed for a new start.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Pradeep Mangaraj entered my clinic with his wife and sheepishly requested me, ”Madam, please have a look at her. Yesterday she had a bad fall and had hurt her left eye.” My face contorted with anger and asked her to take a seat- “Let me examine. Don’t think us doctors to be that gullible Pradeep. Would you care to divulge the entire truth?”
Called out for Radheshyam, my attendant at clinic and asked him to check out how many more patients were there. He returned and said-“Madam, another two. One Madam’s son had fallen in the drain and her son is limping and another guy who got a deep cut by the wire mesh on the road divider. You were once mentioning about that mesh Madam.”
“Hmm”—I flung my head on the back rest and mused on my early morning dream.
From a distance DJ music filled my ears. Goddess Durga was being taken for immersion.
Bowed mentally at Her lotus feet and mumbled within “As You wish O Mother Divine”.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
Sometimes fate plays strange tricks with life. A month back, on a pleasant October evening, I had got ready to leave for home when the summons from boss came like an unwelcome bull in a cool pub. In fact if I had left a few minutes earlier, perhaps my life wouldn't have witnessed a tragic turn the way it did. The moment the call came from my boss, the Additional Director General of Police (ADGP) in charge of Naxal Operations, I had a premonition, something serious was about to happen, I was perhaps heading towards a crossroad which would push me into a whirlpool of momentous events. Often an unseen hand gave you such signals, in the form of strange, whistling rustles through the pine forests on deserted sands, or through a touch of icy wind on dark nights. By the time I climbed the stairs to reach the office of my boss, I was gasping, partly due to exhaustion, but mostly shaken by an ominous feeling of impending disaster.
I saluted the boss. He asked me to sit, and came to the point straightaway,
"Srinivas, I want you to leave for Malkangiri tomorrow morning."
I was startled,
"Malkangiri? But Sir, that is Gadnayak's jurisdiction!"
Boss gave me a withering stare, the kind that leaves nothing to imagination, a precursor to a cloudburst, meant to drench you with cold sweat. In a gruff voice, he shot through clenched teeth,
"Yes, I know it is Gadnayak's jurisdiction, but I want you to go there. Any problems with that?"
I shook my head with the finesse of a lamb about to be swallowed by a python.
"There is a Naxal who has been a menace for more than twenty years in that area, a ruthless professional with no mercy for the establishment. A police informer spotted him in one of the villages a month back. The combing operations have not been successful. I want you to go there and catch him, alive or dead. Is that clear?"
"Yes Sir. Any identity? Some description?"
Boss chuckled,
"A strange fellow. Unlike other Naxals he has not taken an assumed name. Says he is proud of who he is. But let me tell you he is highly dangerous, motivated to the core and effective like a prowling tiger. Thousands of tribals will follow him to the earth's end and kill with no compunction with just a word from him. A real hard nut, Srinivas. It's upto you to crack him. If you can't catch him, just liquidate him."
An unknown fear gripped me,
"What's his name Sir?"
"Asutosh Samantray, the dreaded Naxal."
I had the feeling, a bomb had burst inside me, somewhere in the core of my being, and its flame was spreading in my body, slowly, silently torching me, singeing me and choking me to suffocation. A mild shiver started in my spine and in a few moments I was sweating. The discomfiture did not escape the notice of boss. He raised his eyebrows and asked me in a mild, almost seductive tone, the seduction of a cobra swinging its hood to a charmer's music,
"What happened? Why are you looking so nervous?"
The way he said it, I had a feeling he knew exactly what was the problem and in his usual, inimitable style, was trying to test me. He offered me a glass of water. I swallowed the water as if it was a life-saving drug. I swallowed twice befor replying,
"Sir, Asutosh was my closest friend in the school and in college, we were close friends for seven years. And you are asking me to liquidate him?"
The boss again raised his eyebrows,
"Srinivas, there is no place for emotion in a police officer's professional life. Don't you remember how Shashi Kapoor put the cuffs on Amitabh Bachan's hands in Deewar, although they were brothers?"
This was a known fetish of our boss, he was a film buff and took special pleasure in quoting from films at the drop of a hat. In fact, our boss was unique in many ways. A pleasant, smiling exterior hid a hard, no-nonsense professional with one of the sharpest brains a police hat could adorn. And he was known to be gifted with two pairs of eyes, and God knows how many ears. Intelligence and Information were his twin mantras and he knew everything one needed to survive in the dreaded seat of Anti-Naxalite operations. For seventeen years he had been heading the Division, first as SP, and then rising through the numerous ranks to ADGP. And no one had ever imagined the post could be given to someone else. He had led countless raids into the forests and Naxal hideouts and had always returned unscathed.
The act of Shashi Kapoor handcuffing Amitabh Bachan effectively shut all further arguments on the subject. I saluted the boss, who simply said, "All the best Srinivas. Remember, Dead or Alive, there is nothing in between."
I returned to my room with a heavy heart. This was going to be the toughest assignment of my career. I knew I had to spend the night collecting all information about Asutosh Samantray, the dreaded naxalite. I called home and asked my wife to send my dinner to the office. She was happy that she would have an undisturbed run of the serials on TV and like many nights of the past, quickly wished me happy Reading of Files and ran to her favourite spot at home - the cushioned sofa before the TV. I collected Asutosh's dossier from the all-night operator of the hardcore Naxal desk.
The first page of the file almost moved me to tears. Staring at me with his sharp, shining eyes was my closest friend from the past. I had seen many faces all over India in my eventful career, but had never seen a pair of eyes so expressive, so calm yet so iridescent - like two pieces of burning ember. I closed my eyes and memory from my school and college days floated past like colourful clouds against an azure sky.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
We were a bunch of spirited boys, busy all the time, criticising the teachers, groaning under the burden of studies, and yet finding time to talk about the girls who used to fill our days with quiet fantasy and nights with wild dreams. Asutosh was the only exception in our group - nothing perturbed him, nothing moved him. He would be sitting with us, looking at us with his calm yet burning eyes, but neither studies, nor girls would interest him. We had given him a name - The Ember. We never saw him angry but knew there was an anger burning within him, against all that was unjust and unfair. We often wondered how Asutosh could be so different, so weird, and always came to the conclusion that God's ways are indeed strange, He had made Asutosh unique just to prove there is no better architect than He, the supreme creator.
I met Asutosh for the first time when I joined the eighth grade at Nabarangpur High School on my father's transfer in his government job. I entered the class on the first day and went to the only seat vacant, next to where he was sitting. I was immediately drawn to his bright eyes, smiled, and said, "I am Srinivas Patnaik, from Daspalla high school." Asutosh did not smile, only his bright eyes twinkled slightly, "I know. I have heard you are a good student, used to be the topper of your class at Daspalla." I was stunned. How did this dark, somber boy know about me? Later I realised Asutosh, despite his disinterest in studies, was a storehouse of information. He had an unique ability of collecting and absorbing information on everything that happened around us and much beyond.
Our friendship grew. I found out Asutosh came from the one of the richest families in the district. He was the only son of his parents and lived in a palatial house. His father owned a few rice mills, a big furniture factory and two huge petrol bunks in the town. Despite all the riches, Asutosh was completely indifferent to anything and everything. His mother used to send a big tiffin box for lunch, filled with heavy fare like pulao, biriyani, fish fry and sweets of all kinds. We used to pounce on the food like hungry jackals, Asutosh didn't even look at them. He took whatever we offered him and we were sure unlike us he never remembered what he ate for lunch.
I was one of the very few with whom Asutosh used to talk freely, but he was always serious, very serious. Once I asked him why he was so indifferent to food. He looked at me, his eyes burst like flame for a second. He kept quiet. A few days later he asked me,
"Sinu, do you have servants at home?"
I replied, yes, we had one full time boy living at home and a part time maid.
"What does your mother give them to eat?"
I confessed my ignorance in the matter,
"I don't know, may be my mother gives them whatever we eat."
Asutosh was pleased,
"See, that's what humanity means, whatever you eat you should give to your servants also, after all they do back-breaking work, they need more food than us. You know what my mother gives to the servants?"
There was no way I would know that. I shook my head.
Asutosh almost burst into tears,
"My mother makes pulao, biriyani, mutton curry for us, but gives only rice, some watery daal and plain sabji to the servants. Tell me Sinu, is it fair? Is it humanity? Don't they deserve proper food? After doing hard work for fifteen, sixteen hours a day? One day I asked my mother why she doesn't give them whatever we eat. She told me they would get lazy if they were overfed. I once gave away my lunch to the servant who takes care of my room, washes my clothes. My father came to know of it and gave me a slap on the cheek for 'crossing my limits'! What limits Sinu? Tell me, what limits I crossed? Showing sympathy to poor workers? Is that crossing the limit? Sinu, I promise, one day I will cross all limits, go away somewhere which will be unknown to my parents. Then only they will know they cannot put any limits on me."
Asu covered his face with both hands and buried his face between his legs and sat still. I was scared. What limits was he talking about? Where would he go? Won't he walk with us the normal path of life, pass his exams, do a job and settle into a family life, like my parents and his parents did? I sat with him, holding his hands. I had no words for him, I realised, for the umpteenth time, Asutosh was unique, he belonged to a world whose shape eluded us, it was a different world and we didn't have the vaguest idea about it.
A few months later Asu came to the school with swollen eyes. The moment I saw him I knew something was wrong. We couldn't talk, since the classes started immediately. I asked him what the matter was, he put his finger on the lips and told me to be quiet. During lunch he didn't touch the food that came from his home, somehow I was worried for him and had no appetite. As soon as school was over, we started walking home. He dragged me under a tree.
"Sinu, have you ever seen a man being whipped?"
I shook my head,
"No! Whipped? What do you mean whipped?"
He burst into sobs,
"Whipped - sapaak, sapaak, sapaak - like a horse or a bullock getting whipped. Yesterday when I returned from school I saw a labourer from our rice mill, a poor tribal, tied to a tree and getting whipped by the supervisor. I stood at a distance and saw it, my heart thumping with fear and pain. The man, a frail, dark chap, did not even whimper, he just bore the whipping with gritted teeth. The supervisor beat him till he himself was tired. I ran home, I had no stomach to eat my dinner. I wondered what extraordinary courage the frail man had, not to cry, not even to whimper with all that merciless beating. Sinu, cry he did, in fact he wailed, at dead of the night. They had untied him and dumped him outside our compound wall. I had not been able to sleep and was tossing on the bed, the memory of the evening kept pinching my heart. I heard the cry in my first floor bed room and went to the window. I could see the poor man rolling on the ground, pain racking his body. I stood transfixed, my body shivering, the throat choked and tears streaming from my eyes. I felt as if the whip had dug deep scars on my back, I touched my back and flinched. It was wet, I imagined my back was covered with dripping blood. I almost screamed. And then to my relief I found it was not blood, but my sweat. I got so scared I ran to my parents' room and knocked. My mother opened the door, I hugged her and started wailing. She consoled me after knowing what disturbed me, but my father got very angry, called me an imbecile, wondering how I would manage all those mills and assets if I was so chicken-hearted. I laid down with my mother but I could get no sleep. In the morning I heard they had carried the labourer to his basti and dumped him there."
Asu's tears flowed unabated. I patted his back, unknown to me I had also started crying. Between sobs he said,
"Sinu, how can people be so cruel ? Are the labourers animals that they would be whipped by their masters? And my father says I am an imbecile? One day I will show them I am not an imbecile, I will fight for the poor, the helpless, fight to get justice for them. You will see Sinu, unknown to all of you I will walk a lonely path, leading me to where the oppressed and downtrodden would be waiting for me. The mills? The assets? I spit on them, if they take away basic humanity from me, make me an inhuman monster. I don't want those riches, I don't want the house, the car, the luxury, if they rob me of basic decency and sympathy."
I had no words to console Asu, and I kept wondering what path he was talking about, what lonely path? Where does it lead to? The forests? The mountains? The meadows beyond the forests, infested with wild animals, ghosts, spirits and demons? My heart was heavy, I didn't want to lose my friend, never.
After high school we all went to the Jeypore College, the only college in Koraput district. We stayed in hostel. Asu was my room mate as were Saurav and Gangadhar. We had grown in our own way, stepping into our dreaming youth from the innocent adolescence of the school days. Saurav was a confirmed lover in spirit, every girl in the class his potential partner in imaginary amorous escapades. It was rumoured that he would kiss an electric pole on the lips if it was draped in a saree. All his love affairs were practically one-sided, although he made laboured efforts to speak to some of the girls and left secret 'I love you' notes with them. Gangadhar was a shameless glutton whose only aim in life was to fill up his stomach with gargantuan quantities of food. God knows where the food went because unlike the rotund Saurav he was thin as a reed. He talked and dreamed about food all the time.
Asutosh continued to be an enigma, he hardly ate, didn't talk much and we never saw him sleeping. When we were graduating into English novels, 'love stories', and thrillers, he was curled up on the bed with heavy stuff like Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, Pasternak's Dr. Zivago, Solzhenetsin's Gulag Archipelago, or Rushdie's Freedom at Midnight. I used to borrow some of his books when I had trouble falling asleep. Couple of pages into those books and sleep was guaranteed.
I can never forget the chilly afternoon of a December day, in our second year in college, when we all had tucked ourselves under soft blankets enjoying the after-lunch glow of a special festival meal in the mess. We had stuffed ourselves to the grill and chatting of good things of life. Somehow the conversation came to how life was such a joy and death a horror. Suddenly Saurav got philosophical,
"Ok guys, we know death is inevitable, it will come to everyone some day. Tell me, what will be the best way to die? What will make the dying moments beautiful? Have you ever thought about it?"
It was an unusual question. There was no reason why Saurav should have thought about death in those happy soporific moments, but having asked he looked at me and Gangadhar. Asu was on his bed reading some book, half listening to our talk. Gangadhar became ecstatic,
"Ah, what a question! What a fantastic question! I wish there would be another winter afternoon like this, I will be in a suit and boot, a special guest in a five star hotel. I will be in my luxurious room, the chef would be making the choicest dishes, mutton curry, prawn masala, tandoori chicken, fish fry, biriyani, pulao, paratha, rasmalai and thick kheer. I will eat till there will be no space left in the stomach. Then I will go and lie down on the bed and get under the quilt. The eyes will close and I will drift into a heavenly sleep. After such an ultimate meal I would never get up, death will take me away to some other land, to more joy, more bliss........"
Saurav burst into a hideous laugh and a monstrous shout,
"Hah, you idiot, you bloody glutton, can you ever think of anything other than food? Chhi! Eating away to death! How horrible!?"
Gangadhar felt insulted, anyone who came between him and his food was considered a lowly creature by him. He sniggered,
"So? How are you going to welcome death? With a band and crackers?"
Saurav smiled,
"Exactly. I would be in a wedding suit, my hands draped round the waist of a lovely princess, beautiful as a fairy. We will be walking down a red carpet, there would be soft music playing all around, sprinklers would be throwing scented water on the onlookers. There would be a decorated sofa on a dais. We will slowly walk onto that, the gathering guests showering us with flower petals. We will sit on the soft, cushioned sofa, our arms around each other. My charming bride, my beautiful princess, would look at me blushingly and plant a soft kiss on my lips. I will close my eyes, a shock of abundant pleasure would run through my body. I wouldn't open my eyes again, the next moment I will be in heaven, fairies and angels clapping and welcoming me with open arms."
It was Gangadhar's turn to bust Saurav's bubble. He laughed like a hyena with an overdose of country liquour,
"Ha, ha, you bloody lech, what a fantasy! Arey O donkey's illegitimate offspring, we know who is your beautiful princess! That girl in the yello dress in Chemistry class, right? The cross-eyed, curly-haired chimpanzee? If she kissed someone, he would run for his life, not to heaven to the arms of fairies and angels, but towards the forests to stumble into a tiger's waiting mouth. Ha, ha, look at the joker and his bride!"
At this outburst poor Saurav collapsed like a punctured balloon. Even I could not control my laugh. Gangadhar sat up, smug like a Pele scoring a spectacular goal with a bicycle kick. They looked at me. During the summer vacation I had visited my elder sister and her husband, an army officer, at Bangalore and tasted a few bottles of wine. Neither Saurav nor Gangadhar had the kind of money to think of buying wine and although Asu could buy wine, he would never think of it. So it was an occasion for me to show off my wine-drinking sophistication.
"You know, my greatest joy in life is to listen to old Hindi songs. So imagine a cool evening, green lawns around, soft stars twinkling in the sky. With a couple of bottles of red wine I will be sitting on the grass, listening to exquisite songs - Gujra hua jamana aata nehin dubara, Tum mujhey bohol bhi jao to ye haq he tumko, O dur ke musafir humko bhi saath le ley, Ye raat ye fizayein, and many more. And suddenly Kalpana Kartik will appear by my side, take my hand and start singing Phaili hui hai sapnon ki baahein, aaja chalde kahin dur.... Together we will walk, hand in hand till we reach the pearly gates of heaven, its dazzling beauty mesmerising us."
Saurav and Gangadhar started clapping. I thought they liked my idea of a happy death, but they were getting ready to roast me,
"Hee....hee....look at this joker! Arey idiot, who is Kalpana Kartik? A girl or a boy? If it is Kalpana she is a girl, if it is Kartik he is a boy. If it is both it is a hinzda. Chhi, Chhi, what weird taste, what despicable choice! A hinzda? You want a hinzda to hold your hand when you walk to heaven? You want to spend your dying moments with a hinzda?"
The two monkeys went out of control, laughing their heads off and rolling under the blanket, saying scandalous things about my taste. It was Asu's turn. He had probably listened to the whole thing, but there was no reaction from him. When we looked at him, he kept his book aside and closed his eyes as if he was going into some kind of a trance. And in a loud whisper he said,
"It will be a full moon night. White, silken moon light will be caressing everything around - the hills, the trees, the lake and my small cottage. I will sleep on my bed, tired and limp. I will keep looking at the moon, whose light will softly wash over my body, like gentle waves rolling over a silent stone. My eyes will close. The next morning you will see my body, lifeless, a small smile left hanging on the lips - a smile of no regrets. I know when I die the world will not be a paradise, there will still be hunger, injustice, and oppression. But I would have lived a life trying to make some difference somewhere."
Having said this, Asutosh quickly ducked his head under the blanket.
There was a stunned silence in the room. The bonhomie of a few moments earlier was gone. Saurav grimaced,
"Why is this fellow so serious? Couldn't he say something happy? Couldn't he make a joke out of the whole thing like we did?"
I just shook my head. I had never seen Asutosh joking, not even once, in the six years we had been friends.
In the third year of our college something interesting happened. As every one knows, destiny has a way of playing funny tricks with life. It was difficult to imagine a hard nut like Asutosh giving his heart to a girl. But intense persons like him do everything with a rare intensity, uncommon and unusual. By the third year there was a bit of opening up of communication between boys and girls. There was this girl Jayanti, a fun-loving, frivolous flirt who used to be friendly to many boys. She was also good in playing tricks, talking to her friends to suit their mood. Somehow Asutosh got the idea that she was like him, a serious person, kind to the poor, sympathetic to the oppressed. And in a moment of rare abandon he lost his heart to her. We never knew why a flirt like Jayanti played her games with Asu, probably that's how fate was drawing my friend to its inexorable vortex, a whirlpool which he would enter and would never come out.
In November that year we had a shramdaan camp at Samsa, a tribal village sixty kilometres away. We, along with our senior students went to the village by a bus. It was a three hours journey on dangerously narrow hill roads. But no one cared. There was a lot of songs and music, jokes and stories. Asutosh was quite excited, happy at the prospect of working in a tribal village, for the tribals. And he also thought it would give him a chance to get closer to Jayanti, both of them toiling under the sun, carrying earth to lay the road and may be visiting a few tribal homes. Everyone goaded Asu to sing a song for Jayanti in the bus. He went to where she was sitting and sang "Jaltehein jiske liye" with a fervour that surprised me. That was the only time I heard him singing. I prayed to God to help my friend, help him to come out of his delusion. We all knew what kind of girl Jayanti was. Because Asutosh was the silent non-communicative type, he believed what he wanted to believe about Jayanti.
The villagers were ecstatic to see so many young boys and girls coming to their village to lay roads for them and clean up the village tank. They had made arrangements for the stay of the girls in the panchayat office. The boys were put up in the primary school next to the panchayat office. We were all tired and went off to sleep after dinner. Next day was for shramdaan and we were to return on the third day. During the day work was done in full swing. Asutosh managed to stay close to Jayanti, talking to her and helping her to carry the dug up soil and small stones for the road. Two other groups were assigned the task of cleaning up the village tank.
In the evening the villagers had arranged a cultural programme with plenty of food and the potent country liquour. From our senior class a group of leader-type students, who were basically ruffians, monopolised the programme and started dancing with the tribal boys and girls. They drank the liquor and found the kick quite strong. Some of the adventurous girls also tasted the liquor and seemed to enjoy the effect. Jayanti was one of them. None from our group took liquor and kept watching the dance. We tried to shake our legs with the dancing troupe but were no match to the tribals. Gradually the evening turned into night, the dance gathered rhythm, the tribal youth swinging in happy abandon to the loud beating of drums and playing of musical instruments. A few boys and girls from our college kept dancing with them, the effect of liquor spurring them.
There was only one student among us who knew the local dialect. We asked the village elders through him how long the programme will continue. They simply laughed and pointed at the sky, meaning probably, till daybreak. We wanted to return to the school which was two hundred meters away. Asutosh looked worried, somehow he managed to go close to the dancing troupe and asked Jayanti whether she would like to return to her place of stay. She laughed in a grotesque way and shook her head. We all returned and tried to go off to sleep. The loud music, combined with strange noises from the forest made us feel really weird. But the hard labour during the day helped and we drifted to sleep.
I suddenly woke up with a start much after midnight. Someone was shaking me and calling my name loudly. I sat up groggy and confused. It was Asu, he sounded worried. He told me it was three in the night and Jayanti and a few other girls had not returned from the community hall. A few boys - the leader types - had also vanished. It seemed Asutosh had not gone to sleep, he was waiting outside the primary school building watching for Jayanti and the others. They had not returned. We woke up a couple of others and the four of us started walking in the direction of the community hall. The dance must have stopped long back and there was darkness everywhere. It was almost impossible to move forward, the darkness was impenetrable, the forest had come alive. Different kinds of cries and howls of the animals scared us to the bones.
After a few steps we stopped, unable to move. We tried to persuade Asutosh to give up the haunt and wait till morning. We hoped nothing untoward had happened, Jayanti and the few other girls were probably safe. But Asutosh was not consoled, all kinds of fears troubling him. He knew the tribals would never do any harm to their guests, but he was not sure about the ruffians, the leader types from our senior class. He started wailing, convinced that Jayanti and the other girls were probably being subjected to group molestation, possibly rape. Before we could stop him he started running towards the community centre. We shrieked in horror, asking him to come back, but he had merged into the darkness like a ghost. Within a few seconds we heard a piercing cry. Despite the cold night we sweated like never before. Was it the anguished cry of Asutosh being mauled by a wild animal? Or was it some animal wailing like a human? Or was it a spirit of the jungle trying to entice us to its murderous grip? We ran like crazy to the school. None of us had a wink of sleep, I kept sobbing, worried by the horrible possibility of losing my closest friend.
As soon as there was a slight flicker of daylight, we ran out looking for Asutosh. The forest was strangely silent, the silence as deafening as the noise of the night. We couldn't find him anywhere and returned to the school crestfallen. The bus was to leave at nine. We dragged our heavy feet to the bus. Jayanti was already there, talking animatedly to her friends. There was no hint of her suffering any great tragedy during the night. On the other hand, despite the tired eyes, there was a rare glow on her face, as if in the dead of the night she had discovered a new joy, an hitherto unknown ecstasy. It was also obvious from the way the ruffians of our senior batch were hovering around her and the other girls, talking to them and touching them in a suggestive way, something unusual had happened in the night between them.
We kept wondering about Asutosh, unbearable grief tearing our hearts to shreds. Suddenly he entered the bus at the last minute and with downcast face rushed to the last row. I rushed to where he was sitting, his face was ashen, his bright eyes sunk like the eyes of a dead fish. I was about to ask him about the night. He just shook his head and covering his face with both hands buried his head between the knees and remained still.
Asutosh did not talk to us that day, nor anytime after that. He just laid on the bed, bent like a fetus, looking at the wall. On the third night he disappeared. We never saw him again. His parents were informed. One of their friends informed that Asu was seen on the previous day in a village twenty kilometres away. They rushed to meet him. He refused to return home and told them in no uncertain terms, he would end his life if they ever tried to contact him again.
We finished our college and moved on to post-graduate studies. In due course Saurav became an officer in a bank, Gangadhar joined the state government as an Excise Officer. I was selected for the IPS and allotted to Nagaland cadre. In the 12th year of my service I came to Delhi on deputation and from there joined the Anti-naxalite operations in Odisha. Asu was very much alive in my memory, with a great deal of fondness and affection, the kind one reserved for his best friend with whom he had shared many secrets of heart. I had heard that he was listed as a dreaded Naxalite, but could never believe that with his idealism and love for humanity he would think of harming anyone, let alone destroying lives of others.
In a way I was relieved that I had been given the charge of Northern range and my colleague Gadnayak looked after the southern parts of Odisha in anti-Naxalite operations. That way I would never have to face Asu again, he as a Naxalite and I as a police officer.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
By the time I came to the last page of Asu's dossiere it was two o' clock in the night. I closed my eyes. Somehow the bus journey from Samsa to Jeypore came knocking at my memory again and again. My friend's ashen face, sunken eyes, his head buried between the knees had left an indelible imprint in my mind. That was the last time we had travelled together.
I sat up, jolted by a shock. The last time? Would it really be the last time? What about the trip I was going to make in the morning to catch my friend "dead or alive"? If I caught him alive, wouldn't Asutosh travel with me, sitting in the back row of my armoured vehicle, handcuffed, probably burying his worried face between the knees? And if I could not bring him alive? What if we encountered each other in the deep forests? Would it be possible for me to draw my revolver and shoot him? O my God, just the thought of it sent shivers down my spine. I broke into a sweat and tried to catch a few winks of sleep before starting in the morning on the most difficult journey of my life.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was late afternoon when I reached Samanakudha village. According to our informer, Asutosh and few of his associates had been sighted here about a month back. A posse of policemen had been gathered there to assist me. They fanned out in search of the naxalites. I waited in the Panchayat office where a makeshift office and accommodation had been put up for me. The evening looked ominous, as if something serious was about to happen. My mind was restless. I sat and sipped tea and waited for news - some sort of a news, just to set the ball rolling. In a way I was impatient, I wanted the whole exercise to end, the suspense was suffocating me.
Suddenly I sensed a presence outside the window - a shadow. Instinctively my hand went to the revolver on the teapoy and I rushed to the window. The shadow vanished in the blink of an eye. I was worried. Was it Asutosh, who had come to meet me? Or one of his messengers? How could he enter the cordon of police guards to come near my window. A mild headache started bothering me. I returned to my chair and ordered one more cup of tea.
In about half an hour the guards brought a man inside. He had approached them and wanted to meet me with news of Asutosh. I asked the guards to leave and asked the man to sit. He shook his head and simply stood there. A mysterious, ubiquitous man, he bothered me. A mere look at him told me he was the shadow I had seen at the window earlier. Who was he? What news did he have?
"What's your name?"
"Manglu Sir, Manglu Taadla."
"Do you know Asutosh?"
"Know him? Does a shadow know its master? It's a part of him. If anyone wants to catch the master, he has to tame the shadow first. If someone fires a gun, the bullet has to pierce me first before touching my Sir."
"Your Sir?"
"My Asutosh Sir, my God, the living God of the tribals."
I threw a mocking smile at him.
"A God? Can a Naxalite be a God?"
Manglu's eyes sparked for a moment, but he kept quiet.
"Manglu, do you know who I am?"
A sad smile spread over his gaunt face,
"I know each and everyone of Sir's friends. When one moves with a person as his shadow for twenty long years, no secret remains between them. Walking in silent jungles, or over arduous mountain paths for days and days can be very lonely. Sir used to tell me everything, from his childhood to his school and college days."
I lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head.
"When I joined Sir twenty years back he had made me promise never to touch a cigarette, alcohol or a woman. I never broke that promise."
"How about him? Does he continue to be as idealist as he was as a student?"
"Asutosh Sir? A piece of diamond, as ever. We consider him as a living God who could commit no sin. At midnight if he knocked at anyone's door he would be admitted, no question asked. No one would ever doubt him, or his character."
"If he really is a piece of diamond, a living God as you say, how could he be a Naxalite, unleashing violence and terror?"
Manglu flinched, as if someone hit him with a stone,
"Violence? Terror? Asutosh Sir never held a gun in his hand, never killed anyone. It's only in your police records he has been branded a Naxalite. And in the eyes of the people who want to get rich by exploiting the tribals Sir is a Naxalite. At least you should not insult your friend by calling him a Naxalite."
"What about instigating the tribals? Stopping the development works?"
"What development works? Digging up the mountains for minerals? Cutting down the forests for timber? Exploiting young tribal women? You call these development works?"
Manglu's face turned red with anger. I offered him a glass of water. He gulped it down,
"Sir came to our villages as a twenty year old young man, full of love for the poor, the downtrodden. It took him quite sometime to win the confidence of the tribals. He taught the small kids, treated the elders with respect. He gave medicines to the sick, carried the critical patients to the hospital. Gradually he became a household name, the tribals trusted him with their lives. He knew every corner of the vast forests, every nook of the tall mountains. And one day disaster struck."
I looked up,
"Disaster? What disaster? Did he meet with some accident?"
"No, no, disaster for us, the tribals. Some big miners came, surveyed the area and started digging up the ground and blasting the mountains. Big businessmen came and set up shops to sell fancy things at high price. Rice started selling at five rupees a kilo, chicken at ten rupees. We never had to pay so much money for anything earlier. Those who got wages for the back-breaking work could afford to buy, others almost starved. Lots of money went into liquour, new varieties appeared, coloured liquids to replace the cheap country liquour which used to be staple drink of the tribals. Except those few who got employment others became pauper, Craving for alcohol made the men steal and women sell their bodies for a few rupees. Diseases became rampant. In just two years our quiet, peaceful, happy villages became worse than a hell."
"What was Asutosh doing all the while? Why didn't he protest?"
"Initially Sir was all for development, he was happy the villagers will get wages, he thought the miners would bring lots of benefits by way of hospitals, schools and fair price shops, but he soon got disillusioned. His repeated plea with the miners and the government authorities fell on deaf ears. And soon the smoke, the dust took over the environment. The sky was always grey, the moon never shone again the way it used to earlier, water in the lake and the streams became murky. When the villagers got sick with tuberculosis, asthma and serious lung problems, Asutosh Sir lost his patience. He organised protests, agitations, demanding hospitals, compensation for every household and higher wages. He asked the villagers not to supply food items to the outsiders, nor to buy anything from the shops of merchants from the big towns. Gradually mining operations ground to a halt, all business stopped. And in police records Asutosh Sir became a dreaded Naxalite."
I listened to Manglu, mesmerized, as if the things were happening before my own eyes. I could see my friend, the one with eyes burning like ember, leading his beloved people, trying to put some sense in the minds of the greedy exploiters.
"And one day the police came and took Sir away to the police station in the neighbouring village. They beat him mercilessly, drawing blood and leaving him half dead. I took about a hundred tribals with me and we attacked the police station. We rescued Asutosh Sir and set fire to the police station. Scared of our bows and arrows, the policemen ran away."
Manglu's eyes brimmed with tears,
"I carried Sir's frail, lifeless body on my shoulders and ran for twenty kilometres to a safe villege. Blood was oozing out of his nose and ears. I thought he would die in my arms but the local tribal healer took care of him. He survived, but was left with a limp. We heard police was looking for him and had put a reward of fifty thousand rupees for information on him. As soon as Sir was able to move, we started running from the police, never spending two consecutive nights in one place. More than a year passed, the hunted hiding from the hunter. Nights were spent mostly in caves or on treetops, but occasionally we would knock at the door of some trusted elders and take shelter for a day, fortifying ourselves with a bit of good food. But Sir had completely lost appetite. He had also started having a persistent cough. He lost weight, became like a frail shadow. I always managed to get some food or medicine for him, but he needed rest."
Manglu looked down, I gave him another glass of water. I could see he needed it badly. I asked him to sit on the chair on the other side of the table. This time he accepted the offer.
"Sir's condition was getting from bad to worse. I offered to take him to the hospital in the nearby town. He didn't want to leave his beloved people, the simple, innocent tribals, even for a day. One evening he was very tired, we were passing close to this village. He said, 'Manglu, let's go home. I am tired.'"
I looked up, startled,
"Asutosh has a home? Here? In this village? Can you take me there? Now?"
Manglu nodded,
"Yes, his home is a couple of miles away. I can take you there, only if you agree to come alone, without your police force."
"But I will bring my revolver with me. Hope that's no problem."
Manglu smiled, a tragic smile full of pathos and regret.
"Don't worry Sir, trust us, we will do no harm to the guest of our God."
I was eager to go and see my friend. I looked at the watch. It was only seven in the evening. I asked the guards not to follow me and we set out. Soon we were at the foothills and there was a big climb. For a moment my mind was filled with doubt. Was this a trap? Was Manglu leading me to a horrible death? But there was no looking back, I was alone, all alone in a forested area, the moonlight was playing strange tricks with my vision, the silent night enveloping me with a naked fear. I surrendered myself to my fate and started climbing.
After an hour of climb we came across a hut. I looked at Manglu,
"This is Asutosh's home?"
He shook his head,
"This one is mine, the shadow's. Sir's home is there at the top of the tree."
He pointed up. There was a tree house about twenty feet above, a small hut perched on two thick branches of a huge tree. There was a rope ladder. I started climbing, my heart pounding with fear and excitement. I was going to meet my friend after twenty years! How would we greet each other? With smiles? Hugs? Or bullets?
It was a neat room inside, open on all sides. I stepped in and looked around. I had seen many beautiful places in life, in India and abroad, but the sight that greeted me took my breath away. It was a full moon night, cascades of pure, silken light bathed the mountains with a celestial glow, the lake at the centre of the valley shone with the rippling water, the trees swayed to a gentle breeze.
There was an empty bed at the centre of the room. Asutosh was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly there was a soft, rustling sound behind me. I whirled around, the revolver drawn with the speed of wind. It was Manglu, standing at the entrance. He slowly walked in and stood near the bed. Tears were streaming down his face,
"It was exactly one month back, a full moon night. Asutosh Sir climbed the ladder, panting, gasping for breath. He came and sat on the bed, looking longingly at the mountains washed with soft, white moonlight. He quietly laid down on the bed. I put a pillow under his head. He kept looking out, drinking in the flood of beauty. In the morning I saw him lying in the same position, his body lying still, lifeless, eyes closed, a soft smile hanging limply from his lips."
I had started crying at these words, seeing in my mind my dear friend on his solitary bed in the silent room. Suddenly, my memory went back to the afternoon in our hostel at Jeypore when we had imagined how we would encounter death. Asutosh's words rang in my ears,
"It will be a full moon night. White, silken moon light will be caressing everything around - the hills, the trees, the lake and my small cottage. I will sleep on my bed, tired and limp. I will keep looking at the moon, whose light will softly wash over my body, like gentle waves rolling over a silent stone. My eyes will close. The next morning you will see my body, lifeless, a small smile left hanging on the lips - a smile of no regrets. I know when I die the world will not be a paradise, there will still be hunger, injustice, and oppression. But I would have lived a life trying to make some difference somewhere."
Tears were flowing from my eyes. I sat on the bed - my friend Asu's bed - and sobbed till my heart could take it no more. I wondered if Asu really died with no regrets. Having seen injustice, corruption, depravity from close quarters, I knew neither Asu nor I could make much difference to the world, although we chose different paths in life.
It was close to midnight, when accompanied by Manglu I dragged my tired feet to the Panchayat office.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxc
Two days later on a languid October morning I saluted my boss and stood before him. For a change he was looking somber, sharing my dark mood,
"Srinivas, did you visit the small grave of your friend and pay your tribute to him?"
I nodded,
"Sir, did you know Asu has been dead for more than a month?"
"Yes, Manglu had informed me the day your friend died. For the past few months we had managed to recruit Manglu as an informer. He used to give very useful information to us about the naxalites. I had asked him to keep the news of Asutosh's death a secret. We have information about some hardcore leaders from Andhra Pradesh who have infiltrated to our territory after the Operation Cobra. In the name of raiding the villages to catch Asutosh we have conducted many raids in the last one month and nabbed a few scoundrels, but the big ones are still out of our net. The tribals will eventually know about Asutosh and I am sure the whole area will descend into mourning. Tears will be shed for him and the poor, the oppressed will sing elegy for him for many years."
"Sir, did you know how close he was to my heart before you sent me to catch him, dead or alive?"
The boss nodded again,
"Ten years back I had visited Nabrangpur and spent an evening with your friend's parents. They had told me everything about him, his friends, his college, the shramdaan trip, even about Jayanti. Between sobs his mother recalled that you guys used to call him The Ember, waiting to burst into a flame. Srinivas, sending you on the mission was just an impulsive decision of mine. May be, after a couple of days I would have changed my mind, but at that moment I wanted you to go and pay your tribute to a friend who lived a life wedded to idealism. I knew he was not a Naxalite, a man who roamed in the forests and mountains, nursing people's wounds or trying to fill empty stomachs is a humanist of the first order. I feel so relieved that you could go and sit at your friend's grave and bow to his memory."
The memory came alive again, opening an old wound. My boss looked at me wistfully,
"Sitting here, in my lonely office, I have composed a poem for your friend. Want to listen?"
Without waiting for my response he took out a piece of paper,
"Hamne bhi dosti nibhayee hei merey dost
Kabhi khoon se, kabhi aansoo se,
Jab aasmaanki taraf dekhogey merey dost,
Jagmagatey sitaronse poocchna,
Martey dum tak yaad kiyaa hei tumhey.
Kabhi khusi se, kabhi gham se,
Aur kabhi jalti aag ki chingarise."
I came out and dragged my heavy feet down the stairs. Somehow a poem written by our friend Gopabandhu Patnaik at the hostel in Jeypore kept ringing in my ears,
"Without me, my friend,
the flowers will still bloom,
the moon will shine,
the stars will smile,
the lake will fill with joy,
mountains will dance in the night.
And the soft spring wind,
with the whiff of Jasmine
will keep whispering,
I am with you, in your heart,
your soul and your being,
today, tomorrow and forever."
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.
Viewers Comments